I saw her hair, I saw her shoulders, and I saw my life extinguished at that moment. Her red hair, which for so long had excited my passion, my dreams, and my hopes, was a volcano. Here it is now—like everything else—smoldering in front of me, and sleeping . . .
Come back? Come back to whom?
On the tenth day of the tenth month that year, a little bit before midnight, I stole onto that unknown ship, which was carrying boxes of red apples. The ship was ready to leave from the port of Beirut. I never came back.
Originally written in Arabic.
Bird Nation
by RAWI HAGE
Corniche/Ashrafieh
It is a contested fact that wheat is behind the current global obesity epidemic. Many new studies claim that newly genetically modified wheat is the decisive factor in, among other mental and physical complications, weight gain. Let us take, as a specimen, the Lebanese population and thoroughly scrutinize the subject, so that we might deduce whether wheat and its derivatives are, in fact, a grand contributor to the obesity of this small nation. We observe that obesity is most visible in the rulers, politicians, and, certainly, the clerical class.
The use of utensils at the Lebanese table is not essential. The fork and the spoon were originally absent, introduced only during French rule of the region. But there was no need for them at all because the Lebanese had found a way to use their thin bread as both a grabbing device and a scooping utensil. This practice, one must admit, is an ingenious way of preserving both autonomous and hygienic practice in a cuisine that encourages sharing and the communal consumption of food. Each person rips off a small piece of bread and uses it to handle the food and consume it. He or she will go on to take a new, freshly ripped piece of bread to scoop or grab again. In this manner, every bit of food is consumed, and every consumption uses a new and clean utensil.
There are exceptions, of course, such as when eating birds, which one eats with bare hands and without the use of bread. For such occasions, a word was invented, nesh, which means eating without bread.
Lebanon’s renowned cuisine could well be one of the most diverse and healthy in the world. Well, without the wheat factor, of course. Wheat, or more precisely bread, is the country’s misdemeanor, perhaps even its underappreciated tragedy, along with its unbearable rulers, noise, corruption, the constant threat of war, and its mad traffic.
Lebanese have a great affinity for the taste of birds. Birds are killed indiscriminately, hunted and plucked, opened and emptied of their entrails, and then grilled and served with pieces of lemon and a lot of salt. Small birds are often devoured with their bones. One takes a special pride in the cracking of a bone in one’s mouth.
Before the devastating effects of the pesticide DDT, widely used and still in use in what little agricultural space is left in this small country, birds were found in abundance in Lebanon and Syria. However, hunters, much like birds, disregarded borders in the pursuit of killing. Between the devastating effect of chemicals and the hunt, the bird population was almost wiped out.
A cry of alarm went up from some environmental organizations and, ironically, from eager hunters—who in the absence of birds began turning their guns into imaginary flying goats—and the Lebanese government banned hunting in 1995.
The law was effective for a while; there was a small recovery and a comeback by the birds, but the politicians eventually turned a blind eye to their plight, the warlords found the law a bit amusing, and the clergy never challenged the beliefs that the earth belongs to man, nature is at the servitude of men, and God created the birds to be disposed of by man, etc.
Finally, in the absence of birds, the Lebanese went back to consuming the remaining varieties of food, their fingers tearing and waving many little pieces of bread.
The result of these habits was the nation’s expansion—individual expansion, that is. A nation of round, fat midgets was seen squeezing themselves into their little old French-made cars, vehicles they had so dearly cherished through the decades. But their wheat bellies and humongous asses could no longer fit. One day, a merchant’s wife was stuck in her own car for hours. Another day, a politician’s car had to be dismantled in order to pull him out. The merchant husband decided to try to introduce bigger vehicles to this bread- and car-loving nation. Four-wheel drive, wider and more numerous seats, higher wheels and larger trunks, cars massive enough to fit a fresh kill, no matter how large or small its size. A special feature allowed the trunk to be transformed, metamorphosing into a small seat for the foreign maid who, mysteriously enough, never gained weight, always retaining her diminutive size, thereby fitting into the small seat and accompanying the family on their voyages.
One must mention here that, upon further study, it was observed that these maids stayed thin and fit because they stuck to their original diet of rice, vegetables, and spices.
Soon the country was filled with large cars. The popularity of these spacious cars triggered an existential crisis for politicians and warlords alike, for it had always been customary for this important strata of society to own the largest cars. Size, here as in many other places of the world, signaled importance and status. But with this democratization, largeness could no longer effectively distinguish the rulers from the common. The car merchants came upon an ingenious solution. Glass-tinted windows! Black glass that allowed the vehicle’s occupants to see out while remaining veiled and unrecognizable inside. Within a matter of months, the entire ruling class had acquired tinted windows. A convoy of five large cars with darkened windows inspired reverence and indicated importance, if not danger.
This flock of cars was to be avoided at any cost. If one happened to get in the way, the risk of getting shot was elevated. The best thing to do was move out of the way and let the power machines pass.
With time, the tinted windows expanded beyond the class of politicians and warlords. Cars belonging to the family members of politicians were, by default, outfitted with tinted windows. The concubines and mistresses of warlords found it very convenient to pass, incognito, through residential neighborhoods. Later on, the favorite singers of warlords, as well as ministers’ acquaintances and business partners, were also granted permission to acquire these dark shades.
Slowly, the license for invisibility was so widespread as to become banalized. The whole city drove veiled in glass and metal. People were no longer able to assess wealth, honor, and danger. All of a sudden, the city felt equal and the people lost their sense of self-worth. Invisibility had a devastating effect on suit merchants, hair gel suppliers, and the purveyors of haute couture, lipstick, and high-heeled shoes.
* * *
All was gloom until one day the clergy announced that the pope would visit the country in the month of April. The arrival of the popemobile liberated the Lebanese from their darkness and isolation.
After the failure of the tinted-window experiment, the popemobile was a revelation. Herds of popemobiles accumulated in Beirut, on streets that prided themselves on their taste, fashion, culture, and, certainly, on the availability of good food.
Wide cubes of transparent glass mounted onto the backs of small trucks dotted the traffic jams, crawled along the Corniche, through Ashrafieh, into the mountains, and beyond. Men drove with prideful smiles on their faces and women paraded their latest XXL dresses, lifting their thick ankles to model European heels. In the presence of the popemobile, one heard the Lebs sigh in awe, There must be a god! After the visit of his holiness, look how all flourishes again and how the stores are suddenly full with enthusiastic shoppers!
The blowing machines of the hairdressers never ceased their generation of money and winds, the streets glittered with stretches of painted nails and color-soaked toes. Long live the pope and his transparent, protective, mobile shrine! Christians, Muslims, and Druze were all heard say.
But summer came and the suffocating heat hit every glass cube, sizzling every trunk and dashboard. Men blasted their air-conditioning to no avail. Inside the popemobile automobil
e, sweat condensed like fog on holy water. The merciless sun transformed every car into a spectacular beam of light. Men had to exit their cars. They were seen carrying their women on their backs. Water from plastic bottles was poured onto feeble faces. Lebanon is burning again, a man was heard to say. If it is not the war, it is the sun.
From the tops of buildings and from the cockpits of airplanes, Beirut glittered with the reflections of thousands of glass cubicles. Oh, here it is, ladies and gentlemen, one pilot announced to his passengers, the Paris of the Middle East, the Jewel of the East . . .
But, helas, brightness from afar is fire nearby. A whole nation was seen walking toward the beach in search of relief. Women divorced their most valuable shoes and dipped their painted, round, corpulent toes into the Mediterranean waters. Men rolled their large bellies and saggy breasts into the dirty sands as if they were bears, dogs, or stranded whales.
People ate and listened to their radios. In between songs, a news flash announced that a beam of light was seen continuously shining from Beirut. It was so bright that an Israeli jet plane that had been hovering over the city taking photographs was forced to land. The pilot, the news anchor said, was blinded by the power of the light.
Let’s drink to that, the people said, and let’s eat as well! Let’s forget about the cars! Let’s sell them to the hunters in the villages for a reduced price! If these cars can bring down a plane, imagine what they can do to a bird!
* * *
Afterward, the city was emptied of popemobiles, as well as signs and photographs welcoming His Holiness.
Meanwhile, the same merchant, while watching the news on CNN, saw a large, wide military car that struck him as the antidote to his past failures.
The HUMMER! he shouted. Yes, that American military car is spacious enough for a family, clear enough for every occupant to be seen, and its open top allows natural ventilation, meaning no man or women will ever be hot again.
The first Hummer that reached Beirut came straight from the desert of Iraq. After a thorough cleaning and a good coat of yellow paint, the merchant drove through town, blasting music by a kitsch singer with false teeth and, well, false everything. Two young Russian girls were hired to stand on the backseat in bikinis. They drank champagne and waved to the crowd.
Within the month, every household owned one or two Hummers. Businessmen, politicians, warlords, housewives, and mistresses drove these wide and spacious cars in the thousands. Lines of Hummers expanded into the streets of Beirut like bloated cadavers, getting stuck on sidewalks, between parked cars, and in the narrow alleys. In frustration, the politicians’ bodyguards shot in the air to make space. But, helas, nothing moved. The traffic fell into a chronic stillness, a crippling traffic jam that lasted for weeks. Pedestrians were seen crawling beneath Hummers, trying to find passage. Small-car owners were seen ducking in fear from the bullets of the Hummer owners.
But then a supernatural phenomenon happened. Ordinary people were seen growing feathers on their backs. Their feathers thickened into wings, and with every flutter they started to slowly elevate until they were floating above the traffic and into the air. Flocks of people flapped their wings and learned to fly. Only the rulers and their entourages did not grow feathers. Only the rulers remained beneath this nation of colorful citizens flying over the city, and though they shouted and waved their hands to the flying people above, no one noticed them anymore. The sky was covered with clothes, shoes, falling hats, and wings.
And as the people started to move along, above, and away, a politician and his bodyguard were seen lifting their rifles and pointing them at the sky.
Originally written in English.
Dirty Teeth
by THE AMAZIN’ SARDINE
Monot Street
22:56
Beirut was pulsating with life at night like a swarm of vermin in a warm grave. A panoramic stretch of dirty black and bloodred vertical patches. And there was an apparition of me.
I was strutting like an aristo dressed for the wedding of someone he would like to embarrass, swashbuckling real proper, with a promise of a night of stinking filth to be remembered by school cooks and tour guides for the ages to come.
The red patches.
I threw an eye through.
Hump, hump, hump. Vag incognita and cock incognito, ya akhi. Red red humping and black liquids drop dropped from the edges of the bed and Abdullah the client turned out to be a demon.
“Wlik kifak ya Sheikhna?” some solemnity asked me with obvious jubilation. I didn’t bother to answer. There were sharmingas and lilylilhoes yameen shemal. And yameen shemal, they were eyeing around, searching this line of insignificant whores, lined on this patch of a black wall, menstruating black chunks from their souls, and bloodred marmaladed on their lips, and old cold black eyes searching, searching this line of insignificant whores, searching for some strutting wazwaz akhou sharmouta like me who had been blessed by the hard work and earnings of his forefathers.
“Yes. You are really hard to get by . . . you, you, you . . . mythical creatures, you. Biiiiiig slimy positions. You have been crawling upward since the dawn of time. Top fuckin’ floors by now. But you don’t come down here often. No, sniff sniff and the like, you don’t come down here often. You must fuck a different breed of cunt, ya Sheikhna.”
Really, ya surprisingly eloquent whore?
3anjad, truer words had not been barfed. I’ve fucked Euro-trash and whatnot, but nothing beats homegrown cultured cunt. Yeah, les femmes de mon pays can moan in at least three languages.
I exterminated the last remaining whiteness of my cigara with one hungry cruel drag. I flicked it when I was done to a far-faraway land. The cigara’s eyes just flipped over and the trail it left behind cut the skies in two, faceup, like a kamikaze jet plane in a gravityless planet. It went smaller and smaller into the distance until it could be eyed no more. Then the skies became one once again. All blurry. I focused my eyes. I saw a sign. Monot Street. I smiled like the devil.
Monot Street, baby boys. It’s three letters away from monotony, that part is true. But yalla, drunk as I was, I did not feel any difference. And a cunt here is like a cunt there, and since we’re here, we might as well get it here.
I have to admit, I was beyond fucked really bloody, with a dwindling bag of heroin in my pocket and my Ka was rushing through my spine torrently. I looked around with half-closed eyes of disdain and everyone around me was also oh-so-very-fucked, I swear. And it felt nice to at least share something with the populace.
To say Beirut has a drug problem is inaccurate. Because it’s not a problem. We are all in control and have been cutting down recently anyway.
But I did go clean once, I have to admit that, very bad idea, an awakening of conscience, blablabla, unwelcomed guest inside my craney, horrible misconception ya akhi, thought I’d clear up my blood for a while, concentrate on the madrassa and shit, aim really high in the Shia religious ladder of society, you know, but to be honest, I’m glad I did—as in, cutting off the supply for a while—because it hits fuckin’ harder now.
So yeah, I went clean for a stretch and then I went back at it real nasty and bad, my dreams of preaching Islamically on a massive scale now down the drain: in exchange for wenches, liquor, and drugs, hundreds of grams on thousands of naked backs of lilylilhoes washed with millions of liters. I was as clean as a glass cup in a fancy restaurant, but now, now, my dear dearest brother, no really, you are, walla, we are at the bottom of the stinking stink of the sink, eyeing up and fighting for rancorous drops falling from above. Like rain in Arabia. Blessed blessed sick, falling at us, to wash us dirty.
00:34
Anyway. So when I came in to the bordello, I swear, a light blinded everyone’s eyes as they went whatwhatwhat at me. They could all smell the wozz in me as I was passing by like a gust of testosterone in an abandoned harem, I swear.
“Wlik welcome ya Sheikhna!” said the Pimpette Superior, and then she went on excreting an abomination of peasant vocab
ulary phrased in the form of a question which I will rephrase to you now in decent English.
It went thusly.
She: “What wouldst thou do milord-sheikh? Shall we go at it drinkwards foremost before wenching our way through the wenches, or flipside?”
So I retorted with: “Drinkwards let it be then, drinkwards is bestwards as we speak, ya amar!” I notched the volume switch higher for the two catwalk-material sharmingas on my right to ear and think I am confident. They eyed me real proper from top to bottom and stopped halfway. Then halfway from left to right and stopped halfway.
Weeeeell, modesty is by far one of the many dashing traits in my sizzling personality, but if you really wish to divulge, yes, big package ya madamet, you bet I swear! It’s not the pants, it’s nasty Eri, Eeeeeeri, oink! Oh Eri, oink oink! Only known by a slew . . . he’s a killer, the Circumcised Madrefûcker they call ’im on the street, frowning one-eyed Cyclops, regurgitator of green pustular sins and black sticky fire, the brimstone and the venereal baby boys, and demonic hordes of children project by the scores of gazillions, whole continents crowding behind the eye, a sacrifice of a peninsula, vanishing into the sea, forever waiting, waiting to shatter the gate to smithereens and drown the world.
“Wlik ya ahla bel sheikh! What we like tonight? Eh?”
“Crissycross Bloody fucking Mary!” I ordered as I crossed my chest. The bartender was all smiley smiley of course, sidi.
Oh, and shikishikishikishiki was their excuse for music.
A window. I threw an eye through.
A stretch of red in the black sky. I smiled. Bleeding rectums beckoned.
Bang slammed a door. I looked back.
Beirut Noir Page 11
