I, The Divine

by Rabih Alameddine

We’ll go see Dr. Baddour. What if he tells someone? He won’t. But everyone will know. No one will know. There’s something inside of me. I know it. We’ll just get rid of it. Who’ll pay? I have some money, and anyway, I’m sure he’ll give us a discount.

  Dr. Baddour scheduled her in the morning. She did not dare look down while he worked. She looked up. At the white ceiling, which became hazy sometimes.

  The pain in her stomach was unbearable. She stayed in bed, told her parents she had stomach flu. She tried to be quiet for fear her father would want to examine her. Her best friend held her hand for a whole week.

  Six months later, a group of her friends were over for dinner. Bombs were exploding somewhere in the distance. The electricity went out. They played a French version of Pictionary by candlelight. They were divided into teams of two, one to draw and the other to guess what was being drawn. She was teamed up with her best friend. They had been playing for over an hour. The next word was in the category of action. The first artist looked up the word. Oh, boy. This is going to be hard. He passed the card to the next artist and then to her best friend. She saw her best friend’s jaw drop. Okay. Time. The artists began drawing. Her friend put the pencil on paper, but was unable to make it move. Stick figures in various forms of coupling appeared on the other artists’ papers. Have sex. She was looking at her best friend, who still could not draw anything. Making love. The other guessers yelled out possible answers. A lump stuck in her throat. Fucking. It has to be fucking.

  Her best friend finally looked at her, her eyes moist. Rape? she asked quietly, incredulously. I can’t believe you figured it out. You should have drawn it differently. How can I tell this is rape and not just fucking? I put those lines around the figures. That means it’s violent. Those lines mean violent? You’re crazy. Well, sorry, I don’t know how to draw rape. I can’t believe you figured it out. You two must be psychic. You must have some kind of connection.

  For the rest of her life, she would try and figure out why a game of Pictionary would have the word rape in it.

  How does one draw rape?

  I don’t believe artists know half the time what they are creating. Oh yes, all the tralala, the technique—that’s another matter. But like ordinary people who get out of bed, wash their faces, comb their hair, cut the tops of their boiled eggs, they don’t act, they’re instruments which are played on, or vessels which are filled—in many cases only with longing.

  —PATRICK WHITE, The Vivisector

  She wakes up from her afternoon nap feeling heavy. She is still trying to adjust to sleeping on her back. Her neck aches. So does her back. She hears steam building in the heaters. Soon the apartment will transform from a freezing cold to a stifling heat in time for those returning from work. She does not understand why the most advanced country on earth still has apartments where you cannot regulate the heat.

  Sarah gets out of bed slowly, puts on her terrycloth robe, which she abhors but has to make do with because it is her only maternity robe. She will not buy one she likes. This will be her one and only pregnancy. She toddles over to the window. Looks out. She has to crane her neck at an unnatural angle to see the sky. Blue, not a cloud in sight. Must be cold outside. She looks below, confirms the snow still on the ground, probably ice as well. The usual hordes walk the streets of the Upper West Side. She sees the Haitian woman coming out of the building across the street with the white baby. The nanny pushes the stroller down the five steps, one step at a time, until it is on the street. She comes around, bends over to see if the baby is well wrapped. From her height, Sarah can see nothing of the baby but a large, multi-hued bundle. The nanny pushes the stroller past the side of Sarah’s window. How lucky, Sarah thinks. How fortunate to have to take care of a baby during working hours only, to be able to trudge back home and leave everything when her time is up.

  With each step, her feet sink slowly into her thick slippers as she walks to the bathroom. She did not realize one could gain so much weight. She sits on the toilet and empties herself. She keeps sitting even after she is done. She thinks she is getting a headache. Without getting up, she stretches, reaching her bottle of Tylenol, and swallows two pills without water.

  He walks home from the university after classes. It is still early, but light is fading quickly. He has yet to adjust to the disappearance of light this early in the day. He longs for the Mediterranean sun. The colder it gets in the city, the more vivid his azure dreams.

  It is a decent walk from Columbia University to his apartment. Omar walks the thirty-three blocks briskly, never takes the subway. He can’t stand the stench of the underground. He does not particularly like the aboveground smells much either. At least winter ameliorates the city’s horrific odors. As he thinks of the smells, he instinctively breathes deeply and gauges. Musty ammonia with a subtle tinge of putrefaction. Disgusting. He feels weighted down in so much clothing, oppressed by the sweaters, the ski hat, the woolen scarf. It is difficult to move. He is wearing long johns, for crying out loud. He did not realize he would ever have to wear long johns.

  Sarah walks into the kitchen. She needs a cup of coffee. She turns on the magical Mr. Coffee, the greatest invention. Omar hates American coffee. She likes it. Or has she gotten used to it? She never cared for Turkish coffee, too thick, too permanent. When in Beirut, she drank Nescafé, and anything Mr. Coffee makes is better than instant. She leans back on the counter and stares into space. Looks at the black-and-white clock on the wall, realizes it is time for Omar to come home. He did not notice the clock in the kitchen. She bought it two weeks ago thinking it was cute. Instead of going from one to twelve, it has one, two, three, and then etc. She loves that.

  She should cook something for Omar, surprise him with a meal. She tries to think of a meal he likes, but cannot come up with anything. She thinks the pregnancy must be affecting her thinking. She cannot even think of what her husband likes. The kitchen is too small. She has to agree with Omar about that. Not cozy, like she said when they moved in. With her size, it is immensely difficult to maneuver in the kitchen. Anyway, she is weary. The pregnancy is taking a lot out of her. She will order pizza. She likes pizza. She has a craving for pizza. She is sure Omar will like it.

  Omar walks home trying not to notice his surroundings, taking small steps to avoid slipping. He thinks of his friends back home. He misses his parents. He misses his dog. But it is his friends he misses the most. He wants someone to whom he does not have to explain everything. You can’t say anything to Americans. They don’t understand. They did not grow up with you. Anyway, what Americans? They are such a hodgepodge of people, all so different. African, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Indian. They do not have the same history. How can they possibly have shared experiences? Do they know what friendship is? He does not think so. He stares at the ground as he walks.

  A year and half. That’s what is left. A year and a half and he will have accomplished what he came here for. He will be free.

  Sarah plops herself onto the couch, the only one in the room. She must figure out a way of fitting another in the cramped space. She cannot keep her guests sitting on chairs. She considers turning on the television. Listen to the news. The remote control is on the table on her husband’s side of the couch. She cannot stretch that far. She is too weary to move. She stares at the black screen. Gray, it is actually dark gray, not black.

  Above the television hangs the painting. She wonders why she bought it. It is not particularly pretty. An imitation impressionist painting by some American. A nice pastoral sunset. It does match the colors of the couch. She had hoped it would give her home an aura of serenity. Actually, she had hoped it would give her home something, not necessarily something specific, anything that would alleviate the feel of a motel room or a furnished temporary rental. Her husband thought it was too expensive.

  She picks up the princess phone and dials her mother. The phone rings three times before the machine picks up. “Janet, it’s Sarah. I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you get my last mes
sage? Call me soon, please.” Her mother lives across the park but it feels like continents away. Sarah is fascinated by her mother. Such beauty, such pathos; her life the stuff of novels. She had to leave Beirut and come to New York when Sarah was two. Now that they are living in the same town, Sarah cannot get enough of her mother. The feeling is not mutual. Janet can only take so much of Sarah.

  As Omar walks home he thinks of himself as a lumbering giant. He is not tall, around five foot seven, but with every step he takes, he feels his feet sinking into the slush as if he weighed a ton. He notes his appearance in a store window as he passes by. Not a giant, a massive mobile bundle of clothes in Timberland boots. That’s what he is. A bundle of clothes that do not match. His camel’s hair coat is tan but his ski hat is light gray with a black vertical line. How can one wear matching clothes if one has to wear so much? Quantity supercedes style.

  He is not feeling well. He thinks he might be having a relapse of the flu. He feels a headache coming on, possibly even a migraine. A glacial wind blows and he thinks his nose is going to freeze. He wipes away wind tears. It must be below zero. A shiver runs up his back. He thinks he may already have a slight fever.

  She stares at the cream-colored drapes. The previous tenants had installed them incorrectly, facing out. They were so drab, one would not notice that they were installed backward unless one looked at the hems, which were facing inward. She should reinstall them. Her husband will not do it. She has to wait till after her delivery to do it herself.

  For the second time that day, she feels the stab in her stomach. A piercing pang followed by a dull twinge for a couple of minutes. Her doctor says this is normal. She feels as though she is being eaten alive from the inside, something is slowly devouring her. A vampire sucks her soul. She must not allow herself to think these thoughts. The bats must be fought back, turned back to the dank caves from which they come. She feels the baby is changing her, transmuting her, into something she no longer recognizes. The real her is being slowly consumed, ingested, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. It starts in her belly and emanates outward, spiraling insidiously, overpowering her mind, vanquishing all her defenses. She must stop thinking these thoughts. This is her baby and she loves it.

  It’s a boy. And she loves him.

  He walks along Broadway, from One Hundred and Sixteenth to Eighty-third, thirty-three city blocks, every day. Thirty-three blocks of complete anonymity. The passing crowd is always the same, always different. In all the times he has walked, he has never encountered anyone he knows. He would recognize everyone if he took a walk in Beirut. You felt human in Beirut.

  The sultry voice of Umm Kalthoum wafts seductively out of a cassette player perched atop a hotdog cart. A twinge of bittersweet nostalgia. The Egyptian hotdog vendor stands next to his cart, customerless, lonely.

  Omar arrives at the intersection of Eighty-sixth and Broadway. He stops to light a cigarette, takes the right-hand mitten off and places it in his coat pocket. The red Don’t Walk signal is lit. He notices no car coming. He steps off the curb. His left foot alights on a metal grate. It takes less than a microsecond for his foot to slip from under him. His right foot follows suit, imitating the left in flight. His arms flail helplessly. The cigarette falls from his lips onto his chest in midair. His right hand instinctively reaches out to break his fall, reaches the grate an instant before the heavy thud of his butt, followed by his right elbow. The pain is instantaneous. His right hand is chafed, his left elbow is bruised, and the small bone at the bottom of his spine hurts. He attempts to pull himself up quickly, wobbles unsteadily.

  “Are you all right?” asks a black man in a business suit, half of a couple.

  “I’m fine,” Omar snaps.

  He almost slips again standing up. A group of teenagers, a couple of Puerto Ricans and an Indian, snicker from across the street.

  “It’s the ice,” the black woman, the other half of the couple, says. “It’s slippery.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he growls back. He walks away.

  The cigarette has burned a tiny black hole in his coat. His hand is not bleeding. He feels he is about to start crying. Fear. He is terrified. Not a normal kind of fear, primal, nothing he has ever felt before. He feels goose bumps all over his skin. His testicles ache. There is a metallic taste in his tongue. His breath comes fast, shallow. Dark spots appear before his eyes circling clockwise. He stops for a second to regain his breath. His mittened hand instinctively reaches out to the building on his left. He needs to steady himself. He wants to be home. He resumes walking, this time at a brisker pace. This must be primordial, cellular. He is unable to control the feeling. His bones ache. He wishes to wail. He wants to be in his own bed, his mother taking care of him, making him hot tea with a little bit of cognac. His head pounds.

  Omar walks through the door, sees her sitting on the couch. His wife. He smiles at her, a forced smile. She worries. She can’t discern his expression. She thinks he is either about to cry or crack a one-liner. She tries to stand up, but he comes over and kisses her. He begins unwrapping himself.

  “You burned a hole in your coat,” she says, not an expression of concern, but a conversation starter.

  “I know. I dropped a cigarette.”

  “They don’t warn you about the sartorial dangers of smoking.”

  He hangs his coat on the coathook, takes off one sweater, the scarf, the hat, gradually regains his natural form. He takes off his boots. He comes over and lies on the couch, his head on her lap, his legs draped over the armrest. She strokes his hair gently.

  “Did you lose a mitten?” she asks.

  “Mitten?” She had used the English word. “What is mitten?”

  “It means a glove without fingers.”

  “I know what it means. I know exactly what it means. Why do they use a different word? Why did you use it?”

  “Because a mitten is different from a glove and you lost a mitten. That’s why.”

  “Couldn’t you have used the Lebanese word? I mean when did we start differentiating between a mitten and a glove.”

  “It’s just more precise.”

  “Precise. Yes.”

  He stares at the ceiling as she continues to stroke his hair.

  Régine and Fatima giggled, huddling together on the couch, arms entwined. Janet stood in front of a floor-length mirror dubious of the reflection. She liked the kohl. Not the rest, though. The braided hair made her look prepubescent. The gold chain with dangling trinkets around her forehead, the yellow eye shadow and the blood-red lipstick had the opposite effect, made her look adult, in her thirties. The dichotomy was disconcerting. She did not look Lebanese, yet was no longer American. She knew no Lebanese woman who dressed like that. She stared at the girl in the mirror. She appeared so exotic, straight out of a Sinbad Hollywood movie. Yes. Sin and bad. That was the girl in the mirror. She shuddered. She thought she was losing her footing again, though her feet had not budged. She quickly grabbed the mirror to steady herself. She looked like something out of A Thousand and One Nights. She was Shahrazad, a drunk Shahrazad, spinning tales.

  “Do you like it?” Régine asked her Galatea.

  “It’s strange,” Janet responded, which induced another bout of tittering from her friends. “I look so different.”

  Fatima fixed herself another drink. Her parents were in the mountains for the weekend so she had no worries. She placed a single ice cube in the miniature glass, poured the glass jar of arak until the glass was half full. The clear liquid whitened as it hit the cube, turning milky when she topped the glass with water.

  “To your health,” she said to no one in particular as she lifted the glass in the air, then gulped down the whole drink.

  “You didn’t make me one,” Régine pouted.

  “Sorry. I’ll do it. Do you want another, Janet?”

  Janet was entranced. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fa
irest of them all?” Janet heard, “I am,” coming from behind her, but was unsure whether it was Régine or Fatima. She begged to differ. There was no doubt Janet was the most beautiful of the three. How many times had she seen her face in the mirror? She knew every minute detail of it. Yet what stared back at her was a face she did not recognize. She raised the corners of her mouth for a smile, attempting to recapture some glimmer of familiarity. The face staring back at her became more distorted. She shivered perceptibly.

  “You don’t like it?” Régine asked, supine on the couch. Fatima was making more drinks. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to look Lebanese so that I don’t look so different from everybody.”

  Why was she here if not to feel different from the way she did back there? She wanted to experience the world. She wanted to change how the world saw her. Then why was she so terrified of the transformation she saw? She stared at the reflection. She must force herself to like this amalgam of East and West, to embrace it. The reflection might not be the new her, but she should accept any discernible change, no matter how incongruous it appeared. Any change was good change.

  “Pour me a drink, Fatima,” she said.

  “You’re so remarkable,” Fatima said. “I can’t believe you like arak. I bet you no other American would drink this.”

  “I want to celebrate the new me.”

  Janet kept looking at the mirror. She saw looking back at her a middle-aged woman, sad, lonely, desperate. She saw someone bitter. The woman in the mirror shook her head and told her, “Don’t.” The phrase repeated in her head over and over, a ringing. She was terrified. She covered her ears with her hands, felt faint.

  On the corner of Bliss and Abdel-Nour streets, Janet waited for Régine and Fatima, looking in a store’s picture window. Nothing interesting so she regarded her insubstantial reflection. She looked good. Janet had an abundance of bright red hair and was well aware of it. She took out a cigarette as a group of young university men walked by.