“Here,” he said, handing me the glass. “Get rid of the evidence.”
I went into the bathroom, heard him say, “I’m the great deceiver.”
Mark Twain said there are five kinds of actresses: bad actresses, fair actresses, good actresses, great actresses—and then there is Sarah Bernhardt. To paraphrase him slightly, there are five kinds of stories: bad stories, fair stories, good stories, great stories—and then there are Sarah Bernhardt stories.
I was brought up on all kinds of stories, but my favorites were the ones about Sarah Bernhardt. Those stories shaped and molded me. When I examine my life, I am amazed at how much they penetrate every aspect of it.
My grandfather named me for the great Sarah Bernhardt. Like so many men before him, the aforementioned Mark Twain, D. H. Lawrence, Marcel Proust, Henry James, Victor Hugo, and none other than Sigmund Freud (to name only a few), my grandfather was immoderately smitten by The Divine Sarah.
After having already named two girls, my parents had not prepared a name for a third. My father had a name for a boy. He was not to use it. I was born with a little tuft of red hair, direct from my American mother. When my grandfather saw me for the first time, noting the red wisp, he greeted me with, “Welcome to the world, my little Sarah.”
My destiny was written.
I have begun to see my grandfather again, in the most inappropriate places. He has been gone for over twenty-five years, but now I feel him more clearly than ever. I see him with his white hair, the slight comma across his forehead, the black-framed, Clark Kent glasses, the dark tie and pressed white shirt—short sleeves in warm or hot weather, but still a dark tie. I see him in my living room when I am alone, usually sitting across from me, smiling, happy, a smile which, if worn by someone else, I would have considered patronizing and condescending. For lately when I am with him, I am not the anxious, strange, and morbid adult, not my habitual self, but the child he taught to love the world.
I was running from my nemesis, my sister Lamia, across the hallway in our apartment in Beirut. Lamia, a heavy sleeper, had been napping on her bed, deathlike, looking solemn. I talked to her but she would not wake. I breathed on her face but she would not wake. I lit a candle, waited anxious seconds, tilted it, and allowed a tear of wax to drop onto her forehead. She woke. She screamed. I screamed. She lunged at me. I eluded her and ran across the hallway, screaming and laughing, she, screaming and threatening.
My stepmother came out of the kitchen to see what the racket was. I had reached the foyer when the door opened. My grandfather came in and scooped me up in one motion—he lived in a cavernous apartment two buildings down from ours and never knocked or rang the bell when he dropped in. He lifted me up in the air. I yelled with joy. Lamia stopped in her tracks, her eyes boring viciously into us.
“What’s my little troublemaker been up to?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
My stepmother, pregnant, about to deliver her first child, stepped into the foyer. She moved slowly, purposefully. She looked at my sister Lamia standing rigid, tiny fists balled up, eyebrows bunched together, nitroglycerine about to explode. “What happened, Lamia?” my stepmother asked.
Lamia kept staring at me. Her fiery eyes should have burned me to cinders. She rarely responded quickly or rashly, always deliberately. “Nothing,” she said loudly. “Nothing happened.” She turned around and stormed off to her room. If there was one person she despised more than me, it was my stepmother, the usurper. She could not complain to my grandfather. She hated him because he loved me. She could not even complain to our father, whom she blamed for making our mother vanish into thin air.
“I’ll take care of this rambunctious little scamp,” my grandfather said, carrying me into the living room.
“Please, don’t fill her head with wicked stories.” My stepmother’s requests fell on inattentive ears. She walked back to the kitchen, looking as if she had already lost a major battle.
My grandfather sat in his dark ultramarine chair—even though he had a home of his own, he had an armchair (with its own taboret) in our house, which no one was allowed to sit on. I sat on his lap and played with his white hair, sparse, smooth to the touch. He jiggled, adjusted himself to a comfortable position.
“The great Sarah Bernhardt was just like you. She was a troublemaker, always a scamp. Even when she grew up, she was known for her winsome, sweet, playful ways. But when she was a little girl like you, she caused a lot of trouble. Just like you. At school, oh boy. She was a firecracker. She drove the nuns crazy. Big troublemaker. She could curse with the best of them, make the nuns blush every time she came up with a doozie.”
“I bet I can curse better than her. Your mother’s vagina is plugged with a thousand donkey dicks.”
My grandfather roared, his head jerking back, his glasses almost falling off the tip of his nose. “That’s a good one.”
“Yes. My dad says I have a tongue like a sailor on leave.”
“And your dad’s right.”
“The nuns liked Sarah, right? They all liked her because she was special.”
“You bet. Even though she was a troublemaker and was hysterical most of the time, they knew she was a good girl. She was a star. Everybody could tell that. And stars are quite passionate. She had uncontrollable passions. At school with the nuns, she also became devout because she was extremely passionate. She wanted to be a nun.”
“But she didn’t, right?”
“Right. Because she grew up and she was smart. Remember, Jesus is only for children and people who never get smart. And anyway, she became passionate about the theater. She had her first play with the nuns at Grandchamp. How old was she?”
“She was thirteen.”
“That’s right. She was thirteen. At first, the stupid nuns didn’t put her in the play. They didn’t think she could do it. This big archbishop was coming to the school.”
“The guy in a dress.”
“Yes. The fat guy in a dress came to the school and they staged a play for him. But Sarah was not in the play. She watched and watched all the rehearsals. She didn’t want just any role. She wanted the lead role. She knew she could be the star. Then when the guy in the dress came and he sat down to watch the play . . .”
“He lifted his dress to sit.”
“That’s right. He lifted his dress to sit. The girl who was supposed to be the star got scared. She started crying. Stupid girl. The girl said she was too scared to go on stage in front of people. She was shaking and crying. The nuns didn’t know what to do.”
“So Sarah said she’d do it.”
“Yes. She came out of nowhere and said she could do it. Sarah said she knew the role. She had memorized it. So the nuns didn’t have a choice. They let Sarah be the star.”
“And she was great.”
“Always. She was the Divine Sarah. She came on stage and the guy in the dress cried and cried like a little girl because Sarah was so good. Now, people from all over the world, from Brazil, from China, from Africa, they all go to Grandchamp just to see the school where the great Sarah went on stage for the first time. Nobody remembers the stupid nuns or the guy in the dress. They just want to see where the Great One began. It’s a pilgrimage. You know what a pilgrimage is?”
“Yes. Like Mecca.”
“Yes. Like the silly Muslims who go to Mecca and walk in white dresses.”
I still hear him to this day. I hear his sonorous tones when I take walks. I hear his silly laugh when a crow caws. I hear his collusive whispers in the passing breeze. Don’t tell your stepmother. She can’t know about this. He had a heavy Druze accent, stressing his Qs. Whenever I hear a mountain Druze speak, I am reminded of him.
“Tell me about the time she fell in the fire.”
We were at his house, in the family room, a room covered with books and bookshelves, and the little wall space not covered was painted a striking yellow-green. I sat on his lap as usual.
“Her mother sent her to l
ive with a nurse in Brittany, in the northwest of France. Her mother was a bad woman. She didn’t want Sarah around when she was seeing all those men. So she kept sending Sarah away to live with other people. Her mother hated Sarah because she knew Sarah was a star of the greatest magnitude and her mother was envious because when Sarah was around, nobody looked at Sarah’s mother. Poor Sarah. All her life she tried and tried to make her mother love her, but she couldn’t. Her mother couldn’t love her because she loved all those men. Sarah liked Brittany because she stayed on a farm and she played all day with a lot of animals and the animals loved her. Why did the animals love her?”
“Because she was the great Sarah and everybody loved her.”
“That’s right. And when she grew up she had lots of animals she loved and they loved her back. What kind of animals did she have?”
“She had lots of dogs and cats and a cheetah.”
“That’s right. And more too.”
“An alligator from America. Ali Gaga. Not Ali Baba. And a parrot. His name is Bizibouzou. And a monkey called Darwin.”
“That’s right. So one day, while her nurse was in the garden gathering potatoes, and the nurse’s husband was drunk in bed, sleeping, baby Sarah was sitting in her highchair watching the beautiful fire in the hearth. She unfastened the little tray in front of the chair and now there was nothing in front of her. All of a sudden . . .”
“Baby Sarah fell into the fire.”
“When she screamed, the nurse’s husband was quick. He ran and snatched Sarah up and he dunked her in a pail of milk and then he covered her with butter. All the peasants came from all over Brittany to give Sarah butter to heal her burns. Then a week later, her mother came with her man and she brought doctors too. And then Sarah’s aunts, the bad women, they came too with their men. They kept saying, ‘Poor Sarah. Poor little Sarah,’ but then they got bored and left and didn’t take poor Sarah with them even though she begged her mother to take her. And she cried and cried and poor Sarah was all alone without her mother.”
“Poor little Sarah.”
One time, my stepmother, Saniya, came into the kitchen and found me naked, having covered my whole body in butter, both salted and unsalted.
These days, I also hear my mother cursing him, calling him all kinds of names. She has been dead for some years now, but I hear her curse the son of a bitch—her favorite name for my grandfather—for the things he put her through. “He worked and worked until your father was forced to divorce me.” My mother cursed him till the day she died. “He was evil, evil incarnate. Everybody thought he was the nicest man, but the things he did, the things he said.”
On the terrace of my grandfather’s summer house in the mountains sat my grandfather, my grandmother, my father, stepmother, uncles and aunts. Under the grape arbor, which provided shade all the way from the terrace to the driveway, protecting the cars from the despotic sun. I stared at the grapes, my mouth watering. They were still sour, a ways from being ripe, what we called hosrom. These were my favorites—eating the sour grapes with salt was a veritable taste explosion. While the adults were chatting, I climbed the pergola until I reached the vines and began moving slowly across the arbor, suspended high in the air, hanging on with one hand at a time.
“Oh, my god.” My stepmother jumped up, ran and stood right underneath me with her hands held up to catch me. “Sarah Nour el-Din. Get down here this instant.”
“I want to get some grapes.”
“What are you doing up there, Sarah?” My father asked me this while I hung ten feet from the ground. I noticed he still sat in his seat. My grandfather was chuckling.
“Let go, Sarah,” my stepmother said. “I’ll catch you.”
“I want to get some grapes.”
“I’ll get you some. We get them by using a ladder, not by climbing the vines. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Now, just let go.”
“You look like a little monkey, my little Sarah,” my grandfather said.
I let go and dropped into my stepmother’s arms. “Don’t you ever do that again,” my stepmother chided. “You can get killed. Girls don’t climb trees.”
“Are you going to get me some grapes?”
She shook her head in despair, still unsure what to do with me. “Okay. I’ll get some for everybody.”
By the time she came back with the ladder and a pair of shears, I was in my grandfather’s lap. I knew the story he would tell. I had climbed the pergola. I was called down. There was only one story he could tell now: The Prince of Believers.
“Who was the boy that climbed trees?” he asked me.
“The Egyptian boy.”
“What was his name?”
I racked my brain, but could not remember. I knew the story, but the medieval Arabic names were completely foreign to me. “The Caliph,” I said.
“He was the Caliph, but that was not his name. A caliph is like a prince. It’s not a name. Don’t worry, my little one. I’m sure even your father and uncles don’t know his name. That’s because they don’t care where they came from.”
“I know his name,” my father interjected.
“Al-Hakim bi-Amrillah,” one of my uncles said.
“See. I told you they wouldn’t know because they don’t pay attention. Not like you. His name was al-Mansour. He was only eleven. This was a long, long time ago in Egypt. During the great Fatimid dynasty. The Caliph was going from Egypt to Syria to fight the bad Byzantines who wanted to come and take over our lands and make us all Christians. So the Caliph stopped in Bilbays because he felt sick. He knew he was going to die. He felt bad because unlike those Christian emperors who sat in their castles and told people what to do, our Caliph was going to join his army and fight alongside his men, but now he knew he wasn’t going to make it. So he lay in bed and he called al-Mansour, who was playing outside. The little boy came and he saw the Caliph in bed. The Caliph called him over and kissed him and hugged him like this. And everybody was there and saw the Caliph hug him. And then he told the boy, ‘Go out and play. I will be all right now. I know you’ll be a good Caliph.’ So everyone knew that al-Mansour was going to be the next Caliph.”
“And he was a star.”
“That’s right. So the little boy went out to play. After a little while, an intendant from the court, whose name was Barjawan, came out looking for the little boy. He looked and he looked, but he couldn’t find him. All of a sudden, he heard the voice of al-Mansour saying, ‘Hello, Barjawan.’ Barjawan still couldn’t see our boy. So the boy said, ‘I’m up here.’ And Barjawan looked up and saw al-Mansour playing in a sycamore tree. Barjawan said, ‘Please come down from the tree, your highness. The Caliph has gone to heaven. You are now the Prince of Believers.’ And the new Caliph came down from the tree. Everybody saw that he was an emissary from God. Then they all returned to Cairo, which the Fatimid had built. And the boy Caliph walked in front of everybody and all the people came out to see. The people realized at the same time that they loved the boy Caliph. He sat on a throne of pure gold. All the people came to pay their respects. They saw a confident Caliph with piercing eyes that could see the truth. They saw a beautiful boy with the face of a wise and learned man. They saw that the new Caliph was touched by God and his angels. The boy looked at them all and smiled upon his people. They felt his grace. And he said, ‘My name is now al-Hakim bi-Amrillah.’ You know what that means?”
“The ruler by God’s command.”
“Yes. And even though he was only a little boy, he became the greatest Caliph of all time. He was the star. He was generous and just, wise and judicious. Three months after becoming Caliph, he sent missionaries to herald the coming of a new age, which was to start when the time was ripe. In this new age, truth will be revealed and the knowledge of God was to be disclosed. That was the Call.”
“The Call for the Druze.”
“It was years later when the time was ripe and the Druze were born. Al-Hakim bi-Amrillah was older and even wiser. But even when he was a litt
le boy, all the people could see he was special. That boy is the reason we are all here.”
“So I am the Prince of Believers.”
“You’re the Princess of Believers.”
“You keep putting these strange tales in her head,” my stepmother said, as she placed the large straw tray filled to overflowing with bunches of the sour white grapes on the table in front of all of us.
It was spring, in May, some years ago. I was visiting my sister Amal at her apartment in Beirut. A lazy afternoon, her kids playing in the den, while she and I lounged on a huge sofa. We sat facing each other, massaging each other’s feet, a favorite pastime of ours since we were children.
“I don’t understand why he loved you so,” she said wistfully, reminiscing.
“Neither do I, but I am grateful he did.”
“Are you? If you were Hitler’s favorite child, would you be grateful for his love? I’m not sure I would be.”
“He was not Hitler. I know most of you remember him differently than I do, but he was not evil. Grandfather was just quirky. He was not a bad person.”
“He was a Machiavellian asshole, prejudiced as hell, xenophobic and bigoted. You just don’t remember him well. With you, he was all kindness and warmth; with the rest of us, he was a manipulative bastard.”
“He wasn’t that bad. He just didn’t care for you as much as he did for me. I can’t explain why he cared for me so much, but he wasn’t bad with you. He just ignored you.”
“You’re so naïve sometimes. He was a misogynist. He hated all us girls. He thought all women were whores. He beat Grandmother up on a regular basis. You were just too young to remember. In any case, what he did to our stepmother alone is enough.”
“What we all did. We were all unkind to Saniya when she arrived.”
“We took our cues from him.”
“We took our cues from Father.”
“Nope. Father was willing to forgive Saniya’s inadequacies. After all, he picked her. He chose an uneducated peasant girl for a wife. He knew what he was doing. It was Grandfather who started the attacks. He turned all of us into the jeering audience. You should talk to her sometime and listen to her stories about him. It’ll give you goose bumps. He was a horrid man. He even told Lamia to her face that she would never find a husband unless she had plastic surgery. He hated women.”
I, The Divine Page 21
