I, The Divine

by Rabih Alameddine

  She yelled at his departing form, “Your uncle doesn’t have breakfast, he has brunch.” Pleased with herself, she began to get ready. Happy.

  Sarah went into the hardware store. “Your uncle asked us to get him a pitcher. He broke his.” Kamal followed, dragging his feet. On her way to kitchenware, she stopped in front of an ugly fake plant, bright plastic fuchsias dangling from dusty synthetic leaves in a tattered woven pot. Sarah began tearing. Her hand covered her mouth and she wept silently. She knelt on one knee to look closer.

  “It is awful, isn’t it?” a man asked her.

  Sarah glanced up at him in surprise and quickly wiped her tears away. “It’s terrible.” She tried a weak smile.

  He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He ran his hand though his hair, raking it back.

  “Oh, yes. This thing just reminded me of someone.”

  The man looked both ways, tying to gauge if anyone was watching, then with wrists on hips, arms akimbo, he whispered, “Well, you know what, hon? If this thing reminds you of him, believe me, you’re better off without him. I mean, come on, a plastic fuchsia?”

  She giggled.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “like I always say, ‘And this too shall pass.’”

  She stood up, noticed her son was standing back observing, bemused.

  The man, no longer looking at her, but up at the ceiling, sighed. “And sometimes it doesn’t pass, which is why I’m on Paxil.”

  “Paxil?” Sarah asked. “Doesn’t it make you sleepy? I couldn’t deal with it. I was sleeping all day. I prefer Zoloft.”

  “Zoloft works for you?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite well. I love it.” She looked at her son, who pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Thanks so much, dear,” she told the man as she grabbed her son by the arm and began moving away. “You’ve been a great help.”

  Sarah dragged her son along the aisle. She could not help but chuckle with him. “No, I don’t always discuss my medications with strangers,” she said. “So don’t you start.”

  “You attract homosexuals.”

  Kamal seemed distracted as they walked. She put her arm in his. “Do you still think of him?” he asked her.

  He still wanted to be her confidant. Her ex-husband told her a couple of years earlier that Kamal had ceased to confide in him. Would he still confide in her? One benefit of her son growing up thousands of miles away was that he did not have to rebel against her, or so it seemed.

  “Do I still think of whom? David? Not often. Every now and then something will remind me of him, like that stupid fake plant, but for the most part I no longer do. It has been so long.”

  “But why do you even bother?” He asked this sternly, looking at her. She noticed the left corner of his mouth twitch momentarily, and then go slack.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just loved him.”

  “But you loved a lot of people. You always say you loved Dad.”

  “I still do. It’s different, that’s all.” She slowed down. They were getting close to her brother’s house, and she wanted to enjoy this walk a little more. “Who is your girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly, careful not to let her eagerness show. She ran her finger across his cheek.

  “Well, if you know I have a girlfriend, then I’m sure you know who she is. Dad must have told you.”

  “Well, why the subterfuge?”

  “Because it’s nobody’s business.”

  “Oh, my. This is serious.” She watched him begin to redden, even his ears changed color. “Is this love I see before me?”

  “Cut it out.”

  “So is it true what your father said, that your lips and hers seem to be sewn together?”

  “Glued together. The metaphor is glued together, not sewn.”

  “I can use whatever metaphor I like. I’m the writer.”

  “You wish.”

  “Oh, my, my, my. This is serious.” She could not help smiling. She had heard about what was going on, but had not expected to find him so smitten. “This is love. I can see why you’d have a fight with your dad over her.”

  “Is that what he told you?” He shook his head in consternation. “He told you the fight was about her? He didn’t tell you about FreeCell, I assume.”

  “FreeCell?”

  “The computer solitaire game. That’s what all politicians in Lebanon do. They drink coffee and play FreeCell. Dad doesn’t let anybody use his computer. You know why? He doesn’t want to fuck up his FreeCell ratio. Can you believe that? I sat and played the dumb game and I lost. I broke his record of eighteen straight games. He freaked. He started screaming I should leave his FreeCell alone.”

  She started laughing again. “That wasn’t about FreeCell, you know.”

  “Don’t start with psychoanalysis, Mom. Please. FreeCell isn’t a metaphor for his penis. I don’t care about his FreeCell or his penis.”

  By the time they reached the door, she was convulsing with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Sarah’s half-brother, Ramzi, lived with his lover in an old Victorian across the hill from her flat. The house, like everything in their life, was meticulously kept. The garden, which was small even by San Francisco standards, had a tropical motif. In the northwest corner stood a miniature fountain, shaped like a giant seashell, with water spouting from the mouth of an “authentic” black-lava Tiki god with red, faux-ruby eyes. In the northeast corner sat a hot tub, barely seating two, built to look like a miniature volcano, including a lava flow fit to scale. The plants were mainly giant birds of paradise, ferns, and even a new mutation of a banana tree, which produced inedible fruit full of seeds.

  The brunch was in the tiny gazebo dominating the center of the garden. Sarah sat on the chair—the color of all the patio furniture was forest green, which was also the color of the gazebo—and felt dew seeping through her skirt.

  “You know, Sarah,” Peter said when Ramzi was back with the drinks, “it’s always disconcerting to see you with your son.”

  “Why’s that?” Sarah asked.

  “Simply thinking of you as a mother is disconcerting.”

  “Thanks, Peter,” she said. “I can always rely on you to say just the right thing to make me feel better.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant it’s difficult to see you as a mother since you never seemed to have developed any competence at being an adult.”

  “Fuck you,” she hissed at him. “You’re such a stupid asshole sometimes.”

  “And she didn’t mean that in a bad way,” added Kamal.

  “Now, now.” Ramzi squeezed himself next to Peter. “Let’s talk about more important things. What’s this thing I hear about you being in love?”

  Kamal stared at his mother. “I can’t believe you,” he said. “Don’t you have anything better to talk about?”

  “Your mother wasn’t the one who told me,” Ramzi said. “I think the first to mention it was my mother. When I talked to your father, he told me as well. Then both my other sisters told me. Come to think of it, only Sarah hasn’t told me.”

  “That’s because Sarah has better things to talk about.” Sarah gave her son a raspberry, beginning to feel the two mimosas. “If I wanted to talk about you, my dear, I would have told everyone how you were having an affair with Mrs. Hatem last summer.”

  “I can’t believe you said that,” her son yelled.

  “Did you say Mrs.?” Peter asked in mock seriousness.

  “Oh, settle down, Kamal,” Ramzi said. “Did you think we wouldn’t know?”

  “Everybody knows,” his mother said, sipping her drink slowly. Kamal looked more and more glum. “You’re part of the family. You can’t escape no matter how hard you try. Trust me. I tried.”

  Ramzi glanced at his sister, a look of concern. “Was that a little bitter?” he asked. “You doing all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s not bitterness as much as confusion. I was just wondering how I could’ve been so gullible
. I’ve been thinking about it all recently. I mean here I am, the black sheep of the family, yet I’m still part of it. I tried separating from the family all my life, only to find out it’s not possible, not in my family. So I become the black sheep without any of the advantages of being one, just the disadvantages. It doesn’t seem fair!”

  “How do you mean?” asked Ramzi.

  “So, Kamal,” interrupted Peter, “what do you think of our summer weather?”

  Sarah stood up and stretched. She walked over to the volcanic hot tub. “You want to go in,” Ramzi said, standing right behind her. She smiled.

  “No,” she replied softly. She sat down on the edge of the volcano, above the lava, and faced her brother. “I just wanted to get away from your boyfriend. He treats me with a certain condescension, which I do not like. It has to stop.”

  “I know.” He stood in front of her, slightly embarrassed, hands in pockets. “Don’t think it’s personal. He just has trouble with my family, and with his for that matter. He’s terrified of anything coming between us.”

  “Well, tell him if he doesn’t stop, something will come between you. I will fucking kick his butt back to Minnesota and he’ll never see you again.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I’ll talk to him. I promise. Anyway, I’m interested in what you were saying about being part of the family. I’d like to hear what you have to say sometime.” He bent over and kissed her.

  “Hey, Mom,” Kamal called, turning around in his chair. “Did you watch the women’s World Cup?”

  “Of course, I did,” Sarah replied. “I loved it.”

  “Hey, your mother was way ahead of her time,” Ramzi added. “She was damn good too. I can vouch for that. She was better than anybody on those teams.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “In any case, your mother cried during the whole final,” Ramzi said.

  “Well, that’s not saying much,” Kamal replied. “She cried in the hardware store on the way over.”

  “You did? What about?” Ramzi held her hand.

  “Nothing important. Something silly reminded me of David.”

  “Oh, come on. Are you still thinking of that jerk?” Ramzi turned away, looked up at the sky.

  “You have to tell her,” Peter said, straightening his collar and adjusting his shirt. “It’s better if she knows.”

  “Shut up,” Ramzi yelled.

  “Tell me what? What should I know?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this, but we met David’s lover.”

  “Oh, God. Is she beautiful?”

  “He. He is beautiful.” He fidgeted, his hands came together, fingers interlocked. A half-smile appeared on his lips.

  Sarah laughed. “Get real. We’re talking David here.”

  “It’s true, darling,” Peter said. He walked over to her. “David is gay. Or bisexual or whatever they call themselves these days. We met him and his lover of ten years. They’re an openly gay couple. David cheats on him with women. He’s just an asshole.”

  “But he was married.” Sarah could not hide the shock.

  “Yes. His lover told us the whole story. His wife caught the two together flagrante delicto and divorced him. David came out of the closet and moved in with his lover.”

  “But he’s supposed to be getting married.”

  “He’s a liar, Sarah,” Ramzi said. “He’s lied to you from the start, about everything. You know, in his perverse way, he probably loved you, which is why he hung around for so long. Who knows? But that’s why he didn’t want to go out anywhere with you.”

  “Are you sure it was David?”

  “Honey, I’m sure. David Troubridge. None other. He recognized us. We were talking to his lover first and all of a sudden David showed up. He could have died right there on the spot. He was stuttering. I wanted to leave that poor bastard alone, but Peter here couldn’t.”

  “Oh, you’d have been so proud of me,” Peter told her. “I threw one of your tantrums. Ha! I told his lover, loudly, I might add, I’d never want to be seen with a closet heterosexual. I told him I know we’ve come a long way, but this city was not yet ready for a closet hetero. Then I told his lover we were leaving because his asshole of a boyfriend fucked and then dumped my sister-in-law. You should’ve seen his face. David could have croaked right there, but you could tell his lover had no clue. Well, now he does.”

  “You went out with a homosexual for four years, Mom?” Kamal now completed the foursome around the volcano.

  She turned around toward the hot tub, pressed the air-jet button, and dunked her whole head in the water. She heard distorted giggling from above. She lifted her head out of the volcano and faced the others.

  “Feeling better?” her brother asked.

  “I’m awake now, I think,” she said. She flicked her hair, ensuring that everyone got at least a little wet. Her son tried to get out of the way, laughing.

  “I wonder if someone can drown in our volcano,” Ramzi said.

  “Tell it to me again. You saw David?”

  On a rusty swing set in the garden of my father’s ancestral mountain home we sat, my stepmother, Saniya, my sister Amal, and I, between them. The red cushions were tattered, the swing’s canopy chafed thin, no longer an adequate protection against the sun. The metal springs clanked whenever the swing moved, which was not often. It was a lazy afternoon.

  “You should get another swing set,” I suggested. “I’m surprised Father has kept this.”

  Saniya sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “No one but us uses it. I don’t think your father has been out here in over ten years.” She looked straight ahead, at the runways of Beirut’s airport, apparently thinking of something. “It holds many memories. I don’t want to get rid of it.” She paused, smiled. “We made love on it once.”

  Amal laughed. I could not help but smile. “You should have told us before we sat on it,” I joked.

  “Janet used to love this swing,” Amal said.

  I quickly glanced at Saniya to note her reaction. Nothing. She was still smiling genuinely. After thirty-five years of marriage, she was no longer bothered by the mention of my father’s first wife.

  “She’s the one who bought it,” Saniya said. “She chose this bright red color.” She looked at me, smiling wickedly. “It matches the color of your hair.”

  “It does not. My hair isn’t that bright.”

  “Almost!”

  “She used to sit where I’m sitting,” Amal said. “This was her corner. Funny what we remember.”

  I did not remember my mother from her days in Lebanon. I was too young when she left. When I moved to New York in 1980, I was able to get to know her, but my Janet was nothing like the Janet the rest of my family knew. My Janet was bitter, a defeated woman.

  “Sarah’s right,” Amal said, glancing at a group of sparrows flocking to the giant holm oak on her left. White butterflies hovered ahead of us, some floating, some flitting about nervously. “You should get another swing set or at least reupholster this. The color is all wrong. Nostalgia shouldn’t interfere with taste.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of it,” Saniya replied. “It’s a testimonial, a reminder of how things used to be, or how I imagined them to be.”

  Amal’s eyebrows were raised, but she did not say anything. It took me a minute to decipher what Saniya said. I could not keep quiet though. “Are you saying you no longer make love?” I asked.

  “We haven’t made love for a long time,” she said. “Not since the hysterectomy. It was rare before, but stopped completely after.”

  I felt Amal shift next to me. I knew what she was thinking. She and I had had that discussion before, but I was unsure whether she would bring the subject up. Her innate reticence would prevent her from doing so, yet her deep feelings about it made her antsy. She gave me a knowing look, then turned and stared ahead at a tranquil view of Beirut.

  “You shouldn’t have let him do a hysterectomy,” sh
e said. Deep feelings won. I smiled to myself, proud of her.

  Him was my father, an ob-gyn.

  “It was necessary,” Saniya said. We both waited, thinking she would elaborate.

  “I don’t think so,” Amal went on. “Mild spotting is not a good enough reason for a hysterectomy.”

  “There was a change in my pap smear.”

  “So what?” Amal asked. “Did he try to figure out what was going on? Did he ask for a second opinion. Hell no. Let’s just cut. If it needed to be done, you should have had someone else do it. Dr. Baddour would have been good.”

  “Your father is a good doctor.”

  “A good doctor does not perform a hysterectomy on his wife.”

  “He did one on his mother.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “You’re putting too much into this,” Saniya said. She took her cup of Turkish coffee from the rusty stand attached to the swing. She sipped slowly. “I’m not sure I would’ve wanted anyone else to do it. He delivered all of you. It’s not a big thing.”

  The birds in the tree were getting louder. Amal looked up. “I think this family is one big mess,” she said.

  “It’s my family,” Saniya replied.

  I woke up with a hangover. Thousands of tiny ants marched in step between my temples, having come through my mouth and dried their feet on my tongue.

  I did not recognize where I was. Some hotel room. Why didn’t they put Alka-Seltzer in every room instead of Gideon’s? Dina was sleeping next to me. Slowly, it dawned on me. New York hotel. Friday, January 20. The complete fiasco, otherwise known as the opening reception of my first, and probably last, New York exhibit was last night. I covered my head with a pillow and moaned.

  I got out of bed, careful not to wake Dina, who looked peaceful and serene lying on the bed. I would not have survived the night before had she not been with me. She deserved better than my mood today. I tiptoed to the bathroom and closed the door. I looked at myself in the mirror and jumped back. God, I looked awful. I opened my pillbox, took out two Tylenols and one Xanax, popped them in my mouth. I drank a whole glass of water, refilled it and drank again. My mouth was still dry. I turned the hot water on. I desperately needed a shower.