The Angel of History

by Rabih Alameddine

  A pleasant vacation it was not. It rained nonstop for the entire week, Odette hardly left our room in the inn despite the beige shantung wallpaper, she visited used bookstores in Limerick, bought books of Irish poetry, Derek Mahon and Paul Durcan mostly, and ensconced herself on the divan, whereas I took long walks in the rain under a rickety umbrella that flipped inside out with each malicious gust of wind. I walked and walked and saw little of anything, if you asked me to describe Ireland, I’d say griseous and verdurous. Before each walk I’d fill my pockets with pills, but I found it difficult to dispose of them at first, did Greg want to be inside St. Mary’s Cathedral or on the grounds outside, I did both, sneakily, like a cat burglar who left things instead of taking them, I’d hold a number of capsules, make sure no one was watching, and relax my fingers a little, allow one or two to drop near a pew, on the grass. Even as I stood by the river pouring its tumbling songs toward the sea, I could not throw the capsules overhand or underhand, just in case someone unseen was spying on me and I would have to explain why I was tossing my friends into the Shannon, I went to the edge of the alluvial bank, pretended to gaze at a hawk or some bird in the far distance, like a sunflower, my hand bloomed, drooped and died and dropped its seeds, and I allowed you to tumble into the halcyon surface of the river.

  At the Clinic

  Failure

  Alone once again, I’m going home now, my fingers texted Odette, no need to take care of Behemoth, come over tomorrow, please. I felt my heart ready to explode into a thousand pieces, I could see shards and blood in my future, I was about to weep but couldn’t do so in the waiting room. Let’s leave this shitty place then, Iblis said, let’s go home. I don’t think I want to be with you, I said.

  Come, come, Iblis said, I am your shadow, brighten up, remember, you were made from clay and I from fire, together we are fine porcelain, one day life gives you fine china, another day paper plates, but never ever accept plastic, let’s leave this place, it is God who’s sick, He who’s taken leave of his senses, not you, you don’t really want those pills. I told him I wanted the option, I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t lead me astray. To the good I act as guide, Satan said, the dry branches I rip off, and a calamitous drought has settled upon this world of ours, rip, rip, rip I must, but you, my boy, have always been good.

  Iblis sat to my right, looking better than I’ve ever seen him, his handsome face invigorated, didn’t seem a day over thirty, so happy. I’m lost, I said, just as Ferrigno returned with an Ativan, one pill for tonight because I was allegedly anxious and it might help me sleep, he called in my full prescription, a daily Lexapro and five days of the calming Ativan until the antidepressant kicked in. He held the door for me, and as I was stepping out, he said sotto voice, Ya’qub, ya Ya’qub, don’t worry so much, you’ll be fine, and if not, come back and we’ll figure out something else.

  I was able to take only four steps outside before I had to sit down on the curb, the smell of human soup seemed more noxious than when I first arrived. Satan said, Do we have to sit here, the ground is still a bit wet, which will ruin my suit, it’s a Versace, I’m no low-rent Lucifer. His suit was the color of sunlight. I told him, I can ignore you, you know? I know, he said, still in high spirits. I threw my gaze at the Ativan in my hand. Don’t be silly, he said, we both know you’re not going to, why don’t you call them, they’re waiting for you and they’re much better than a stultifying Ativan, whatever happened to quaaludes? The night was chilly, I buttoned my windbreaker, the sky clear and moonless, and the goddamn streetlamp was buzzing nonstop, seemed to shine with added light, nothing works in this inane city. Call them, Satan said.

  I knew how to call, it had been years, but I recalled my prayer from when I was the darkest boy at l’orphelinat de la Nativité, in order of their saint days I called them, as I was supposed to, as Sœur Salwa trained me to, Great princes of Heaven, Holy Helpers, I, helpless, beseech thee to hear me, deliver me, come to my aid, and one by one, in the urine-redolent alley, they appeared before me in all their halos: George, dragon slayer; Blaise, benefactor of the poor; Erasmus, protector of the oppressed; Pantaleon, exemplar of charity; Vitus, protector of chastity; Christopher, intercessor in dangers; Denis, shining mirror of faith and confidence; Cyriac, terror of Hell; Agathius, advocate in death; Eustace, exemplar of patience; Giles, despiser of the world; Margaret, champion of the Faith; Catherine, defender of the Faith; Barbara, patroness of the dying.

  Shit, shit, shit, I said out loud, I opened my hand, contemplated the Ativan once more. Margaret approached first, I could see her face even though it was covered with seventy diaphanous veils of the most exquisite black silk, each as thin, as insubstantial as mist, she had His face, and she lifted her veils and kissed my forehead. Barbara approached next and with a snort and a harrumph she slapped the Ativan out of my hand and it plopped into the puddle, breaking the thin film of oil floating atop the water. Agathius sat on one side, hugged me, Pantaleon on the other side said, We’re going to have such fun, darling. But Catherine, my mother Catherine came forward, she tried to muss my hair but pulled her hand back instantly, Still the worst hair ever, she said, and I said, Nothing changes, and she replied, True, and everything does. I told her I was not sure I could bear living with memories, she said, Look up at the stars, look, they are not there, what you see is the memory of what once was, once upon a time. She knelt on the filthy tarmac, eye to eye, she placed her right hand upon my heart, through my chest, through my ribs, her arm penetrated for a moment and then withdrew, and Agathius held my hand, had me open it, and Catherine placed my heart where the Ativan was a moment ago, some magic trick since I could still feel the steady ticking in my chest, anxiously beating a tad faster but still there.

  Allow me, said a saturnine voice I didn’t recognize, and Death, all in black cashmere giving off a whiff of naphthalene, delicately picked up my heart, held it up to the light from the streetlamp, out of his wide sleeve he took out an archaeologist’s hand brush of the softest bristles, dusted the rust off my heart. Allow me, said Blaise, and he showed my heart to his Eurasian lynx, who licked it clean. I will polish it, said Giles, Let me warm it up, said Eustace, and he cupped my heart in his hands and blew into them, and Satan took my heart, kissed it lovingly, before handing it back to Catherine, who put it back in me.

  Time to go home, I said, and stood up, we walked north, my posse and I, but before leaving the alley, Pantaleon halted, Look, look, he said, you shouldn’t miss this, and in the gloomy space between two short buildings, under a ladder that rose from the ground up toward the black sky, a man in full leather gear leaned against a dark wall, his eyes shut, his cock out of his pants, and another man, a chain around his neck, knelt before him offering a worshipful blow job. Wow, I said, a bit too loudly, the man opened his eyes and looked at me, the kneeler tried to pull away but the man held his head where it belonged. The man smiled. Thank you, I said, and the man gave me a thumbs-up, and I kept on walking. For some reason, George said, I expected a wrestling match between you and Satan tonight. Ignore him, Catherine said. I should ignore all of you, I said, but I don’t know if I can, Doc, I don’t know.

  I walked home. I took my brown Sharpie out of my pocket and on the thick glass of an overly lit bus stop I wrote

  Tempt me, Satan, I beseech thee

  Beguile and dazzle me

  Hidebound brute

  Hunger for fruit

  Feed me

  I walked and walked, the night nippy, my arms wrapped around myself. On a No Parking sign, I wrote

  You all dead

  I still walk

  Therefore I am

  I know it is so

  For I long

  I long for solace

  How does one find such

  Among so many ashes?

  I walked and walked and walked until I found myself in our neighborhood, Doc, ours, and there next to me was our bookstore, where we met, though now it was another trendy clothing store with T-shirts celebrating diversity for a h
undred dollars. I’m not proud, I never was, and it didn’t get better, not for me. On the shopwindow, on the glass, I wrote, This is where I met you. Come night, environ me with darkness whilst I write. Two stores up, on the glass of what used to be the burrito place, I wrote, This is where you first kissed me. On a store window around a corner I wrote, This is where we bought identical pairs of jeans. Above a building’s lineup of mailboxes I wrote, Chris lived here, he used to be the best Saint Agatha with vanilla frosted birthday-cake breasts on a tray, the nipples were marzipan. In the entryway to the building next to Chris’s I wrote, I sucked a guy’s dick in here, didn’t even take my clothes off, in an apartment with swagged velvet drapes and damasked wallpaper, if you can believe that. I wrote notes, jotted identifiers along my walk home. This is where Jim worked, this is where Lou was baton-beaten during the Bad Cop No Donut demonstrations, this alley is where Jim was introduced to water sports, this is where we used to buy ice cream. I walked past self-confident plum blossoms preening on branches, past discarded fronds of palm trees, past piss-scented flowerpots and newly painted benches stippled with newer grime. This is where a bumblebee stung me, this place under the stairs with its intoxicating smell of must and wilt and blight is where a stranger fucked me.

  You looked inhuman when you were dying, Doc, your eyes glistened like dimming stars, you were wasting away and life was leaving you piecemeal, your soul no longer fit your body, you hated it and I hated it and I couldn’t recognize you and I couldn’t see you and I was so frightened and I never knew what to do, I looked for the man I love in you and I searched for who I used to be around you and I couldn’t find either. I was hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky. I reached for your once strong and supple face at the end and you whispered, Noli me tangere. On the door to my home I wrote, This is where I loved you, this is where I once composed my good poems, this is where I betrayed you, shadow that hell unto me, and I went in.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Nicole Aragi, Duvall Osteen, Joy Johannessen, Elisabeth Schmitz, Katie Raissian, and everyone at Grove. And to readers who suffered through early drafts of this book: William Zimmerman, Ashraf Othman, Raja Haddad, Pam Wilson, Reese Kwon.

  I’m indebted to Amila Butorovic for help with all the Satan/Iblis research, to Karin Winslow for lending me the S/M books, to Helen Oyeyemi for reminding me of Lethe, and to the staff of the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley, for help sifting through the papers of poet/performance artist Wayne Corbitt (1952–1997), whose life and work were a big part of this book.

  The cage story is informed by the great Slawomir Mrożek’s “Birthday.”

  As ever, I probably would never have been able to write a word without the support of my none-too-sane family.