The Angel of History

by Rabih Alameddine

  You hated my jellabiya and never wanted me to wear it even though it gave you unfettered access to my ass, but no, you preferred my brown butt constricted in tight jeans and I was in America and should dress accordingly, and long before you turned ill, when you still had the hots for me, you forced me to wear nothing but tighty-whities around the apartment, calling me your callipygian Caliban and spanking me every time I walked by. I miss you, Doc. I should tell you, though, that I wasn’t American, we may have thought I was, but it was not so, it never was.

  Frosted Tips looked a bit too pleased with himself when I emerged from my cave, he grinned, his hands behind his back, red strap of his man-purse crossing from left shoulder to right hip, a deeper-red felt Borsalino askew atop his head now covering his blond hair. He pointed to our tree, his book claimed it was a laurel tree, he told me. Laurus nobilis, I said, we used to call her Daphne, and he asked why that name. He was young and I unforgiving. How could a poet, even a mediocre one, not know Apollo’s Daphne? You used to call her the stupid tree, for Daphne was an imbecile of a virgin who turned down the god in all his glory. Frosted Tips asked if I had names for other trees in the neighborhood, leaning back as he spoke. He had the sort of expressive face that would make it difficult for him to hide his machinations, evil or otherwise. I knew he was going to ask me a question a few seconds before he did, what did I think of the political situation in the Middle East and did I believe there would be peace in our lifetime? I wanted to smack him, slap his face with every step we took, left slap, right slap, I didn’t, of course, but I must also have an expressive face because he recoiled a bit without my having to do anything. Still, his earnestness was refreshing. I told him I didn’t do Middle East conversations, and furthermore, my remaining life was much shorter than his, so he shouldn’t be using the term our lifetime. He proceeded to floor me by saying under his breath, though loud enough for me to hear, Grumpy much? I began to laugh, which must have given him permission to let loose. I was the grumpiest person he’d ever met, probably the worst in history, was there anything I liked, where was I when happy gay genes were being handed out, sulking in some corner probably. What could I say, he made me laugh. I remembered how we used to be, all of us, all our interactions, whenever one of us was nervous, meeting someone new, for example, or having to say something that made us vulnerable, we went camp. When Chris asked Jim to be his boyfriend, he couldn’t say it outright, so Saint Agatha had to come out, I offer you my love and my breasts, darling, if your ass be mine. Remember? Well, Frosted Tips unleashed his inner queen and she was a jungle cat, not tarsier, and fun—anything but nervous. He went on to say that if I hated gay men so much I should create a new political and sexual identity and call it grumpy. I would want a flag, I told him, it would be gray, he said, I’m thinking gray is too much color, we should go with natural burlap. You need a Grumpy Center, he said, where you can show movies you hate, art exhibits you abhor, and books you can make fun of. He asked if my drag name was Mommie Dearest, and I told him it was Curmudgeka, and he screamed a high C of glee. I had to explain that it wasn’t exactly my name, that it belonged to Irish Greg, that we used to call him that, but I told him that since you were all dead now, I’d taken on your drag names. I’d never said that out loud before. I inherited everything including your names. Frosted Tips and I were now joined together at the eyes. We walked slowly, even more slowly than my usual pace, he asked me what Cairo was like, he told me he was from Toledo, Ohio, the town that gave the world Jamie Farr, you know, the Lebanese. I knew who that was, even though my television-watching skills were undeveloped, the actor who Americanized the name Jameel Farah in order to get better jobs, which was a good move because celebrity or not, you don’t want to live in this country with an Arabic name, you really don’t. You get humiliated at airports, insulted at grocery stores, threatened at gas stations, no, you don’t want an Arabic name. He interrupted to inform me that Curmudgeka was out of her cage again. We should talk about trees, I said, that’s a safe subject. Our conversation was easy, laughter and silence, this tree is a lemon bottlebrush, levity, seriousness, vulnerability, hilarity, and the southern magnolia is quite proud of its posture.

  He asked about my poems, I told him I was having problems so I was trying my hand at prose, some short pieces, even a fabulist story about locking my inner child in the basement, some of my writing was just notes, and along the walk I grew close to him. I have to admit that he began to remind me of you, Doc, don’t be offended, I mean the way he walked with high confidence, the way he combed his blond hair, which I could see only when he removed his silly Borsalino, the way light took delight in his face so bright, no obtrusive nose to darken it with shadows, white like yours. The next day I received a postcard with a picture of tombstones in the Père Lachaise Cemetery, and in tightly controlled script Frosted Tips thanked me for the walk and called me enchanting and challenging. He sent a second, a picture of Half Dome at Yosemite, and asked how I felt about the latest drone strikes in Yemen because he objected to them, and if I would have another walk with him on Friday, he’d bring his book of arbors.

  The second walk was just as charming, we identified no fewer than seventeen trees, he much more active than I, more jittery, running ahead of me every few minutes and then waiting for me to catch up, so much we laughed, so much. When he dropped me back at my door, I suggested that if he was free sometime, we might take in a movie or something. He was smiling when some realization hit him, a look of horror scarred his face, his eyes bulged out far like a snail’s, his mouth fell open, I felt my heart drop to the ground leaving a trail of snail slime in its wake. My, what had I done? I didn’t mean we should have sex, but it was too late. He had already been bitten by his regrets. A rose, a sprig of jasmine in the glass vase with water, and Caravaggio’s boy, bare shoulder exposed, was reaching out toward a sumptuous bunch of red cherries when a lizard bit his finger. Pain and horror and shock registered on his milk-fed face. He was busy the entire week, Frosted Tips said, not sure whether he had any time, his husband was so demanding, rarely allowed him to do anything by himself. He in the prime of his life, bitten by a vile, venomous old queen, a hateful methuselah, a detestable homo, a black lizard. I have been so lonely, Doc, so lonely, hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky.

  Jacob’s Stories

  The Boy in the Basement

  Latched, lethargic mind this morning, I could not concentrate on much. Slow thoughts, as if I were counting the seconds between lightning strikes. One, two, three clouds and half a dozen shoots of the bamboo grove reflected themselves in the toaster on my counter. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I was lassitude, inanition incarnate. More clouds, rosy gray, tried to obscure the March sky. The grove outside hid a singing bird, its trilling floated into my home, the original coloratura. As hard as I tried, I could not discern the camouflaged bird through the canes and their lees and plethora of leaves. I wasn’t sure whether it was a robin or a song sparrow, a confident triller. A well-paced melody it was, interrupted, disconnected, a bit melancholic.

  Sheets of last Sunday’s Times covered parts of the kitchen table where I had been working. I covered the face of some happy writer with my coffee mug. In my bathrobe and cloud of morning musk, I began to put the finishing touches on the papier-mâché horse, pushing and squeezing distended muscles on the forehead and neck. It may not have been great art but it did look like a horse—a horse with a hind leg that dried a tad shorter than the others. I was pleased with the fact that I chose not to paint it, picking the correct color would have been too cumbersome. Anything but bright pink would disappoint the boy.

  The table displayed hardly a scratch, testifying to the miraculous permanence of Formica and sixties plastics. I considered pouring myself another cup of coffee, delaying the weekend ritual, but chose not to. It would be better to get it over with and be done.

  Cold drafts wintered in the long, dark corridor leading out of the kitchen; gelid air almost froze my toes. I should have worn
socks with my slippers. I should have worn my eyeglasses. With the horse under one arm, I braille-punched the alarm code, the six numbers of my birthday. After which, I needed three tries to fit the key into the lock. Always had to watch my step descending the stairs to the basement, been procrastinating on changing the ceiling bulb for a couple of years. Turned left at the bottom and unlocked the second door. Blinding lights, the boy loved bright.

  He turned around from watching the television as soon as I opened the door. “Hello,” he sang out.

  I smiled in spite of myself. His greeting has had a seraphic effect on me for as long as I can remember, yet it seemed to surprise me each time I entered his domain. I asked him to turn the television down. He was earnestly addicted to an idiotic children’s series about a young nanny and her charges. He must have watched each episode about thirty times.

  “Is that for me?” he asked, standing on the couch and pointing toward the gift in my arms. He teetered a bit, then steadied himself by leaning one hand on the sofa’s back, the berm to the cushion’s river. Equilibrium was not his forte, nor was equanimity; most excitable he was. Fashioned by no metronome, his movements were sudden and unpredictable, ever herky-jerky, as if he wore roller skates.

  With a sweep of my elbow, I moved aside all the toys on the coffee table, creating space for the horse. Even though it seemed that he could not contain his excitement, he sat down and picked up a doll that fell off, a Girl Scout with a high chignon. His eyes looked at me, then gleefully at the horse, then back at me, but his fingers, operating independently, fixed the doll’s hair, an updo, a sweep back, a fingernail tease, a beehive.

  “That’s a beautiful horse,” he said. His eyes gleamed wide and bright. “May I touch it?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I made it just for you. I know you wanted a unicorn, but I ran out of material.”

  “I would love a unicorn,” he said, placing the doll by his side, and his hands under his behind. “Can we make this into one with more paper?”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  He noticed me looking at his tricolor barrette, quickly dragged it from his hair without unsnapping it, and pocketed it.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I like horses too.” He leaned forward and stroked the horse’s back, once, gently, twice, three times. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

  I wanted him to know that I thought of him, little things impress him so. Carefully, as if it were made of gossamer and silk, he lifted the horse off the table and hugged it tight to his bosom.

  “It’s the best gift ever,” he said.

  I did not sit down, not wishing to give him the impression that I was staying. At least a dozen Barbies sat on both sides of the television, serried left to right according to outfit color, red to violet.

  “Best ever,” he said, and kissed the top of the horse’s head.

  He looked up, showered me with one of his rapturous smiles guaranteed to halt lightning in mid-strike. I felt my testicles twist in their sac.

  “Can I come out today?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I can change,” he said, pointing to his short skirt and beaded slippers. “I can wear something better.”

  “We can’t,” I said. “I’m going out for brunch.” I tried to look away from his eyes, but that always proved difficult. “There will probably be alcohol.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, still petting the horse. “Maybe tomorrow. Can you stay for a little while?”

  I shook my head. “I need to shower and get dressed.”

  “Will you come back tomorrow?” he asked.

  I looked back only when I reached the door. Still smiling, the boy stood by the sofa, pointed at the little horse beside him, wobbling, trying to find its legs. The horse took a couple of steps, then teetered—always would because of the shorter leg. The boy bent down to steady his new foal friend, who nuzzled him, rubbed against him, and nickered softly, grateful for the early help.

  I locked the door, climbed back up the stairs, locked the basement door as well, set the alarm, and returned to bed.

  Satan’s Interviews

  Catherine

  “Cairo?” she said. “No, I wasn’t there. I don’t particularly care for that truculent city, never did: too crowded, too dirty, too new. I’m sure it has some redeeming virtues, but I have yet to discover them. I hail from Alexandria, after all. If you wish to talk about Cairo and the whorehouse, try Agathius, or even Pantaleon, who showed up quite early. I didn’t appear till Beirut.”

  Catherine noticed Behemoth coming into the room. She extended her hand, hoping the cat would approach, but Behemoth hissed as if face-to-face with a mortal enemy.

  “It is the sword,” Catherine said, “which frightens some animals.”

  Behemoth sauntered over to Satan and jumped onto his lap. His sharp claws dug into Satan’s thighs as he kneaded before lying down. Satan winced but did not interrupt, even as a small dot of blood stained his white linen pants.

  “I’m sure it’s the sword,” he said. “Now, why did I think you were the first?”

  “I was the first to appear to Jacob, not the first in his life,” she said. “In later years, Jacob would revise his stories, remembering a certain light during a thunderstorm, erroneously thinking it must have been Saint Elmo’s fire. So of course he thought Erasmus appeared to him, but he didn’t know who that was as a child. Erasmus may have been there in Cairo. I don’t know. The boy was so sickly then, he was seen by many doctors, even an Italian living in Cairo at the time. So he may have misremembered seeing Pantaleon, who was indeed in the Egyptian capital with the boy, but it was by no means for healing. He loved to watch fools fornicating. It’s one of his many vices, charming as they may be. No, the healing was left to Agathius. He arrived because the boy grew up with intermittent migraines, and when you prayed while in the excruciating grip of one, Agathius was there. He watched over the boy in his early years probably more than any of us. It should have been Denis because of the boy’s latent sexual proclivities, but Denis dealt mostly with ordinary headaches, hence his nickname, Saint Aspirin. Agathius should be called Saint Triptan. He has always been the kindest of us in any case.”

  She lifted the teacup off its saucer, held it with her pinky pointing out. As she bent her head to take a sip of the still-steaming tea, the circle of gold intensified momentarily before settling back into a mild buzz.

  “Do you believe the migraines could have been psychosomatic,” Satan asked, “or were they genuine?”

  “Genuine, of course. He was in pain, that much was certain. Did he receive the attention he so desperately craved because of the migraines? Of that there could be no doubt. Even though Badeea was his primary caretaker, his mother looked in on him when he was suffering, and for that I can tell you he would have endured any pain. We all knew that. Even Agathius mentioned a number of times that whenever his mother entered the room, or simply acknowledged him while passing in the dimly lit hallway, the boy’s heart released its anchor no matter the suffering. But I doubt he ever induced a migraine to get attention. With the nuns, every time he had one, he ended up sleeping alone in the infirmary, which had a much better mattress than the one in his room. No one disturbed him, he was left alone with his thoughts. He treasured those times and their priceless solitude. And then, you know, the migraines brought us to the fore, not just Agathius. In that tenebrous infirmary, when darksome night through the window blued his world, I introduced him to the rest of us. I told him, and I can’t recall the exact words now—I told him it was time to meet his salvation.”

  “And then the migraines stopped,” Satan said.

  He petted Behemoth, who purred in his sleep, his fur emitting tiny sparkles of static each time Satan’s hand passed through.

  “That they did, for a while. Denis would tell you that he cured him, his aspirin better than any of the triptans, and you know, he is right in some ways, but it was by no means his healing that did so. For generati
ons, sufferers prayed to Denis for help with their headaches, but I never understood the logic. Having one’s head chopped off does not make one a head healer. A number of our order were beheaded—Barbara was by her father, but no one assumes she can manage headaches. Now, Agathius has a talent for it. During the plague, the entire population prayed and begged for help. Agathius did all the work and Denis’s reputation grew. How these things work remains obscure to me. People were never my forte. Denis ended up helping the boy accidentally when he led him down that deliciously aberrant path.”