32

by Sahar Mandour

  And the party favors that the guests walked out with were made and designed by Patchi, and there were tens of different options: chocolate, confection, caramelized fruit, green, blue, red, sweet, bitter, stuffed with hazelnut and almond, plain, big, small—all in the shape of a teddy bear, a teddy bear so nauseatingly sweet and innocent that it would make you dizzy.

  Each guest had to leave the shower with every kind of sweet.

  Georgina said she’d gotten flustered with all the stuff she had to carry. She kept emptying her purse so she could fill it up again.

  Half an hour into the baby shower, she felt the torture coming to an end and that’s when she walked head first into the camera—yes, a picture of every guest, in detailed planning and military-like commitment to avoid the spontaneity that can result in a bad photograph.

  She was more nervous in front of the camera. What’s the appropriate pose for such an occasion?

  A teddy bear pose?

  Georgina quickly carried away her many souvenirs and hopped into her car, a showboat of a car, and drove to Zeezee’s place, picked her up and headed to a bar in Gemmayzeh Street.

  Georgina threw her candy into the air at the bar, cheering and laughing, and they both drank till morning. Cheers to the newborn!

  Huge congrats!

  We laugh.

  But it seems that Georgina’s piece of news has yet to be revealed.

  It turns out that this story was only a warm up.

  She continues . . .

  At another friend’s house, and on a visit to congratulate her for her innocent child’s birth, Georgina saw hundreds of orchids. These flowers are expensive, and the price of an orchid last year was one hundred dollars. The price can get a lot higher and multiply depending on the kind of orchid, but they are rarely sold for less than a hundred dollars if they are original, as in imported from Japan.

  At her friend’s house, the size of a soccer field and two stories high (then the size of two soccer fields, really), Georgina saw dozens of wide pools, each filled with tens of big orchids. She asked her friend, “Wow that’s so pretty! How did you do that?” And with joy, of course, her friend answered her:

  There’s a florist in Rabieh (where rich people live), and les voisins (her neighbors with similar financial capabilities) decided to do this for her. Orthansia, Georgina’s friend, had mentioned to the florist that she wanted to get some orchids, and when her son Gabriel (named after his paternal grandfather and nicknamed Jimmy) was born, all the neighbors called the florist to have flowers sent to the hospital. The florist then mentioned to them that Orthansia wanted orchids, so they sent her what she wanted, comme d’habitude (as usual).

  And after Orthansia left the hospital, the florist had the orchids moved to her house. And so, Orthansia’s pools grew a garden of orchids overnight.

  It’s La Liste de Fleur (the list of flowers).

  Ta-dah!

  Awesome.

  We sit quietly around the table while Georgina smirks at us because she knows she just scored a major goal. She continues in a deliberately provocative tone with a heartfelt grin plastered on her face, “Yeaaah! Have you guys been living under a rock or something?”

  And so, a wedding no longer begins at the hairdresser nor has an end in sight.

  Maybe one of us should reconsider this marriage thing?

  Zeezee thinks the question is directed at her because she’s having to hear this story for the second time, so she answers, “Even if I do get married one of these days, I’m sure as hell not having a wedding.”

  Shwikar teases her, “And no Liste de Fleur?”

  Zumurrud jumps out of her seat and says in a condescending whine, “I want orchids too!”

  We shoot a dirty look in her direction and unanimously tell her, “Then go buy some!”

  And for a moment there, we all feel free. If one of my friends happened to get married, I wouldn’t set aside a wedding or baby budget for her. Forget it. Instead, I will need an enormous budget of patience, tolerance, and wand waving while preparing for her wedding.

  I will be her slave instead of her underwriter or family investor.

  Zeezee thinks out loud, “Are we being cheap? And isn’t it bad manners to have this conversation to begin with?”

  Zumurrud jumps out of her chair and with a professional, academic, and experienced air, says, “Excuse me? Is having this conversation itself bad manners or is the behavior under discussion the real bad manners here? You need to understand the difference between the two. What’s bad manners is opening a fund because you got knocked up and invite people to invest in your baby while disregarding whether they can afford it.”

  Zeezee smiles with satisfaction and says, “May God protect that big brain of yours, Zumurrud.”

  Zumurrud returns to her intellectual throne, “Oh that was nothing.”

  We all laugh, except for Zumurrud whose intention wasn’t to be funny. She was simply indicating that her contribution was but a small sample of what her intellect was capable of.

  Her contribution, in her view, needed no applause.

  On the other hand, we keep laughing because laughter is the fuel that keeps us going.

  Time passes and the bar continues to fill up, as if young people had resisted the temptation to go out on the night of the explosion but ended up caving in.

  In Beirut, time would be a bitter drink without alcohol to sweeten its taste.

  Tonight, music is playing low, as if the bar, in support of Hamra Street, decided to offer itself as a meeting place for those mourning the explosive capital. We were among them.

  But at around 1:30 a.m., the bar owner realizes people are slamming drinks, so the music gets louder and people’s voices along with it. Conversations are heard over others and words are flying left and right like random shots.

  The bar is packed; people are squeezing themselves in and exchanging “bonsoirs” up close and at a distance. They’re energetic and friendly. Most of the people who come to this bar are gay, which reduces the chances of bar fights and doubles the commitment to fun. The waiter runs around with his arm extended in the air, carrying a small circular black tray with glasses containing mostly clear and gold liquid, vodka and whiskey. People are serious about getting drunk tonight. Hardly any juice or artificial flavors are added to the alcohol. The attack is clear. The wound is being purified with alcohol.

  Now, it’s time for the main sedative, and so, it’s time to go home.

  I land heavily on my bed, not sliding into it like the belles on television. And when I wake up in the morning, I notice that I left behind an imprint on the surface, one that a sack of potatoes would leave—not a gentle young lady. As for the pillow, it refuses to look at me. It’s mad at me. I look at it and try to flatten it, but, never. Its cover is wrinkled, its filling is lumpy. It’s had a rough night and I’m having a sore morning.

  A headache, as usual, is how I pay for the night before.

  I can tell the day’s shot. I pretend to mourn the lost day but, internally, I don’t really mind. I wink at my inner self; with this announcement, I hereby release myself from the responsibility of accomplishing anything today.

  I will sit at my comfortable dining table and eat whatever junk food I want, because today, I’m officially hung over. Alcohol has left its mark on me and on my body.

  I’m sick.

  My cell phone rings.

  And before I check who’s calling, I decide not to pick up.

  But still, I should check who’s calling me. It’s Zeezee.

  I’ll answer.

  “Hello.”

  “Oy.”

  “A bloody death, Zeezee.”

  “A great evil.”

  “I feel defeated.”

  “I feel empty.”

  “I’m in pain.”

  “I’m dying.”

  “My kingdom for medicine.”

  “Something has to be done. I can’t go through the day like this, I’ll die.”

  “I woke
up two hundred hours ago, did you just wake up?”

  “Yeah,” she answers guiltily because I always make her feel bad about waking up at two in the afternoon after we go out.

  I say nothing to sink the guilt in more.

  She stays quiet, waiting for me to stop my guilt trip, and, if I don’t, she’ll probably hang up and move on with her life without me or my blame in it. So I break the silence, not because I’m a good soul and want to ease her pain since she’s already suffering from her hangover, but because I don’t want her to leave me by myself in this factory of boredom. I also want her to set up a get-together. And so, I will not ask what time it is, as if no such concept exists, and I will go back to the last sentence she said—what was it that she said? Oh, that she’s dying.

  “I’ve already died. My spirit is talking to you from the other side. And by the way, the weather here is wonderful!”

  “Where?”

  “In the afterlife.”

  “Oh. Your sense of humor in the afternoon.”

  “Fine, got it.”

  “Okay, now what?”

  “It’s Saturday, going out is our right.”

  “True. I agree.”

  “Where to?”

  “To the countryside.”

  “Like where?”

  “Up on the mountains.”

  “In Sannin?”

  “Why not, Zeezee?”

  “Who’s going to drive us there?”

  “I will.”

  “Ha ha ha.”

  “I can borrow Shwikar’s car if she’s working on the weekend as usual. But, come on, what work? The girl draws for a living! So maybe I can . . .”

  “No.”

  “Ha. I was testing you. I know you guys would rather get stuck inside a grave than in a car with me. Alright then, Miss Picky, who’s going to drive us now?”

  “I’ll ask Georgios.”

  “I’ll wait for your text.”

  “Bye.”

  I place the phone next to me on the long, wide sofa and go back to watching Télé Liban. I love that channel; it rarely ever talks about the current news and instead dives into the past. At night, I love to watch its old black-and-white talk shows in French back from when it was the only television channel in Lebanon, and back when French female news broadcasters were a natural phenomenon on Lebanese television. The broadcasters would host famous people like poet Said Akl, party leader Kamal Jumblatt, and Sheikh Sobhi al-Saleh, and ask them trivial questions that they would answer with deep thoughts—out of context, but deeply philosophical. They would ask vague questions on an intellectual television program where time played no role.

  There’s silence. I am too scared to watch a current interview on Lebanese television. I don’t know who told today’s broadcasters that a key element in any conversation is violence and embarrassing the guest as much as possible, even if the guest is not a politician and has no decision-making power. I become a witness to a verbal takedown whose victim is an expert on art or culture or sports or whatever. The role of the guest doesn’t matter; what matters is attacking them. The civil war might be the source of this violence, or maybe it’s the fact that a bomb might go off at any minute. Or maybe it’s the total disappearance of self-control. Or the utter absence of civilized behavior by politicians in my country. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, I don’t need any more stress in my life. And “courage” doesn’t interest me. I prefer kindness to courage, and talking to verbal takedowns.

  Beep beep. Beep beep.

  We’ll pick you up in an hour and a half. Be ready [in English].

  Woohoo!

  I’m in the car heading to Sannine.

  Georgios is driving and Zeezee’s next to him.

  Zumurrud, Shwikar, and I are sharing the back seat unwillingly.

  Who’s sitting by the back windows? Shwikar and I.

  The reason for Zumurrud’s fidgeting is me. The weekend’s the only time she gets to smoke, so she needs to sit by the window, but I scream every time I see her light a cigarette: “I’m hung over! I can’t tolerate the smell of smoke! Put it out!”

  Zumurrud: “Let me sit by the window then, I’ll stick my hand out of it and you won’t smell a thing! Why are you the one sitting by the window?”

  Shwikar: “Really, sit in the middle!”

  I argue with them, “Aren’t you ever going to grow up?”

  Now they shoot me a look of disgust and gang up on me. And quickly, Zumurrud crawls under me and tries to steal my seat.

  I push my butt down on her. NO, she will not succeed.

  Shwikar’s hand reaches from the other side, grabs my wrist and pulls me to the middle.

  I yell.

  They yell.

  Georgios lets out a sharp yell that pierces our noise, “Guys! The car!”

  We all freeze.

  We respect Georgios. His yelling at us means we’ve violated backseat etiquette.

  The bullies freeze in their seats while I freeze midair. My move to the middle seat wasn’t yet completed, so now my head looks like a lamp in the rearview mirror.

  This isn’t working.

  This is embarrassing.

  I wish the ground would swallow me whole right now.

  I melt and slide into the middle seat with as much elegance and transparency as I can muster. I sit quietly.

  They all laugh at me.

  I plug in the earphones of my iPod and listen to music.

  Where can I find someone like Ali / I keep you in this eye, but in the other one I keep Ali. Sabah is singing.

  The earphones get yanked out of my ears. I look around angrily, and everyone explodes, laughing again. I relax and laugh with them. They gave me a return ticket into their circle, so I have to seize the opportunity; I might not get another chance if I rebel and overdo it. And if I don’t get another chance, I’ll find myself with two options: to either die of boredom as a form of self-punishment, or humiliate myself as I try to find an entrance into their conversation.

  Blessed are those who know their limitations. Excesses only bring tribulations.

  I laugh, we laugh, then we quiet down.

  Zumurrud’s cell phone rings. We stay quiet. It could be a work-related call from a psychiatric patient of hers. And it is. So we all keep quiet. Zumurrud’s phone call lasts a long time, as does our silence. Eight minutes of silence. That’s hard to recover from.

  That’s the advantage of it. However, the problem with silence, or its disadvantage, is that it either leads to an explosion of conversations, or to eternal silence. That’s how it is with me, anyway. Zumurrud gave me a piece of advice once, on a day when I got angry and did something I came to regret. She told me to be silent after someone, anyone, tries to bait me conversationally. Usually, instead of remaining silent and listening to what the other person has to say, I insult their ideas and, in turn, insult my intelligence. Zumurrud said that by remaining silent, I’d be able to spot the holes in the other person’s arguments and win the debate accordingly. She also said that another benefit of silence is that I might hear an idea from another person that I might benefit from.

  So I began treating my anger with silence.

  And from that experience I noticed that I have to watch out for the traps that I set for myself. At times, when I’m quiet, I find I’m listening to myself only. I hear part of what the other person is saying and listen to my sarcastic comments tossing and turning inside me. Then a word that the other person says triggers a journey of thoughts in my head and I drift away. Then my arguments don’t come to me when it’s time for me to reply because I wasn’t listening. So I lose my temper again and have another rant and end up looking like an idiot. That’s if I don’t stay quiet for too long and lose the argument altogether because my silence is taken as a sign of consent.

  I think I should practice accepting losing an argument. Maybe after that, winning an argument will become less difficult and necessary for me.

  Zumurrud finishes her phone call
and Zeezee sets off on an eternal attempt to wheedle information out of her. Who? Where? How? Why? When? Zumurrud stays quiet, but is surprised at Zeezee’s persistence, which has been going strong for nine years now without showing any signs of slowing down.

  Zumurrud’s profession requires that she keep her patients’ information to herself. And she manages to meet that requirement so easily as if, at birth, she was fed liquid steel instead of milk so she turned into a vault and there’s no cracking her now. She won’t even be provoked. What a disaster.

  Speaking of Zumurrud’s professional secrets, I wonder if I should tell them mine.

  Where did this come from all of a sudden? Why should I reveal what I’ve been keeping from them? And why have I been hiding it if I’m going to end up revealing it in the end?

  Ha! Finally, I caught it by the tail; this obsession of mine is on the move and getting ready to take over me.

  I’m not going to tell them about the novel I’m writing.

  Why not? Aren’t they the main characters in it?

  Why this silence?

  Because I’m thinking about what I just said! God! Doesn’t a person have the freedom to even think in this country?

  But my thoughts can’t grow if I keep them locked up inside my head. They’re just going to recycle themselves, and myself along with them, and they’ll revolve around themselves in an unending circle, and I’ll suffocate. So, I have to vent. I have to tell them my secret.

  It’s not really a secret, anyway. So when I tell them, I’m not going to raise their expectations just to have them come crashing down, making me feel bad.

  I’m going to tell them.

  This is no secret; it’s available information, legitimate and common, the kind of news that would raise nations’ heads high.

  Me, raise nations’ heads high? I can’t even keep my own head up. My mother always insists that I keep my head up while walking, and my friends insist that I keep my back straight while seated or standing. And sometimes, I nudge myself because of the way I walk when I see my reflection in a store window. I walk like I’m humiliated, like I’m trying to hide from people’s stares. No, that’s an exaggeration and a hyperanalysis of the moment. I walk on the street like I do inside my house, carelessly. I relax my entire body on the asphalt. I blame gravity—the earth’s attraction, not mine. Even though my attraction is irresistible, but earth’s attraction is much stronger. It pulls me down, lower, and as long as there are more layers to go, I’m willing to be pulled down lower.