“Hi, Janet,” one of the boys said.
She glanced up at him, unsure whether she knew him. She smiled anyway. “Hi there.” The young man puffed up, obviously proud he knew her. One of the boys hesitated, wondering whether they were going to slow down and talk to her. The group kept moving. She lit her cigarette. Looking back, the young man said, “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” Ah, he was in her math class. Could not remember his name, though. She heard them talking. Those eyes were the only thing she understood. She grinned. She should learn more Arabic. One of the boys punched her classmate on the shoulder and they disappeared around a corner.
Her eyes kept reverting back to a sprig of grass between the sidewalk slabs. It looked out of place. She wanted to pick it since she felt some strange affinity to it. Just as she was about to bend down, she heard Régine calling.
As usual Régine showed up first. Fatima was habitually late. Régine was dressed to the nines, en tailleur Chanel as the Lebanese would say, which surprised Janet. She assumed Régine wanted to look older to impress the woman. Maybe Régine was not as confident as she appeared.
“Are you ready?” Régine asked, stepping partly toward Janet. She searched through her handbag, stood feet slightly apart, her weight unbalanced.
“Yes, sure. Are you?”
“Yes, of course. Done this lots of times.” She lit a Marlboro, her hands trembling slightly, exhaled loudly.
“I don’t believe in the stuff anyway.”
“You’ll see. She’s good.”
When the dark-red Rambler stopped in front of the girls, Régine quickly threw the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. Fatima got out of her father’s car. Régine had to stoop, look through the car’s passenger window, to greet Fatima’s father.
The girls waited until the car turned the corner before all three of them opened their purses and took out cigarettes. Régine flagged a taxi. When Janet looked down, she noticed the sprig of grass had been sheared by Régine’s high-heel.
The fortune-teller’s house was in Zi’a’ el-Blatt, a neighborhood Janet had never been to. Like other houses on the street, it was old, Lebanese old. Régine knocked on the oversized door and the girls waited. And waited. Janet noticed the ubiquitous turquoise hand, palm outward, dangling from a chain at the top of the door. After a while a woman opened the door.
“We’re looking for Sitt Noha,” Régine said.
“Well, you found her. Come on in, girls.” Her manner was not cheerful, nor crude, neither welcoming nor antagonistic. However, Janet knew Régine and Fatima would already feel slighted. The fortune-teller had not shown enough respect.
Sitt Noha led them through the foyer into the main room of the house. Janet had yet to see a house like this. Her friends all had modern apartments, whereas this house showed nothing belonging to the twentieth century. The floors were all smoothed stones with intricately painted Islamic designs. A huge Persian carpet dominated the room. Other carpets were hung on the walls. The seats were contiguous cushions on low benches against the walls, circling the entire room. Sitt Noha picked up a plate of food from the top of a low hexagonal brass table and took it into the kitchen. She was obviously in the middle of having lunch. “You girls make yourselves at home,” she said as she left the room.
Janet was enthralled by the room. This was the exotic Middle East she had come for. The gilded mirror on the wall, the antique chandelier, the oil lamps that were obviously functional rather than decorative, the finely detailed backgammon board, open, on one of the cushions—apparently a game had been interrupted.
“I can’t believe she was having lunch in the living room,” Régine said, “and she knew we were coming.” She sat rigid, starched, back straight. She pouted, looking more about to cry than angry.
Janet stared at a turquoise rosary on the seat next to her. It was not made for human hands, the beads much too big, for a giant’s hands. The ashtrays on the table in front of her were silver, shaped in the form of pineapples. Why pineapples? She found that amusing. She sat cross-legged on the cushion. She lit a cigarette.
“And my mother likes her,” Fatima said. “I wonder if my mother comes here or asks her to come to our house. I can’t see my mom here.”
Janet hoped after she had been in Lebanon a while, she would be able to understand the conventions better. Sitt Noha was from a lower class than the girls so she should have shown more respect. On the other hand, she was much older so she did not have to. They were her clients, about to pay, so she should have. It was so confusing. How Régine and Fatima figured out what was appropriate was beyond her. At least she had begun to know intuitively when they felt slighted.
She stared out one of the Turkish windows across the room, into the garden, dominated by a black oak and an orange tree, side by side.
“And she’s so fat,” Régine said.
Although Sitt Noha was overweight, Janet did not think she was that fat. Sitt Noha probably weighed less than Régine’s mother. What Régine was actually commenting on was Sitt Noha’s apparent lack of concern with her weight, her lack of any attempt to cover it up.
Sitt Noha walked back into the room, had changed from her housedress into another, dark purple with gold stitching. Janet had to grin. She was sure Régine and Fatima would scorn the new housedress and mock it, but Janet thought it was charming. The housedress made Sitt Noha look like a giant decorated aubergine.
Sitt Noha had a toothpick in her mouth. Tomato paste stained the corners of her lips. She moved a low ottoman right in front of the girls and sat down, knees apart, her hands between them, packing up loose folds of the housedress.
She yelled, at the top of her lungs, “Where is the coffee, Asma?” The girls jumped, startled.
“What can I do for you, my daughters?” she asked in Arabic. All Janet understood was my daughters.
“We’re here for fortune-telling,” Régine said. “Like I said on the phone, our friend here is all the way from America. She doesn’t speak Arabic very well.” Neither did Régine, who was having substantial problems constructing a complete Arabic sentence. Having grown up in a French-speaking household, she, like many Lebanese, had trouble with her mother tongue. “But I can translate for her.”
“And you two don’t want me to tell you anything? You’re not looking for husbands?” Sitt Noha pulled her disheveled hair back, forming a loose ponytail with a rubber band.
“We want to, but we’re here for the American.” Janet was not following the conversation well, but she did notice Régine and Fatima move slightly forward.
“We want everything,” Fatima said. “We can pay.”
“Can you actually tell what our husbands will look like?” Régine asked, breathing noisily, her eyes sparkling.
“When you called,” Sitt Noha said, “I thought you were the foreigner.”
“No,” Régine said. “I’m Lebanese, from Beirut. She’s the American.”
“You said your name was Régime. What kind of name is that?” Janet understood the French word for diet and tried hard to stifle her laugh.
“It’s Régine, with an n,” Régine replied, moving back into the cushions. She fidgeted with her handbag.
“Why would your mother call you that? Did she know you were going to grow up fat? She must be a fortune-teller too.”
“No, no. It’s Régine, not Régime. It means queen.”
Sitt Noha was oblivious to Régine’s irritation. A little girl, no more than ten years old, dressed in a similar aubergine housedress, came in carrying a silver tray with a pot of coffee. She gave each of the girls a cup. Janet shook her head, but Sitt Noha insisted. She kept moving the toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other. Janet could not take her eyes off it.
“Drink, drink,” Sitt Noha said in English, gesturing with both her hands. She followed that with an aspirating sound as she brought an imaginary cup to her mouth with one hand, while the other held the imaginary saucer steady. “Drink.”
“You must dri
nk it,” Fatima admonished, “or she won’t be able to read your fortune correctly. She must have a coffee cup.”
“Can’t she do it without my drinking coffee?”
“She probably can but the coffee cup finalizes everything.” Fatima drank from her coffee cup, modeling the acceptable behavior to her friend. “She reads the patterns of the coffee sediments left in your cup, the dregs.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Sitt Noha shook her head, appearing to have understood the conversation. “Tell the girl one must suffer to know one’s future. Tell her to drink up.” She adjusted the ottoman beneath her, bunched up her housedress once more and, not so discreetly, scratched herself.
Sitt Noha turned Janet’s cup right side up. “Not ready,” she said in English, turning it over again. She turned Régine’s cup. “Almost ready.” Régine smiled in anticipation.
“I can see a husband already,” Sitt Noha said.
“Really?” Régine was twittering. “Is he tall?”
“Tall? Yes, he’s tall. Not too tall. He’s handsome. Black hair and a mustache. Ah, he’s an engineer. He will fall in love with you. I see that. There are problems.”
“What problems?”
“Your parents won’t approve. They don’t want you to marry him.”
“Why? Why? Is he from a poor family? He’s an engineer. They have to approve.”
“I’m not sure. It’s not clear yet because the coffee hasn’t settled. See this line. Look here. This shows how much he loves you. This here shows problems.”
“I must know why. They must approve. I don’t want to elope. I want a big church wedding and a big reception. Like my sister.”
“Ah, there you go. It says here there will be no church wedding. He’s a Muslim.”
“I can’t convert.”
“You will.”
“Are you sure he’s not a Druze? He’d be the one who would have to convert if he’s a Druze. Tell me he’s Druze.”
“No. He’s not Druze.”
“Oh, my god,” Régine exclaimed. “Don’t tell me he’s . . .” She could not even finish the sentence. Even Fatima gasped.
“No,” said Sitt Noha. “He’s not a Shi’ite. He’s a Sunni, from Beirut.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“Hey, maybe I know him,” Fatima said. “You know what. Maybe it’s my cousin Nabil. He’s studying engineering at USC right now. He’s tall with black hair and a mustache. Maybe it’s him.”
“Can you tell his name?” Régine asked Sitt Noha.
“No, not the whole name. It starts with an N though. See here.”
“Oh, my god. It is an N.”
“Oh, my god. It’s Nabil. You’re going to marry my cousin Nabil. We’ll be relatives. Like sisters.”
“Is he handsome?”
“He’s incredibly handsome,” Fatima gasped. “You have to watch out because every girl will be after him.”
“But he’ll be in love with me.”
“True, but after you marry him, girls will still go after him because he’s handsome and smart.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Sitt Noha said. “When it’s time, come see me. I’ll teach you what to do and he’ll never be able to get it up for another woman.”
The girls began giggling again.
Sitt Noha stared at Janet’s cup. She twirled it gently. “The coffee refuses to settle,” she said. “Her future does not want to be completely written. You tell her that, Régime.”
“What does that mean?” Janet asked. “How can my future be written?”
“All future is written,” Sitt Noha said. “We just have to know how to read it.”
“How come if all future is written, mine isn’t? Ask her that.”
“Her future is partially written, not all of it. I can read some of it, but the rest is yet to be written. That’s because she’s a girl with a strong personality.”
“That’s bad?”
“There’s no good or bad coffee. It’s just coffee. Nothing you can do about what is written.”
“So you’re saying I can write my future?”
“Not sure if it is you who will write it. It can be someone else. You’ll marry into a strong family. Stronger than you.”
“I’m not going to get married anytime soon. Ask her about my Middle Eastern history professor and why he hates me.”
“You will marry a Lebanese man from an old family. He’s a doctor. You’ll get very sick. This man will save your life. He’ll save you from certain death and fall in love with you. He will sell his soul for you.”
“That’s so romantic,” Régine said. “Don’t you think that’s wonderful?”
“I don’t want to get married. I’m still too young to settle down. Anyway, what’s so romantic about getting sick and almost dying?”
“Tell her that her husband will save her,” Sitt Noha said. She chewed on her toothpick, moved it from side to side. “She’ll get married soon. She’ll have three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy will come last. He’ll be the jewel of her life. He’ll look as beautiful as her. The boy will be her gift to the world.”
“That’s perfect, Janet,” Régine added. “Two girls and a boy. That’s a wonderful family. Aren’t you happy?”
“I don’t want a family yet.”
“Hold on.” The toothpick snapped between Sitt Noha’s teeth. “Tell her I see trouble. Tell her I see trouble, but she can avert it. Tell her she has to change. Tell her the man comes from a strong family. They will swallow her. She can’t resist. Tell her she has to change, become lighter, learn to float. She’ll no longer be able to be herself, she will become part of a larger whole. She can’t move independently, she has to move with the family’s river. She’ll become the family. She can’t change that. The family swallows. It’s difficult for her. She’s beautiful. She’s strong. She is American. They don’t understand family over there. She has to adapt, she must learn to accept. She will change. Tell her she’ll drown if she tries to swim. She must not fight. The two worlds will clash and she’s not strong enough to fight. She should give up and float. Tell her the son will carry her. He’ll know how to float between two worlds someday. He’ll be the bridge. Tell her she has to learn to float not swim. You tell her that. You tell her all of it.”
“I don’t have to worry about that. I’m not getting married anytime soon. Ask her if she knows anything about my Middle Eastern history professor. Why does he hate me?”
“Tell her for an extra five Lebanese pounds, I can teach her how to make a curse, which will get her teacher off her back. Or else.”
Why runners make lousy communists. In a word, individuality. It’s the one characteristic all runners, as different as they are, seem to share . . . Stick with it. Push yourself. Keep running. And you’ll never lose that wonderful sense of individuality you now enjoy. Right, comrade?
The first time I saw the advertisement for running shoes, I cut it out and push-pinned it above my desk. That was in 1984 (it appeared at the Los Angeles Olympic games) and I was considering divorcing my second husband.
That wonderful sense of individuality.
I always tried to walk a path unbeaten by others, to touch the untouched. I moved from the land of conformism to the land of individualism. I moved from a country that ostracized its nonconformists to one more tolerant and more hypocritical. I moved from Lebanon to the United States.
The myth of the rugged individualist is integral to the American psyche. Most Americans, native and naturalized, consider themselves admirers, or at least indulgent, of individualists. I was no exception. It was only recently that I had begun to recognize the hypocrisy. As an American once wrote: Except in a few well-publicized instances (enough to lend credence to the iconography painted on the walls of the media), the rigorous practice of rugged individualism usually leads to poverty, ostracism and disgrace. The rugged individualist is too often mistaken for the misfit, the maverick, the spoilsport, the sore thumb.
I am
the daughter of a Lebanese man and an American woman, a fairly brief marriage. My mother, in a burst of independence, arrived in Lebanon to study at the American University of Beirut. She was a free spirit, did what she pleased. Like many foreigners who landed on Lebanese shores with dreams of conquest, she was swallowed whole. She fell in love with my father, got married, and had to subdue any sense of individuality she may have had in order to fit in, to conform to what was expected of her. I say may have had because at times I wonder whether there is such a thing as a sense of individuality. Is it all a façade covering a deep need to belong? Are we simply pack animals desperately trying to pretend we are not?
Americans landed in Beirut in droves, getting off their cruise ships and TWA flights, wanting a taste of the Middle East without actually having to soil their shoes. Beirut obliged. It gave them a taste all right, but only a taste. The city hid its Arabic soul and presented the world a Western veneer. Life described Beirut as “a kind of Las Vegas-Riviera-St. Moritz flavored with spices of Araby.” But not too spicy.
They bought trinkets in the cute souqs built especially for them, but they spent their big money buying Christian Dior gowns in downtown stores. They bought hookahs and backgammon tables as proof of their having been in Arabia, as vindication. They visited quaint Arabic restaurants, but their main meals were the imported steaks and lobsters at the cafés trottoirs.
We are special, they said. We are different. When they went to the Ba’albak festival, they chose to see Ella Fitzgerald, never Umm Kalthoum.
So did I. I hated Umm Kalthoum. I wanted to identify with only my American half. I wanted to be special. I could not envision how to be Lebanese and keep any sense of individuality. Lebanese culture was all consuming. Only recently have I begun to realize that like my city, my American patina covers an Arab soul. These days I avoid Umm Kalthoum, but not because I hate her. I avoid her because every time I hear that Egyptian bitch, I cry hysterically.
I, The Divine Page 16
