The Wrong End of the Telescope

by Rabih Alameddine

  You texted me a link to a newspaper article about Baris when it first appeared. You typed only one word: Arion.

  In ancient time on our island, this Lesbos, Arion, he who would invent dithyramb and coin its name, came to be. The greatest musician of his time, the boy won a competition in Sicily. On his way back to Lesbos, carrying his lyre and prize money, the ship was waylaid by pirates who stripped him of his riches and offered him a choice in how he was to die: be stabbed and then buried properly once on land or be thrown into the sea and drown. What to choose, what to choose? Arion asked if he could sing a last song before dying, one that would help him decide. The boy raised his voice in praise of Apollo, the god of poetry and the greatest lyre player of all. The boy’s song was so pure that dolphins floated on the water’s surface to listen, and Apollo, he who had once skinned Marsyas alive, heard the boy.

  When the pirates threw young Arion overboard, the dolphins carried him and his lyre to the safety of shore.

  But not Baris.

  Where have the dolphins gone?

  Where the gods?

  How to Live Forever, According to My Grandmother

  I must not have snored. Unkicked and bruiseless, I woke up to the muffled sound of Mazen singing an old Fairuz song in the shower. His side of the bed looked hardly slept in, not unusual for him. When we were children, he barely moved once he shut his eyes, waking up full of cheer and energy each morning, his pajamas adding not a single crease during the night. It didn’t seem that much had changed with him. I, on the other hand, had slept in a T-shirt and underwear for the first time in decades.

  I got out of bed as soon as I heard the water turn off. I needed to use the bathroom.

  “Out, out,” I said, while banging on the door.

  I had promised to meet Emma at the Kara Tepe medical tent that morning. We had to make sure Sumaiya was getting the care she needed and to prepare the family for what was to happen once she passed away.

  As we parted to drive to our separate hotels the night before, I asked you to join us for lunch. You declined; our port adventure was enough for you. I insisted, and you attempted a couple of your numerous bad excuses. You couldn’t, you could already feel the headache that would develop the next day, some funny excuses, all not believable. Then Mazen said that if you did not promise to come, he would handcuff himself to you. Rasheed insisted that you had no choice. I should tell you that they were both worried. After you drove off, Mazen said we shouldn’t let you spend too much time on your own. He didn’t think you were suicidal; no, he compared you to a grieving widower, and you know the Lebanese wouldn’t allow a griever to be alone till enough healing time had passed. You had to join us.

  Mazen came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his privates and another around his head. He blocked my way in for a moment, looking a bit too pleased with himself.

  “I remembered I have to show you something before we leave,” he said as he strolled past me. He removed the bath towel around his head with a ta-da flourish, as if he had a white rabbit under it. “Well, make you listen to something. You’ll love it.” He would tell me only after I showered and dressed, since the surprise was supposed to knock my socks off.

  He had me sit next to him when I was done, his laptop before us on the only table in the room, what passed for a desk and dinette in one.

  “About seven years ago, I drove to our mother’s village in Syria,” he said, “which turned out to be great timing because much of where I visited is gone now. I got to see Aleppo before much of it was leveled. But the idea of the trip was to visit our grandmother before she died and to see where we came from. Our mother was driving me crazy at the time, and I needed a break. I thought I would visit the one woman who drove her crazy. Our mother loathed hers, you know that. I was able to spend a day with our grandmother, and it explained a lot. I could see from whom our mother inherited her craziness. And, you know, you.”

  I punched his shoulder, not too hard but not soft either.

  “She did remind me of you a little,” he said, “except that you’re only half insane. I thought at first it was some kind of dementia, but no, her crazy was her every day. She loved to lecture and berate, roamed her old house at night scolding mirrors for hours. I arrived, fresh ears, and she began to give me advice. I had an idea. I asked if I could record her because I needed to remember her guidance. Do you want to hear your grandmother talk?”

  As if I had a choice. He clicked the Play icon on his computer, and this craggy, hoarse voice began to speak, an old Syrian dialect, strong and clear, enunciating every word.

  You don’t reach eighty years of age without being right, and I’m ninety-nine, our grandmother said from the laptop’s tiny speakers, from the beyond. So I’ve been right for a long time. Don’t argue with me. I’m telling you this: each human, every single one of us, is born with a predetermined number of heartbeats. There is nothing anyone can do to change how many times your heart will tick. God, in all his glory, has already assigned you a specific number. You might die of old age or of being kicked in the head by a donkey. Doesn’t matter. Cancer, car accident? The number of beats was already written on a piece of paper stored in God’s lockbox. Each of us will find her own way to die when the beats have run out.

  It is written. We grew up with this saying, that everything has already been written by God or Fate or what have you. Destiny was set, and one lived best by aligning oneself with what was written.

  The secret is to make sure the heartbeats last for the longest possible time. If you ask me, exercise is the stupidest thing ever invented. Why would you want to waste heartbeats on purpose? All those runners, the swimmers, the football players, they will all die.

  Her voice sounded pure, had the strength and fluidity of certainty. It would have been difficult to guess she was ninety-nine had she not stated it.

  Any work that has to be done can and should be done slowly. Think tortoise. It lives to one hundred and fifty years because it is smarter than humans. Do your work deliberately and unhurriedly, whether it’s around the house or to earn a living. Relax. Don’t ever walk fast. Be methodical. Keep your heart rate slow.

  And never get angry. It’s not worth it. Even though I was married to the stupidest man in history, I never lost my temper. How stupid was my husband? Well, let me tell you. He was the only one who immigrated to Brazil, the land of untold riches, in order to make money, only to return two years later having lost everything.

  I don’t approve of movement in principle. It increases your heart rate. When I married, I moved into my husband’s house and never left it. I didn’t spend a single night in any bed but mine. I didn’t travel. I stayed home when my husband sailed to Brazil. He was supposed to call for me when he settled in the New World, but he never did. He wouldn’t have known how to settle without me. I’m not even sure he’d have known how to call. I told him that, but he didn’t know how to listen. He had dreams, my poor, stupid husband, but they didn’t last long, and he didn’t either. I’ve been a widow for over fifty years. He was angry all the time, and he smoked a lot, which also increases your heart rate. He was handsome when he was young, so that helped.

  Your mother wasn’t smart either, but did I let her upset me? Of course not. And she was never satisfied. She wanted to see the world, to become someone of consequence. As if that was what’s important. She wanted to travel.

  Travel? No, of course I had no interest in travel. I visited the city only twice, both times with my husband, and let me tell you, I was not happy. Too many people, too many everything. It was not good for my heart rate.

  No, I did not wander the world. I wandered sitting still.

  It might have been a good thing she died before this last war began.

  I told you I don’t like movement. I was born for a sedentary life. I cooked, I cleaned the house, everything carefully. I worked my root garden. I loved my grandchildren.
Most of all I loved my embroidery. I loved my needles and my threads more than I loved anyone.

  If you ask anybody within twenty villages who has the best threads of all, they’ll tell you it’s me, even to this day. I could do all manner of embroidery, no one was better. My pieces were sought after. Lucky was the bride who received a wedding shawl from me.

  In the early days, when I was newly married, I bought my threads from a peddler who arrived in the village on a mule-drawn carriage. He would save his threads for me. Silk threads of the brightest yellow from China for you, he would tell me. This blue is from Italy, this earth red from Morocco, only for you. Look, this green wool yarn came to me all the way from Germany, he would say. It matches your eyes. Come with me, he would say. Let me take you away. Ride with me, you can sleep where you will, walk out when you want, you can choose your bread, your dress, your company. He wanted me to fly with him, to taste a life beyond my life. He said his mule had seen more of the world than I had.

  The peddler was stupider than my husband, who brought me back beautiful woolen threads from Brazil, bless his heart.

  I did not need to go with him to see the world. I sat in my comfortable chair, the canvas on my lap, the needle leading a thread, each entry point a heartbeat. Delay and delay each cross-stitch, delay and delay each heartbeat, and suddenly I’m above yellow China. I soar over azure Italy. Is this Morocco’s red I see before me?

  No, I did not walk the world. I flew above it, and I soared.

  Don’t contradict me. I told you I’m always right. Don’t argue with me. Of course I flew on my threads. Why would you believe that a woman could fly on a broom but not on threads, why?

  I’m ninety-nine, and I can still thread a needle by candlelight.

  Regain Your Virginity with Moisturizers

  Wind but no rain yet. Even without the rain, the inexorable sadness of the lands of the Mediterranean could not be ignored. The olive trees outside Kara Tepe stood sleeping, soughing instead of snoring, weary in the grayish cold. I parked the car, zipped up my jacket before exiting. Mazen, next to me, matched my movements, except that his eyes seemed to get stuck on a faint oily stain on the belly of his parka. As we entered the camp I told him no one would notice it. He informed me that wasn’t the point. He knew, and since he did, the stain grew to the size of continental Europe. In his mind, of course, he added.

  Refugees stood about the camp. We walked into a motionless and cold world, too quiet for that many people up and about, no one moving but Mazen and me. Two women chatted before one of the larger tents. There was no television, one was telling the other, both head scarfed and heavily layered. From the snippets of conversation we heard passing by, it seemed that the talked-to woman was a recent arrival. There was no privacy, the first woman said, no kitchen for cooking, nothing to pass the time, all the waiting with little to do. Not much to look at either, what was she supposed to do, admire sunsets or something? She prayed—that was how she entertained herself—talked to God, who didn’t seem to be listening much these days and who never talked back, tongue-tied as usual.

  The dirt beneath my feet seemed frozen, as if dreaming of snow. I shivered, trying to shake off the chill, trying to get rid of winter.

  “I should still be in bed,” Emma said, appearing next to us as if by a Swedish magic spell. “See all the things I do for you.”

  “As you mentioned for the hundredth time,” I said.

  “Well, it’s freezing,” she said. “My bed is comfortable and warm. I left a gorgeous young man in it. I left while he was still asleep. He’ll wake up and wonder what happened to that stunning being he spent the night with.”

  “Didn’t take you long,” I said.

  “George is quite different from Rodrigo, less talented but more charmingly innocent. He was a virgin until last night.”

  Mazen chuckled. “You deserve a medal,” he said.

  The whole family was attending Sumaiya, who looked wan, more noticeably jaundiced. A gray blanket covered her undulating chest, a limp oxygen tube tickled her nostrils. Sammy looked terrified, his wife imperturbed, her face slack. She fixed her sight on some point along the canvas’s snow-white ceiling, oblivious to the ebb and flow of her daughters around her. Asma whispered into her mother’s ear, giggling with an effort that would rip her apart if she kept it up. Another daughter ate the remains of Sumaiya’s breakfast, which sat on the laminated fiberboard table. Both Sammy and Sumaiya smiled upon seeing us, his smile nervous, hers drugged beatific. She clutched a distended makeup bag of cloth covered in Palestinian embroideries.

  I asked Sammy what happened to the imitation crocodile handbag. He explained that a number of the Syrian ladies in camp had heard that Sumaiya liked her makeup but hadn’t brought any with her when she escaped. They gifted her some of what they had. It wasn’t much, they told Sammy, but he had to accept the offering. The ladies were sure to be able to replenish their paltry losses with better products once they settled in Europe. Sumaiya had no makeup on her face.

  I asked how she was doing. Sammy began to speak but stopped when his wife reached for my hand. She nodded happily. Well, she said. She was doing well. Emma was going through the patient report. I didn’t need her to tell me that Sumaiya was not doing well at all.

  “Are you in any pain?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said in a soft, almost ethereal voice. The scarf was the same one she’d worn the day before.

  Mazen spoke up. “Come on, girls. Let’s leave the doctor alone so she can treat your mother. Come on. We can go outside and play a game or, even better, look for a second breakfast.” His eyes searched mine. Mine glanced quickly at Sammy, and my brother understood. “And you too, Sammy,” he said. “Help me find some food and let the doctor work in peace.”

  Sumaiya’s eyes were wide open, staring at me in wonder, then at Emma, who was checking her IV. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Sumaiya, still admiring Emma, tapped a finger on my hand.

  “She looks like a houri,” Sumaiya said. “I must be dying and going to heaven, because it’s what I see. Don’t tell the children.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. A virginal Emma was difficult for me to imagine. The real one wanted to know what Sumaiya said. I told her, having to explain the word “houri” and its origins. Her reaction surprised me. She almost teared up, her face flushed; even her hands, which reached out to Sumaiya’s, seemed to have more color. She asked me to thank Sumaiya.

  “Her skin is soft,” Sumaiya said. “Like fresh milk. Not dry like mine, which is more like powdered milk.”

  Emma sat on the bed next to Sumaiya. She rummaged through her pockets, came up with a small bottle of blue plastic.

  “Don’t tell her it’s my last one,” Emma said. “I’m telling you because I want you to admit that I do all these things for you. I want a signed receipt from you saying: ‘I don’t know what I’d do without my best friend, Emma.’”

  She undid the square knot of the scarf from around Sumaiya’s neck and poured the moisturizer onto the palm of her hand. She applied it thoroughly to Sumaiya’s face and neck, massaging the patient’s skin with a delicate touch. The familiar scent of the cream must have soothed Emma, her face smoothing out before my eyes as if by osmosis. And Sumaiya—Sumaiya purred in pleasure, like a contented cat being visited by bliss. Emma’s fingers repeated movements that had been memorized for years and years, middle and forefinger swipe above the brow, thumbs around the mouth folds, pinky under the eyes, up, down, side to side. When she was done, Emma held the bottle up for Sumaiya to see, unzipped the cloth makeup bag Sumaiya was clutching, and placed the moisturizer inside. While the bag was open, I noticed an unused box of Garnier Nutrisse hair dye before Emma zipped it back up.

  Sumaiya turned, and in a voice that seemed quite sane, she said, “Kill me.”

  Give Me Autonomy and Give Me Death

  It had rained while we were
cocooned inside the medical tent, as it should have. Every now and then, dolor could be contagious. Sumaiya had cried. I cried. We had every reason to, the sky and its attending clouds let loose for a while. Emma, Mazen, and I walked to my car. The world around us was glazed with a sheen of rainwater.

  “You’re not thinking of actually doing it?” Emma asked.

  I couldn’t wait to get to lunch. I was suddenly ravenous. I could eat a horse, a camel.

  “Of course I am,” I said. “She asked me. I must consider it. I’m surprised you think I shouldn’t.”

  I shouldn’t have told Emma, but I couldn’t think of any believable lie when confronted. She’d been there, seen Sumaiya’s reaction and mine. I’d promised Sumaiya that I wouldn’t tell anybody, not her family, no one. I’d broken my promise already, with Emma, with Mazen, of course, and would do so once more with Francine when we talked.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “I believe in the right to patient-driven euthanasia but only when the patient is capable of making the decision. Sumaiya isn’t. She just isn’t. She’s not thinking straight. She probably has encephalopathy, and she’s high on morphine to boot. I understand her wish, but she’s not able to give consent in her current state. How can we be sure what her wishes are?”

  Mazen’s eyes lit up; his brow scrunched. I held my forefinger up to his face so he wouldn’t interrupt.

  “Stop it, Emma,” I said. “Almost all euthanasia discussions are held when patients are high on pain medications. You know that. It’s the nature of the beast. I’m the one who has to consent. She asked for my help, and heavens, she was more than clear about why she wanted it. She had thought it through.”

  “But—” Emma tried to say more, but I would have none of it. I held my forefinger up to her face as well.