I have been blessed with many curses in my life, not the least of which was being born half Lebanese and half American. Throughout my life, these contradictory parts battled endlessly, clashed, never coming to a satisfactory conclusion. I shuffled ad nauseam between the need to assert my individuality and the need to belong to my clan, being terrified of loneliness and terrorized of losing myself in relationships. I was the black sheep of my family, yet an essential part of it.
In 1988, I cut out a story from the New York Times about members of a high school football team in Hoboken who ambushed a solitary runner and beat him senseless, leaving him in a decaying ditch, shoeless.
For in the prophet Habbakuk in the Christian Old Testament/the Neviim in the Jewish Holy Scripts it is written:
“For the violence done to Lebanon shall sweep over you, the havoc done to its beasts shall break your own spirit, because of bloodshed and violence done to the land, to the city and all its inhabitants.”
On rainy days in San Francisco everything seems mortal. Everyone stays home and the color of death is everywhere. The city was having an unusual autumn storm after a cold summer. I walked up to the counter and ordered my macchiato. I loved the café because of its outdoor seating, but the weather forced me inside. Muzak blared from the decrepit speakers, the sounds of scratchy Enya, or maybe it was Celine Dion’s Titanic song. I took my coffee back to my seat. The café was much too gloomy on a gray morning.
There were only four people including me, each sitting in a corner. I had chosen the west corner. Two preppie gay men faced each other diagonally across the room, giving each other les doux yeux. Most probably horny waiters. Across the room from me sat a pale, youngish woman, straight black hair and layers of black cloth. A Goth, she had piercings protruding from all over her face, wore black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. I wondered if she used makeup to make herself so white. She had a tarot deck spread out on the table in front of her. I had seen her reading the cards a number of times before, but for some reason she gave me the creeps today. I slugged down my coffee and left.
No one else walked the street. Few cars. A four-wheel-drive Toyota stopped ten yards in front me. A red umbrella emerged from the Toyota, followed by a young man in jeans. Just as he closed the door, the sky was filled with a bright light and the sound of an explosion. The man shrieked a high C and ducked behind the Toyota, his umbrella lowered, rain dotting his beige suede jacket. San Franciscans were not used to thunderstorms. The lightning must have hit somewhere close. It rained harder. I looked up at the sky, saw more lightning. The thunder that followed was deafening. I felt myself getting dizzy, realized I was dropping slowly before I blacked out.
I woke up in a darkened, unfamiliar room. I recognized the light and panicked. The daylight seeped in from windows closed with louvered shutters. Only in Beirut. I did not dare move. I was lying on the floor sideways, my face resting on a pile of newspapers. Someone must have put me there. I stared at the unfamiliar water stains on the wall, one mushroom cloud and a map of Italy. Where was I? I had to do something. I sat up and looked around me trying to gauge the room. I was in an old Beiruti house.
The sound of a shot rang out, shaking me out of my stupor. My head moved at a dizzying speed. I had to take in everything, figure out if I was in danger. I have been through this before. Instinct took over.
The walls were sandstone, not effective at impeding bullets. What floor was I on? I should look out the window. I heard another shot. Then another. A staccato burst. The boys were building up. It was going to be fierce. The shots were intermittent, a funny rhythm, a five over four, not a disco beat. Dave Brubeck would have been proud. On the wall next to me stood a large bookcase. I did not want to be underneath it if the books fell. I stood up. The thunderstorm from hell erupted.
Machine gun fire from every direction. Cannons, rockets, missiles detonated at the same time, enough to wake the dead. I should concentrate. I used to be able to figure out who was fighting whom by differentiating the sounds of gunfire, used to be able to tell Belgian missiles from Russian rockets. Where was I? I must look outside.
I opened the door slightly and put my head out. An old staircase, light coming through broken windows. Another door, slightly ajar, facing me. And nothing above me. Through the door, in the other apartment, I could see a family huddled together, like a flock of frightened birds. Are you all right? I yelled. They paid me no notice. Where am I? I asked. No reply. I looked through the broken windows. I was on the second floor. I should move down. I began to step out. A bullet whizzed by. I shut the door in panic, ran to the corner and cowered, held my knees to my chest and waited. I will survive this, I said to myself. I have before and will again. Must distract my mind. How did I get here? Where was my family?
I looked at the bookshelf. The books were all in English, all American authors, all romance novels. I stared in awe when I realized the bookshelf contained every book Danielle Steel had written. In hardcover no less. At least I think it was every book she had written. I could not be sure, but at the same time, I was certain she could not have written more books than were available on that bookshelf.
Two hours went by. No sounds. The fighters were taking a break. The most dangerous time. I heard the sound of dripping water coming from another room. Chinese water torture. Drip. Drip. A couple more minutes to make sure and then I would stand up and check. I heard the high shrieking meows of a threatened cat coming from outside. I got up from my corner and walked slowly to the window. I opened the shutter slowly and peeked outside. I did not know whether I had been in the neighborhood before. I might have, but I did not recognize it in this state. All the shutters of every house were closed. Down in the street three dogs, looking like they had been starved for days, cornered an orange cat against a wall. Even from a distance, I saw the cat’s hairs standing up. The dogs moved slowly around the cat, snarling, waiting to attack. They got closer, pulled back, approached again from a different angle. The cat’s wail was terrifying. A shot rang out and one of the dogs fell down, his head exploded, panoply of red. Another shot and another. All three dogs lay dead. The cat had not moved yet. It looked around and then bolted. The fourth shot got the running cat.
“Good shot,” screamed a voice in Arabic, coming from way down on my right.
“Allah is great,” came the reply from way down on my left.
Would they start shooting at each other again now?
I slowly closed the shutter, but not slowly enough. A bullet came through, right next to where my arm was. My body recalled the heat of gunfire and reacted instantly. I stood still to avoid the ricochet. The bullet hit the floor, jumped up, went left, hit the wall, bounced back and lodged itself in one of the books in the bookshelf. Indoors, bullets never traveled in a straight line. I did not worry about a second bullet. The first was just a warning. If the sniper had wanted me dead, I would have been.
I looked at the bookshelf. I saw the Danielle Steel book that was shot. It began to bleed. Blood dripped from it slowly. Drip. Drip.
I fainted.
I woke up in a car. It took me a minute to realize it was my ex-husband’s second car, the blue Volvo he loaned me every time I visited Beirut. I was holding on to the steering wheel, but the engine was not running. I looked in the rearview mirror and noted that my cheek had ink on it, as if I had slept on a newspaper, yet there was no paper in the car. I could read the writing in the mirror, it flipped a text already flipped. In Arabic, the text said something about the son of a politician, asking is any offspring innocent in a guilty family.
I looked around me. I was in Never Never Land, the green line of Beirut, not too far from Martyrs’ Square. I must have taken a wrong turn. Destruction was all around, but so was greenery. Trees and bushes sprouted from unrecognizable buildings. A jungle attempting to reclaim its glorious past from its concrete counterpart.
In the distance atop a hill of rubble, I saw the silhouette of a young boy, with a machine gun growing from his hip. I began to s
hake. I realized it was ironic I was not afraid of the gun as much as I was of the boy’s silhouette. Some memories are hard to release. He began walking toward me. I tried the ignition, but the car would not start. The only sound that could be heard was the false starts of the Volvo. The engine caught. I stepped on the gas. The car lurched forward, toward the approaching boy, and died. I tried again. Another false start. The engine caught again and died before I could step on the gas.
The boy tapped gently on my window. I lowered it, trying hard not to stare at his face that seemed to have suddenly erupted in a rash of pimples and choral cystic acne. He was smiling gently. I smiled back, nervously.
“Are you all right?” he asked me.
“Yes, I think so. I seem to be lost and my car won’t start.”
“Do you want me to look at it?”
“Do you know anything about cars?” I asked. Behind the pimples, his face was cherubic, high and full cheekbones. He looked innocent, or at least trustworthy.
“I know some. My dad was a mechanic. Let me look. Open the hood.”
I pulled the latch and just as he lifted the hood, I heard gunfire. The boy showed his head from behind the hood. “Uh oh,” he said, still smiling. “We should get out of here. It’s going to get messy.”
“Where to?” I asked. “Where can I go?”
“Come with me. I know a shelter.”
I got out of the car gingerly. He walked in front, too slow it seemed to me. I caught up with him and tried to move him along. He would not hurry up. I heard men shouting from one of the pockmarked buildings. Some men shouted back from below. I could not understand what was being said. We arrived at a building, getting there from the side. There was a hole at ground level, caused initially by a shell, but enlarged by men for easier access. The boy stepped into the building, and I followed bending my head as I entered. The smell of burned refuse, decaying flesh, excrement, and urine greeted me.
“You’ll get used to it in a minute,” he said. “The nausea passes.”
A kerosene lamp lit the windowless room. A thick layer of dust covered everything, a small table, four rickety chairs. A couple of M16s and three hookahs stood in a corner next to a television set whose screen had been shattered by bullets. A guitar stand, without the instrument, occupied another corner; under it lay a dead rat. An exquisite backgammon board lay open on the table.
“Do you play?” the youth asked as he sat on one of the chairs.
“I don’t think I should,” I replied. “I’m too anxious and I don’t have my Xanax. I don’t seem to have my handbag.”
“That’s okay. They won’t take long. The shooting will go on for ten minutes or so and then they’ll stop. Everybody is exhausted.”
“Why are they fighting?”
“Who can remember anymore? Habit, I guess. Nobody knows anything else. They start shooting, forgetting why. They stop. They start in a different way. They stop again. Try a different attack. They can’t seem to be able to finish a battle. It’s endless.”
“Can’t someone get them to stop?”
He shrugged. I guess the question was too silly. I sat on one of the chairs. My heels were killing me. “Why aren’t you fighting?” I asked.
“Because my father died.”
“You were fighting for him?”
“Oh, no,” he said. He took out a deck of cards from his pocket and began laying out a solitaire game. “My father did not want me to fight at all.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If he didn’t want you to fight, why did you stop fighting after he died?”
He looked up at me and gave me an angelic smile, white teeth and all. “Because I’m the bad son. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to stand around while they took everything away from me. I took up the gun. He said he had no son anymore. I was free for a while or I thought I was. But now he’s dead. I don’t have to be unlike him.”
“You can fix cars?”
“Yes.” He sighed, the smile disappearing. “I’m good at it too. Just like he was. I can’t run far enough.”
The battle outside was going full blast. We were hearing every type of weapon. I hoped the boy was right and it would be over soon.
“Are we safe here?” I asked. “I mean a shell came through here once already.”
“A shell never hits anywhere twice.”
“That’s lightning. That rule doesn’t apply to shells.”
“Oh, well. Is anywhere safe?”
On cue, the battle stopped. More men shouted. I looked through the hole in the wall, but I could not see anything.
“Shall I fix your car now?” he asked.
“Yes. I should get out of here. It’s not safe.”
He stood up and came toward me. He held my hand as he went through the hole. I followed, the harsh sunlight blinding me. I took a deep breath. The cleaner air was disorienting. I could smell cordite and smoke. I tried to breathe again, but felt myself blacking out. I looked at the boy before I lost consciousness.
I wake up to the barely audible voice of Bernard Shaw reciting the news on CNN. I had slept slouched at my desk. My neck is sore. I stretch it backward, then bend it down and rotate my head sideways to release the crick.
Fish swim languidly across my laptop’s screen. A red fish eats a blue fish and swims away. Blue fish swallows the red fish. Fish come and go without any discernible purpose. Rain slaps my bay windows, water streaking along thin paths on the glass. I look outside, a dreary, stormy day in San Francisco. Without moving from my desk, I click the remote and mute the television blather. I run my hand along the edge of my mahogany desk.
I consider taking a plate with a piece of half-eaten buttered toast back to the kitchen.
Lightning flashes outside, momentarily brightening my study. I look around at the walls. I am no longer sure I can live with the butter yellow color. Maybe I can paint the trim something other than white. One of my paintings hangs on the wall, a strong one, one of my chosen. Cadmium red bars on titanium white background. The second lowest bar on the right is not a perfect rectangle, which tilts the whole painting. Few people realize that. The eye always fills in the imperfections. Eleven perfect rectangles; the twelfth must be as well. Maybe that is why I feel irritable. I should hang the painting in another room, or repaint the rectangle, or repaint the walls a peach and not butter yellow. I should paint peaceful paintings.
The pigeons sheltered above my window, under my roof, flap their wings in unison. I hear movements, an apparent jockeying for positions. Then softer, and the cooing recommences. This is their home now, I think. Shoo, Fly, Don’t bother me. They coo softly, settle in.
I can paint the walls a robin’s egg blue.
I drag my forefinger across the computer touchpad to eliminate the carnivorous fish. Out pops my manuscript. My manuscript. Mine. I tense, feel a knot building in my right shoulder. I feel about to faint.
I stand up and put on my coat. I will walk across the street for a coffee, something to ease the tension. I stretch my back.
Sarah woke up late, on an early August Sunday in San Francisco, had slept much longer than was necessary. She rose out of bed, stumbled slowly into the bathroom, swaying as if drunk, trying to disentangle her brain from the cobwebs of sleep. She looked out the window, was not surprised to find a heavy, wet fog. Summer in San Francisco. She still felt groggy. She slapped her face, shook her head vigorously from side to side, and sat on the toilet. She noticed the empty toilet roll dispenser. She thought she had gotten a new roll yesterday. She was almost sure of it. She remembered the roll was on the small table in the corridor. She was bringing it into the bathroom when the phone rang. She must learn to complete her projects. She used facial tissues. She stood up, annoyed with herself for being so easily distracted. She would go directly and fill the dispenser.
As she passed by the mirror, she stopped. Her reflection looked good today. Her features were soft, as were her brown eyes. She felt relieved. She put her head outside the bathroo
m door and yelled, “Are you up?”
From the kitchen, “Of course, I’m up. I don’t need ten hours of sleep.”
“Maybe you should try it. I look wonderful this morning.”
“Go back to sleep then.”
“No, no. Come see and bring me a cup of coffee, please!”
Kamal turned the corner into the corridor, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He was already dressed, ready to go. “I think you should be the one bringing me coffee. I’m on vacation, a guest here.”
“Shut up and get your butt over here!” He slowed down, began sauntering. She had to admit she loved the way he walked. She thought her son was handsome, with his dark, long hair, and brown eyes. She was thankful again that he did not take after his father in looks. He pretended he was moving in slow motion, every step taking an eternity.
“Get in here,” Sarah said when he was close enough for her to grab. She took the coffee from him and kissed him. “Look at your mother. Doesn’t she look wonderful this morning?”
She held him, made him stand next to her facing the mirror. “You look the same as yesterday,” he said.
“Ah, what do you know? You’re not even looking. You’ll always miss the finer things in life.”
“This is one of the finer things in life? I worry about you, Mom. Staring at yourself in the mirror? Hey, looks like there’s water damage here.”
“Where?” she gasped, her hands going quickly to her face.
He bent down to look at the wall next to the bathtub. “You should fix this,” he said. He was right. She should have fixed that five years ago when she first noticed it.
He stood up and walked out of the bathroom. “Well, what’s the point of looking wonderful if you’re going to spend the morning having breakfast with homosexuals?”
I, The Divine Page 17
