I, The Divine

by Rabih Alameddine

  When my father divorced my mother and sent her back to America, she put a curse on our house from which none of us escaped. Everyone misunderstood, thinking it was a curse ending my father’s line. The end of my father’s name could have been a result, but it was primarily a side effect. The curse was a life of loneliness. If you took all eight of us, the parents and the six siblings, scrutinized our hearts, you would come across a loneliness so enveloping, so overwhelming, it frightens the uninitiated.

  My family’s leitmotif is loneliness. We exhibit characteristics of the curse differently, deal with it differently. We have different forms of loneliness. However, whether we are in a relationship, whether we are surrounded by close friends, we are never separated from it.

  On September 13, 1997, I received a call from my stepmother, Saniya, at two in the morning. Groggily, I tried to make sense of what she was saying. I should fly to Beirut as soon as possible and bring my half-brother, Ramzi, with me. We were needed. I asked if my father was all right. My father was doing well under the circumstances. My sister Lamia was in trouble. What kind of trouble? I asked. She would not elaborate. Emotional problems of some sort. Her husband was fine, her children were fine. But we should fly to Beirut the next day. It was important. I asked to speak to my father. He was with Lamia.

  Sleep was impossible. I called the airlines and made reservations for Ramzi and me, without consulting him. I did not wish to wake him, but then I had to because the flight was at eight in the morning. He needed time to pack. I called his house and Peter, his lover, answered.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he hissed into the phone. “It’s three-thirty in the morning. You shouldn’t be calling at this hour.”

  “I have to speak to Ramzi, Peter. Please put him on.”

  I heard Peter say, “It’s your crazy sister.”

  In the background, “Sarah?”

  Ramzi came on the phone, alert, “What’s the matter?”

  “Lamia.”

  Lamia is the sister closest to me in age, two years older, yet the farthest in temperament. She was awfully shy, neurotically so, and so homely—elephantine nose, wide brows, bulging eyes, and pitted skin that looked like it needed a good scouring—that even at an early age my stepmother worried Lamia would grow up to be a spinster. She did not. Lamia married a low-level insurance salesman with the personality of a sheet of plywood. Surprisingly, she made something out of her life. When the war got heavier, she and her family moved to Cairo, where she studied nursing. When she moved back to Beirut, she lived with her in-laws, worked at a hospital, and continued her bland existence.

  We did not get along. She was not close to me in any way, but I did not hate or despise her. I believe she hated me and always felt inferior, or at least, I can say, she was filled with envy. I usually spent the entire month of May in Beirut. She was always the last to come visit, after a whole week had passed, enough time for it to be an insult, but not enough to be considered an egregious one.

  Peter and Ramzi picked me up. Even though Peter did not apologize for his behavior earlier, he seemed contrite. I had gotten used to him and his bitchiness, so it was not that big of a deal. He is a good person who is easily lost when people do not follow his rules. “Do you have any idea what this is about?” he asked me as he started the car.

  “No,” I replied, “I wish I knew more. All I was told was that Lamia is having some kind of emotional problem.”

  “Probably having a nervous breakdown,” added Ramzi. “Not rare in our family.” The last comment was for Peter’s benefit. I did not need a reminder, of course. “If I were living with her husband and in-laws,” Ramzi went on, “I’d have a nervous breakdown for sure.”

  “Did you pack everything?” I asked Ramzi. A stupid question; not only would he have packed everything, Peter would have checked up on him. They would have gone over their list of things at least twenty times, shirts, sweaters, pants, socks, brown and black tassled moccasins, immersion heaters, inflatable hangers, and herbal teabags. Ever since he was a boy, Ramzi had been meticulous. Whenever we went to the beach, he wore a tight Speedo and his penis always pointed upward. To this day, whenever I see him in a bathing suit, his penis is never pointing left or right, always up. Peter was just as anal. They actually glued the strands of tinsel on the Christmas tree so they would not move or fall down. They feared ever finding themselves at the mercy of the random, dreaded the disturbing effect of arbitrariness. No one would be able to guess Ramzi and I are related. My apartment looks like a hurricane went through it, his is ready for a photo spread in House and Garden. They cooked salmon soufflés that never, ever, collapsed for Princess, their white Persian cat. They made a perfect couple—too perfect, for they were carbon copies, exact replicas, never challenging, never arguing, never having to allow the other within the boundaries of their erected walls, a relationship based on mutual convenience, complementary neuroses, and loneliness.

  “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be?” Peter was probably considering what to say when he called UCSF, where Ramzi was interning, how he would explain: Dr. Ramzi Nour el-Din had to fly back to Lebanon because his half-sister flipped.

  Lamia is the middle sister, and I doubt she ever forgave God for that misplacement. She was envious both of Amal for simply being the eldest and getting all the attention and of me for being special. She was a taciturn child, though not exactly peaceful. She always got me in trouble. The only severe beating I ever received from my father was because of her. My stepmother, always trying to impress my father, made sachets of dried lavender flowers stuffed into old mosquito nettings, which she placed between clean sheets in the closet. One day, I took out all the bags and placed them in the litter box. I replaced them the next day among the sheets.

  “Who did this?” my stepmother screamed over and over.

  By that time, I had perfected a look of utter innocence. No one suspected such an angelic face. My stepmother called us all into the room, even my father. “Who did this?”

  Lamia, as calm as can be, pointed at me. “Sarah did. I saw her do it.”

  I wanted to kill her. She lied. She did not see. She was not in the house when I did my deed. “She’s lying,” I said. “She didn’t see me. I didn’t do it.”

  “She did it. I saw her do it with my own two eyes. I swear on my mother she did it.”

  Before I could jump her and commit fratricide, my father lifted me by the collar and dragged me to the bathroom. He took off his belt and whipped me so hard the welts lasted for two weeks. After the beating, she still would not recant, insisting she saw me do it. No matter how much I argued, she did not budge from her invented story.

  We had a six-hour layover at Charles DeGaulle Airport. We tried calling Beirut, our parents’ house, Amal’s house, everyone, but no one answered. I left Ramzi, who was using his laptop, and went to look at the duty-free stores, window-shopping diversion. While looking at the window display of the Hermès store, I heard my name being paged. I picked up the courtesy phone only to hear Ramzi yelling, “Come back, come back.” I ran back to him. He was fluttering nervously, his face red as a beet, palm hitting forehead every ten seconds. “Not possible. Not possible.” I panicked even more. He was prattling in Arabic, not his preferred language. I took the laptop, the object of his mortification, stared at the screen, and my mouth dropped. He had used his wireless modem to connect to the AP wire. One of ours had made the news.

  Nurse Killed Patients to Have Quiet Shifts

  BEIRUT, LEBANON—A nurse confessed to local police to killing 7 patients so they would not disturb her while she worked at night.

  Lamia Shaddad routinely killed patients by injecting them with lethal drugs stolen from the hospital. “I did not want to be disturbed,” the 40-year-old nurse said. “The patients were demanding and made too much noise.”

  The nurse attempted suicide Friday after her confession. She is recovering at the same hospital where she worked.

  I am ashamed to admit my first r
eaction was not concern for Lamia, but for my father. Ramzi echoed my sentiment. “Poor dad,” he said. “He must be going through hell. As if he doesn’t have enough to deal with.” Our father was a respected physician at the same hospital. How he was going to survive this scandal, I had no idea. The black sheep of the family were supposed to be us, Ramzi and me—he, the out homosexual, and me, the twice-divorced adulteress who abandoned her son.

  When I was growing up, my father was the center of my universe. I considered him the handsomest man in the world, tall, dark hair and eyes, with the ubiquitous Lebanese mustache. He was a ladies’ man. In a culture that idolized virile, bed-hopping males, he flourished. He charmed the pants off everybody. We, his children and his wife, forgave him all his sins, all his indiscretions.

  He was anachronistic, a traditional man in a rapidly changing culture. Yet he valiantly attempted to hold off the inevitable moral and cultural collapse, as he called it. While the country’s mores adjusted and mutated, he still held the belief that a man’s reputation is all he has. He still believed in honor in a society which now honored criminals and marauders. Having an offspring’s name in police files would surely shame him.

  At first glance it might appear that my father’s traditionalism and his lascivious womanizing were contradictory. Not so. The behavior was typical in the culture. When I was fourteen, my father was the one who explained the birds and the bees. My stepmother had already prepared me, but it was my father, the physician, who provided the medical details. The talk was in our main living room, to give it a more formal air. It was early afternoon, after he had arrived from the hospital. He was still wearing his suit, adding to the seriousness of the occasion. Usually, he left a trail of clothes behind him the instant he came through the door going straight to his bedroom, my stepmother picking up after him, after which my father emerged seconds later wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Around his neck that afternoon was his stethoscope, which he carried at times to give weight to his medical authority. The talk was serious, but not dreary. He made easy jokes, smoked his cigarettes leisurely. One statement stuck in my mind. “A boy’s sexuality is like a plastic tablecloth,” he said. “If a carafe of wine is spilled on it, you can easily wipe it off. A girl’s sexuality, on the other hand, is like fine linen, much more valuable. If a carafe of wine is spilled on it, it will never come off. You can wash it and wash it, but it will never be the same.”

  I never compared notes with my sisters to find out whether they received the fine linen speech. I always felt he told it specifically to me because I was fooling around with my boyfriend at the time. Of the five, I was his only daughter who was deflowered before marriage. Amal, Lamia, and Majida all earned their wedding dresses, whereas I had eloped with my first husband. Rana, my stepmother’s eldest, was killed before she tasted love.

  We were picked up at the airport by my son, Kamal, who had grown even more since I had seen him four months earlier. He had turned sixteen. On my arrival in Beirut, my ex-husband, Omar, used his political clout as a minister in the government to go through all the restricted areas and whisk me out of the airport. Ever since I married him, I had never had to stop at passport control or customs in Beirut. Kamal was waiting for us as we disembarked, the chauffeured car on the tarmac.

  “How did you know we were on this flight? We tried calling, but no one was answering. We tried everybody.”

  “This was the first flight in.”

  “What happened? Tell me.”

  “Lamia killed patients at the hospital. At least seven. That’s how many she remembered, but it could have been more. They’re checking. Everybody’s going crazy. The hospital was about to start an investigation. Another nurse was telling Lamia about the possible investigation and Lamia must have just told her she killed the patients. Just like that. The police were brought in. They asked Lamia if she killed the patients and your sister said yes.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes, just like that. She thought it was no big deal. The patients annoyed her so she killed them. Your sister’s definitely wacko.” He began chewing on his thumbnail. I slapped his hand away.

  “How’s your grandfather dealing with this?”

  “Seems okay so far. He’s been talking to everybody. He doesn’t want a trial. I think she’s going to be committed.”

  “How’s Lamia doing? How’s her husband?”

  Kamal shrugged, and the corners of his lips curved down. “I can’t tell. He seems fine, as unperturbed as ever. So does she. She tried to kill herself, but failed. Ironic, huh?”

  “That’s not funny, Kamal.”

  I ran my hand through his soft hair.

  The family gathered at the hospital. In crisis, our family pulls together like no other. My sisters, their husbands, and older children were there. So was Lamia’s husband, but not her children. There were no outsiders. In normal circumstances, when one of ours is hospitalized, the hospital waiting room would have been filled with people out of deference to my father and his position in the community. In this case, the community stayed away. The air was funereal. Saniya was wearing black, but that was expected. Amal was wearing black as well, which is what gave the gathering its solemn appearance. My ex-husband Omar was there. He always stood by me in times of crisis.

  Our entrance was greeted with tears all around. When my father saw Ramzi, he cried like a baby, hugging his son, shaking uncontrollably, which only increased the flow of tears from the family. In all my years, I had never seen my father cry. He had aged, white hair and wrinkles, stooped posture. I joined in the crying. It was the closest I had felt toward him in a long time.

  It took a couple of minutes for my father to compose himself. Until he did, Omar was in charge, which was disconcerting at first, since he was not exactly part of the family, but became understandable as he spoke, explaining what happened. He had arranged everything. Lamia was to be institutionalized. There was no doubt she was mentally unbalanced. There would be no trial, no more publicity. In time Lamia would be forgotten by the community.

  “What about the children?” I asked.

  “They seemed okay,” Amal answered. “You have to transfer them to a different school, don’t you think?” The question was directed at Lamia’s husband, who was not paying attention. He was sitting in his chair, seemingly nonplussed by the events surrounding him, in his own world as usual. Two folds of fat hung over his starched back collar. “Samir, do you think you should transfer the kids to another school?” Amal asked again.

  He looked up, awakened from his reverie. “Maybe I should. I guess so. Put them in a new school where no one knows them.”

  “Yes,” Amal said. “It’s for the best and school hasn’t started yet so there should be no problem.”

  “I’ll tell my mother,” he said.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Amal said. “Don’t worry about it.” She looked at me, shaking her head, and whispered, “It’s a good thing he still lives with his mother. She’s the only competent one in the whole family. The kids will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

  I trusted her. My sister Amal had devoted her life to one single thing, being a good mother. If she said she would make sure Lamia’s children were taken care of, the job was as good as done.

  The scene was unlike a funeral in one respect: the men and women were not separated. My half-sister Majida, whose serious burgundy suit and pulled-back hair made her look older than her thirty-one years, sat between my father and Ramzi, all three involved in a heavy conversation. My father nodded his head, agreeing with what Majida was saying, took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. Saniya was lecturing Lamia’s husband, and Omar and Kamal were involved in a discussion.

  “Can I go in to see her?” I asked Amal.

  “She’s heavily sedated,” Amal replied.

  “I’d like to see her anyway.”

  In a darkened room, the heavy curtains drawn, Lamia lay on her bed, looking almost dead. A fairy tale came to mind, Sleeping Beaut
y, except Lamia was no beauty. She looked peaceful, a hint of a smile creased her lips. Someone had brushed her black hair, which surrounded her head on the pillow like a halo. The presentation was discomforting.

  When we were little girls, Lamia’s favorite game was playing dead. She played it in secret, only Amal and I were privy to it. One of our aunts died as a young spinster, and Lamia had sneaked a peak at the funeral, intent on finding out what happened. She wanted us to play the mourners while she died. She darkened the room, just like it was now, lay in bed, and waited for us to cry. We did not. We could not play her game. Watching her on the hospital bed, I finally cried for her.

  Amal held my hand. “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s too weird.”

  She waited a couple of seconds before saying, “I’m having an affair.”

  “What?”

  “I’m having an affair,” she repeated. She was still holding my hand, looking intently at me.

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “I have to tell someone. There’s no one else I can talk to.”

  “But now?” I asked, gesturing to include the dormant Lamia. “Here? Can’t you wait till later?”

  “No, I can’t wait,” she snapped. “When is the right time to talk about this? When we’re all at dinner or what? I want to talk to you. Do you realize how hard this is for me? I thought you’d want me to talk to you for a change.”

  For a change. Amal was one of my confidantes. Since my first boyfriend at thirteen, I had always shared my men problems with her. When I fell in love in college and wanted to elope with Omar, she was the only one I could talk to. My best friend Dina, with whom I had shared everything, had already immigrated to the United States. Without Amal’s steady support, I would not have been able to leave with Omar.