No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  He’s right. I sense a difficult moment is upon us. We watch each other intently. He folds a newspaper in his hand, steps forward and runs it along my breasts playfully, backwards and forwards, as though sweeping frivolously along the keys of a piano.

  ‘Nothing wrong with you today, Meron.’

  I quickly turn my back on him, but I’m at the sink with nowhere else to go. I start to rinse some dirty cups.

  ‘What’s the problem, Meron?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I croak.

  Where’s the new Meron? I am back in the shack with my brothers, barricaded in by a heap of muck and slime that reeks strong enough to attract a black mist of flies. I’m a little girl who needs her daddy, too useless to defend myself. What was Beti’s advice? Focus!

  ‘I’m just playing.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for playing at the moment, Mister.’

  ‘I know you like me,’ he says, his breath hitting my left ear as he moves closer. ‘We never finished our evening together, the night you ate my chicken. And now, I ask you to repay me for the chicken.’

  ‘How?’ I tremble.

  I am sandwiched between kitchen sink and slime, with nowhere to go. It could have been so simple to give in to him, Mum.

  Mum’s Intervention

  Two weeks before I was due to leave for Beirut to become a downtrodden maid, Kidist had to be told of my new life abroad. With her susceptibility to extreme jealousy, such an announcement required careful presentation. If Mum was in the room, Kidist might feel humiliated in front of her sister, knowing the bounty from Beirut could leap-frog our family over hers. This would risk another sisterhood feud that might last years and years. God had limited patience and we could not assume He would intervene again. I needed to employ considerable tact in how I broke the news to her.

  When my aunt called round, Mum stepped outside into our little yard on the pretext of squatting over a washing-up bowl full of cooking utensils.

  ‘Auntie, what do you think about these girls who go to Lebanon and make a lot of money?’ I asked softly.

  Slumped on our broken sofa, Kidist was perspiring from the mid-afternoon heat caught beneath our corrugated iron roof. With no windows or fans providing draught, my family was effectively baked alive every afternoon in that oven of a hut. But it was a slow cook: after ten years, we were still not ‘done’. Kidist wiped her forehead and winced.

  ‘Lebanon? That’s suicide! And if you’re thinking of doing it, I’ll do everything I can to stop you. And anyway, your mother would kill you before you even got on the plane,’ she bristled without checking the volume.

  ‘Just a question. I’m not saying I’m interested, but it seems like a reasonable way to make good money,’ I continued, undeterred.

  Pots and pans jangling in her ears, Mum made a good show of being too busy to hear us.

  ‘It’s also a reasonable way to lose your life, Meron, and your virginity . . . Arabs never use condoms. Never. And they expect you to work like a donkey. All this just for money . . . I agree your family needs money, but having lots of money won’t make you happy.’

  Kidist was patently terrified that we might once again be richer than her. And happier. In fact, we were already happier.

  ‘Mmm . . .’ I mulled.

  ‘And enforced captivity is an awful thing,’ she continued. True, Kidist did know something about that.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Why don’t you take evening classes in something useful, like computing or accounting? You’ve totally wasted school. In these evening classes, you can meet a good man for marriage . . . you won’t find anyone in Bole Road . . . Meron, you’re wasting your life.’

  For an aunt, Kidist was viciously over-opinionated and riddled with paranoia. I was even more determined to go.

  ‘Why would I be interested in computing or accounting? Why would anyone?’

  Still outside, Mum pulled the front door closed. This meant she was relieving herself in our minuscule yard, on the same patch where running water flowed from a tap and we did all the washing up. A small drain struggled to carry our various liquids away. This was the usual protocol for the lucky ones with taps, but with the door closed, Kidist and I were now feeling like fresh loaves, with crusts hardening and both still on the rise.

  ‘Meron, they are not just boring courses . . . the in­­telligent men attend the classes . . . they’ll be fighting over you.’

  ‘Right, intelligent men like Desalegn? Auntie, the girls who come back from Lebanon have real money and confidence, not a certificate in accounting and a man like Desalegn. They choose the man they want, not vice versa . . . not like you and Mum . . . happy to accept whoever comes along and agrees to marry you, regardless of the man’s character.’

  The temperature inside was racing upwards.

  ‘What?’ hissed Kidist, her head visibly pounding with blood and ire. ‘I had confidence! I chose my husband!’

  ‘Auntie, you did not. You were poor and ageing and desperate . . . we all know that . . . you would take anyone with the faintest of prospects. But Desalegn? The morning after your wedding night, you were hospitalised. I’m not going down that route. I’ll do the choosing.’

  I had accidentally checkmated Kidist. To protest that she had picked her beast of a husband through her own free will was to admit to pan-frying her own brain. The subtle approach had been ditched.

  ‘I wasn’t desperate!’ she cried, flinching uncontrollably, sweat streaming down her forehead, cheeks vibrating so hard they threatened to work loose from the face. ‘I chose him! Desalegn was cute in those days . . . really! And I wasn’t that old, really! He was kind and good-looking and . . . and . . .’

  Mum reopened the door at last, allowing a blast of cooler air to hit our faces.

  ‘And . . . intelligent. Really!’

  Really? It was time for me to shut up and watch Auntie Kidist grease her pan. I refused to follow her treacherous path into a marriage of Hell. Without Selam’s money and confidence, I was unlikely to unearth any of those rare gemstones of the male species able to sustain a serious, meaningful, loving relationship. Why shouldn’t I choose the man I am to love and marry for the rest of my life? Why should I be left with a hefty rump of leering leaf-eaters and countryside wife-beaters queuing up to harass, marry and flatten the reticent virgins of Ethiopia?

  ‘You can’t let her go!’ Kidist blurted at Mum through the doorway. ‘She’s talking about Lebanon . . . it’s suicide!’

  Mum looked up slowly, still wary of her sister after she had abandoned us in our poverty some ten years’ earlier, despite the subsequent reunion. Whatever her motives, Kidist was evidently passionate that I should not go. I tried hard to assume it was borne out of genuine concern for my welfare but jealousy clung to Kidist like the fat on her hips. Neither could be shaken off.

  ‘And where’s your wedding ring?’ asked Kidist, stepping into the yard with me close behind, keen for the cool air.

  ‘Stay inside, Meron,’ said Mum.

  ‘It’s too hot!’ I protested.

  She closed the door anyway, forcing me to slump back onto the sofa. But metal doors are not favourable to confidential conversation.

  ‘She’s determined to go, my sister. I don’t like it, but let her discover the real world,’ reasoned Mum.

  ‘No, Werknesh!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum firmly.

  There was a pause while Kidist huffed.

  ‘So, if she really must go, she should take the contraceptive injection . . . two-year protection against those Arab boys who don’t care about condoms. A pregnant maid is a dead maid!’

  ‘A definite no, Kidist. If Meron wants to remain pure, she needs an incentive not to have sex . . . these injections are like special visas for casual sex . . . she’s only sixteen!’

  ‘But Werknesh, they’re an insurance policy against pregnan
cy and murder.’

  ‘Hoh! Not true . . . they’re an open invitation.’

  ‘But she’s a virgin . . . the virgins are the most vulnerable.’

  ‘She won’t be advertising her virginity to the men of Lebanon.’

  The conversation continued for over an hour in this way. Mum eventually got her way at the same moment as Tadelle turned up for his daily religious debate. No more was said. I remained unprotected but ‘pure’ and still do until this moment.

  Destiny Arrives (302 days left)

  Shafeek presses his bulges into me. Only the fabric of our clothes protect me from his unashamed awakening. Is my virginity to be stolen over a sink of coffee grounds and crockery? Will I forever associate the sweet pungency of my national drink with the bitterest moment of my life?

  ‘Mister, I really have to do this washing up, very urgently,’ I say, trying to control the quaver in my voice.

  Why, Mum, why did you have to be so good? Urgh! You meant well, but I’m not an angel that can just flutter away from danger. Here I am, pinned down, with no choice in my destiny. Kidist was horrendously correct.

  ‘Madame will be back soon, really soon, Mister.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’

  I feel his hands grabbing my waist.

  ‘No, please! Waahh! Allah! Allah! No, please! Waahh!’ I wail, slinging my arms around hysterically, sinking to my knees as Shafeek steps away with surprise. Letting my entire body slump to the floor, I emit multiple cries of ‘Allah!’ in the direst, most heart-wrenching moan I can manage, my hands grasping for the heavens as though I am drowning in acid. My acting is so dramatic that within seconds I believe it myself and feel genuinely moved to violent sobbing.

  ‘Okay, okay! What’s the matter with you? I didn’t touch you!’ shouts Shafeek, watching my vigorous performance with confusion, standing in front of me for at least a minute, apparently checking its validity.

  Please go away! Crying like a fresh young widow is completely unsustainable, though I remember Mum managed it for three years. Finally, he walks away. It worked, Beti! They do hate histrionics.

  An indeterminate period of time later, the front door clicks open. I breathe outwards. Madame finds me in the kitchen standing motionless in a corner. I am wiping tears from my face.

  ‘Me-ron! What you doing? You miss your family, or maybe your country?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘Why would you miss your country?’ she sneers.

  Madame thinks Ethiopia is nothing but sand, people and holes, the people living in holes in the sand: sub-­Saharan, sub-human, a wasteland of wasters, a country of scrub, with the people fit only for scrubbing and whatever Shafeek has on his mind.

  ‘I don’t remember, Madame,’ I mutter wretchedly at the floor.

  ‘Anyway, today, I check your mouth. I think you not swallowing tablets. You still sick, so sick!’

  I glare back at her. I can’t take this foolishness any longer.

  ‘I’m not sick. I took the tablets, Madame . . . that’s enough! No more! Thank you. I’m better now. Look at me! I feel fantastic!’ I gabble at her, skipping around the kitchen in a rare display of youthful vigour.

  Perhaps I have lost my mind, and at the very least Madame will have to catch me if she’s to force a pill down my throat.

  It works. Madame watches in dismay as I hop around, chasing invisible butterflies.

  ‘Enough, Me-ron! Enough, Me-ron! Take tablet! You sick! Now you sick in the head!’

  Eventually, she storms out of the kitchen, face in hands, almost certainly crying. Good!

  Two days later the phone call comes. Nazia runs to the phone in case it is Mohammed, her banned boyfriend.

  ‘Leave it, Nazia!’ shouts Madame.

  ‘Hello?’ answers Nazia anyway.

  ‘What’s the point in an expensive education if you’re going to waste your time with a slow-moving Sidon boy . . . what is he? Pro- or anti-Syria? What does his father do?’ asks Madame, not expecting an answer.

  ‘It’s for you, Mum,’ says Nazia, handing the phone to Madame with evident trepidation.

  ‘Hello? Yes . . . no . . . No!’

  ‘What is it Mama?’ asks Nazia as Madame carefully puts the phone receiver down and her body begins to crumple into the spot where she stands.

  ‘Habibti . . . my Mama . . . she’s dead,’ Madame gasps from her knees, hands clutching her head as it rocks back and forth. ‘We didn’t get a donor . . . renal failure.’

  Madame glances at me, her eyes filling with fury. I walk away before there’s trouble. The supposition is simple: Madame wanted a kidney for her mother and the tablets would in some way enable a timely theft from my abdomen, perhaps without my knowledge, probably without my permission and certainly without my recompense. I should be grateful that my Madame was humane enough to use tablets: the bodies of dissected dead maids – pushed first, raided second – often arrived in Addis, the organ removal undisguised upon the mangled corpses.

  This is what Mum called meddling in His work and, quite rightly, everything has failed for Madame.

  I have the same dream twice, or almost the same. The first time, I am checking the bath water again, but I plod naively towards Shafeek as if ignorant of the danger. The second time, it’s obvious he’s aroused, but I walk on towards him, unable to check myself.

  In both dreams, his hand flies out and grabs my arm. He twists me round sharply so that my face is square with his. A hand claws on the back of my head and thrusts me towards his face. My headscarf is ripped off. An overpowering garlic tongue pushes hard into my mouth. He clutches my hair so I can’t back off. A hard object prods at my belly button.

  Something wild is triggered within me. Catching him by surprise – and myself – with a surge of passion from my own tongue, I press myself into his mouth and grasp the back of his head. I drill my kiss into his face. His squashed nose damp with sweat, I feel his head shaking with panic.

  I have lost control.

  I catch sight of my right eye in the bathroom mirror behind Shafeek’s head. I tilt my head to see both eyes reflected over his hairy shoulder. But I am looking at my mother’s eyes. Her eyes seem at the point of dripping tears for eternity: her face is so open and hopeful, so generous in unquestioning love for me. How could I disappoint that face? A few fateful seconds of sex with this man could finish me, and her.

  I blink and the eyes on the mirror are not hers. They are Madame’s. I am Madame. And Shafeek’s hair is suddenly an afro.

  Irritatingly, I awake at this exact moment, on both occasions. But I spend the day pondering the meaning. The dream has to be a warning. Or a bleak statement on my mental confusion. Or just a dream.

  Shafeek has finished circling me: it all seems so predictable now. I always thought I would save my virginity for the one I truly love. But I make a decision. I shall not lose myself to Shafeek, whatever happens. This is a matter of principle. A small but perfectly functional kitchen knife will rest in my smock pocket from now on. Next time, I will use it and we will both go down. The new Meron will not dither.

  A few months later, Madame makes her pronouncement to Abdul, Nazia and Shafeek over evening kibbeh. I stand beside the table, waiting on them.

  ‘It is really important to travel abroad every year to expensive places with your friends. I make money for this reason. But this year, we are all going to France for two weeks . . . all the family together. Meron will remain here, as usual.’

  ‘Not me,’ starts Shafeek, ‘I’m too busy. Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Oh Shafeek, mon cher! We all want you there. You deserve a break, please! For me . . .’

  ‘No, Mum . . . it’s crazy at the moment.’

  Nazia stares at him relentlessly.

  ‘I thought you were always quiet at this time of year?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, usually, but thi
s year we’ve got three major cases looming. Why are you so keen for me to go?’

  Nazia doesn’t answer him. I am not certain that she really wants to leave Beirut either. Mohammed, the unacceptable boyfriend, is affecting Nazia’s usual tight alliance with her mother. But he is not bourgeoisie enough for Madame: the Paris trip might help Nazia to forget him and realign her priorities.

  ‘And what about Baba?’ asks Shafeek.

  Baba is pretending not to listen.

  ‘He’s not coming,’ replies Madame aghast. ‘He stays with Nuria. You think I want my husband shopping with me in Paris? Allah! Too slow.’

  ‘Sharmuta,’ mutters Abdul to himself.

  ‘All the family’ means Nazia and herself. Abdul shoots her a glance, but he knows his place. Shafeek shoots me a glance. Nazia follows its course. I don’t react. I know my place.

  My mind swims with apprehension. This is it, the deep end. Destiny has arrived. Shafeek and I will be alone together for two weeks of . . . what?

  *

  Next morning, Abdul makes a rare appearance in the kitchen. If only he could return to us for two weeks. He would be an unwitting guardian. Yes!

  ‘Nuria did it for me,’ he explains, half-heartedly pointing at his newly dyed black hair.

  ‘It’s better than white, Mister,’ I say encouragingly.

  ‘Not really . . . Rahima says it keeps me in my fifties . . . tuh! But at the cost of wearing a Jew’s kippah on my head . . . whatever I do, I lose.’

  ‘I know how you feel, Mister.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘It is something, Mister, really something special.’

  Empathy for the plight of a fellow human is undervalued: now I see that. It’s an unglamorous emotion without the dramatic punch of love, hate, envy et al, but when two souls come together and spontaneously empathise with each other, it’s surely the foundation of friendship.

  Abdul pauses and looks hard at me.

  ‘Mulu, you do a great job here . . . we appreciate that.’