I felt the need to let go of my information and notes and diaries. And I felt safe letting go.
I think I wanted to travel to try to create a new story for myself that I could turn into a novel; a world that’s far from my daily life but part of it like a journey that forms a moment in life.
I think I was afraid to narrate my life in Lebanon because I’m afraid of how it would end. My life could end along with the novel, the story of a life that multiple bodies collaborate to make. The ending of this novel must bring an end to something in my life.
And because of my fear of endings, I’ve been running away from them. Many stories in my life remained unresolved, without an ending, like the Lebanese civil war.
And now, I feel the need to face what I’ve been running away from: endings.
Now, I feel something new inside me. Like I’m ready to accept the end of this story and to start creating a new one.
It’s like I trust myself to negotiate with life now, whereas before I was careful to strictly be on the receiving end of life.
It’s the sandstorm: as if life is preventing me from running away, and encouraging me to face it and collaborate in writing my story.
I steal a deep breath that reaches my stomach and brings tears to my eyes. I won’t give in. I won’t go back to the pessimism of my younger years. I’m a thirty-year-old adult now, and talking is good enough for me: saying, revealing, tossing language whenever it feels right, knowing that my friends will be there to catch it and place it in the right context, and understand it, then tell me about our tomorrow, just as I do when life hurts them.
32.
I grab my phone and call them, one after the other, one after the other.
I ask them to go out with me and tell them that I need it because I’m fragile and need to strengthen my foundation.
I’d never experienced a party like that in my entire life.
They lit up the sky for me. I revealed to them reasons that kept me from writing, and they told me of all that makes us happy and sad, and that that’s what life is about, and that it’s normal to feel like I do. They told me that we ingest a lot of accumulated death and violence on a daily basis in Lebanon. They told me that every day we are exposed to different attacks by different faces for different causes that we thought were gone for good, but they haven’t left at all; these faces just pretend to be pretty instead, just pretend that they’ve changed. They told me that we have to deal with a lot of things we pretend don’t exist here, and so we learn to fear life. They told me that what I feel is normal. And they laughed at our concept of “normal.” Then they laughed at themselves. And of course, the evening ended with them laughing at me. We laughed at me a lot.
They offer to drive me home but I insist on walking. My apartment is ten minutes away from the restaurant. Isn’t that awesome? That’s one of the perks of the newly revived nightlife on Hamra Street.
They insist. I insist. I say goodbye, and walk away.
I think.
I’m like a house with two televisions. One in the bedroom and the other in the living room. I save the channels, but I mix up the televisions, I get the numbers wrong. Sixteen is the comedy channel in the bedroom, and it’s the drama channel in the living room. I make mistakes, and that’s what humans do. But then I realize this, and so does everyone else. So then I try to remember the right numbers and aim the remote control at the right television.
I’m like a house with two televisions. I transition from age to age, and from one way of adapting to life to another. Sometimes I get stuck in transition, so some things of the past remain while others of the present begin to fade, and what is hiding behind today reveals itself. So I am currently following two systems of living.
In my younger years, as in my twenties, I fought life and tried to prove my existence so it wouldn’t be able to erase me. But now, at the age I’m in, which I’m not going to specify because I’m living it, life doesn’t feel like it’s trying to erase me. It feels like it can now contain me, but I have to convince myself of that and act accordingly and not by force.
I am not certain of this new emotion, but I can feel it. It has many downsides to it, like grouchiness, and darkness, and despair, but it also calls for me to behave like I have the right to exist, even if only in my little life. I imagine this new emotion like a spirit sneaking into my inner world, inviting me to take control, and not stealing myself and fleeing the scene. This ghost is encouraging me to become complete. And this story will help me convince myself of that. I have to write it.
But, how does it end?
I slide the key into the keyhole of the front door. I go in, quickly turn the hallway light on, look around the place, head toward the living room, and toss my purse onto the couch and toss myself down next to it. I look around. I get up, take out a beer from the fridge, empty half of it in a glass and head to my desk.
My body and mind are exhausted because of the vodka I drank. We celebrated the cancellation of my flight and now I can’t stop thinking and fall asleep.
I’m only going to write one chapter drunk; then I’ll call it a night. And in the morning, I’ll write a second chapter with a hangover and some coffee.
I don’t know if that’s a mistake. But I like to write about life in Beirut, a life of drunkenness and headaches, for those wanting to experience them both.
My phone rings. I crawl from behind my desk to my cozy living room, feeling endlessly heavy, grab my phone off my couch, read the name calling and answer:
“Hi, Zeezee.”
“I have to go to the airport.”
“Why?”
“My sister Teetee’s flying in from Paris today.”
“A regular visit?”
“No, an occasion.”
“Good news, I hope.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Woohoo! You’re going to be an aunt! Aunt Zeezee. Ha.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it when she told me over the phone. I think it will sink in when I see her. All I can think of right now is my hangover. And because she’s flying into Beirut with a bambino in her belly, the whole family is driving down to the airport to welcome her back. Goddamn you, your travel plans, your novel, your drinks and everything about you . . .”
“Merci. Did she start thinking of names?”
“Yeah. And she knows exactly what she’s going to call him or her.”
“That fast?”
“If it’s a boy, Jad, if it’s a girl, then Jood.”
“It was that easy? How original!”
“And you, missy? What are your favorite baby names?”
“If a boy, Ahmad, if a girl, Sahar.”
“Nice. Ahmad, a religious name that reflects your beliefs and devoutness, and Sahar, an awesome name too, for an Egyptian belly dancer.”
“Ha ha. The religious belly dancer, sister of the devout Arab brother.”
“Ha ha. What are your plans today?”
“Eating. Grazing and lazing.”
“Okay. Call you tonight.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
I brew a cup of American coffee, pour a lot of brown sugar in it, and carry it in my right hand along with a glass of ice as I head to my desk.
There’s a blessing in hard work.
. . .
I’ve been at it for two days now.
I didn’t cancel my vacation days from work even though I haven’t traveled anywhere.
I spent two days of my vacation at home. Writing. Drinking. Smoking. Eating. Then writing again.
Day three passes.
It’s day four now and it happens to be my friends’ day off, so Zeezee calls me at one in the afternoon.
“How’s your novel coming along?”
“I’ve almost finished it.”
“So fast?”
“I’m a fast writer, and I’m also using excerpts that I had already written when I first decided to do this.”
“And it’s goin
g well?”
“I think so. Do you want to read what I’ve written so far? Be careful though, I’m talking about ninety pages of A4 paper.”
“Whoa! Of course I want to read it. Should I come over now?”
“Yeah, now.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She reads and I think. How can I write the ending while the events are still taking place in real life? I have to find a stopping point.
I’m not going to write about my friends and me in my next novel—it’s going to be pure fiction. I’ll probably think of some ideas by then, and they might be good ones, too. I smile and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of young rosé wine.
“What about me?”
“You’re reading the novel, you need to focus.”
“But your novel makes me want to drink. I’ve reached the part about the Pacifico party.”
“Ha ha. My story must be working, then. It must be good.”
“Your story? What are we? Extras?”
“Of course you are. Extras in my story, as usual.”
We laugh. We drink. She reads.
I interrupt her.
“How’s Teetee?”
“Oh Gooooood! The bambino kicked me yesterday.”
“Jood—or Jad—must be a smart baby.”
“Yo mama’s smart!”
“Merci.”
“Okay, can I finish reading the story?”
“One final question.”
“What?”
“There’s a sentence in my head that I can’t figure out where to place in the text. Can you keep it in mind while you’re reading so you can help me find somewhere to put it?”
“A sentence? What is it?”
“There’s something about Beirut that makes the ending obvious from the beginning.”
Zeezee sits quietly. I look at her, waiting for her response, and I see a wicked smile forming on her lips.
“So that’s how you write? You, the famous writer? A sentence pops into your head from the valley of the genius and you find a place for it in your equation?”
“I’m never going to become a famous writer as long as one of the people reading me is you.”
“So you have people reading you now?”
“Oui.”
“You sound like a six-year-old sometimes.”
“Well, mom, twenty-four days from now I’m going to be thirty-three. I’ll be as old as Jesus! I’m going to die soon!”
“Oui, that’s true. You wore us out at thirty-two. So what are you going to do when you’re thirty-three? Wipe us out? What’s your thirty-three going to look like?”
“Same as thirty-two. Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself.”
“Why should I? I’m still young, do you remember what that was like?”
“I didn’t mean you worrying about your stinking age, I meant my birthday. Have you thought of my gifts yet? You’re running out of time Zeezee deary, you better act fast.”
“Old bat.”
She sticks her hand out in my face, telling me to be quiet, and looks away. I look away too.
I say “bekhhh,” she responds with “ufff.” Then we both go quiet. She reads.
I smoke a cigarette and watch the television, then doze off. I wake up to find Zeezee has finished reading. She looks exhausted.
“Bless your heart.”
“Merci.”
“Tired?”
“Yeah.”
I avoid the obvious question: “I hope I didn’t bore you with it.”
She responds coolly: “No, you didn’t necessarily bore me.”
I lose my patience: “Then what?”
“Well, you didn’t bore me.”
Glossary
Abdel Halim Hafez: (1929–77) One of the most popular Egyptian singers; considered an icon in modern Arabic music. Also known as “el-Andaleeb al-Asmar” (“the Dark-Skinned Nightingale”).
Balqis: Also known as the Queen of Sheba; a queen regnant who appears in the Bible. She is the subject of one of the most widespread and fertile cycles of legends in the Orient.
David Charles Samhoun: Israeli agent; a character in the Raafat al-Haggan television series.
Fairuz: One of the most widely admired singers in the Arab world. She is commonly known as the “Jewel of Lebanon” and “Ambassador to the Stars.”
Faten Hamama: (1931–2015) Egyptian actress and producer who helped shape the cinema industry in Egypt and improve the role of women in cinema and Egyptian society.
Fitnah: Or fitna. Unrest or rebellion against a figure or leader. In Islam, the term has several connotations, the most common of which indicates forcing Muslims to revert from their religion and embrace sin.
Gamal Abdel Nasser: (1918–70) The second president of Egypt, who served from 1956 until his death. He was most famous for nationalizing the Suez Canal Company and establishing Egypt’s Pan-Arab identity.
Gemmayzeh: A neighborhood in Beirut that has been undergoing gentrification since the end of the civil war and is well known today for its trendy bars and pubs, cafés, restaurants, and lounges.
Hamra Street: Or Rue Hamra. One of the main streets of Beirut and the center of intellectual activity. Although eclipsed by Gemmayzeh and the downtown area, Hamra is considered one of the nightlife spots in Beirut.
Hassan Nasrallah: Often referred to as al-Sayyid Hassan Nasrallah. He is the third and current secretary general of the Lebanese political and paramilitary organization, Hezbollah, which is designated as a terrorist organization by several European/Western and West Asian countries.
Hind Rostom: (1929–2011) Icon in Egyptian cinema; known as the “Marilyn Monroe of Egypt.”
Kamal Jumblatt: (1917–77) Early leader of the Jumblatt clan and father of the current Lebanese Druze leader Walid Jumblatt. He was an important Lebanese politician, the main opponent of the Assad regime during the Lebanese civil war, and a major ally of the Palestine Liberation Organization.
Kamel al-Sabbah: (1895–1935) Also known as Camil A. Sabbah. Born in Nabatieh, Lebanon, he was an electrical and electronics research engineer, mathematician, and inventor. He worked as an engineer at the General Electric Company in New York and earned forty-three patents for his inventions, among which were innovations in television transmission. He was believed to have been assassinated in New York City.
Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir: Cardinal and patriarch emeritus of the Maronite Church, which constitutes Lebanon’s largest Christian body.
Michel Aoun: A former Lebanese army commander during the Lebanese civil war and a current politician and leader of the Free Patriotic Movement. He is a figurehead of the March 8 Alliance, a coalition of pro–Assad regime political parties in Lebanon that is headed by Prime Minister Najib Mikati.
Nabih Berri: Speaker of the Parliament of Lebanon and the head of the Amal Movement. He is a member of the March 8 Alliance.
Nadia Lutfi: Popular actress in Egyptian cinema.
“The Nights of Love in Vienna”: Song; lyrics by Ahmed Rami, music by Farid al-Atrash, and vocals by Asmahan.
Raafat al-Haggan: (1927–82) Also known as Refaat Ali Suleiman al-Gammal, or Jack Beton in Israel. He was an Egyptian spy and a national hero who played an important role in the Six-Day War. A popular three-season Egyptian television series, titled after Haggan, told the story of his life and accomplishments as a spy. It starred Mahmoud Abdel Aziz, Heba Selim, and Youssef Chaban, and it was based on a book by Saleh Mursi.
Rafic Hariri: (1944–2005) Often referred to as Sheikh Rafic Hariri, he was a business tycoon and a former prime minister of Lebanon. He is credited with reconstructing Beirut after the Lebanese civil war, and he was assassinated with a two-ton car bomb.
Ras Beirut: “Tip of Beirut”; a luxurious residential neighborhood of Beirut that has the most diverse religious population in the country. It is also home to Beirut’s most aristocratic families.
Saad Hariri: Lebanese Saudi billionaire, the second son of Rafic Hariri, an
d the leader of the Future Movement. Often referred to as Sheikh Saad Hariri, he served as the prime minister of Lebanon after the assassination of his father, and he is a figurehead of the March 14 Alliance.
32 Page 12
