She’s gone.
Laila
You think this is your story, don’t you, Khalil? But it’s mine. I remember now it’s mine.
You’re happy. You were gone, and when you come back, you take the key out of your pocket and open the lock and let me back in, and you’re happy. I’ve never seen you this happy. But it’s not for me, it’s not because I remembered what my parents wanted for me. It’s not for me, it’s for the thing you’re cradling in your arms, a gift, you say. You’ve been given a gift. You unwrap it and put it on the bed. I watch you touch it in a way that you never touch me, never will touch me. You stroke the barrel, the stock, the safety, the trigger. They gave you this gift and they taught you to take it apart, you say, they taught you to clean it.
I want to tell you that I’m the one who cleans things, it’s me who washes Paris clean. I’m the one who washes my hands in my mother’s kitchen, who helps her take the sheets and pin them up against the sky where the sun scours them white.
And you show me, before I even have a chance to lie down at last, before I can sleep in my own bed, you’re so happy that you show me right away, spreading a cloth carefully on the floor, how you clean it, take it apart. You set each piece tenderly in order on the cloth, a beautiful thing, you keep telling me, a beautiful thing. Beauty right here on the cramped floor of our terrible little room.
And you keep talking, you keep telling me you’re in love, you can’t stop talking. It’s your very own. They gave it to you. You have so much to tell me. The graffiti’s still there, you say, nobody has taken it down. We left our mark. And now you’re planning to leave a different kind of mark, do something that everyone will see, everyone will notice. The whole world will see. We will create our own victory, however the PLO fighters are suffering.
And I can be part of it. I can help you.
You laugh, maybe this is the reason you saved me, you say. And you tie the black-and-white keffiyeh around my face. No one will even know I’m a woman, you say. I’m so small, so skinny, my breasts are hardly breasts. You touch my chest, but not with reverence, not the way you touch your beloved.
10,000 dead. The Jews will pay. The Jews and all their friends will pay. Israel will pay. I can be part of it, you tell me. You’ll let me be a part of it.
I know what it’s like to be taken apart.
You think I’m afraid, but I’m not afraid to touch it, taken apart.
You put it together, clean.
I’m not afraid to touch it, whole.
I can hold it, you tell me.
No.
You pull the keffiyeh off my head. It was a joke, you say. There may be a woman who isn’t afraid to do what you’re going to do, but it isn’t me. You laugh.
I’m not afraid.
I know what it’s like to be taken apart. I could do it if I wanted to. But I know what a knife can do. What a bullet can do. Skin can be opened like a book, a door. What’s whole can be taken to pieces. That book, that door, opens and what spills out.
Before you left, before you took away the key, I got into bed one night in the dark. I hit my leg on the bedstead in the dark, the tender meat of my shin hard against the hard wood, and it hurt so much in the darkness that my hands went to the leg and they came away wet, the whole calf, my hands wet. I turned on the light, not understanding, afraid. All I’d done was knock against the bed, and my hands were red, blood surging down the shin, the hem of my nightgown dipped into it. I told myself, don’t be stupid, it’s just a nick, a vein right at the surface of the bone, it’s nothing. Blood wetting a corner of the sheets, how would I get it clean, how would I clean my nightgown?
I was afraid the blood would empty me out.
The way my brother’s friend emptied me.
Hate can do that. Your hate could do that.
I know what a bullet, a knife, can do. Skin opened like a door.
What spills out is life.
I say no. No.
~
RIEN DE RIEN
it can’t be right. she can hear someone singing through the bright nightmares, that terrible silver light. Something in Sarah loosens, she feels a weight lifted. It’s Gail. But that can’t be right. Her sister is far away, isn’t she? When Sarah opens her eyes Gail is all she sees. Sarah feels the arc as her sister’s hands move, a gift, and there’s something small, light against her face. She can breathe. Her sister is giving her a gift. The penny is gone, and now she can choose. When she opens her eyes again, she can see it’s not Gail, it’s someone else, Laura, Laura in a green dress, touching Sarah’s forehead. Then it’s not Laura and it’s not Gail, it’s someone in uniform, a nurse. Sarah closes her eyes and when she opens them it is Gail, here, beside her. Gail in the room, knitting a red scarf. Gail’s body an edge to her own, so she isn’t open any more, won’t dissolve. Gail’s body holding her on the earth. She can breathe, she’s been handed her life, but what is she going to do with it?
Michael. She can hear his voice, even with her eyes closed. She thought he was gone, but he’s here. Sorry sorry sorry. That’s what she hears him say, she doesn’t know why. It can’t be right because Michael doesn’t say he’s sorry. He’s saying sorry and holding her hand. She can feel his hand on hers, even with her eyes shut. She thought he was gone into the noise and light but he’s alive. And Gail. Michael and Sarah and Gail, they’re all alive. But what about Rose? Where is she? Where did the penny go? Sarah’s eyes seem to open and shut by themselves, but she doesn’t know when they’re open because everything she sees is too bright. Vivid. That’s a word. There’s a dull pain all around her ribs and a sharp one in her left arm, she’s trying not to move it. Something stuck into the back of her right hand, too, something sharp that hurts when she moves it but not as sharp as the pain in her left arm. Michael is holding her hand, very gently, her left hand doesn’t hurt if she doesn’t move her arm. Sorry sorry sorry. Why is he sorry if they’re alive?
Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.
She closes her eyes and that song is in her head, the Little Sparrow singing her to Paris where she has no regrets. No, it’s Laura singing a quiet song Sarah remembers, all day, all night, sifting sand. And now there’s another song, outside her head, the old lullaby, Simon and Garfunkel, the song with a bridge in it, troubled waters, and she’s lain down and when she opens her eyes she thinks she sees Rose, Rose in Paris, crying and smiling at the same time. She closes her eyes and someone is singing, the soprano wobbly this time; it can’t be Rose but Sarah wants Rose to be here, wants her to lay herself down alongside Sarah again the way she did all those years ago but it hurts too much. It hurts because there was something she could do. That banner, the white silk blouse, Sarah crouched over the woman. Something she did. When she closes her eyes against the hurt, she can see the penny spinning on its own, she can see the bees dancing, their intricate arabesques, corkscrews in the air. And now there’s Rose dancing. Mrs. Margolis too, Mrs. M. and her hummingbirds, dancing, the hummingbirds diving in and out, playing. And then the hummingbirds are attacking each other. Rat-a-tat-tat. Attentat. A hummingbird dogfight, a drumming whoosh, dit-dit-dat, dit-dit-dat-dat, rat-a-tat-tat, two hummingbirds dive-bombing the deli because they’re territorial, they’re fighting over the land of Israel. Palestine. Palestinian terrorists. Terror from the Latin terra, earth, from the Latin terrerre, to frighten. Paris belongs to who, Paris is whose terroir?
~
It can’t be right, it can’t be her mother in the room, Pat wearing her jelly-bean pink sandals and a soft white shirt. Pat touches Sarah’s face and Sarah touches her blouse, she wants to touch the softness of her mother’s blouse. But what’s Pat doing in the room? Sarah knows she’s in hospital, she was hurt in the attentat; the doctors, the nurses with their gifts, they keep saying that word, a word in French she keeps hearing. She doesn’t know what it means, but it must be important. It can’t be right that Pat’s here, so she must be in Winnipeg, they must all be in Winnipeg and Rose must be sick again, that�
�s terrible. But Pat is explaining that Rose is okay, she’s doing okay, and Abe and David are staying in Winnipeg to be with Rose, but Rose is just fine. Her mother’s hand is cool against her forehead. She can feel the smooth skin on her mother’s hand, lovely soft skin, the bump of a ring. She’s watching the ring, her mother’s wedding ring, a band of small diamonds set in white gold. Beautiful. Not much light caught in them, not much light in her mother. Pat is saying that Gail is here in Paris because Sarah was hurt. In the attentat. Even her mother is saying attentat. Sarah remembers now, the green man, the shiny silver helmet, being lifted, how the light changed. The older woman her body protected. The day the light caught. The penny spinning, then gone. Sarah was caught but now what was tight has loosened. Hands lifting to give her a gift, her life handed back to her. She was taken apart, a rift, but now the gift has put her back together, she can put herself together. And Michael isn’t gone, he’s here and alive, looking after her. He’s telling her that there was an attack on Rosenberg’s deli and people were hurt, Sarah was hurt. She hurts, but when the nurses come, the pain goes quiet for a while. And Gail is here in Paris with Pat, with roses, are there roses in the room, is Rose in the room?
Sarah needs to tell them about the roses. She doesn’t know if she’s talking inside or outside her head. Can she talk now, are there tubes in her throat? Maybe the tubes are gone. She’s talking inside or outside her head about rue, the sorry street, the street that carries her sister’s name. Rue des Rosiers. Rose’s sorrow, a current that almost carried her away from them all. Rue the street that carried Sarah into a small dangerous place. That rue. You’ll rue the day, that’s what Abe says. What day was it? The day of the abortion, the day of the attentat. You have to wear your rue with a difference. Someone said that. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. The drowned girl. Common rue, herb-of-grace. Rue and rose bushes on the lovely ramparts, along the wall. You build a wall to forget what it is you rue. You build a wall to keep your enemies out, you let the penny spin, let it choose for you. You’re pulled along the ramparts by that current of rue, you turn your head and go under.
Rosaceae, she needs to tell them about Rosaceae. A catalogue to arrange things in categories, to keep the rue at bay. Mene, mene. The place for roses is in the kingdom Plantae, thine is the kingdom, and the rose family is the family Rosaceae, genus Rosa, Rosids, order Rosales. A medium-sized family, just like theirs, three sisters, father, mother, almost 3,000 species. In the rose family, it’s not just roses, it’s cherries, apples, apricots, plums of course, peaches, even almonds. You can’t grow those in Winnipeg, can you, whatever the power and the glory. Glorious Rose. And Gail. Glorious Paris. And Michael. Why is Michael sorry, what does he rue? The glory of apples, too, fruit of knowledge, and pears, and quinces, she wants them to remember the Japanese quince bush in the yard of Michael’s apartment on Howland. She wants to be there now. She wants to be there, not Paris, where it hurts. Quinces and raspberries, Rose’s raspberries, strawberries. All in Rose’s family, their family. The boundaries of the family are not disputed. Sarah has studied Rosaceae. For ever and ever. Amen. Cherries and pears. Hawthorn and roses. The same family holding such different things.
And now she remembers what they tried to tell her, here in the hospital in Paris. People died. In the attentat. She remembers the sad man who didn’t know what to do with his hands, the rueful man in green scrubs, and that other man in the cartoon silver helmet. They didn’t save everyone. What about the older woman in the narrow skirt, the white silk blouse, the birdlike woman, what happened to her, to her family, her sons? Sarah remembers what her own body did, twisted itself to hide the woman, save her, whoever she was. Did that woman survive, she survived once, did she survive again? Did Sarah save her, did the sad men save her, did they save Sarah? Is she saved? Now that they’ve handed her back her life, what’s she going to do with it? The green man holding out his hands as if he were asking a question.
People died at the deli. Someone broke through the day and killed them.
Cherries and pears. Hawthorn and roses.
The sad men want to know, Sarah wants to know: the people who killed, and the people who were killed, do they belong to the same family?
~
Michael’s fixing her pillow, her blanket, the tilt of the bed. Laura was here and Pat was here and Pat was so small beside Laura, who put her arms around Pat’s shoulders, who took Pat’s hand as they both left. They left, they needed to rest, but Michael’s still here. Michael the Boy Scout, Mr. Fix-It. He’s fixing her the way he always wants to, she’s a problem to be solved. Sarah is X, solve for X. He has a bandage on his forehead but it’s nothing, he says. Rien de rien. She’s glad it’s nothing, because now they can solve the problem, they can figure out what to do. Is X equal to zero? She needs to know why he’s sorry. Michael lays his head down on the pillow. He doesn’t lift his head, he talks into the pillow. He’s talking to the pillow but she can hear what he says. His head so sweet, the blond curls a bit longer now, right on the pillow beside her.
“Sarah,” he says, “I have to tell you, you have to know what happened there. In the deli.” He closes his eyes, opens them, but he’s not looking at her. “A grenade, they say it was a grenade that was thrown in the window. These two men,” he swallows, “came in and fired machine guns. They, they shot people. Six people have died already. And five are really badly injured, we don’t know if they’ll make it. We don’t know.” He closes his eyes again and his face is wet, there are tears on his face. “They’re saying, the authorities, that it was Palestinian gunmen. And, Sarah, you almost died. That’s what the doctors told us. And now they’re telling us that you’re a bit better and, and they’re telling us that there’s hope, you’re so strong, you’re young. But you’re not out of danger. That’s what they’re saying. So I have to let you know what happened. I need you to know what I did. What I didn’t do.” His eyes are open now and he’s looking at her, his face close to hers.
What did Michael do, what didn’t he do? Sarah is watching his face, all the features, nose, eyes, cheeks, adding up to him, Michael. And he’s not gone, he’s here, right beside her. Here when she needs him.
“When the men,” Michael is saying, “when they came, I was standing right beside you. What I should have done, I should have grabbed hold of you, pulled you down to the floor. Right away. I should have known something was wrong. But I didn’t protect you. I did nothing. I didn’t do anything. The blast from the grenade, it must have knocked me out, thrown me onto the counter. Because, it’s just – when I came to, I was there, on the floor, behind the counter. Safe. Behind that heavy wooden barricade. It must have protected me. The explosion, the shrapnel, the bullets, Sarah, they didn’t go through. There’s hardly a scratch on me. And look at you, Sarah. Look at you.”
His eyes are closed again. Is he tired? Is he too tired to talk? Sarah’s tired now, Michael’s words are so soft she can hardly hear them, but there he is, he’s talking again.
“I just lay there, Sarah. When I came to. I don’t think I knew who I was, where I was. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to save you. I don’t understand. If I didn’t look after you, if I didn’t protect you, I don’t know who I am.”
Michael didn’t save her. That’s why he’s sad. And sorry. He’s afraid of who he is if he didn’t save her.
But isn’t she saved?
~
It can’t be right. The bright nightmares are back, things are thicker now, she was in a different room for a while, her eyes were closed most of the time, it was hard to open them. And she thought Rose was in the room, Rose standing right beside Pat, who was crying, why was Pat crying if Rose was in the room? Rose really in the room, singing to her. It can’t be right. The doctors explained in English, there was an infection, they had to operate again, to clear out the infection, a mop-up job, clearing her insides, they didn’t get all the shrapnel the first time, and now she has a fever. The operation was successful, they rem
oved all the significant shrapnel, they stitched her back together. But it’s still touch-and-go. Sarah has a fever and in that fever she dreams. Dreams are terrible things, but now she’s dreaming Laura in a red scoop-neck dress singing about sifting sand. She’s dreaming Gail knitting the bright red thread of a scarf. And now Rose is here, Rose is reading her something, words about dancing, a little family dancing, it’s 1945 in Pittsburgh, there’s a radio, and broken furniture. The family is dancing as if we were dying. The Nazis didn’t win, that’s why they’re dancing. Sometimes dancing is the right thing to do, Rose says. Because we’re still here. Oh God of mercy, oh wild God. That’s what Rose is telling her about in the dream, or is it Gail? Her sisters aren’t angry with her.
Now the dream Rose is gone. Sarah is talking but the fever makes her not make sense. The fever is talking and she doesn’t know what to think, how to solve the problem. About Michael, who didn’t save her. Even though he was saved. Isn’t it good, that he’s saved? But he doesn’t think it’s good. And even though he’s trying to fix her now, she isn’t fixed. Gail is here, so maybe Gail can fix her. Maybe Gail can knit her back together. And here’s Pat, she can smell her mother’s fresh soap smell, touch the soft fabric of her shirt.
Sarah can’t stop talking. The fever is telling her she’s the one who has to solve the problem, it’s her, not Michael, she has to fix things and she has to fix them with numbers. “– and six and then seven, no five and four, two then, and two, makes seven, no five –”
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