No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  At least I do not have the death of a man on my conscience. For two days, Shafeek staggers around, shouts my name, uses the bathroom, eats an egg or a banana, ­mumbles into his mobile, vomits the food, watches TV until his eyes close with fatigue and he sleeps an inordinate sleep. We leave recovery to Doctor Ali’s medicine case and my own absolute dedication.

  After a week, Shafeek is eating solid food and it’s staying down. Yes! His face is still grey and lifeless but I sense the patient has turned a corner. I do my chores with relish.

  ‘Meron . . . thank you,’ he mumbles once.

  ‘Mister, it’s a pleasure. I’m pleased you’re getting better. It’s a relief.’

  ‘But why didn’t you call the doctor when I was sick?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to use the telephone, Mister. Don’t you remember?’

  He knocks his fist on my skull.

  ‘Hammerhead . . . next time, I’ll make you eat the telephone. You are really, really stupid.’

  Shafeek soon ambles around tentatively on the ­balcony, soaking up sunshine, slurping orange juice, flicking through the newspaper. Nearly there! He makes calls to his office, his voice lucid and confident again.

  Around this time, Madame finally talks to me as serenity descends on this troubled home.

  ‘Meron, you really something special. If all Ethiopia like you, it become strongest country in world.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  ‘You nearly killed my son . . . but . . . I can’t be angry with you. Maybe there was reason. It’s okay, we very close now.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame. There was a reason.’

  ‘Mmm . . . but listen to me. You not to say single word to Shafeek about tablets, or us fighting, or Mulu, or ­anything . . .’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  We must not upset an international lawyer’s delicate sensibilities.

  ‘He know nothing about Mulu, not even pregnancy. I protect my son from bad information, so keep your mouth closed.’

  ‘But he had a relationship with her, Madame . . . and one thing usually leads to another . . .’

  ‘Yes, Meron, usually. But not Shafeek make her ­pregnant.’

  ‘Uh? Abdul?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy girl.’

  ‘Hassan?’

  Madame shrugs: the eyebrow lurches upwards to ­sug-gest an irritated ‘Yes’ without saying it.

  ‘Everyone think Shafeek, but not him. If police interested again . . . not Shafeek have the problem. He is good son.’

  ‘Of course he is, Madame.’

  Maybe it suits Madame to believe this. I will never be sure about Mulu’s philanderer but there is no question about who pushed her off the balcony. The Lebanese police chose to believe the account of the ‘window-cleaning accident’, as they always do. Lebanese windows and balconies are notoriously dangerous, even when nobody is cleaning them, and there would be no point in attempting to persuade the police, or the Ethiopian government, otherwise. This is common knowledge in Beirut. The Mesdames of this city will never face justice.

  Leaving Lebanon (27 days left)

  ‘Meron, you come back to us, yes . . . we all want you here again,’ starts Madame as I commence my kitchen cleaning duties.

  ‘Mmm . . . I don’t know about that,’ I reply, a little taken aback.

  It is bizarre but I am the celebrity of the apartment. Shafeek thinks I nursed him through a raging fever, while Madame is anxious to avoid the fees of hiring a new maid, with all the additional problems of induction and familiarisation. After three years, I’m regarded as good enough to stay, and Madame is comfortable with me knowing about the past. Uncoincidentally, she’s dining me on chicken shawarma and kibbeh every day. It is almost as though attempted murder has brought us together.

  ‘Me-ron . . . please come back! We need you . . . be better next time, I promise,’ Madame pleads.

  ‘Let’s see how it goes in Addis, Madame.’

  ‘I have suggestion. Why you not leave your money here and come back to work after few weeks’ holiday in Addis?’ she says, deadly serious.

  ‘No, Madame, I need my money with me in Addis, all of it . . . for my family,’ I respond.

  I’m due to return with $3,600 and not a dollar less. Madame will jump on the slightest pretext for docking those hard-earned wages. Beti warned me about this.

  ‘Me-ron, you might lose it . . . your money safer here in my bedroom,’ Madame continues.

  It is difficult not to scoff. She is quite insane.

  ‘I’ll be careful, Madame, but thanks for your concern.’

  ‘Why you not come back, Me-ron?’ she implores. ‘We looked after you so well . . . remember your birthday?’

  ‘Of course . . . wonderful.’

  They bought me a cheap card and some popcorn. I hate birthday cards, especially when they depict a delicious birthday cake the size of a train’s wheel, when in reality there is no birthday cake. In Addis, we eat popcorn every day at every coffee ceremony. It’s noise food! Does she think annual popcorn is enough to lure me back to Beirut? Annual popcorn and multiple attempts at murder are not obvious in their attraction.

  ‘Oh, Me-ron! Not lose yourself to man. You too young to marry. If you marry fast, you be old fast. Why you not make good money with us, then you start business in Addis in few years?’ Madame soldiers on.

  ‘I’ll think about it, Madame,’ I say, careful not to ­jeopardise my earnings. ‘I’m not sure what business I could run in Addis.’

  ‘Three more years with us give you plenty of time to think and plan, and you have capital for something at the end. You still only be twenty-two . . . young businesswoman!’

  With the body of a grandmother and the brain of a cabbage.

  ‘But,’ continues Madame, ‘you probably want little time with your family, especially your mother . . .’

  Unless she received any of the letters that I entrusted to you, my mother will assume I’m dead. My appearance might kill her with the shock. Or maybe she’s dead? Anything can happen in 1,200 days and nights of separation.

  ‘I’ll call you from Addis if I decide to return . . . which I might . . . I probably will,’ I mumble, hoping to appease her.

  ‘You have two mothers now! You not learn as much from other mother as from me.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve learnt so much from you, much more than school,’ I add.

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, Madame,’ I manage with the most unblinkingly honest face I can muster.

  ‘I miss you so much, Me-ron!’ she gushes, stroking my left cheek affectionately.

  She’s a better actress than me.

  ‘Mustafa and Medina miss you so much . . . and Nazia,’ she continues.

  I choke as though a noose has been tightened around my neck. Nazia?

  ‘Sorry, Madame . . . I’m overwhelmed.’

  ‘So, you come back?’ she tries again.

  ‘We’ll see . . . I’ll definitely call you, Madame, I promise.’

  ‘Okay, I trust you, Meron,’ she says as Nazia walks into the room.

  Madame kisses me three times on the cheeks, French-style. It’s real flesh-on-flesh contact. There’s warmth in those lips. Now, I see it. Madame is trapped within her own viciously controlled world where true happiness never has a chance: I actually pity her.

  ‘Allah! Mum? What are you doing?’ asks Nazia, dazed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, habibti! She’s one of us now!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, habibti.’

  And when she tries to break out of this world, her daughter is there to prod her back in, and vice versa. Madame and Nazia should separate for their own good.

  Nazia has refused to speak to her mother since the triple-kiss incident two weeks ago. Madame is considerably subdued but continues in
her unflagging quest to tempt me back.

  It’s difficult to imagine Madame and me strutting around the downtown boutiques in our shades: a couple of leisurely Lebanese Mesdames popping down from our high society in the clouds, to see the little ‘street people’ up close and to peruse the latest trends. But here we are and, as barefaced bribery goes, it’s not a bad idea. Madame is also using her time with me to blatantly foster Nazia’s jealousy: this might help to restore their relationship.

  My head swivels and spins. Madame clutches my arm to guide me through the throng of other shoppers. I have forgotten how many individuals meander around in city centres and fill up the space like hundreds of snapping piranhas in a stagnant pond. It is truly frightening. I have seen all four million Lebanese citizens in this single outing. Madame attempts conversation with me but I cannot reply intelligently. Other people are a novelty.

  I point at things hopefully, especially glittering clothes in alluring shop windows. Thanks to the Fashion Channel, I know what is stylish, but my Madame’s intentions of bribery waver in the face of price tags, her predilection for Gurage miserliness undiminished. After three hours, we return home almost empty-handed. Madame bought a single item: a lock for her fridge, ‘ready for next Meron’. This is not the best incentive for me to return to Beirut.

  ‘Before you go, I’ve got a special gift for you, Hammerhead,’ says Shafeek. ‘I’m on a business trip for a week . . . interview . . . so maybe won’t see you again. I might be working abroad from now on . . . out of this place at last.’

  ‘Really? I’m leaving in two days, Mister.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got you something you’ve always wanted. Something you’ll do anything to get. Something that’s deserving of three years’ service. Something only a Hammer­­head will appreciate.’

  I am now excited. Obviously, I deserve something for reviving the sick fool back to life.

  ‘What is it, Mister? Gold?’

  Maybe an ornament. Maybe the golden sugar bowl!

  ‘Similar colour,’ he chortles.

  ‘Can I have it now?’ I beg. ‘A gift for me!’

  ‘I’ll just check if we’ve got it . . .’

  He walks into the living room.

  ‘Yes. It’s here! Come here, Meron! Good girl! Come, fetch!’

  I race out of the kitchen.

  ‘Here it is, Hammerhead!’

  He hands me a banana, freshly torn off from today’s bunch. I look down at the lifeless piece of fruit and back up at Shafeek’s face of ridicule.

  ‘Oh. Thank you, Mister,’ I say tersely.

  ‘Enjoy it, Hammerhead!’

  I toss the banana out of the window with all the disdain at my disposal. He stops laughing, the face darkens.

  ‘Go fetch, yourself!’ I offer.

  ‘I’ll kill you for that.’

  ‘Easily achieved, Mister . . . if you just remove your shoes for a second . . .’

  Shafeek cannot believe my audacity, which delays his march towards me by a split second, in turn allowing Nuria’s visiting children to run into the salon to see us.

  ‘Come here, Mustafa and Medina, my babies!’

  I embrace them together. Shafeek stomps out of the room. He’s lost it. The moment has gone. I shall never see him again. I am safe from him.

  On the morning of my flight, I appeal to Madame for one – just one – phone call to Ethiopia.

  ‘If I call my mother quickly, she could meet me at the airport. Please, Madame, very quick.’

  ‘Not from here, no way. You call her in airport with your money.’

  She insists I clean the apartment as usual before we head to the airport.

  ‘If you not finish in time, you miss flight. And it is white sock day.’

  I’m not sure if she’s joking and decide not to risk it. I thrash the apartment with bleach and polish. It might sustain them for a few days, until the next victim is ensnared. Thinking of her, I locate the scrap of my Maryam postcard bearing the gentle eyes that gaze down on the baby Jesus. On the back of the scrap I write these words in tiny Amharic letters: ‘Madame murderer. Escape!’ I sew the scrap into a pair of freshly washed trousers confident that nobody else will be wearing them until the next maid arrives. She will feel it immediately rubbing against her waist and will ask, I hope, to leave before the contract is signed. That will at least save another Habesha sister from the beasts. I also sew a pair of Madame’s oppressive white socks into the interior of mine: they will be my souvenir from Beirut.

  I throw on my old Addis clothes and tidy up the minimal possessions: Madame stands beside me in her white ankle socks for the last time.

  ‘Here, Meron, a gift from me . . . to replace your Jesus postcard.’

  She hands me a photograph. It is of her, my Madame, without a single wrinkle.

  ‘Thank you. That will help me remember everything you did for me.’

  ‘Exactly, Meron. Thanks to me, you changed.’

  She tramps around the place in her white socks for a few minutes. They stay white.

  ‘Good luck, Mulu!’ gurgles Abdul, as we leave the apartment.

  ‘Thanks for your friendship, Mister. I’ll miss you!’ I exclaim. Friendship doesn’t have to mean remembering names.

  ‘Me too! You’re a real friend. You listened to me . . . you made a difference to my life,’ he replies.

  ‘What?’ retorts Madame, visibly surprised. ‘She’s Meron, not Mulu . . . you’re confused. Just when the maid is leaving us, you get dementia . . . wonderful.’

  As we head for the door, Nazia shrugs at me: her parting gesture.

  ‘Au revoir, Nazia!’ I rejoice. ‘Good luck with all your personal difficulties. I’ll pray for you . . . beaucoup.’

  ‘What? You speak French?’ she asks indignantly.

  ‘Oui, oui!’ I sing out for maximum provocation.

  ‘Allah!’

  I am about to cross the apartment’s threshold into the outside corridor when Madame puts out a hand to stop me.

  ‘Airport baggage checks start here, Meron.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this . . .’

  Unable to resist a final bout of distrust, Madame laboriously checks every item in my possession in case I have slipped in something illicit. Does she take me for a common thief?

  Madame is methodical but unimaginative: she is un­­initiated in the art of sewing garments into the interior of others and fails to locate the white socks.

  Inside Beirut International Airport, Madame counts out $3,600 in notes. Wrapped inside a white handkerchief, she pushes the wad into my cleavage.

  ‘It is safe there, Meron.’

  She hugs me tightly and kisses my cheeks three times. I feel her lips on my face again, the second time since she returned from Paris. Maybe, she’s changed. I hope so for the sake of the next maid.

  ‘Look at your hair now, Meron,’ she says. ‘See what happens when you use shampoo and conditioner! Maybe in Ethiopia, your hair would never grow.’

  It has not been cut or tended for three years. Naturally, it has grown.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Madame, all the women have very short hair, just like the men,’ I lie, for the last time.

  ‘I know you not phone me, Meron.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Think of me here . . . alone. Shafeek is moving to different country, Nazia wants to get husband fast and move out. Nobody left . . . only the maid for company, like daughter . . . why can’t it be you?’ she implores.

  It’s no act. I see a tear, maybe two.

  ‘I’m not sure, it’s possible, Madame . . . depends on so many things,’ I bumble.

  ‘Goodbye, Meron.’

  Madame kisses me once on my forehead, hands me the elusive Ethiopian passport and leaves me standing in the departures lounge, a disorie
nted little girl left in an airport. As I watch her backside sway into the distance, I want to call after her, which is absurd.

  ‘Madame . . .’ I say weakly. ‘Madame.’

  She can’t hear me.

  I stand, inanimate for long seconds, unsure what I am. Eventually, I make it to the toilets and find a mirror. It’s like Table Lady’s mirror, a truth mirror. My hair resembles a thick, ugly sprout: in Addis, people would think I slept with sheep and was raised by them too. I’m wearing tatty old jeans and a loose sweater: my shoes are plastic sandals open at the toes. I will not be phoning Mum: she must not see me like this. A black plastic bin liner full of my original possessions rests by my feet. Where’s my original suitcase? Argh! Madame must have burnt it. I don’t belong in an airport. I belong in a field. In a field, I would only attract attention from grazing animals. In here, I am the grazing animal. Madame has dumped a decimated sub-being onto the concourse, not the ordinary everyday person that she used to be.

  I Return (0 days left)

  On the plane, I have two hours of interrogation from other Habesha passengers: ‘Why do you look like this?’ ‘What’s the problem, my sister?’ ‘You look awful . . . how has this happened?’ ‘Are you sick?’ ‘Do you need money?’

  I cry a lot and snivel out incoherent answers mainly in Arabic and English. I have almost forgotten Amharic. But it drifts back as I’m forced to answer these strangers: slowly, slowly until its familiarity warms me like an old friend. Each new sentence returns colour to my character. The words of my language are me remembered. Multiple neon lights are fizzing into action upstairs and the old Meron is stirring from her monotone trudge.

  The Yemeni Airlines flight transits in Sana’a, Yemen. A woman stares at me as I stagger around with my bin liner in an airless waiting room.

  ‘My sister, do you know what you look like?’ she asks. I could take the question as an insult, but I’ve seen myself in a mirror and I know what she means. I’m a wandering anomaly, a lost soul, a poor humble miskin.‘It depends on the mirror . . .’ I start. It feels weird to speak to someone who’s not my master or madame. These people are my equals. I can say whatever I like and they won’t hit me. ‘Actually, why don’t you tell me what I look like? I don’t trust these Yemeni mirrors.’