The Wrong End of the Telescope

by Rabih Alameddine

  Mazen called me over. I should meet the newlyweds. They’d gotten married less than four weeks earlier, he explained with no little excitement. This was their honeymoon. Instead of wedding gifts, the couple had asked all their relatives to chip in whatever they could and they’d use the cash to escape. They told the same stories of bombings, killings, and humiliations, of red tracers that would make the night blush, but their tales of woe sounded less horrifying since they seemed happy. They were together, they’d escaped, and they were safe for the time being. How could they not be joyful, they asked, even in the midst of sorrow. They seemed blissful, like two lucky teenagers who’d discovered sex for the first time, and that was probably because they were.

  A honeymoon, Mazen said. This was their honeymoon. When he repeated himself like this, it usually meant that he wished to say something important, and I was missing what it was. This was no honeymoon, he said, not here. They were staying in the barracks with all the cots, all the other families.

  “Oh, we’re grateful for that,” the boy said. He had brown eyes with green rings around irises that could not look away from his bride for more than two or three seconds, if that.

  “These are the best beds we’ve slept on since we left home,” the girl said. “When we traveled by bus, I’d wake up from a night of interrupted sleep with the worst neck pain. This isn’t bad, and everyone in the barracks has been exceedingly kind.”

  “Who cares?” Mazen said. “You can’t have a honeymoon with people sleeping in the same room with you. That’s like going to a vegan restaurant when you’re hungry. It won’t do. We’ll get you a hotel room.”

  The boy and girl were flabbergasted. No, as much as they appreciated the offer, as much as they would love to have a room all to themselves, they couldn’t afford it, and they most certainly would not allow Mazen to pay for it, absolutely not. Back and forth the argument went, and it kept going for at least five minutes as each side pulled the fraying rope in their tug of war. No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t. Yes, he would, he must.

  “We don’t have to pay for a room,” I finally interrupted, surprising myself. “We already have one. My brother will offer you his room for a couple of nights, and he’ll sleep with me. That wouldn’t cost anybody any extra money. It’s the least we can do. Please honor us by accepting our hospitality.”

  I did not have to look at Mazen to know he was moved. I could feel him. I heard him gasp.

  “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable sharing a room?” the girl asked. “Would we not be imposing on you?”

  “My sister and I shared a bed when we were children,” Mazen said. “It’s been about fifty years, but you don’t forget how to share a bed with your sister. You never forget.” He paused, but only briefly. A crease of a smile flickered across his face. “I know how to kick her when she snores.”

  Baptize Your Way to Better Hair Care Products

  You met Farid and Maysa Chahar in 2014. A recently married couple, they were sharing a storefront with two other families in an abandoned mall not too far from Tripoli, north of Beirut. Maysa was four months pregnant with her first son. They explained during the interview that they needed to find different living arrangements. There was only one bathroom shared by five stores that had over fifteen families living in them. They had to resort to using a converted bedpan, which was not pleasant when there were two other families in the same room. You tried to help, but they were able to figure out better housing on their own. They found the priest.

  This priest in the mountains of Lebanon decided that Jesus would have helped refugees. He took it upon himself to care for some of the Syrians overrunning his country. At first, he began to help his coreligionists. He allowed Catholic Syrian refugees into his church; he cajoled various households in the village to take in families, offered food to everyone. Just as important, if not more so, with the help of Western NGOs, he initiated a program that helped settle these Christian families in Europe and Australia. Why Australia? Lebanese had been immigrating to that island since the late 1880s, and it was said that over one million Australians had Lebanese ancestry. Also, in this case, the Australian government had refused to accept any Syrian refugees who were not Christian. The priest was more than willing to comply with a condition like that.

  He was happy, doing his God’s work. But why stop with Syrian Catholics and Maronites, he thought. Why not try his hand with some Sunnis, Shiites? No Druze, though, and definitely no Greek Orthodox or Syrian Orthodox for that matter. Melkites were all right, but no apostate Anglicans, no Protestants of any kind. And that was where the Chahars came in.

  He asked a Lebanese family to take the young Muslim couple in. Farid was able to find the odd job here and there, but as he had explained to you, his family was going to be in trouble unless he found permanent work, which was difficult in Lebanon with so many other refugees. He would need to take his family abroad. He told you that the priest would help if they converted, that most countries in the West would move their application to the front of the line if they were Christian. Unlike Australia, most European countries were more discreet about their discrimination. Thankfully, his name wasn’t Mohammad or Ali. The priest wanted them to make a decision sooner rather than later, before their child arrived. All they needed to do was to take a few catechism classes and be baptized in a bathtub of some kind. Not as easy as converting to Islam but not that much of a problem since they did have the time. Oh, and they had to give up on the religion of their fathers and mothers, the one that had provided them comfort for all those years. For a better future, for their child, they were willing, Farid said. May God forgive them their betrayal. They were dunked.

  You saw them again not too long ago in Gothenburg, where they had settled. Maysa’s son was now running around, and she was pregnant again, thirteen weeks. She enjoyed working part-time as a cook at a small café and day care center.

  How was she adjusting, you asked. Quite well, it seemed. She and her husband had jobs they liked, they were learning Swedish, he had suddenly become quite fluent, whereas she still had a bit to go, and their son was their pride and joy. Was she having any kind of difficulty?

  “My hair,” she said, “my hair. I didn’t have as much trouble as I thought I would when I removed the hijab, but no one told me how bad this cold weather is. Do you know what flyaway hair is? I certainly didn’t. And that’s different from the frizzy hair I get when it’s cold and humid. Now I spend most of my time worrying about how my hair looks. Do you know how many different kinds of hair care products there are? I can’t believe I’m spending money buying sprays and gels. We worried about our hair back in Syria, but this weather messes everything up. Don’t tell anyone that I went to the local mosque for the first time this week.”

  What’s Wrong with Greek Spices?

  We had to sneak the married couple into their room since they had no papers. Mazen lied to them, telling them that their meal in the hotel’s restaurant was included in the room rate. They should eat as much as they could. After he moved his bags into my room, he had to rush to the restaurant and prepay with his credit card. The cost of the room and meal would end up around sixty euros per night, and I had to figure out a way to pay him back. His finances were not in great shape. My loans had been supporting him for the last few years.

  Rasheed drove us to the city center since he knew where we were going for dinner. I sat in the back seat while the boys in the front rekindled an argument that had been burning for generations: which was the superior cuisine, Lebanese or Palestinian? The “we make the better okra stew” discussion lasted a whole ten minutes. The amusing aspect of such a discussion was that the difference between the two cuisines was barely noticeable to any but the dedicated food connoisseurs. Back and forth they went discussing culinary likes and dislikes. Who had the better oranges? Obviously our knafeh was tastier. They disagreed on whether hummus was originally Lebanese or Palestinian, but any fool knew that it was not
Israeli. That was ha-ha-ha laughable.

  “The restaurant we’re going to has the best Greek food on the island,” Rasheed said. “I know that’s not saying much, but we don’t have many choices.”

  “Greek cuisine is an oxymoron,” my brother said. “They ruin everything.”

  “True,” Rasheed said. “Let’s say that this restaurant is the least offensive.”

  “Why would you add béchamel to a moussaka? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Exactly. It mutilates a perfectly good dish.”

  Now you know why the boys liked you so much so quickly. When we saw you at the restaurant, you may not have made much sense at first, but the one thing that had their hearts fluttering was this: when the food arrived, you said that Greek food felt to you as if an incompetent chef was given all the correct ingredients to make a fantastic Lebanese meal and proceeded to fuck it up by using the wrong mixtures. They found that delicious.

  Caught at Last, Caught at Last

  You, pocket-size and folded, stowed yourself in the farthest corner of the restaurant surrounded by empty tables—away, away from everybody. The place faced the promenade and the sea, but your eyes would not abandon the tattered paperback in your hands, your head bent, your reading glasses almost falling off the flat tip of your nose. Hundreds of little Post-it notes bloomed from the book, from both sides of the pages. Your forearms pressed against the edge of the table. The paper napkins and faded silverware were still in the bread basket, no menu, no food yet. Mirrored walls encircled the restaurant’s interior, which made everything feel cold and airy, too fluorescent bright. A chemical apricot scent enveloped us.

  A waiter, wearing black shoes polished to a shine, pointed to a table, but I walked over to say hello to you. Mazen and Rasheed followed. The waiter stood like a panther about to pounce, with a pugnacious look on his face. He regarded me as if I had crossed the gods of Olympus. And your face lifted, a reticent expression. You looked up at us as though we were something far off on a distant horizon, something you couldn’t discern. Our hovering at your table disturbed the light you read by. All I had to say was hello in our language, and like a good Lebanese boy, you jumped up to greet us respectfully, removing your reading glasses, your hand asking for a shake.

  You were reading Hans Fallada’s Alone in Berlin—a little portentous, don’t you think? How many times had you read that one?

  I announced myself—here I am—told you we’d met before, and you apologized for not remembering. I introduced Rasheed and my brother. There was a moment of awkward silence before you extended the requisite invitation to join you. You were stunned when I accepted, so shocked that Mazen nudged me with his elbow from one side and Rasheed from the other. I didn’t care that your invitation was insincere. I wasn’t going to let you get away from me, not again.

  I have to tell you that you have the worst poker face, particularly when you’re feeling vulnerable. The look you gave me when I thanked you and pulled out a chair was priceless. Your eyes were about to roll out of their sockets and tumble along your pronounced nasolabial folds.

  We sat down. You and the boys a mite awkward, unsure what to say. Luckily it wasn’t long before the waiter brought your order over, a feta dish heated in a clay skillet, swimming in herbs and olive oil. You had to share, of course. We waited for you to take the first taste and hand out judgment. It wasn’t bad, you said. It was wrong. And then you proceeded to make the bad chef pronouncement, at which point the mood at the table shifted, everyone relaxed and agreed wholeheartedly. It wasn’t terrible, Rasheed said, as he had a couple of bites out of the skillet. Why would you include oregano, Mazen said, as he sampled more of the dish. The ingredients were fresh, though, and you finished off everything. You wiped your lips with a piece of bread. We ordered another of the same dish.

  You seemed to gain weight and confidence with each bite, asking Rasheed about his work in Jerusalem, about his volunteering in Lesbos. Mazen told self-deprecating jokes I’d heard a hundred times before about his ineptitude at selling stocks. At first, you skillfully evaded our questions about you. Mazen interrupted my third or fourth failed attempt to get you to talk about your work—he hadn’t read you—by asking about your being on Lesbos. You couldn’t stay away, you said. The images of the arriving boats seared themselves into your retinas and bored a hole in your heart. You told us that you’d worked on and off with Syrian refugees for years, all the interviews you’d done. There was an absurd number of refugees in Lebanon, you said, and more arriving every day, yet the country seemed to go on as if nothing was happening. Life in Beirut went on. You were not surprised, of course. You’d been through similar things before. During the civil war in Lebanon people trucked along. In San Francisco, the nicest and most compassionate humans were able to step over an unconscious homeless man if he blocked the sidewalk without even noticing what they were doing. You tried to find a way to write about refugees and break the wall between reader and subject. You said you wanted people not to dismiss the suffering, not to read about the loss and sorrow, feel bad for a minute or two, then go back to their glass of overly sweet chardonnay. But you failed, of course. And then the first crack in your veneer. You said, in a whisper, that the only wall you broke was yours. Your head bent forward again, shadowing your face and badly managed goatee, your chin coming to rest on the darker green collar of your sweater. A single long breath and you were back up again, alert eyes and a bittersweet smile.

  Rasheed asked what you meant by having broken your wall.

  “Nothing,” you said. “I was overwhelmed a little, that’s all. Don’t mind me. Everything grew to be a bit much, and luckily I’m not exactly needed right now, what with the storms and weather. I will be fine. Everything will work out.”

  “Do you know what was too much for you?” Rasheed asked.

  “Nothing really,” you said. Your eyes darted from one of us to the next in an incompetent attempt to assuage our concerns. “It was the wrong time for me to come here. That’s all, really.”

  “Where are you staying?” Rasheed said.

  Your smile flickered for a moment like a lightbulb in a socket with loose wiring.

  “I don’t remember what it’s called,” you said. “It’s about ten minutes south of here, a cozy hotel close to the sea.”

  “We’re on an island,” Rasheed said. “All hotels are close to the sea.”

  “You were staying in our hotel,” I said. “I saw you leaving.”

  “I ran away,” you said. “I had to find a hotel that was away from everything. But I’m doing better now. Okay, when I made my plans to come here, I thought I’d be able to help a little in this world that was falling apart. I never expected that I’d end up hiding in a hotel room. No, I didn’t. But I’m okay now.”

  Later that evening, after our stint at the port, you’d correct your statement. Lesbos not only broke your wall, it broke you.

  A Girl in Every Port, but All the Boys in One

  A couple of shifty seagulls eyed us as we left the restaurant. Rasheed suggested a postprandial walk to the Mytilene Port, something he did as often as he could trying to help the refugees who were waiting to board the last ferry to Athens, their next stop. You tried to get out of accompanying us, some excuse about bedtime and reading time, but I wouldn’t let you, and this time Mazen and Rasheed joined in. My brother told you we weren’t done with your company yet. You took another tack. You said you should return to your lonely hotel because there was a group of four Greek aunties who were playing cards in the restaurant, which also functioned as the lobby. They had arrived at around three in the afternoon and were still going strong by the time you left for the restaurant. You needed to go back to see if they were still there. It was an emergency, you joked.

  When I was growing up in Beirut, my father’s two younger sisters used to play cards with three friends four afternoons a week, Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. They
would begin exactly at four in my aunt’s apartment one floor above ours, and the last hand was dealt at precisely eight in the evening. I mentioned that to you, and you said your father had a similar schedule, that he played with the same group of friends every weekday afternoon for over thirty-five years, and they stopped only when your father passed away.

  “They could still be playing for all I know,” you said. “They may have found a substitute for my father and kept going, you know, like replacing a battery.”

  “I miss that,” I said, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that I missed, what it was that I’d lost. “Are our aunts still playing?” I asked Mazen.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Auntie Ilham died eight years ago, and Auntie Laila moved in with her second son even though she no longer recognizes him.”

  The city of Mytilene was built some three thousand years ago, but the town center and marina had adjusted to serve the needs of the twenty-first-century tourist. As we walked from the marina to the port, there was a bigger variety of stores—more banks, grocery stores, well-lit cafés filled with evening locals, sprinkled with refugees. The two didn’t look that different, but the state of their comfort and that of their clothing were clear indicators of who was who.