No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  ‘Not that. I mean activity . . . you know, Meron, enjoyable activity,’ she says, winking at me.

  ‘In this heat, yes . . . swimming.’

  ‘Swimming? You go swimming in Addis Ababa? What? You only know the word. You not swim in Addis.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. It feels good just saying the word, Madame. We say a lot of words in Addis. Swimming is one of my favourite words.’

  Madame creases her face and looks at me densely.

  ‘Anyway, Meron, doorman coming up here to help me with . . . something. When he comes, do not disturb us. You stay on balcony. You come inside and I kill you. I mean really kill you.’

  That familiar word again.

  The intercom buzzes three times. Within two minutes, the Sudanese doorman is at our front door. I let him in. We exchange stares. I remember his contemptible glance on the first day. He has not aged well since then: cheeks, nose, lips, eyes, chin, forehead, warts, they all charge outwards from his charcoal black face like rainforest trees fighting for sunlight. After he retires from door manning, he could become a cartoon character. I think I’m staring at him. My tongue is out. Madame shoos me away as though I’m a curious goat.

  I seek the afternoon breeze on the balcony. After about forty minutes, I hear the front door slam. Madame calls me in. She seems distant and doused.

  ‘I go to have sleep now. Why don’t you . . . I don’t know . . .’

  She disappears back into her bedroom and closes the door. It’s not like her to leave instructions hanging in the air. But I like it.

  This minor event happens about once a fortnight during summer, especially on the sweltering days. I make no effort to discover the secret. I simply crave any spare draught drifting across the Eastern Mediterranean towards the Levant. It seems unfeasible to function in such heat. Almost everything is unfeasible, except whatever Madame is doing.

  Shafeek is unable to wander from bedroom to kitchen in his briefs without a light film racing across his forehead. His wooden back-scratcher has to be replaced every month because the teeth turn black and mouldy. Within a single day of use, the collars on his expensive French-tailored shirts become the skid marks of juggernauts. I have lost many hours, probably days, of my life to his stained collars. He appears to sweat burnt rubber.

  To relax in the summer, Shafeek reads legal papers, except late at night when he unwinds over half an hour of soft core pornography. Unfortunately bare-footed, he uses ‘my’ television tucked away in the small salon for that act. It is of no importance to him that I am laid a miserable metre from where he slavers and stinks.

  To me, Shafeek’s television sex looks like a very strange affair requiring two people, sometimes more. They must have vast amounts of energy to thrust flesh into each other, hour after hour, apparently never actually finishing what they have started. Most of his movies seem harmless and almost educational, but I can’t sleep through them: the grunts and groans of sex are pitched at an alarming level, not dissimilar to the deathbed throes of malaria victims. People say that ‘sex sells’, but if it were by sound alone, it wouldn’t turn a profit for anyone. And do these people not have other things to do, especially the women who might want to tidy up their beds occasionally? It must be ‘linen washing day’ every single day in their clammy world.

  ‘Really, it’s natural, it’s mechanical, it’s personal, it’s boring . . . yet, I can’t pull myself away,’ says Shafeek tonight, and he tends to say every night like a weak ‘forgotten papers’ excuse. ‘I am literally unable to move away from this television, Meron . . . maybe you want to sleep but I’m stuck right here, watching sex.’

  ‘Yes, Mister,’ I mutter from my mattress.

  ‘You do like sex, don’t you?’

  I can’t answer that for fear of implicating myself. Presumably, everyone is programmed to like sex? There has to be some incentive for making new people. Possibly Shafeek’s question is less abstract than it sounds: what would sex be like with Shafeek? Is Shafeek propositioning me? Or is that ludicrous? I can’t stop wondering. The heat is affecting me. Every intelligent cell in my head yells ‘No!’ at the potential danger of sex with Shafeek, but the non-intelligent ones turn me into a screaming hot kettle, boiling over within seconds in his presence. What is this?

  I close my eyes and feign sleep.

  ‘Hammerhead, I know you can hear me . . . do you like sex?’ he repeats.

  I can’t risk a reaction. Mum! What’s the correct answer?

  ‘Mister, I don’t know,’ I try.

  ‘Ah! I understand . . .’ He chuckles like a boy with a trapped wasp.

  He understands what?

  ‘Are you okay? Do you want a Pepsi?’ Shafeek whispers at me, waking me up abruptly.

  ‘Mister? What’s the time? What do you want?’ I mumble warily.

  I peer through the night’s semi-darkness at him. I can’t read the expression on his face. What does he want?

  ‘It’s past one . . . want a Pepsi?’ he murmurs.

  He sits down on the end of my mattress in the small salon. I’m awake now.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I whisper. Speaking too loudly will touch Madame’s hairpin trigger of a hearing system and, thanks to me, there’s no cushion of dust to absorb the rustle of sedition.

  ‘First . . . tell me what you think of me . . . honestly,’ he says.

  Shafeek is within grasp. I’m playing with fire. And some demented element inside me is heating up. I don’t know how to switch it off. But I am sure I don’t want sex with Shafeek. Or do I? Need time to think!

  ‘I’d be more honest, Mister, with a Pepsi in my hand . . .’

  Shafeek creeps away and brings the Pepsi. Buying a few seconds of thinking time achieves nothing but his heightened anticipation of my answer. Nerves zip around in my guts like fireflies as he eases back onto my mattress, expectantly.

  ‘Here’s your drink, Meron . . . you see, I look after you . . . I’m like your father.’

  ‘Yes, Mister, thanks, but I don’t have a father now.’

  ‘In Beirut, you do . . . if you need any help with anything . . . I am right here, your Baba . . . what do you think?’ he asks, leaning on his elbow closer to me.

  ‘Er . . .’

  I am becoming confused. Is he seducing me? Or is he really a new Baba for me? Wasn’t I hoping for true love before I surrendered my virginity? Do I need to employ Beti’s advice: the hysterical wailing?

  But Shafeek is an international lawyer. This could change my life! And anyway, it could be true love, if I can just forget the defect-heavy personality that’s so obviously the fault of his work and family and upbringing and genes . . .

  ‘Yes?’ he says slowly.

  ‘Wait a second,’ I reply, gulping from the cold can, the first soft drink in sixteen months. Ah! Straight up my nostrils, eyes water, instant rush! Build a monument to the elation of sweet fizz! I can’t believe anything is better than this. And here comes . . . oh God . . . Baaarp!

  I emit a massive burp completely involuntarily. It ­resonates through the apartment like the horn blast on my father’s train, enough to alert the entire city of Addis to his arrival. In this case, it’s Beirut that gets the news.

  Shafeek winces as I catch my breath.

  ‘Shhh, Hammerhead!’ he whispers.

  ‘Sorry, Mister, I couldn’t control myself . . . first time for months.’

  Shafeek is just staring at me. I’m not sure where to put my watery eyes. He’s already halfway up my bed. It would be so easy just to succumb. Is this how Dad conquered Mum at the beginning? Through simple force of presence? And it did result in true love!

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘Erm . . .I think . . .’

  When is the correct moment for histrionics, Beti? Now?

  ‘What is happening here?’ booms Madame.

  Thank God for my wi
nd. Shafeek jumps to his feet.

  ‘Nothing, Mum . . . Meron is drinking Pepsi . . . I don’t know why . . .’

  Thanks, Shafeek.

  ‘You gave it to her. Obvious! Listen, Shafeek . . . she’s stretching tentacles towards the weak point of the family . . . you! She’ll exploit you and bring all the family down. Like the last one. Shafeek, no more mistakes! Go to bed!’ demands Madame, who still assumes her Arabic is unintelligible to me.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ replies an eleven-year-old boy.

  That is that. The Pepsi is out of my hand. He’s gone. My chance to be impregnated by a rich Arab and tossed like a ragdoll from a Beirut balcony: all lost to a single belch. I should be grateful. But there was something raw gnawing away inside me, purposely pushing me towards blatant danger. Does that mean I did want sex with him? Or was that the shove of true love sending me hurtling towards childhood’s end? I hope not to find out.

  After Sudan’s second visit to Madame’s bedroom, I feel pensive with Abdul the next morning. We now share his Lebanese coffee regularly.

  ‘Merhaba, Mister . . . how are you today?’ I ask, as I do every day.

  ‘Hello, Meron,’ he sighs.

  It’s only 7am and we are already warm in Beirut.

  ‘Too hot for you, Mister?’

  ‘I’m fine . . . but I don’t have anything else to say about the world.’

  ‘Ah,’ I reply. I’m not accustomed to this type of conversation. Habesha people always have something to say about the world.

  ‘I’ve lived through civil war and so much bloodshed in Lebanon.’ He pauses. ‘I’m still living but life has dumped me somewhere else . . . I don’t have anything I want to say today or any day. We’ve fought for so much, but now look at us . . . the country is independent at last, thanks to the Cedar Revolution, but honestly . . . we’re a disgraceful collection of people . . . and Hariri is . . . was . . . the most corrupt of the lot.’

  I nod my head. I’m really stuck for clever dialogue. Abdul stares at the floor and mumbles on.

  ‘The modern world means nothing to me . . . nothing . . . the obsession with money and appearance . . . the old values have long gone. I can’t even talk to my own family . . . it’s all meaningless . . . I can relate to nothing . . . the world is a tragedy in progress.’

  The foamy coffee has bubbled up three times. I pour it out. Maybe it’s better to let old people bubble up and burble on too, as much as they like, without constraint. Something interesting should dribble out by the end.

  ‘It’s not that I’m giving up with life . . . it’s just that I know I can’t change anything in any way even though I see so much that’s wrong around me. Whatever I do or say is pointless.’

  ‘You helped me with the Panadol . . . that was good, Mister. And perhaps you could help me not make the same mistakes as Mulu . . . I think I’m drifting in that direction . . . and I can’t stop myself . . .’

  ‘At least, we have Allah with us . . . Allah knows best,’ he continues, as if not hearing me.

  He downs the coffee in one gulp and mutters to himself as he limps away. I’m still unsure if I want to be old or not. It is good to be wily and wise, but what if you know too much, like Abdul? To know you can’t make any impact on the world sounds like a terrible curse.

  ‘I know about it . . .’ says Abdul suddenly back in front of me.

  ‘Pardon, Mister?’

  ‘Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t see things. I see more than she thinks . . . sharmuta . . .’

  ‘The previous maid or the other bad thing?’ I ask urgently.

  ‘What other bad thing?’

  I have strayed into an alligator swamp. Abdul is a Muslim. I absolutely cannot say anything about Sudan’s visits, or people will die. Or at least one person will die . . . the big-mouthed maid. Think, Meron!

  ‘Tell me, child. What other bad thing?’ he presses.

  ‘The . . . er . . . the . . . Hez-Jazeera.’

  ‘What? It’s Hezbollah . . . you really are a Hammerhead! Shafeek is right,’ laughs Abdul, hobbling away.

  ‘Mister?’

  Abdul! What about Mulu? And me? I need help. My head is so muddled. I have to get out.

  *

  The disappearing bed linen has become a weekly event. A strong breeze arrives promptly every Wednesday morning, hastening first the sheet and then my own descent to the ground floor, where my friend offers cake and comfort.

  ‘Can you help me escape?’ I ask Table Lady in reasonable Arabic.

  ‘I feel very sorry for you. I really want to help you so much, but it could be difficult for me,’ she explains, genuinely apologetic. We drink sweet tea at the table.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, flattened. She was my best hope.

  ‘I have to live here. They are my neighbours. I mustn’t upset them. I’m sorry, so, so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, I understand.’

  ‘I really would like to help you because they’re bad people . . . yes, you should escape, but . . . I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you come for lunch with me on Sunday? I don’t have anyone to share it with. Can you come . . . please?’

  I need help with a daring escape plan, not Sunday lunch.

  ‘Madame won’t let me come. I shouldn’t be here right now.’

  ‘You are so beautiful, things will be good eventually for you, but please don’t do anything you might regret.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ I lie. Of course I will. ‘Just tell me one thing . . . when you go out through the side-door where the Sudanese doorman sits, what happens if he’s not there to buzz you through?’

  ‘At night, it’s a different man . . . Egyptian, I think. A little unfriendly.’

  ‘No, not at night. I mean, during the day when the Sudan man should be there but isn’t, for whatever reason.’

  ‘Ah! If he’s gone to get lunch?’

  ‘Yes, if he’s gone to . . . get lunch . . .’

  ‘In that case, the intercom goes through to the other entrance. You just have to shout “Open the door, please!” and the unfriendly Turk will let you through. But at night, it’s a Syrian . . . extremely unfriendly, or extremely asleep. The black man is my favourite. I’m sorry!’ she giggles.

  ‘Interesting. Thank you.’

  ‘But I don’t need to speak to anyone . . . I have a key,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Pardon? A key? Can I borrow it?’ I try, my heart beating a little faster.

  ‘Not really . . . no. I need it. I’m so, so sorry.’

  Me too, more sorry than she can imagine.

  Madame almost jumps on me when I return to the apartment. I have been downstairs for half an hour.

  ‘But she was praying, Madame!’ I plead, this excuse long overdue for a replacement, but mindlessly neglected.

  ‘Liar! You lie again and again! Until you came, we never had problem of sheets disappearing every week. Now, Wednesday, every Wednesday, gust of wind has programme to blow in from Mediterranean to remove one of my sheets . . . you think I believe this forever?’

  ‘I suggest we change the linen hanging day to avoid the Wednesday morning winds, Madame.’

  ‘No. We change position of washing lines and we punish servant when she lies.’

  Medina is beginning to stir.

  ‘I’d better go to Medina,’ I say, seeking my usual means of legitimate escape.

  ‘If you not hanging around downstairs with barren woman, you squeezing my granddaughter. I think that will stop as well. I not wanting her in contact with liar.’

  ‘But I keep my mouth closed, Madame.’

  ‘And I know you use air conditioning during day . . . electricity bill increase 4.6 per cent.’

  ‘Maybe from Shafeek watching loud television all night.’

  Up goes
her left eyebrow. And in comes the palm of her right hand. Slap!

  That was inevitable. It stings for a few seconds. I shrug at Madame, as if to say ‘so what?’ Madame is about to sling another hand at me when Nazia appears.

  ‘If you’re disturbed by him, you can sleep outside on the balcony,’ she suggests.

  Madame beams at the idea.

  ‘Yes, good idea, Nazia . . . now it so hot and all doors are open . . . we breathing your air, and how dare you forget Mister . . . he is Mister Shafeek!’

  With nights on the balcony, things change for the worse. It may be less exposed to Shafeek’s night-time soliciting, but out here the winds whistle around my ears, while sirens and car beeps sail up randomly from the streets below, keeping me from deep sleep. Napping outside like an Addis street kid, I’m grabbing at snippets of sleep that shave my dreams into slideshows.

  I’m becoming dogged by drowsiness. There are long spells of daytime unaccounted for: I’m asleep but acting awake. For the perfunctory tasks this is easy, but when people speak to me, their words prod me like beeping alarm clocks. Every new request is a 5am wake-up jolt. Each one reminds me of the heat, the hunger, the hard labour, the lack of humanity and now the sleeplessness, all strapped to my wings like lead weights, firmly shoring me to this concrete column of incarceration.

  God, what have I done to deserve this?

  I lied. I lied to Madame about the sheets. I lie to her a lot. I lied before I came to Beirut, a lot. The age on my birth certificate is a lie. I would not be here without that lie. I’m a wicked barefaced liar. And that’s why I’m here: punishment for all my lying. The Bible is not sympathetic towards lying. Proverbs 30:8 says: ‘Remove far from me falsehood and lying.’

  So I have been punished. Fine. Now let me go home and be a better person. Come on, God, intervene like you did before. A deserving sinner is reaching out to you. Please. A viable escape plan would be a really useful ­miracle.

  When He Intervened

  Auntie Kidist worked as a secretary for an international freight delivery company in Bole Road, near the airport. Desalegn had always been fiercely against it. He detested his wife enjoying her own income and the associated in­­dependence. He loathed the idea that she worked for another man, her boss. He reviled the fact that every minute she spent in the job was a minute not attending to his needs. To him, it was intrinsically evil.