Crescent

by Diana Abu-Jaber

  More praise for

  CRESCENT

  “Crescent is romantic, whimsical, and wonderful in every way, being both sensuous and smart. I want to hang out all day at Nadia’s Café.”

  —Whitney Otto, author of How to Make an American Quilt

  “It’s love Arab-American style! In Diana Abu-Jaber’s Crescent love, lust, and Lebanese cooking commingle to create a deliciously romantic romp about l’amour and the quest for identity.”

  —Vanity Fair

  “Abu-Jaber’s voluptuous prose features insights into the Arab American community that are wisely, warmly depicted, but her ambitions extend much further…. [She] explore[s] the intersections among Arabic culture and love, myth, poetry, and food.”

  —Irina Reyn, San Francisco Chronicle

  “A bewitching and timely novel about Iraq, love and the loneliness of exile. If the current war could be called anything like lucky, then it is a strange sort of luck that ushers in this novel, perfectly timed for popular interest. But it would be a shame if political relevance was the only motivation for taking up this lovely tale, an urgent mix of Scheherazade-style storytelling and treatise on the loneliness of exile…. As Sirine feeds Hanif, Hanif nourishes Sirine with beautiful stories of her father’s homeland. Although in essence a love story, at times the object of desire is blurred—is it the beloved, or is it the magical and unattainable city of Baghdad? Crescent creates a lovely portrait of Iraq, of a sophisticated and cultured city that those who call it home long to return to…. Abu-Jaber’s union of genuine romance and current events works to create a novel at once timely and timeless.”

  —Andria Spencer, The Oregonian

  “Radiant, wise, and passionate…never simple, never completely obvious. From the first page the prose glitters, dreams, takes risks. …Abu-Jaber is also exploring the nature of Arab-American life, providing an essential portrait of a keen and dimensional community…. Full of life and substance and heart, sensuous to the extreme but never dulled by excess detail, this is a book written by a woman who fully knows how to inhabit her tale. A book written by an author who never for an instant relinquished her grip on this willingly enchanted reader.”

  —Beth Kephart, Chicago Tribune

  “Diana Abu-Jaber is a high-spirited, magnificently graceful storyteller, a poet of deliciously fluted fiction, character, and culture, and her work is needed now, now, now.”

  —Naomi Shihab Nye, author of 19 Varieties of Gazelle

  “An evocative tale that, in the way of Like Water for Chocolate, uses food and food preparation as the background music to romance…. [Abu-Jaber] makes the mundane streets of West L.A. seem mysterious and exotic and gives the lovers a king of mythic quality…. Crescent is a rich, delicious concoction that has you rooting for the star-crossed lovers. And its sympathetic depiction of Arab-Americans and their concerns is a welcome counterbalance to the weight of current headlines.”

  —John Muncie, Baltimore Sun

  “‘It’s the story of how to love,’ begins a lovable immigrant uncle as he launches into a tale from the old country. Crescent itself is such a story—and more than that. It is a story about how to cook and how to eat, and how to live in the new country. And, like all good novels, it is about how to tell a story.”

  —Sigrid Nunez, author of For Rouenna

  “Indeed, when Abu-Jaber describes [her characters] making baklava together, it’s a lot more erotic than what passes for love scenes in most modern novels. With a little more zaniness, this could have been ‘My Big Fat Iraqi Wedding,’ but Abu-Jaber prepares a more complex dish that’s equal parts romantic comedy, political protest, fairy tale, and cultural analysis…. [T]he sweet humor that Crescent delivers so deftly is richly complemented by its exploration of loneliness…. Abu-Jaber broadens her exploration of exile to include all the various ways we’re bereft of home—by the death of parents, the separation from lovers, the hunger for lost childhood…. Abu-Jaber captures this despair with exquisite care, but her heart belongs to romance, not tragedy…. Readers stuffed on headlines but still hungering for something relevant will enjoy this rich meal.”

  —Ron Charles, Christian Science Monitor

  “Diana Abu-Jaber affirms the precious fragility of life, love, family, and the human community in new and meaningful ways.”

  —Sena Jeter Naslund, author of Four Spirits and Ahab’s Wife

  “Like Woolf, Abu-Jaber does an admirable job of showing how small moments can nudge a person to take large actions, in the domestic as well as the political sphere…funny, thoughtful…a book filled with deep undercurrents, which have come together in a smooth-flowing narrative, enlivened by vivid erotic encounters, good-humored, sometimes laugh-out-loud-funny conversations [and] atmospheric descriptions of lush Los Angeles neighborhoods…. What’s truly endearing and convincing about this book and takes it beyond political allegory is its fairy-tale quality, which manages, paradoxically enough, to ground the story in the real world…. Real feeling, not black-and-white labeling, is the bottom line in Crescent…. A story that unfolds beautifully, as lightly and naturally as a roll of silk.”

  —The Nation

  “Full of the seductions of new love and self-discovery, this second novel by the exquisitely talented Diana Abu-Jaber makes a generous appeal to the senses…. Gorgeously written and deeply imagined, this novel is both a fable and a plea—a book that weaves a hypnotic, lasting spell.”

  —Book

  “A thrilling achievement occurs in literary fiction when a writer manages to create a character so fascinating and memorable he ‘walks off the page’ into reality. We all know such people: Scarlett O’Hara, Mr. Darcy, Heathcliff. The hero of Diana Abu-Jaber’s new novel, Crescent, could be one who steps into the consciousness of countless readers…. The author serves up her story as a fine meal of many courses to be enjoyed in leisurely fashion…. [T]he backdrop is huge—families separated, individuals wrenched from their homelands, searching for traditions. Although Abu-Jaber has put a lot on her plate, she blends the flavors and textures of her story with artistic integrity…. I recommend this novel as I would a new restaurant. Go there, take your time and enjoy.”

  —Jessie Thorpe, United Press International

  “A toothsome tale set in L.A.’s richly diverse Arab American community…. A bit of Like Water for Chocolate and My Big Fat Greek Wedding mixed together with a much-needed lesson in basic humanity.”

  —Terry Hong, Asian Week

  “[Abu-Jaber] delivers a love story of aching intensity…. By wrapping two innocent lovers in a beautifully woven veil of Arabic culture, [Crescent] achieves a double purpose, and in a style that will satisfy all those who devoured Chocolat and Babette’s Feast. Like Sirine’s baklava, Abu-Jaber’s second novel is a layered and sweetly flavored confection crafted with warmth and serious attention. A single taste is unlikely to be sufficient.”

  —Boston Herald

  “Crescent is, ultimately, a love letter to Arab culture and civilization, and the customs of diaspora immigrant life as a whole…. What Abu-Jaber achieves so successfully is in creating a landscape full of these disparate characters, uniting them in their dreams, hopes and anxieties, and in so doing creating a rich symphony of experience…. Abu-Jaber creates a loving arena for these characters, creating a three-dimensional tableau. Whether discussing poetry, politics or simply teasing each other, the reader is given a rare insight into the heyday of Arab culture…. The fertile crescent never looked so heartachingly beautiful, or tasted so good.”

  —Daily Star

  “Wise, spirited, and evocative, this work offers an ardent look at the human side of political cant…. Essential for all libraries and for all readers interested in understanding the people our government wants us to despise.”

&n
bsp; —Library Journal

  “A timely fiction about Iraqi intellectuals in Los Angeles blends the whimsy of Scheherazade-style storytelling with the urgency of contemporary politics…. What might have been the stuff of any romance is forged into a powerful story about the loneliness of exile and the limits of love. An impressive second outing by Abu-Jaber.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] beautifully imagined and timely novel, which explores private emotions and global politics with both grace and conviction…. In Abu-Jaber’s sensuous prose, the city [of Los Angeles] is as lush and fragrant as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon…. Abu-Jaber’s poignant contemplations of exile and her celebration of Sirine’s exotic, committed domesticity—almond cookies, cardamom, and black tea with mint—help make this novel feel as exquisite as the ‘flaming, blooming’ mejnoona tree behind Nadia’s Café.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The more Hanif and Sirine uncover about each other, the more they discover about themselves. Ultimately, the bitter flavors of exile and displacement complement the sweetness of their affair. Even when Abu-Jaber seems to be stirring several pots at once, the complexity of the meal is never distracting.”

  —Seattle Weekly

  Also by Diana Abu-Jaber

  Arabian Jazz:

  A Novel

  CRESCENT

  DIANA ABU-JABER

  W. W. NORTON & COMPANY | NEW YORK • LONDON

  For Scotty

  Copyright © 2003 by Diana Abu-Jaber

  All rights reserved

  First published as a Norton 2004

  Since this page cannot legibly accommodate all the copyright notices, permissions constitute an extension of the copyright page.

  Transliterations of Arabic words into English vary greatly; those used here are the author’s preferred spellings.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Abu-Jaber, Diana.

  Crescent / by Diana Abu-Jaber.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-0-393-06669-2

  1. Arab American women—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 3. Cookery, Lebanese—Fiction. 4. College teachers—Fiction. 5. Arab Americans—Fiction. 6. Women cooks—Fiction. 7. Restaurants—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3551 .B895 C74 2003

  813’ .54—dc21

  2002152907

  W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

  500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110

  www.wwnorton.com

  W. W. Norton & Company Ltd.

  Castle House, 75/76 Wells Street, London W1T 3QT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For their literary wisdom and emotional care, my friends Lorraine Gallicchio Mercer, Michelle Huneven, Whitney Otto, Joy Harris, Stephanie Abou, Alexia Paul, Alane Salierno Mason, Alessandra Bastagli, Stefanie Diaz, Bette Sinclair, Steven Fidel, and Chelsea Cain.

  For their patience, generosity, and research, my friends Bassam Frangieh, David Hirsch, and Elie Chalala.

  For invaluable time and support: the Fulbright Commission, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Oregon Arts Commission.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  PERMISSIONS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sky is white.

  The sky shouldn’t be white because it’s after midnight and the moon has not yet appeared and nothing is as black and as ancient as the night in Baghdad. It is dark and fragrant as the hanging gardens of the extinct city of Chaldea, as dark and still as the night in the uppermost chamber of the spiraling Tower of Babel.

  But it’s white because white is the color of an exploding rocket. The ones that come from over the river, across the fields, from the other side of an invisible border, from another ancient country called Iran. The rockets are so close sometimes he can hear the warning whisk before they explode. The ones that explode in the sky send off big round blooms of colors, pinwheels of fire. But the ones that explode on the ground erase everything: they send out streamers of fire that race across the ground like electric snakes; they light up the donkeys by the water troughs and make their shadows a hundred meters long. They light up every blade of grass, every lizard, and every date; they electrify the dozing palms and set the most distant mountains—the place his uncle calls the Land of Na—on fire. They make his sister’s face glow like yellow blossoms, they make the water look like phosphorescence as it runs from the tap. Their report sizzles along the tops of the tallest western buildings and rings against the minarets and domes. They whistle through the orchards and blast acres of olive trees out of the ground. They light up the Euphrates River, knock down the walls of the old churches, the ancient synagogues, the mysterious, crumbling monuments older than the books, monuments to gods so old they’ve lost their names, the ancient walls dissolving under the shock waves like dust.

  They erase all sleep. For years.

  A young boy lies in his bed on the outskirts of town, still not-sleeping. He tries to calm himself by reciting poetry:

  “Know that the world is a mirror from head to foot,

  In every atom are a hundred blazing suns,

  If you cleave the heart of one drop of water,

  A hundred pure oceans emerge from it.”

  Far away, on the other side of town, deep in the city night, behind the Eastern Hotel where all the foreigners stay, there is a pool as round as the moon, where a white-skinned woman waits for him in the phosphorescent water. The night over the pool is undisturbed by bombs, he knows, because nothing can cross into the land of the bright-haired women, their painted nails and brilliant hair and glowing skin. She stands hip-deep and motionless in the shallow end of the water, waiting for him to come to her. Her hair is the color of fire and her eyes are the color of sky and the pool is the round moon above Baghdad. He lies dreaming and awake in his bedroom on the other side of town. He is young but he has not truly slept for years. She can send him to a new place, away from the new president, as far away as the other side of the world, a place where he will no longer have to look at his brother and sister not-sleeping, where he will not have to count his heartbeats, his breaths, the pulse in his eyelids. Where his mouth will not taste of iron, his ears will not ring, his hands and feet will not tingle, his stomach will not foam with the roaring sound that has gotten inside of him and that he fears in his deepest heart will never go away again.

  Her uncle in his room of imagined books. Everything smells of books: an odor of forgotten memories. This is the library of imagined books, her uncle says, because he never reads any of them. Still, he’s collected them from friends’ basements and attics, garage sales and widows’ dens, all over Culver City, West Hollywood, Pasadena, Laurel Canyon, picking books for their heft and their leather-belted covers. The actual pages don’t matter.

&nb
sp; “If you behave,” he tells his thirty-nine-year-old niece Sirine, “I’ll tell you the whole story this time.”

  “You always say I’m too young to hear the whole story,” Sirine says. She carves a tiny bit of peel from a lemon for her uncle’s coffee. They’re up in the bluish white predawn, both of them chronically early risers and chronically sleepy.

  Her uncle looks at her over his glasses. The narrow ovals slide down his nose; he tries to press them back into place. “Do I say that? I wonder why. Well, what are you now, a half-century yet?”

  “I’m thirty-nine. And a half.”

  He makes a dismissive little flick with his fingers. “Too young. I’ll save the juicy parts for when you’re a half-century.”

  “Oh boy, I can’t wait.”

  “Yes, that’s how the young are. No one wants to wait.” He takes a ceremonial sip of coffee and nods. “So this is the moralless story of Abdelrahman Salahadin, my favorite cousin, who had an incurable addiction to selling himself and faking his drowning.”

  “It sounds long,” Sirine says. “Haven’t I already heard this one?”

  “It’s a good, short story, Miss Hurry Up American. It’s the story of how to love,” he says.

  Sirine puts her hands into her uncombable hair, closes her eyes. “I’m going to be late for work again.”

  “There you have it—the whole world is late for work, and all faucets leak too—what can be done? So it begins.” He situates himself in his storytelling position—elbow on knee and hand to brow. “Abdelrahman Salahadin was a sensitive man. He never forgot to bathe before his prayers. Sometimes he knelt on the beach and made the sand his prayer carpet. He just had the one vice.”