Zeezee: “If you don’t want us over . . .”
Me: “Come in.”
Shwikar: “Here—wine, cucumber and carrots, we didn’t come empty-handed!”
Me: “Upstanding friends, God bless. But I already bought wine and chips.”
Zumurrud, angrily: “Chips?! Are you trying to assassinate my healthy diet?”
Me: “You weigh like eleven pounds!”
Zumurrud: “Yeah, eleven pounds of pure fat!”
Me: “All right, all right, come in. Or would you rather leave?”
Shwikar: “Fine.”
Like knights they sat at the round table waiting for me to speak.
But in this seating position specifically, I find it difficult to voice my words.
Let’s have a drink first and do some spiritual exercise—a.k.a. gossiping—so I can get comfortable enough to talk.
One drink after the other and I relax. Words are dripping out of my mouth like the clear water running in the spring in my village blah blah blah.
And so, I begin:
“I started writing my book, but I didn’t write about any of you. I tried to write about myself and about you too, but I got worried. Every story I remembered of us worried me. What if Zumurrud didn’t like my point of view, I would think, or Zeezee? What if Shwikar hated that I said that she sometimes sits holding her cup half-empty, closing the doors of possibilities around her, and looks away? What if she never realized that this depression of hers occurs regularly? What if she hated me for calling the reasons behind her depression seasonal?
“No, no, I don’t want any quick answers. I want to say everything on my mind. Please.
“What about Koko? Since I told her that I’m going to write about her in my book she’s been acting cautious around me, asking me not to include this or that detail every time she tells me a story. And Koko can’t even read Arabic! It’s not like I’m going to use her real name anyway, but she makes sure to draw the line between what she considers to be personal, and therefore unpublishable, and what she considers to be public information, and so leaves me the choice of including it or not.
“And Tante Nadia: I haven’t even told her yet that I’m writing a book that’s going to include her, her with roses in her hands.
“Maybe I’m exaggerating.
“But I asked myself whether I’m exaggerating and really thought about it. Nadia in my book is not the same as Nadia on the street. And Koko, I would be telling my story with her in it and not her story of herself. Her story will remain hers and I can never know it. And of course I’ll keep secret everything she asks of me.
“I convinced myself of this logic in the case of Koko and Nadia, but I can’t with you guys.
“Even if you tell me that I am free to write whatever I want, I will refuse to. The problem is, I’ve censored myself.
“And I found myself last night in front of a piece of paper that, every time I cover it with writing, I replace with a blank sheet and start over.
“But then, I found the solution.
“The way out is imagination.
“Imagination can take me far from your stories but still keep you the protagonists of my novel.
“So now, I want you guys to read these few pages, then we’ll talk about them”:
“Woohoo! Finally! I got an email from her.
I have a friend living in Paris . . .”
I head to the kitchen and take out a bottle of wine from the fridge. I refill the empty glasses and wait for them to finish reading.
I glance at the computer screen to check which page they’ve reached:
“And so, Hayat moved to Paris.
That was three years ago.”
I go to the bathroom. I stay there a long time on purpose, reading a tabloid containing celebrity scandals with all the juicy details. I wash my hands and go back to the living room to find them still staring at the bright computer screen. I approach the laptop and read:
“After all, death didn’t happen to her, she needed it. From where she was standing, she saw death as a solution. And what do I know about this to judge?”
I sit on the couch and wait.
Just a few more lines and I will face their opinions.
“I love you. Don’t cry. Goodbye.”
They all finish reading at the same time almost. Zumurrud takes a little longer; then they all lean back on the sofa and adjust their positions. They almost look like they share the same body.
I say nothing. I don’t rush them. I wait.
Zeezee lights a cigarette. Shwikar takes a sip of her wine. And Zumurrud stares down at her nails with the utmost interest.
They look depressed. Or maybe awkward?
All right, I’m going to have to say something. This silence is suffocating me.
“So?”
Zumurrud smiles. Zeezee gives me a meaningless nod. And Shwikar has an obscure expression.
“That bad?”
They all smile.
It’s my turn to be quiet now. I try to mask my hurt and embarrassment, and I grab the remote control and turn on the television.
I can see them out of the corner of my eye exchanging glances.
Zumurrud extends her arm toward me and grabs the remote from my hand. She then turns the television off and says, “We’re just surprised, that’s all.”
“At what?”
“Well, maybe it’s just me, but I found the story too sad. Very well written, but depressing. Especially because I was expecting to laugh at my character, and yours, and all of ours. I thought that you had gone with the plan you told us about in the car. I really like the idea of your writing about our daily lives because the novels I read usually talk about one exceptional event in time only. And I would’ve really liked to read about ordinary stuff because—well, it’s ordinary! And I would’ve liked us to have a story about us, where we would have different names, but it would still capture our essence. I knew you wouldn’t write about me as I am but as you see me, or even as you would think I would react to events in the story. A modified version of me that’s like me but isn’t exactly me. I was expecting that. I think we all were. But, if writing about us is so difficult for you, then drop us. Write a story about a good life. The Interpol, and Palestine, and Paris . . . yeah . . . by the way, I realized while reading this part how much I miss Paris! I can’t believe they wouldn’t renew my visa! Anyway . . . what do you guys think?”
Zeezee: “Yeah, I feel the same way. I can imagine how difficult it must be to write about friends. But, don’t worry about us! We’re adults and can handle it. And I know you wouldn’t point out something in my character that would hurt me. But if digging into my personality hurts your story, or holds you back, then you should of course go with whatever makes you comfortable.”
Shwikar: “It’s nice. Hayat’s story is nice. Depressing, like Zumurrud said, yeah. And sure, I completely agree with Zeezee. I was excited to read how you see my character. I liked that idea; it didn’t scare me at all. It excited me. But still, Hayat’s story is great. I mean, bittersweet, you know?”
Me: . . . [Silent]
Zeezee: “Why are you quiet? You hate quiet.”
Me: . . . (I smile.)
Shwikar: “Are you upset? She’s upset. Don’t be upset.”
Me: . . . (I shake my head.)
Zeezee: “Cleopatraaaaa! Say something!”
Me: . . . (I fix my gaze at the floor. There’s dust under that sofa.)
Zumurrud: “If you’re going to stay like this, we’re going to leave.”
Me: . . . (I shake my head, then readjust my position indicating that I’m about to speak.) “I don’t know what came over me, but I know it didn’t happen last night. I think I decided on this when I made up my mind to write a story with heroes the same as the ones in my life. I think the problem is in writing about my life, not yours. Like just now, when one of you said she wants to read about herself as I see her, I felt annoyed instead of liberated. I need to justify my escape from
my life.”
Silence takes over, but no one breaks it because they can see on my face that I’m not finished.
“I imagine what I want to write about us, but I can’t write it. The problem is our lives. No one writes about a life like ours because it’s unpublishable in an Arab world that’s swarming with forbidden things.
“Drinks and alcohol, okay, that’ll slide. Eyes can tolerate them, just as they do with movies. But, what about love and sex? Would that slide? How would I tell about your relationships, and mine? That would be scandalous!
“I know what you’re going to say: nobody will know it’s us. But how wouldn’t they? They know that I’m the writer, and they know who my friends are. They will be able to place the right name to the right character and will figure out that it’s me, you, and her. And maybe they will think other characters are us too.
“I’m writing this to have fun, not to go up against society. Confrontation is not what I’m after. I’m not a martyr, nor am I ‘bold’ enough. In fact, I hate being bold. And I know you do too!”
Zumurrud interrupts, “May I say a something?”
“I want to finish first . . .”
“No, I want to say something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t think this finding out it’s us thing is as big of a problem as you think it is. And I don’t think that writing about people’s relationships is the bad kind of boldness. And I am not convinced that you’re having trouble writing because of any patriotic, national, or historic reasons. I’m not trying to provoke you, I’m only brainstorming with you.”
Me: . . . [Awkward silence]
Zeezee, carefully: “Zumurrud’s right, habibti. Let’s all think together. Your reasons aren’t convincing. I read ‘bold’ stories every day that are much bolder than ours. As for the characters, I, as a reader, don’t tend to look for the real people behind them—except for few instances here and there where I might be tempted if I think I know the character. You know how much I love gossip, but if the novel hooks me with the plot and ideas, then I lose myself in it and look for what would benefit me. I mean, if the characters are complex in a way that . . .”
Zumurrud: “Zeezee, stop. Your point’s clear, you’re just repeating yourself now. Don’t be mad at me, I’m telling you this for your own good, you don’t . . .”
Shwikar, disapprovingly: “Can we go back to the subject?”
Zumurrud: “Sorry, I pulled a Zeezee.”
We all laugh a little too long in an attempt to cheer up.
Shwikar: “Anyway, I agree with what Zumurrud and Zeezee were trying to say. There’s something that’s bothering you, and, like you said, it didn’t happen last night, of course. But it also didn’t happen when you first decided to write this novel. I think that there’s something else that’s bothering you. I won’t be the first to say that the problem’s between you and yourself, but I’m confident that you’re living it inside yourself. The problem, the thing that’s bothering you, you are the source of it. It’s your story, your life, and your relationship to it.”
Careful silence looms over my living room. The silence feels harsher than the statement made about me being the source of the problem and that the problem is psychological and not social.
Our drinks look back shyly at us, as if they, in turn, are feeling awkward and trying to be careful.
Zeezee and Zumurrud’s silence make it obvious that they agree with Shwikar and are surprised at her daring honesty. That honesty that we all try to run away from, but that, this time, has caught up with me.
Who will breach the silence?
Zeezee, with an enthusiasm that makes our feeling of shame smaller so we can escape from it, says: “Come on! Here’s a toast to our sick selves!”
We all laugh and raise our glasses. Then I say: “Good thing I ordered three bottles of wine! This session is going to get tragic thanks to our ambassador to the stars, Shwikaaaar!”
We all clap and laugh loudly, then gradually calm down, trying to make ourselves look well adjusted.
I decide to deal with the result of this session and take on the responsibility of asking for their opinions. I can’t talk about anything other than the point made last by Shwikar. If I talk about anything else, I will officially become the best escape artist in the Arab world.
“Okay, Shwikar has a point. The problem is that . . .” I go quiet.
Zumurrud: “What’s the problem?”
Me: “The problem is that Hayat . . . Hayat’s story . . .”
Shwikar: “Yeah?”
Me: “Well, I imagined myself as her while I was writing it. So it’s not exactly fiction, the story is . . . kind of what I would imagine my end to be like.”
Silence this time resembles the silence at a funeral march. No, actually, I’m mistaken; they’re just taking time to think.
Shwikar tears up.
Zeezee looks sad and surprised as if she were feeling that she neglected me as a friend.
Zumurrud: “Don’t get too upset you two, it’s not that weird. We all have times when we imagine what our end would be like.” Then she addresses me jokingly: “Feeling depressed, sugar bun?”
I laugh, “No.”
Shwikar, firmly: “Clarify.”
“Okay, so, I read Interpol and the National Press websites. And I also thought of jumping under the train every time I waited for it during my stay in Paris. And I’m petrified of death, but also obsessed with it. So this way, I killed two birds with one stone—death and my fear of it, and I did it without feeling scared at all.”
Zumurrud: “And how will you finish the story?”
Me: “I was thinking of going back in time and telling my story backwards. Then, I will imagine it. It won’t be my real life, of course. And suspense won’t be the goal. It will be a calm story.”
Zeezee: “Are you really convinced that your life up to this point will lead you to suicide?”
Me: “It’s not suicide, but death. Every life ends with death. And the hardest thing about death is usually imagining it. I will die, and you will die, and so will Zumurrud and Shwikar, and my mom and yours, your sister and mine. Everyone will die.”
Zumurrud: “Sure, but we’re alive now and have to deal with life. Death is always present, but living in it will result in always debating the result of living and the reasons behind it.”
Me: “True.”
Shwikar: “I experienced the death of someone close to me and I was never able to break free of his death until I imagined that he disappeared, that he wanted to get away from us so he pretended to die.”
Zumurrud: “To each his own.”
Me: “I see. I have to consider my relationship with death rather than think of death itself. And since that requires a lot of thinking, I hereby declare that we’re done thinking for tonight. Thank you my sisters in struggle, we can now talk about something else.”
Zeezee, yelling like a kid: “Cheers to all those who have lived and died, and everyone else who’s aging until they lose all their teeth!”
We all laugh.
Death has overstayed its welcome. We can almost touch it.
We have to get some fresh air.
I’m not deeply depressed, but I flirt with depression every now and then just like any person living in this country (or any other) would.
Now, it’s time for life and living it. Getting to know it and living every moment.
I will try to wrap my head around life, slowly, if death gives me enough time to.
Ufff, enough of this.
Zeezee: “One final question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you choose the name Hayat?”
“Did you like it?”
“No. I mean it’s just that it contains an obvious organic contradiction.”
“An organic contradiction?”
“Yeah. I mean it’s clearly symbolic. Hayat means life. Hayat who dies. Yes, it’s symbolic, but too direct.”
Zumurrud, mockingly: �
��Genius, Zeezee!”
Me, laughing: “You’re right, it’s too obvious. The entire story is an exaggeration. I mean her story is, well, exaggerated. Tragic. It’s like she insists on dying even though everyone has lost a loved one in the war and has had to find their way back to life.”
Shwikar: “But that’s just how she is! You want to suppress her in the name of ‘everyone else’? Who said that everyone else was on good terms with life during the war? Who said that whoever survived but lost a lover ended up living a happy life? This is the story of her.”
Me: “I agree.”
Zumurrud: “So do I.”
Zeezee: “I meant the name, just the name!”
Shwikar: “It’s true, Hayat is a bit much . . .”
Me, interrupting: “Court’s adjourned.”
Zumurrud: “Finally!”
. . .
Prasanna is coming to live in Lebanon.
Koko found him a job at the electric company in the Dawra area. She’s paying for his visa and plane ticket, a total of twenty-five hundred dollars. The electric company will take care of his official documents and give him a monthly salary of five hundred dollars.
I ask Koko: “Why is all your news so major?”
“What do you mean?”
“I bought mom a house, I sponsored my aunt, I paid Prasanna twenty-five hundred dollars, etc. Why don’t you ever tell me a piece of news that doesn’t exceed a hundred dollars? Like, that you bought a pair of jeans, or blood pressure medicine . . .”
She interrupts me with that voice of hers: “It’s not my fault! It’s just the kind of thing that happens to me, isn’t it?”
Right away, I agree: “True.”
I ask her about kids and if she’s planning to have any when her husband gets here.
“Sure,” she answers me. I ask her if she has looked into any daycares, and she says that daycares are available here but that she’s considering taking the baby with her to her freelancing jobs. “No problem with that! Correct?”
“Right.”
I really like the idea of her having her baby here in Lebanon. It’s unusual.
I ask her what she would do about school later. Are there any schools in Lebanon that teach Sri Lankan?
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