No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  ‘Have you heard about Tadelle?’ asked Alem.

  ‘No, what happened?’ replied Tsigereda.

  ‘Yes, he doesn’t look good . . .’ said Elsa.

  ‘In what sense?’ asked Helen.

  ‘His hair is thinning,’ said Alem.

  ‘Ah! It must be the usual thing,’ replied Mebratt, as the others gasped with varying degrees of shock.

  Six middle-aged women in white netelas and myself were squashed into our snug living room like white feathers packed into a pillow. Their faces were kindly and benign but sometimes their words could be too jagged for a pillow’s padding, and I sensed my mother’s extreme discomfort in the midst of this regular gathering. She tried to keep her head down, preparing coffee, but occasional remarks would spike her.

  ‘Tadelle’s skin is dry . . .’

  ‘That means it’s dropping off . . . ’

  ‘Oh! He’s obviously got it.’

  ‘And he’s refusing alcohol . . . I offered him a glass of tella, and he refused it.’

  ‘Ah! So, he’s started taking the tablets . . .’

  ‘He had the flu . . .’

  ‘Of course, he did . . . that’s normal.’

  ‘When he walks outside, he discreetly carries a reused Highland bottle of water.’

  ‘That says everything . . . definitely HIV!’

  ‘Why is a Highland bottle definitely HIV?’ asked Mum, like me, trying to follow the quick-fire chatter. At times, I wasn’t sure who said what, and today, the excited prattle defeated me.

  ‘He needs the water to swallow his hourly HIV tablets.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Mum poured coffee into six white demitasse cups and passed them around. There were usually at least three coffee ceremonies in our house every day and my mother always had money for good coffee, however expensive the beans. Whenever the question of financial priorities arose, she reminded us that life came from God, but without nature’s caffeine coursing through our capillaries, we couldn’t possibly do all He expected of us in our exquisitely short appearances on His planet. Mum thus neatly married the demands of the Bible with the rituals of coffee consumption.

  ‘It’s just so obvious . . . the hair, the skin, the tablets, the Highland . . .’

  ‘Another one lost to HIV.’

  ‘It’s no loss . . . there are no tears for that one.’

  ‘He’ll be gone within months.’

  ‘Enough of this rumour-mongering!’ snapped Mum, her face darkening. ‘This is a religious house! My coffee is not being provided to fuel the exaggeration of scandal.’

  Mum was eager to avoid the pitfalls of inane chatter, so her coffee came only with passionate religious debate. In a million other homes, however, the coffee ceremony was the factory floor of Ethiopia’s gossip-production line and, once an item was on the conveyor belt, it could not be withdrawn – however untrue it might be – until it finally emerged as fabricated ‘truth’ ready for mass consumption. ‘Truths’ in Addis were rarely true.

  ‘Just drink up and gossip outside,’ added Mum.

  ‘But Werknesh, it’s Tadelle . . . what can we do for him?’ asked Tsigereda, trying to bend the subject in a slightly more compassionate direction.

  ‘He lost his job at the kebelle . . . hiding official certificates,’ said Helen.

  ‘And lost his wife . . .’ said Elsa.

  ‘To a bolt of lightning and there’s nobody to support him . . . he’s got four kids,’ said Alem.

  ‘So, he’s lying down only two doors from where we sit and we are Christian women . . . it’s logical that we should help him,’ said Mum.

  ‘What? Tadelle? Why do I want to die from his HIV?’ asked Elsa aggressively.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he dies today . . . I’m not helping that parasite,’ added Mebratt.

  ‘Yes, let him die,’ said someone quietly, probably ­Tsigereda who originally asked the question about what we could do for him.

  ‘Dying? That’s God’s work, not yours . . . don’t meddle in His work,’ interrupted Mum. ‘I don’t care if it is Tadelle. He’s a living, breathing man, a creation of God. We are taught to respect and care for everyone, not ruminate on their unproven cause of death.’

  ‘Even Tadelle?’

  ‘Him more than anyone.’

  ‘After everything he did to you?’

  ‘Enemies and traitors need even more love than the rest . . . they’re always the unhappy ones. Matthew 5:44: love thy enemy.’

  This seemed to halt the conveyor belt of ‘truth’. Muted muttering and hard glances towards Mum filled the void for a few seconds.

  ‘In fact,’ started Mum, ‘doctors say this type of mass persecution of sick people is a major accelerator of death in Addis. The sick are abandoned at the exact moment they need support . . . it’s death-by-gossip.’

  ‘So, you’ll go to his house and care for him?’

  ‘Of course? Won’t you?’ replied Mum.

  Everyone laughed. To visit an ‘HIV house’, if only declared as such by rumour, was to openly invite one’s own tortuous demise: people knew as much about HIV as they did about genetic engineering. HIV had become the new leprosy.

  ‘It’s just like when Lemma died ten years ago and I was suddenly poor . . . everyone abandoned us, including my own sister,’ said Mum bitterly.

  ‘So, go and care for him.’

  ‘I shall!’

  I accompanied Mum with a large chrome tray of injera to his messy shed the next day. As I poked my head into his drab living room, the stench of stale urine made my eyes water. I hardly dared imagine what pestilence was scuttling through the deep shadows. Mum immediately threw open a small window and collected up plates lying on the floor, while I stood perfectly still, trying to make out Tadelle’s features under a pile of blankets. After half a minute or so, I finally glimpsed a single peering eye, blinking at me.

  ‘Mum, he’s there.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tadelle?’

  He groaned half-heartedly.

  ‘Ah, good, you feel much better today!’ Mum sang out.

  I felt like laughing. Anyone could see Tadelle was a considerable distance from ‘better’. Even his famous egg-like protrusion – the chat disfigurement – had subsided.

  ‘Werknesh?’ he mumbled. ‘Have you come to finish me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! I’m here to help . . . the past is past. Today you’re in God’s hands . . . you have nothing to fear,’ said Mum, tidying away dirty cups and plates.

  Tadelle’s head sprang upwards with the speed of a catapult.

  ‘No! Leave me . . . after all I did to you! I can’t face the guilt . . . let me die in the agony that I deserve!’

  Tadelle was truly sick. I couldn’t believe he was saying this. The old Tadelle never refused anything offered to him for free and was even less likely to request agony. I remembered Mama begging God for the same. What is His stance on requested agony?

  ‘Shut up, Tadelle,’ snapped Mum. ‘You look good, you have to stand up . . . don’t give up. Let’s get you outside in the sun, try to eat, drink some coffee. You have to make yourself strong for your children. Come on, Tadelle! Be a man!’

  I giggled. Tadelle, a man! Mum shushed me abruptly.

  After feeding him a thick broth made from boiled bones and vegetables, Mum prepared coffee for Tadelle and gave him traditional medicine prepared with the herbs damakesse and feto. He clambered to his feet and managed to stand outside in the sun for ten minutes.

  ‘Werknesh . . . your name is totally accurate,’ said Tadelle. Werknesh in Amharic means ‘gold’.

  Mum made daily visits to Tadelle’s filthy shed for a fortnight. She aimed to cook, clean and prepare at least one coffee ceremony for him and his children each day. But Tadelle made little progress until finally she insisted that he went to the hospita
l to check for HIV. The result was negative.

  ‘So what is wrong with you?’ she asked him outside Black Lion Hospital in Bole Road.

  ‘Apparently nothing . . . I had a bit of flu and then people began to talk.’

  ‘Yes, they said your hair was thinning . . .’

  ‘I’m getting old.’

  ‘And you refused a glass of tella . . .’

  ‘Elsa’s tella is revolting and undrinkable.’

  ‘So you were abandoned and left to die.’

  ‘Until my angel came along. Really, Werknesh, it’s the loneliness that hastens sickness, not the sickness.’

  Heavy-hanging time was never a welcome guest in the poorer neighbourhoods: melancholia was dangerous enough to kill a grown man. An animated coffee ceremony, though, could slide time along like a well-oiled locomotive, dropping us off in mid-afternoon, when we thought it was still late morning. For the ‘uninfectious’ of our neighbourhood, many years would pass in the protective cocoon of friendly chatter, mutual support and daily certainty, helping to evade the one vital question: ‘Should my life not add up to more than this?’ As soon as the forces of gossip attacked, social abandonment struck hard and this dire question swiftly followed one into bed, a bed that might not be left.

  Tadelle, however, soon recovered under the superior daily care provided by my mother.

  A few weeks later, Mum played host to the same five women. As they nattered about the neighbourhood’s most recent ‘victims’ of HIV, Tadelle himself entered our house.

  ‘Good morning, all!’ he cheered.

  Tadelle had gained weight, his skin glowed and he clutched a Highland bottle containing tella beer. But these features had negligible impact on the other visitors. The five ladies immediately forgot their line of gossip and, like synchronised rabbits, baulked with fright at the guest. If only they could scamper into the protective undergrowth, but Habesha etiquette demanded that they greet him with at least a reluctant salutation. Inaudible murmurs followed.

  ‘Oh no! I forgot the cooking . . . my onions are burning!’ babbled Tsigereda, rushing out of the front door.

  Elsa picked up a coffee and hesitated to sip it, before putting it back down again.

  ‘I’ve drunk too much coffee already this morning . . . I really shouldn’t have come . . . better go before I’m addicted,’ she laughed nervously, tripping towards the exit.

  This left three: Helen, Alem and Mebratt. They changed positions, without any subtlety, to maximise their distance from Tadelle. But that wasn’t enough. Conversation was stiff and stilted. They wanted a quick escape.

  ‘Yes, I’m coming!’ Helen suddenly shouted at the door, supposedly in response to a yell from outside. But I’d heard nothing. Mum and Tadelle were equally mystified. Helen sprinted for the door, her pretext unquestioned.

  Alem desperately glanced around at us.

  ‘What happened? It must be an emergency! I’d better go to her aid.’

  And she was out.

  Now solitary, Mebratt held a hand across her mouth, pretending to rub her nostrils, as if this would somehow block the hypothetical virus from entering her air passages.

  ‘I’m very worried . . . they haven’t come back . . . I’d better check,’ stuttered Mebratt, before diving for the exit.

  Mum and Tadelle laughed heartily together. It is at this precise moment that Tadelle noticed the metal bowl resting beside the front door. He licked his lips and thought of the perishing chicken squirming beneath the bowl at supper time. Talking endlessly about the Old Testament, and the irrelevance of the New, seemed to Tadelle like a splendid way to gain romantic attachment to Werknesh and, more importantly, to fatten himself on her daily chicken feast. Several weeks later, he made the mistake of lifting the lid on Henok’s rancid trainers and creating the funniest moment in my family’s history, prompting my mistimed Lebanon announcement, Mum’s reluctant agreement and finally to here, Beirut, Madame, Shafeek, bombs and the battle of Meron Lemma.

  Nothing Beats Nothing (401 days left)

  If Tadelle can survive a lonely death-by-gossip in Addis, I can easily survive a lonely death-by-bombs in Beirut. Yes!

  No. My thoughts are turning to gibberish. I can’t stop the bombs: I could be dead a single second from now.

  But after three days of Israeli torment, Madame returns in a quiet spell. As the key turns in the door, I contemplate grabbing a knife and charging at her. After everything I have done for this family, why did you leave me?

  I’m too beleaguered to attack a person, my hand trembling too much to hold a knife.

  ‘Oh, you alive, Me-ron!’ she declares jubilantly. ‘You so lucky!’

  I’m standing in the exact spot she left me. I doubt my facade has improved since three days ago. Why come back? To check I’m properly terrified? To check I’ve cleaned up the new layers of dust? Is today a white sock day?

  I think again about that knife. I could plunge it into her and run free. But look at me, look at Beirut: I’m not running anywhere.

  ‘We spend three days in basement and now need cleaning. We want you, Meron.’

  Ah. My ticket out of Israel’s target zone. Squeeze mop, sponge and Dettol. I willingly accept.

  Madame and I slip through the army roadblocks around Beirut like olive oil through tissue paper. Her documents seem to contain magic words that transform edgy surly youths in green, red or blue berets into charming young men prepared to remove any obstacle before us. I think the car – a purple Porsche – exerts some influence. Madame’s extra high heels and very tight jeans may also have some effect.

  On the way, I see the devastation wrought by Israeli bombs and bite my fingers with fear. The ride in a Porsche is forgotten when I see distressed locals fighting in the streets over depleted food stocks remaining in semi-shuttered shops. Welcome to the world of hunger, I want to shout through the window. Openly flirting with the troops, Madame seems oblivious to the mayhem.

  Once out of the city, Madame can dispense with the act and relax.

  ‘If we have good neighbours, not Israel and Syria, we can have fantastic country . . . we got everything . . . skiing, beaches, trekking, nightlife, cuisine, history . . . and friendliest people in Middle East,’ she says as if I am a naive tourist.

  But from where I’m sitting, the Lebanese are mentally disturbed. I can’t find a single word to participate in this conversation. I am seething.

  ‘Biggest problem is not the neighbours . . . it’s the men. What you know about men, Meron?’

  ‘My father was a man, and my two brothers are also men . . .’

  ‘Is your humour playing with me again?’

  ‘I know a lot about men, Madame, a lot. We have them in Addis . . . yes, it is a big problem.’

  ‘What?’ she chortles.

  ‘But no man could ever get me . . . I’ve seen it all, Madame.’

  ‘What you know? What man chased you? You young and single and just girl, Meron. Look at me, look at my age . . . I know men. Listen to me, learn from me, copy me . . . before they get you, you have to do preparation. No glamour, no fun in married life, nothing at all.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, a little shocked.

  ‘Meron, marriage has different rules, everything change. When they get you, men change. Can be difficult if you not adjusting to your husband, because he not adjusting to you. Wife has to find path around him, path not cut across him, or upset him. For example, if he come home and say he too sick to eat dinner at home, it because he eat outside. Husbands decide to eat outside sometimes without telling you: just accept it. Food can wait for another day. Not waste money on fancy food for him. Keep for guests. Save money for yourself, so not dependent on him. Not asking him questions to try and get information. This ­irritate men too much. He has secrets, so you can have yours. Never reveal secrets to him: never show him all your heart: always hold something b
ack as insurance. Be self-confident, not overreact, not be sad about his behaviour, not . . .’ She stops and looks at me. I’m captivated. She should be an apostle for the innocent young women of the world. Madame giggles endearingly.

  I want to ask about her incongruous relationship with Abdul and her unfulfilled expectations for Shafeek, but I can’t. I nod in awe, my mouth sucking up dust again. At last, this is the Madame I have always dreamed of meeting.

  ‘Babies, children . . . they easy . . . just give them food, but adults, adult men . . . très difficile. You have to be smart with them . . . très intelligent,’ she continues.

  Madame is confiding personal details to me. I am now special. Madame trusts me with intimacy. She likes me. I have a foothold. I’m edging my way up from the very lowliest of entities in the apartment to something, I assume, that has to be better. I envy her bedroom, her mental agility and the way she’s in control of every aspect of her life: finances, fitness, family, fashion, occupation, copulation, Madame stuns me in the sheer mastery of all around her. One day, Madame and I might be friends, equals, companions, like her and Nazia . . .

  For a few minutes in her snug low-slung passenger seat, whizzing up the side of Lebanese mountains as the sky turns pink, I’m fooled by Madame’s veneer. But I remember Proverbs 26:23: ‘Like the glaze covering an earthen vessel are smooth lips with an evil heart.’

  She should be an apostle, but for the one glaring omission: geniality, the ability to be ‘genuinely nice’, sacrificed the moment she sniffed Abdul’s money all those years ago. Can she ever like or be liked by anyone? With so much controlling to be done, ‘like’ has no place in her lexicon.

  But does it have to be that way? Do confidence and money automatically breed control? And does this always evolve into cold-heartedness? Or is it all a cover for her fear of poverty? As Mum says, the rich live in dread of losing it. Ha! And what happens if Madame does lose it and on the same day, her fading beauty is beyond her control and she is forced to fall back on a personality as small and sharp as a pin prick? Without the geniality, people will queue up to draw her blood.