No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  ‘Where’s the bread?’ asks Mum as I tramp into the house.

  ‘Eh? Ah! No . . . sorry, Mum, I was distracted . . . and I was standing outside Shoa Dabu bakery only twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘What? You couldn’t manage that one simple thing? Is anything happening behind those eyes?’ asks Mum angrily.

  ‘And where’s Tsehay? I don’t even remember saying goodbye . . . where did she go?’ I blurt.

  ‘This is ridiculous. You need to get a job, Meron.’

  ‘But I saw Selam,’ I gabble. ‘I want her secret. Where has she been and why has she got the confidence? Money has to be involved. I need an explanation . . . no, I demand an explanation.’

  Mum stares at me as though I have pledged never to eat injera again.

  ‘What is becoming of—’ she starts.

  ‘Ah! I just remembered! They closed Bole Road for Mugabe . . . that’s the reason I forgot the bread. Blame him.’

  ‘Another of your silly lies.’

  ‘Really, Mum, just call him at the Sheraton and check his story . . . I’m sure he’s a friendly man,’ I shrug.

  Two days after the first sighting, I am back outside the Dembel Centre, same time, strolling casually and un-­coincidentally. I feel the mid-afternoon sun silently burning my skin, as if punishment for my devious ­loitering.

  But today I can tolerate damaged skin. Here she comes. Got her! Selam has a routine. And this time, I shall be a little less desperate.

  ‘Oh hi, Selam!’ I squeak, feigning surprise. ‘Do you remember me?’

  Selam shakes her head dismissively.

  ‘Wow! You look fantastic . . .’ I continue.

  You know me. Come on, you have to react to flattery, you have to. But maybe she didn’t hear my timid peep above the lick of the sun’s flames.

  ‘You look fantastic!’ I try again.

  A false smile whips back at me, but a smile nonetheless and no mouth ulcers this time. The acknowledgement is trapped and bared for the briefest of seconds. We make progress.

  The following day is Sunday. Nobody bothers with confidence at this hour on a Sunday. The confidence is resting after a busy Saturday night in the Addis clubs.

  Monday sees me in Shoa Dabu bakery, similar time. I’m not buying anything. Instead, I feign urgent texting, on a mobile that hasn’t worked for a year. I carry it for moments like this, intently bashing away on the buttons as though my whole family has contracted cholera. I nearly miss my target with my eyes engrossed in this worthless slab of plastic.

  She’s fast. But I get her on the way out.

  ‘Selam! Hi . . .’

  ‘Hi.’

  Thank you. Have a good day, because I will.

  But next day, there is no Selam. Or the next. Or the next. Her routine has changed and I am left clutching a slab of plastic as useless as my entire life.

  The Possibility of Peace

  In Ethiopia, Easter, known as Fasika, is the major religious festival for Orthodox Christians. More than half the ­country is Orthodox Christian and Mum ensures that I am very much within that majority. Normally, I am unquestionably happy to be part of this great faith, but this year I am too fractious and distracted to enjoy Fasika.

  I hardly notice the fifty-five days of Lent fasting, with no meat, eggs, milk, cheese, butter, alcohol, cigarettes or sex. Or the final ‘Week of Pains’ ban on kissing, crying, hugging, clubbing, dancing and laughing. Even dying is frowned upon in the last few days before the Crucifixion: fully booked priests cannot grant absolution at funerals and those who are fading must hang on till Monday if they prefer Heaven to Hell.

  Nor can I concentrate on the hymns accompanied by the plucking of the begena, or the lengthy Bible readings, or the rigorous prostrating throughout Good Friday. Easter Sunday’s celebratory meals of richly spiced chicken and uncooked beef – plus Monday morning’s gastric agonies – slip by all too easily. That’s another Fasika gone and I can picture only the woman with something I want.

  No sign of Selam. Her name means ‘peace’ but I am not feeling it. She was down at my level, now she’s on the moon. Of course I’m obsessed with her. She represents possibility. Where do I find her, God? Do you want me to find her? Is this part of your plan? Or have you forgotten Meron Lemma?

  ‘Me too . . . I’m as anxious as you, Meron . . . you’ve infected me with your worry,’ grumbles Tsehay.

  We’re sitting on the steps outside her modest house, bored.

  ‘Good! Because we’ve already wasted two school years not inside the school,’ I reply.

  Cafés, cinemas, street corners, clothes shops and friends’ couches have all been preferable to the Maths classroom. But now, at sixteen, we need to devise a clever scheme fast, or a life of drudgery awaits us with open arms: vacancies in drudgery are plentiful and the contract is binding.

  ‘Selam holds the key,’ I continue.

  ‘Forget about Selam. Maybe we should do waitressing . . . the tips can be good . . . we could meet rich guys; the Bole boys. What do you think?’ Tsehay offers.

  ‘Waitressing? Bole boys?’ I reply irritably. ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought about that? Yes, I’m interested in sex but I want to earn good money first. The men can wait for me.’

  ‘Sex? What’s wrong with you? When did I mention sex?’ snaps Tsehay. Her name means ‘sun’, but it doesn’t shine on every utterance. Too often in Addis, names are not as self-fulfilling as they should be, hence the nicknames.

  ‘You said rich guys, Bole boys . . . that equates to sex for money, which equates to being a “business girl”. I’ll keep my body to myself, thank you. I’m saving the first one for true love.’

  ‘Not every waitress in Bole is selling herself like a business girl. You could just serve some drinks and give them a smile.’

  ‘Smile at Bole boys? That equates to sex.’

  ‘Fine. Just take the orders, serve the drinks, look morose and pocket the tips.’

  ‘Look morose? They’ll probably take it as a challenge . . . looking morose is an obvious come-on. It equates to sex.’

  ‘Oh Meron, shut up! We’re going to Elephant Walk Café tomorrow, speak to the manager and check what positions they’ve got. It’s the in-place for the Bole boys.’

  ‘So . . . tomorrow I lose my virginity. Thank you, Tsehay.’

  Round and black are the tables in Elephant Walk Café, like all the eyes gazing at Selam. As Selam moves quickly between the tables, fifty or so intent pairs of eyes roll around a little faster, like large marbles spinning through the air. If she stops too hastily, those marbles might smash together and shatter. Instead, she brakes slowly at a table and performs a delicate seat-brushing act, all within sight of Tsehay and me. She doesn’t see us. We await the manager for a conversation about work.

  ‘There she is. Thank God we came. Now we don’t need to be waitresses!’ I exclaim.

  ‘What? Don’t be crazy. She isn’t just going to hand over a pile of money.’

  ‘Tell the manager I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘That’s up to you. But I need a job before I’m old and . . .’

  I have stopped listening to Tsehay.

  Selam is waiting for a date: the lines, shades, blushes, highlights of a beauty salon’s craft exude her confidence on a toasted fire-clay skin textured like warm chocolate icing. I really like her off-the-shoulder black minidress and heels, with fake diamond brooch, pearl necklace and silver nails. Her hair displays brazen curls complementing facial, breast and hip curves that are gently pushing at the generous. I see money, style and poise.

  ‘Are you interested?’ Tsehay is asking me.

  The manager is standing beside us, gold wedding ring flashing on his left hand. He may have the smuggest of smiles upstairs, but downstairs his feet are humiliated by the humblest of leather clogs I have ever seen outside an irrigated field. He’s one
of the ‘Habesha’, or Ethiopian, types who can easily be mistaken for Indian. Equally, the Indian businessmen in Addis often get mistaken for Habesha, and I am not sure who is more irritated by this ethnic confusion. The Indians have better shoes than Habesha, I know that.

  ‘The manager is saying we can both try it out, but . . .’ continues Tsehay.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Nothing. Are you interested?’ Tsehay nags.

  ‘I’ll think about it. I’ve got my mind on other things at the moment. When do you start?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow, but he wants to see me later, just me and him . . . said it would help with promotion.’

  ‘Promotion? You haven’t even started the job yet.’

  ‘Hey, don’t be jealous . . . just because he’s a manager. This is the way it works, didn’t you know?’

  I smirk at her for a second. What can I say? Tsehay is happy to play the game with this ‘manager’. He can’t even manage his own libido.

  ‘Okay. See you later. I’m staying here. I’ll get her today . . .’

  ‘Meron, you’re crazy.’

  ‘Very possibly, but that’s my advantage.’

  Stroking an empty Coke bottle as I search for the right words to tackle Selam, I delay too long. Her date arrives, a Bole boy nicknamed ‘Hyena’ because of his appetite for women. Once more, my chance has gone.

  Next day, together with Tsehay, I am a waitress in ­Elephant Walk Café. Luckily, nothing is required of me by the ‘Indian’ manager. Tsehay paid double last night.

  On busy Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, the tables are pushed close enough for customers to ambush or steal the conversations from neighbouring tables. This proximity is unpleasant, but it’s business.

  Selam is here again, effusing confidence and soaking up stares from all corners of the crowded café. Her table number is not within my serving area, but I linger nearby, hoping to catch something. Just a single explanatory word will do. How so rich, Selam, how? But all I can hear is a conversation peppered with unfamiliar foreign words.

  ‘Laa!’ exclaims a similarly glamorous friend.

  ‘Be-laa!’ rebuts Selam.

  ‘Ba-den . . .’ says the friend, sipping on lively cola.

  ‘You know Dany . . . Allah!’ says Selam, noticing me and quickly reverting back to the friend as though some wind has momentarily blown her gaze off-course and where I stand is open fallow land.

  ‘Dany? Ah! Hyena!’ exclaims the friend.

  ‘Aiwa!’ continues Selam.

  ‘Allah! I can’t believe it!’

  This is a waste of time. I’m getting nothing from this nonsensical exchange. I force my mouth open.

  ‘Excuse me . . . Selam,’ I stutter, ‘but why don’t you know me any more?’

  Her head juts forward for a second before turning to take aim. Even her gestures are new. She used to tilt her head to one side before firing off a humorous one-liner.

  ‘Who are you? If we need service, we’ll shout at you.’

  Who am I? I am nothing in a gaudy pink T-shirt with coffee stains down the front: she is hot from a Bole fashion boutique. But I remain at Selam’s elbow.

  ‘Yes, what?’ she demands loudly.

  ‘I can’t believe it . . . Selam, you used to be a good person . . . I remember the jokes . . .’ I stammer fretfully, beginning to back away but painfully hitting my rear on one of the café’s tree-shaped pillars.

  Customers are now staring at me. I’m trapped; wedged in between tables, people, pizzas and pillars. Sweat is beginning to seep out of my face, as I gulp in the café’s steamy air. I wipe a finger along my eyebrows to smear away the perspiration and ease myself through a gap in the chairs, circling around to the other side of Selam.

  ‘Where’s the manager?’ shouts Selam.

  ‘I . . . I . . . don’t . . . there! That Indian guy, over there,’ I blurt, pointing him out, happy to get the attention off myself.

  Selam has no chance to pursue her complaint.

  ‘Who do you think you are? With all the Arabic mixed up with Amharic, you’re making me sick. Use your own mother tongue in public instead of putting on the big Dubai act.’

  This surprises us both. It comes from my left at table number five. A weather-beaten shapeless woman in a cheap green blouse, oversized jeans and open-toed sandals is leaning towards Selam, confrontationally in my opinion. I study her feet. Where there should be a proud parade of ten polished soldiers, I see ten mangled, mud-­spattered paupers, fresh from crawling along the city’s mucky by-ways. The state of women’s toes usually tells the truth in Addis. This woman is not even trying to beautify her street-battered extremities. I can see she talks as straight as her exposed toes are twisted, like many people who have moved from the countryside to the city – from abject poverty to average poverty – speaking their mind to complete strangers, whatever gibberish the mind ­generates, no filter sitting between mind and mouth. But she has a good point. Selam is as false as they come.

  ‘I’ll speak how I like,’ replies Selam, ‘and Arabic is obviously a lot more than you can manage. Your Amharic sounds like the squeaky spring of an overused bed . . . probably yours.’

  Selam can handle herself.

  ‘Why do you have to be so false?’ asks the country woman. ‘You were a servant in Dubai, so what? I was a servant in Addis. We’re equals. But you think you’re something special.’

  The country woman is stubborn. Like obstinate oxen, they always are. There is no backing down now.

  ‘It was Lebanon, not Dubai,’ replies Selam. ‘And I paid three thousand birr to take a plane out there. I was a professional servant for a rich Arab family. You came to Addis in a dirty old bus and worked for a mediocre little Habesha family that could hardly afford the teff for the extra mouth. Quite a big mouth, in fact.’ Ah! So Selam’s confidence is explained. And her money. Lebanon! It’s Lebanon!

  Selam is now ahead in this intriguing contest. Other customers can serve themselves. I am going to Lebanon! My future injera will be served on a disposable golden platter. A new one every mealtime! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

  ‘You went to Lebanon to be a slave. I was a servant in Addis. I could leave any time I liked. But you? Stuck inside their house for years . . . the Arabs could kill you at their whim. You were nothing to them.’

  Oh God. That’s absolutely true. Girls come back every week in boxes from Lebanon. The newspapers tell us everything. An affair with the master of the house is punished – by his wife – with horrific ‘suicides’ from the balconies of high-rise blocks. At least, that’s what they call the deaths. Calling them ‘suicides’ allows the Lebanese murderers to go free. It is scandalous. The Habesha girls in Beirut are at the mercy of their masters. I’m not walking into that death trap. Thank God for this conversation. Lebanon is cancelled forever.

  Selam looks the country woman up and down with the best contempt she can manage.

  ‘But look at me now . . . the risk was worth it . . . good clothes, beautiful hair, nice company. You? You took no risk and now you’re good for goats and not much else in those rags . . . and I mean goats aroused by fashion from Haile Selassie’s time.’

  Superb comeback! She’s right! This woman would be lucky to get advances from frisky goats. I am going to Lebanon. Ha! The risk is minimal. I have an escape!

  ‘At least I’m true to myself and my country and my origins,’ responds the country woman.

  ‘Eh? Who bothers with truth these days? It sounds lame and dated. Haile Selassie probably said it. Just stay true to your own table and keep out of my conversation,’ snaps Selam, clapping her hands in my direction. ‘Bill!’

  I clap my hands enthusiastically back at her, shouting ‘Bravo!’

  ‘Yes, but get the bill,’ Selam repeats, not amused.

  ‘Well, this isn’t really my serving area . . .’

  �
��Get the bill, Meron!’

  Sweet recognition at last! And now look at me running to fetch the bill for her. I’m her servant and earning a pittance. If I were a servant in Lebanon, I could earn a suitcase stuffed with American dollars, instead of worthless birr. Otherwise, I’ll be bleating to the goats about truth, country, origins and whatever else flits like fruit flies between the underused, overripe hemispheres within my cranium.

  There are no monetary tips from either table. But Selam left enough argument to convince me. My mother may not be so easy.

  Persuading Mum

  In our shared bed, I catch her unable to sleep in the middle of the night. My mother usually lies behind me with one hand on the indentation of my waist. That hand provides the comfort and security that bring my sleep. But on this night, the hand is scratching her head.

  ‘Mum, are you okay?’ I whisper.

  My younger brothers, Nati and Henok, are only a metre away in their shared bed, both huffing away contentedly.

  ‘Yes, there’s something in my hair . . . it doesn’t matter. Go to sleep.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not sure about something.’

  ‘What? Men? Sexual diseases? Please, God, no!’ she whispers too loudly.

  Since I reached puberty, she has been on permanent standby for disastrous news involving me and men. Beautiful romantic love has not occurred to her.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Mum,’ I hiss.

  ‘You haven’t fallen into the chasm, have you?’

  The chasm is her code word for HIV/AIDS.

  ‘No, Mum . . . not men, not diseases. It’s about money.’

  ‘Money? But we’re poor.’

  ‘So, Mum, it’s a problem.’

  ‘Hoh! Not a problem . . . money can’t buy happiness and peace. You need the Bible for that.’

  ‘So you want us to stay poor?’

  ‘God will decide.’