Koolaids

by Rabih Alameddine

  Crossing from West to East.

  She paid the cab. She had to get out at the barricade. She stood in line waiting to present her paper to the Syrian agent who manned the checkpoint. It was a long line. It was humid. She felt the stares.

  She had worried all the night before, wondering what to wear. She knew she would have to walk, but she still wanted to make a good impression. She decided on a light Lacroix dress to accommodate the heat. She realized it was the wrong choice. The dress made her more attractive. The heels were not a good idea, either.

  “Identity card,” the Syrian blurted out loudly. He moved closer to her. She backed off a step and handed him her card. Like the Lebanese passport, those cards have a person’s complete history: age, sex, religion, profession, marital status, etc. He scrutinized her card. If he turned her back, she would be relieved. Unlike the hundreds who were in line behind her, she was not exactly afraid of what a Syrian could do to her. Her husband’s name was on her card, and even though this agent seemed to be another one of those uneducated rabble Syria produced in abundance, she was sure he would recognize the name.

  “Why are you going to East Beirut?” he asked gruffly.

  “To have lunch,” she said.

  He shook his head in disbelief and let her pass.

  It is a long walk to the National Museum, or the military depot which was once the National Museum, where the barricade of the other side was. Maybe they would turn her back. The jacaranda trees surprised her, both because they had withstood all the fighting, whereas the surrounding buildings had not, and because they were bursting in blue-blossomed splendor. She walked, noting the complete destruction of the area. This was a beautiful section of Beirut at one time. In the old days, they would erect risers where the politicians and dignitaries stood saluting and viewing the troops on Independence Day. On her right was Beirut’s famed race course. No horses ran these days. It was completely destroyed. She did not want to think about the museum itself. Everybody knew the treasures had been looted, but no one was quite sure who had done the looting. The pockmarked buildings on her left were unoccupied. Even the poorest refugees did not dare occupy them. This was the Green Line.

  She felt all eyes on her. The line to get into East Beirut was forming. This was going to take some time. She was afraid. She should not have come. Everybody said it was completely safe, yet she was afraid. She did not trust the Christian militias.

  “Identity card,” the militiaman blurted out loudly. He moved closer to her. She backed off a step and handed him her card. He scrutinized her card. She felt someone scrutinizing her. She looked up, but did not see anybody. She looked farther. A fighter stood in front of his white Range Rover. He was smiling at her. She looked down, averting her eyes.

  “Why are you going to East Beirut?” he asked gruffly.

  “To visit a friend,” she replied obsequiously.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” His tone got softer.

  “Marie-Christine Ashkar.”

  “Where are you from, madam?” He smiled.

  “I’m a Beiruti.”

  “I am too. We are honored to have you visit us, madam. Welcome.”

  She was in. She thought it was easy. She should bring the boys next time. She would be able to show them the house she grew up in. She looked for the white Range Rover, but it was no longer there. She might make the lunch on time. She never did. Her problems started at the next checkpoint.

  …

  The good old days. My friends always talk about the good old days. You could fuck whomever you wanted. No condoms, no worries. The bathhouses were full, sex on the streets. It was liberating. No dating, no relationships, not even dinner. A quick blow job here, a quick fuck there.

  I did not really know the good old days. People started dying when I came out.

  The good old days. Everybody talks about the good old days. You could go anywhere you wanted without being afraid of being killed. No Israeli planes, no Syrian tanks, no shells waking you up at night. Snow skiing in Faraya, then down for a dip in the Mediterranean at Khalde. No refugees in the Saint Simon beach club. You could actually walk the trottoir at Raouché. No kidnapping, no disappearances.

  I did not really know the good old days. I was too young when the war started.

  …

  As for death, one gets used to it, even if it’s only other people’s death you get used to.

  Enid Bagnold is a big fucking liar.

  …

  She got into the waiting taxi. At least the taxis on both sides look the same. They say East Beirut is much cleaner. She probably would not be able to tell until she got farther away from the barricade. Right now, it looked like the same city. She told the taxi where she wanted to go. She even told him exactly how she wanted to go there. This was her city.

  The taxi stopped at the next checkpoint. The militiaman asked for her card. He scrutinized the card. He asked her to get out of the car. Instinctively, she asked if there was anything wrong. “No, ma’am,” the youngster said. “We would just like to ask you a few questions.” The taxi driver was visibly shaking.

  She controlled herself as she got out of the car. Another militiaman led her towards a dilapidated building. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the youngster telling the taxi driver to move on. She walked erect, holding her purse close. Just before she entered the building, she saw the white Range Rover.

  On the second floor, she was led to the only room which still had a door. All the others, one could actually see into from the corridor due to shell damage. The militiaman knocked on the door softly. When the reply came, he opened the door, let her in, and closed it behind her.

  He was sitting on a Louis XIV chaise lounge, watching her intently. He gestured for her to sit down on a low ottoman. She looked up at him.

  “May I have your card, please?” he asked in French. She gave it to him. He pretended to scrutinize the card. “What are you doing in these parts, Mrs. Marchi?”

  “I am going to lunch at a friend’s house.”

  “What is your friend’s name?” he asked.

  “Marie-Christine Ashkar.”

  “Ah, an interesting woman,” he said. She was not sure what he meant by that remark. Was he using a prurient tone? He was smiling. She was nervous.

  “This is the first time you’ve come to East Beirut, isn’t it?”

  “I was born here.” Defiance.

  “But you are no longer from here,” he insisted. “It is your first time.” He looked at her, still smiling. “Things have changed a great deal,” he went on.

  “I understand.”

  “You speak French very well. You could fit here real well.”

  “I am from here.”

  “Why did you marry that fat faggot?” he asked suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon.” She tried not to show her shock.

  “You heard me. Why did you marry that fat faggot?” He was still smiling, laughing almost.

  “I will not sit here and he insulted.” Indignation.

  “Yes, you will,” he said joyfully. He was having a good time. “I am not insulting you. I am insulting your husband.”

  “I don’t know behind which herd you were raised, but in a civilized community, when you insult a woman’s husband, you insult the woman.”

  “It’s a different world, Samia.”

  “Don’t call me by my first name. You have no right.”

  “I have every right, Samia. I can do whatever I want. I am the one who gives rights in this part of town.” He said it all in a good-natured manner, as parent lecturing a favorite child. She was terrified. She controlled herself. His eyes asked her to join in the fun.

  “Now, back to my original question,” he continued. “Why did you marry that fat faggot?I really would like to know.”

  “He is not a homosexual,” she in
sisted. He finally roared with laughter.

  “That’s right,” he joked. “They bring him the boys every night, and he plays Chinese checkers with them.” His brown eyes twinkled continuously with eager affability.

  “There are no boys. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  He moved closer. “Your driver, Jihad, brings him a boy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night at six p.m. like clockwork.” He was looking intently at her.”Did you know about that?”

  “No,” she replied. She was still controlling herself. “It’s not true. Where would Jihad bring the boys to? He can’t take them to the office.”

  “He has an apartment at Ramlel Baida. Much better than the one you live in. I can show you photographs if you want.”

  “You have photographs of my husband having sex with boys?” He roared with laughter again.

  “I wish. Those would he fun to look at. No, I have pictures of the boys getting into the apartment building. They are all under seventeen, in case you’re interested.”

  “Then you can’t prove anything. They are just rumors. They are just old rumors.”

  “Samia, look at me,” he said gently. “Your husband fucks little boys. Not only that, he provides young boys for his friends to fuck as well. He has been doing that for twenty years. Who do you think brought all the boys to Arafat all those years back? Why do you think the Syrian brass like him so much?”

  “That is just a rumor.”

  “Okay. Okay. You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you marry that fat . . . prick? How many years older is he? Thirty?”

  “Twenty-six. And it is none of your business. Obviously you think you know more about my marriage than I do. Make up your own answers.”

  “It can’t be the money. Your family is rich. It can’t be connections. Twelve years ago, he was nothing but a small-time pimp. We know it can’t be the sex. What would make a beautiful eighteen-year old marry a fucking asshole like Marchi?”

  She pulled her purse and stood up. “It is none of your fucking business,” she said angrily. “I want to go home. You can kill me now, otherwise I am just walking out of here and going home.”

  He was smiling again. “I’ll have a driver take you. He could drop you at your house. He’ll cross over at the Franciscaine.”

  “No, thank you. I would rather walk.”

  “No, you would not,” he laughed. “My driver will take you. He can get you to your house in fifteen minutes. It’s much easier.” “Fine. Fine. I just want to get out of here.”

  “I want to see you again.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see you again.” He was standing beside her at the door.

  “You are sick,” she said. “You are very sick. I would rather die. You are very sick.”

  “I assume your husband is not having sex with you—”

  “You are a sick man,” she interrupted him. “I want to get out of here.”

  “But if he does touch you again, I will personally cross over and kill him myself.”

  “You are a sick man.”

  “My name is Nicola Akra, by the way, but you can call me Nick.” He smiled.

  The heat was stifling as she left the building.

  …

  Subject: Charges against Nicole Ballan

  beirut, Lebanon—A lawsuit against the former beauty queen and her boyfriend was filed by the State Prosecutor. The couple are charged with filming a homemade porno movie. Two other men are charged as well with the distribution of the film. If found guilty of making the film with the intent of selling it, both parties face sentences of one year in jail.

  Nicole is a beauty, one of those extraordinarily beautiful Lebanese girls. The boyfriend has such a big penis, even the straight men have no compunction talking about it. The film became the centerpiece of Lebanese conversation for a hell of a long time. A couple decides to give the public what they want and their lives are ruined in the process. Nicole had modeling contracts with a couple of French firms who withdrew their offers when the scandal erupted. She was also unable to get a visa to any European country. She is stuck in Lebanon. She opened a store in the Zouk, a northern suburb in Beirut, selling abbayes. Nobody wears abbayes much these days, and those that do wear them only as house robes, yet her small store has a line of men desperately trying to get in and buy something. They come from all over Lebanon. The men who ruined her life would pay anything to get a glimpse of her.

  …

  It is true. He is right.

  “Nick is a great guy,” the driver says cheerfully. If she keeps quiet, he’ll probably stop talking. They keep getting younger. He, on the other hand, is probably the same age as she. She is sitting in the back seat of the Range Rover, the current car du jour of gangsters and militiamen. Her husband has one, of course.

  There is nobody at the Franciscaine crossing, which takes its name from the Franciscan school. The car breezes past the Christian checkpoint. When it gets to the other checkpoint, the driver shows them a government pass and is let through. Mr. Akra must be important.

  “I want you to relay a message to your boss,” she says calmly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell your boss that if he ever sets foot in this part of town, I will have him killed. Very slowly.”

  The driver is aghast. He did not expect that.

  “Can you relay the message, exactly, or should I send it with somebody else?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he stutters. “But why? Nick is a great man. He is a gentleman too.”

  “You just give him the message, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Does that mean you don’t like him?”

  She shakes her head in disbelief. Her ten-year-old is smarter than this.

  “He will be disappointed, ma’am. I think he likes you. He told me I am supposed to remember how to get to your house because I will be picking you up to help you cross over.”

  “He told you what?” The man is completely crazy. “Just give him the message. Just give him my message.”

  …

  Sex. In America an obsession. In other parts of the world a fact.

  Marlene Dietrich said that. She never used verbs because she was a cheap German.

  …

  I wake up in my own room. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can’t move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. Life is a repeating pattern.

  …

  Brain stem, you say? By that definition, Juan should have been declared dead long before he even got to the hospital. I went to visit him and I could not believe what I saw. How do I describe the state he was in? He had his eyes open, but he was unconscious. Insensate? Insentient? But he wasn’t catatonic. He was shaking constantly. Palsied? He was drooling continuously, farting every ten seconds.

  His lover told me I could speak to Juan. He could hear me. Speak to him? I wanted to shoot him and put him out of his misery. He had completely lost motor coordination.

  God is merciless. Juan had claimed he beat the virus. He went around the country lecturing on how he overcame AIDS. He felt better. Bang. What a way to go, huh?

  I wonder if he was conscious. Just think of it. What if it were you? You are lying in a hospital bed. Sp
ittle oozing out of your mouth constantly. You have to rely on your loved ones to wipe it for you, but it is endless, so they stop doing it. You are constantly shaking, not mild shaking, but heavy shaking, like an epileptic seizure. Think about this. All your loved ones are there and you keep farting every ten seconds. You can’t stop. Fart, fart, fart, fart, fart. How would you feel? It’s a good thing you have not eaten anything in a while. Who knows what would come out of your butt then?

  Don’t worry. It won’t happen to you.

  …

  Firing on Israel has a long history. The PLO started it. Before the war, the PLO basically occupied southern Lebanon. The Lebanese government was powerless to stop them. The PLO even collected taxes from the Lebanese farmers, who were mostly Shiites. Just as they did with Hamas, the Israelis started helping the Shiites in the south organize and defend against the PLO. Those Shiites later became Hizballah.

  The Shiites fought the PLO, but when the Israelis invaded in 1982, they turned their attention to their new enemy, Israel. The Israelis then started helping the Christians in the South organize and defend against Hizballah. Those Christians became the South Lebanese Army.

  Hizballah learned much from the PLO, but they introduced a few sadistic twists of their own. What they did learn, though, was how to fire rockets across the border into Israel. They used the well-known military tactic of fire and run, which is sometimes called, by those in the know, the Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino school of advanced warfare. Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino is an Egyptian virus, first discovered in June of 1967, probably in the Sinai. It afflicts Semites in the Middle East, both Arabs and Israelis. Those infected with the virus are known to close their eyes, and fire, hoping to hit something. Translated from the Egyptian dialect, Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino means “Oh God, I hope this gets him in the eye.”