No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  No. I prefer to be me: so utterly reduced to nothing that I fear nothing and no one. I am an unbeatable zero. In Maths, you can multiply nothing by a million and it will still be nothing, impervious to other numbers. Most of Ethiopia has always had nothing, yet our culture has somehow defied and survived the influence of foreign powers. A ‘nothing’ is round like a ball: try to throw it away and it bounces back in your face. And that’s me now, an impervious invincible nothing, ready to fly back into the face of those who manipulate me.

  By the time we reach their farmhouse in Jabal, I’m asleep. As the car door opens, I find myself in some kind of rustic paradise. The sweet aroma of endless pine trees elicits a cough of joy from me. Out of Beirut! Out of my prison! The dust of bomb damage sputters out of my lungs.

  An elderly woman whose black shoulder-length hair is probably a wig approaches us gingerly. Emaciated, she’s unsteady on her feet but attempts a thin smile at me.

  ‘This my mother, Meron.’

  ‘Merhaba . . . Madame’s mother,’ I stutter.

  ‘Come this way, child,’ she rasps. ‘Rahima, get her working fast . . . she can do the house as well.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘She looks healthy enough . . .’

  We follow her into the basement of a farmhouse. It’s piled high with tins of food. Abdul restocks the basement every six months from his supermarket. Madame is always ready for Israel, Syria, or whoever else might attack her.

  The entire family is inside the basement, sitting around, looking tetchy. Nobody is pleased to see me except Mustafa and Medina, the kids. Now I can see the problem with sharing oxygen and food in a bomb shelter with your Habesha servant. They would prefer me outside the shelter until the cleaning is needed.

  Cleaning takes two hours. Afterwards, I enjoy tinned peaches. Madame’s mother is unhappy about this, but I have to eat.

  The Israeli bombing ceases the same night. We’re back at the apartment in the early hours as though nothing has happened. But they left me in a war zone. I have changed. I am nothing to them, and that will be my advantage.

  The memory of my initial ‘pride’ when I first came to the apartment is almost funny. I lie awake grinning at my own innocence and obedience in the early days. Back then, I didn’t realise I was living with a race devoid of heart.

  Today, I have one year left on the contract, again. The Israeli battering has calmed down. Normal life has resumed for most people. They are lucky. I have been on a war footing for more than two years now, unsure who will attack me for the most trivial of reasons. That is the way I see it. War. It’s them or me: Madame, Nazia and, sadly, Shafeek. They drew the lines and we’ve been in a private war of attrition ever since. The first year was theirs, and the second too, but the third, beginning today, that will be mine. The raw little Habesha girl is banished forever.

  I am Mum in her baseball-bat phase, and now making things happen. This morning, as I handled Madame’s fitness manual, it fell open on a well-thumbed page: her daily exercise regime revealed! The very same that keeps Madame’s buttocks in such spectacular shape. Madame’s body is worth having. I memorised the regime and at 5am sharp tomorrow, I plan to perform a thirty-minute session on the balcony in total secrecy. Sit-ups, stretching and jogging around the perimeter of the roof garden are the main components. Self-determination begins here. Confidence will ooze from every pore. In one year’s time, I’ll be standing in Addis looking fabulous, or I take down my oppressors with me. I am not Mulu.

  The early morning air is fresh and light when I roll out a mat on the balcony’s concrete. It feels as though Beirut is mine. Apart from those in prayer, nobody else is awake and active. If some major question is asked of the city’s citizens at this time of day, few will be as sharp as me: I’ll fling back an answer before the rest can lift their eyelids.

  By 5.30am, my body is gleaming, I’m so far ahead of the rest of the city, it inspires me to go harder: four million, olive-oil-soaked, paunchy Arab bodies paralysed in dull slumber, and me, feisty and fighting fit on the roof of Beirut: above and beyond their blinkered dreams about real estate, nightclubbing and skewered lamb.

  My withered eighteen-year-old body aches at first, but within only three days the daily routine has visible effects: feminine form returns to my hitherto shapeless, wasted frame. Clear thinking is replacing the heavy fog inside my head. Housework has become a series of easy gliding movements, just as Madame demonstrated on the very first day. Life is enhanced.

  In my third week of exercise, a full hour races by before tiredness tickles my muscles. Rich trickles of sweat dribble out of me. The bathroom mirror is beginning to love me, and vice versa. My loose servant togs caress my curves after two years of disinterest. In Madame’s fancy clothes, I stand agog at myself. Now, I’m getting gorgeous!

  The next morning, mid-session, I hear Madame speaking on the phone.

  ‘Yes, she trusts me,’ I hear from the balcony.

  The kitchen window is wide open and my ears are unable to stop listening.

  ‘Eighteen . . . healthy . . . what choice do we have?’ Madame continues. ‘Maybe six months or a year before another comes through . . . too much waiting for us . . . especially at a thousand dollars a week.’

  Madame begins to sob. It’s not often I hear this sound.

  ‘It’s better if she doesn’t know anything . . . okay, I’ll start it,’ she says, finishing the call.

  It is an odd moment.

  These days, the kitchen is properly mine. The street kids in Bole Road with their pickpocket skills were slick. But me, now, on my battleground, I’ve made thieving food my daily bread. It is my daily bread. Thieving is not encouraged by the Bible, but like soldiers in war I have my excuses: God can see that I’m stealing to survive.

  Strictly off-limits, the fridge buzzes at me as chickens cluck at foxes: inevitability stalks our relationship. The low hum alone activates my saliva glands. Once inside, I ram food and liquid into my diminutive mouth. Spreadable substances (hummus, baba ghanoush, butter) are spread further: nobody notices reduced depth. Drinks in cartons (milk, fruit juice) lose concentration: water is such a good mixer. Malleable products (falafel, soft cheese) are reshaped to hide loss, finger prints smoothed over with spoons. But sealed goods (ice cream, chocolate) I have not yet cracked.

  ‘You went in fridge again . . . I know you have, Me-ron!’ Madame says once a week or so.

  ‘No, Madame, not me . . . must have been Abdul, or Shafeek in the night, or . . .’

  ‘Enough! I know was you, but I not sure what you steal.’

  I shrug my shoulders. Before leaving for work, Madame traps a light slither of tissue paper in the fridge door as she closes it. When I open the door, the slither slips out and she knows I have been inside. The tissue is as light and indiscernible as a patch of human skin. Sometimes, I locate it and reinsert it. Sometimes I do not. Those are the days I plunder little or nothing.

  Beyond the fridge lies a similarly lush world of devious consumption. Wrapping one of my long black hairs around a chicken leg ensures it is noticed by whoever tries to eat it: the cry of revulsion from the dining room means the chicken leg is mine (‘Urgh! Meron! Take it away!’). Stale bread earmarked for the servant is swapped for the fresh new loaf meant for the family: after some time, the latter forgets the taste of good bread, while the taste buds of the servant become ever more refined. Dried milk powder is stirred daily into hot water and consumed for protein: if hot water cannot be obtained, a handful of dried milk powder is thrown into my mouth, followed with a glass of cold water. Let the stomach be the liquidiser.

  When placing a new batch of eggs inside the refrigerator, I poke an outstretched finger into the shell of a single egg.

  ‘Whoops! Madame, an egg’s broken,’ I say, licking my moist finger.

  ‘Again! You throw that one away. But be more careful!’

  ‘I th
ink it was already broken.’

  ‘Oh really?’ she says, knowingly. ‘You have good ears and your eyes like lasers, but your hands are useless lettuce leaves . . .’

  ‘If only they were edible, Madame.’

  ‘What? You not funny, Meron. I sure you getting bigger . . . maybe we check your weight again.’

  ‘Just a little constipated, Madame.’

  The contents of the broken egg find its way into a sugared mug a little later. Three eggs a week are consumed with this ruse.

  Bottled mineral water from Abdul’s supermarket, meant only for the family, is consumed by the servant. The family unknowingly swigs a blend of both bottled and tap water, sometimes only tap but they seem to live. Similarly, I am a little remiss with fruit-washing, but they survive: why would I wash fruit that I’m not allowed to eat? I often bash an ugly brown bruise into a perfectly good pear, then carefully wash it and place it with the others.

  ‘Give that bruised one to Meron,’ they say.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I reply, munching the cleanest pear in the bowl.

  Madame always checks my lips after kitchen work: undue dampness indicates something improper – food or drink – has entered my mouth and triggered the seepage of saliva. I’m constantly scraping at my lips to give the pretence of dryness. Madame is happy only when I appear to be fresh in from a gruelling trek across the Sahara. My eyes also give me away. She says they become bigger and more ‘innocent-looking’ when a transgression has been committed. Instead, I concentrate on the guilty hang-dog look with lips splitting open like overripe tomatoes and eyes squinting like a pair of brown apple pips, as if hoping to glimpse a distant oasis.

  ‘Meron, you look terrible today,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I reply, rather pleased with myself, and letting it show.

  ‘No, really. You look terrible. Guests coming today . . . your face not good for appetite of corporate bankers.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Madame,’ I reply.

  ‘Not be sorry. Is good for me, good for my diet to see your revolting face,’ she says.

  A chink of wit from Madame. I’m tempted to engage with it, but I can’t be sure of her limit. Her patience is as friable as the Sahara earth I have just theoretically trampled across for the last few weeks.

  ‘Me too,’ I try. ‘When I’m hungry, I just look at myself in the mirror . . .’

  Madame shoots a look at me. Her limit is already reached. Sahara earth turns to dust.

  *

  After a month of good exercise, I am ahead. I feel better than at any time since arriving and nothing they can do will upset me. I know how to play the servant game. I am winning it.

  ‘You not okay,’ Madame says to me as I chop onion.

  ‘I’m fine, Madame . . . just the onion makes my eyes water.’

  ‘No, you very sick . . . look terrible again,’ she insists.

  ‘Don’t worry, I feel absolutely fine,’ I insist back at her. I remember looking at myself this morning: brilliance shone back.

  ‘Listen, Meron,’ she starts, emptying a packet of white tablets into her hand, ‘you take tablet.’

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t need a tablet. Thank you, Madame, I’m really fine.’

  ‘If you not take tablet, you not get food. I want to make you better . . . I care about you.’

  I raise my eyes to the sky. Maybe I’ve overdone the Sahara look recently, but this is ridiculous. I hate taking drugs of any kind, especially those of an unknown variety for a phantom sickness that an unstable banker – not doctor, pharmacist or nurse – has diagnosed for me. What is this inscrutable lump of white powder being pushed into my face?

  ‘Madame, it’s okay, I’ll drink some coffee,’ I try.

  ‘I not offering coffee. I giving you this tablet. Take this, you can have coffee . . . sound good?’ she beams encouragingly and unconvincingly.

  ‘What is this tablet, Madame?’ I ask.

  ‘Tablet to make you feel better . . . this what tablets do . . . me too, I take these . . . and look at me.’

  True, Madame looks great for her age. My hand goes out slowly. The pill is dropped into it. She passes me a glass of water, conveniently handy. I tuck the tablet under my tongue and gulp down the water. Madame seems content. The moment she’s away, I spit the pill out and push it inside my headscarf.

  ‘We started it . . . should be in time,’ she mutters on the phone.

  Again, I’m outside the kitchen, exercising hard, listen­­ing hard. Ten minutes later, I see Madame crying. An hour later, over breakfast, she notices my rude health and administers another mystery tablet.

  The same routine occurs each day for four days. Madame makes an emotional early morning phone call, later studies me carefully with evident disappointment and then reaches for the tablets. I make no fuss. No pill reaches my gullet.

  Nobody tells me anything. Shafeek and Nazia are sombre and untalkative. Abdul is hardly ever here: he’s staying with Nuria, Hassan and the children. But on the fifth day, I catch it as Madame’s voice chokes with emotion.

  ‘Mum can’t wait longer . . . she’s critical . . . insisting we do it now . . . but nothing is happening to the girl . . . I can’t see anything in her . . . not changing, just getting fatter on my food. Yes, of course she’s taking them . . . yes, Sofia! You’re right! Maybe it’s protecting her.’

  I understand her mother is seriously ill. Sofia is Madame’s sister, caring for the sick mother in Jabal.

  Madame checks my whereabouts, glances at me outside and strides purposefully towards my cupboard. She rummages through my possessions until the folded postcard of Maryam is located. Madame rips it apart, coldly and carefully. No apology or explanation follows. I’m utterly distraught.

  The white capsule continues to be distributed, same time, every day. Madame stares at me suspiciously as it goes into my mouth, but my tongue provides effective cover. I’m good at this. After eight days, I have an accumulation of eight pills. It would be easier to toss them out of a window, but I’m curious: if I ever get out of Beirut, I shall test the pills on a street dog in Addis. It might drop dead in front of me, or gleefully bound down Bole Road, barking dementedly at the taxis. I might even take legal action.

  I store the tablets loose in Madame’s golden sugar bowl, side by side with the supply of Panadols from Abdul, still safely sealed in their plastic container. There will be no contamination.

  ‘Hammerhead, what are you doing?’ asks Shafeek, sweat dripping from his brow.

  He’s only walked from car to elevator and from elevator to front door. At around 11.30am, it must be Shafeek’s ‘forgotten papers’ check on the maid, except that this excuse has long been forgotten. Nobody else is in the apartment.

  ‘I’m cleaning, Mister,’ I answer dutifully.

  Only a second earlier, I was on a stool, placing pills in the golden sugar pot several shelves above us. It was close.

  ‘You can put the TV on if you like . . . listen to some music,’ he suggests.

  Without waiting for my answer, he turns it on. A weak-voiced, raven-haired, full-figured beauty in a stunning gold lamé dress consumes the television screen. Shafeek is immediately engrossed. It’s Haifa Wehbe.

  I continue dusting, pretending not to watch. But I’m dusting air. She holds both of us in her doe-eyed awe. Her act is surprisingly sexy: side-profile body-jerks, hypnotic finger-pointing at the camera and seductive facial expressions from little girl innocence to devious diva within a single toss of the head. Every man in Lebanon might be licking his television screen at this particular moment. Before I realise it, my own hips are gently gyrating. Shafeek notices immediately. At this exact moment, I understand the disadvantages of improving my body.

  ‘Hey! You’re just like Haifa. You are Haifa! You look so good now!’ he rejoices.

  ‘Really?’ I say, half-flattered, ha
lf-petrified.

  Please don’t decide you want sex with me just because I danced for a couple of seconds. Please don’t be that shallow, Shafeek.

  ‘Yeah . . . Haifa Wehbe . . . I can’t believe it, she’s working here in my house!’ he laughs. ‘Do some more dancing, Haifa, please!’

  ‘Sorry, Mister, I have to do some washing up now . . .’

  I scuttle away like a timid mouse.

  Ten minutes later, Shafeek wanders into the kitchen in only a pair of black briefs. My eyes linger on them. They are plainly too tight.

  ‘Do you want some lunch, Mister?’ I stutter.

  Shafeek should be in work by now.

  ‘Yeah, maybe I’ll make pizza,’ he says, staring at me staring at him.

  I hand him some flour. It might be easier to walk out of the kitchen, but he’s blocking my exit.

  ‘Can you teach me how to make pizza, Mister?’ I ask, turning my back on him to wash a few items in the sink.

  Shafeek reaches for a chopping board next to the sink, brushing against me. It’s an obvious reach. I quickly move sideways to avoid stray hands.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he says.

  ‘Nothing, Mister . . . I’m just giving you space to work.’

  He makes a play for the cutlery drawer, which happens to be next to me. Again, I dart to one side.

  ‘You look like you’re dancing again, Meron,’ he comments, edging towards me. I’m cornered between oven and fridge. ‘I can’t resist Haifa in my own house.’

  Comparisons with Haifa are ludicrous. Yet I want to hear it. I deserve recognition for my physical transfor­mation. But I don’t want to hear it from Shafeek.

  ‘I’d better go, Mister, before I get blood on the kitchen floor . . . my period is really heavy today. I can’t hold it back,’ I lie, clutching my stomach in pain.

  ‘Wait!’

  Shafeek puts his hands on his hips and studies me intently for long seconds.

  ‘Where’s the blood? Nothing is coming out. It’s not your time. I know it’s not your time. This is evidently a fabrication . . . you’ve stood before me and lied,’ he states, for a moment back in his law courts.