the moon had appeared in the round clearing in the sky to light up this paradise.
To my right was a sort of natural staircase of ascending rocks and I went up it onto a narrow pathway.
“Where are you going?” asked the Spaniard.
“Up into the sky,” I answered, embarrassed.
I realized that by answering like this I wanted to appear different from how I was, coquettish. He walked along beside me, telling me that this was a dead end, smiling at me. His concern was real, as the path narrowed suddenly and we were on a spur of land overlooking a sheer drop down to the tree-covered black paradise. He took my hand as if to protect me from danger, and to my surprise I came to like this plump warm hand around mine, forgetting that it was attached to a face whose features I couldn’t recall and a person I didn’t know. I walked along with him, and with each step I was thinking about this castle-house, this paradise-garden, Beirut, and my life in general. I was thoroughly confused about where I should live and whether I should go back. It wasn’t the touch of his hand awakening these thoughts in me, butthe silence, and the fact that I was a stranger to everything. This place was neutral, and the language, the people, and their secret thoughts and desires were all alien to me. As far as I was concerned, it was the beginning of the world and all I had to do was take the empty glass and enjoy the illusory potion. The idea of staying there loomed larger in my mind with every step down the rocky staircase.
In a place like this I won’t be expected—or even expect myself—to keep a hold of the thread of the past which has made me and try to weave it into my present. It will break automatically when I isolate myself here without my things. I have a brief, radiant vision of myself picking up the letters which the morose-looking old man has brought me on a gold tray as I lie on the antique bed, unable to stop slithering around on its silk sheets. The letters touch my heart and so I have another brief glimpse of myself showing the paradise to my friends and embracing Naser there. I stop at this image. It doesn’t fit with my sense of estrangement in this house, nor with the life I’m supposed to have left behind.
But I’ll transform it into a house that’s half Arab. I’ll go back in time, have children, and call them old Arab names: Belqis, Tarik, Layla, Ziyad.
I looked hard at the Spaniard, and from his smile I guessed he knew his house was bait for the houris, but there was no sign that he had any inkling of what I was after.
I claimed I’d had too much to drink and my head was hurting. For the first time I found myself thinking that if Naser called and nobody was at home to answer him, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The Spaniard brought me some Alka-Seltzer and suggested that I lie down somewhere.Vera, a plump blonde with slightly bulging eyes, tried to be concerned, but she didn’t manage to hide her annoyance, as I had monopolized the attention of her friend all evening, talking about Beirut during the siege and occupation, describing how I’d left it and how it used to be before the war. Meanwhile, I could feel Asya watching me, unable to believe that I was the sad, abstracted woman she’d invited to wait in her house in case her lover contacted her there. Every time the caller was somebody other than Naser, I would say the same thing: “He’s forgotten all about me … or perhaps nobody gave him my message.”
And here I was trying to win the Spaniard’s favors. I kicked off my shoes and laughed loudly. “I’m drunk,” I said, and lay back on the sofa.
As I dozed off to the sound of the guests taking their leave, I felt a hand on my forehead, then on my hair. I sat up, pretending to be alarmed. Acting as if I was reassured once I knew it was him, I closed my eyes again. All he did was wrap a blanket around me, then bend over me, breathing heavily and reaching out to touch my face. I opened my
To my right was a sort of natural staircase of ascending rocks and I went up it onto a narrow pathway.
“Where are you going?” asked the Spaniard.
“Up into the sky,” I answered, embarrassed.
I realized that by answering like this I wanted to appear different from how I was, coquettish. He walked along beside me, telling me that this was a dead end, smiling at me. His concern was real, as the path narrowed suddenly and we were on a spur of land overlooking a sheer drop down to the tree-covered black paradise. He took my hand as if to protect me from danger, and to my surprise I came to like this plump warm hand around mine, forgetting that it was attached to a face whose features I couldn’t recall and a person I didn’t know. I walked along with him, and with each step I was thinking about this castle-house, this paradise-garden, Beirut, and my life in general. I was thoroughly confused about where I should live and whether I should go back. It wasn’t the touch of his hand awakening these thoughts in me, butthe silence, and the fact that I was a stranger to everything. This place was neutral, and the language, the people, and their secret thoughts and desires were all alien to me. As far as I was concerned, it was the beginning of the world and all I had to do was take the empty glass and enjoy the illusory potion. The idea of staying there loomed larger in my mind with every step down the rocky staircase.
In a place like this I won’t be expected—or even expect myself—to keep a hold of the thread of the past which has made me and try to weave it into my present. It will break automatically when I isolate myself here without my things. I have a brief, radiant vision of myself picking up the letters which the morose-looking old man has brought me on a gold tray as I lie on the antique bed, unable to stop slithering around on its silk sheets. The letters touch my heart and so I have another brief glimpse of myself showing the paradise to my friends and embracing Naser there. I stop at this image. It doesn’t fit with my sense of estrangement in this house, nor with the life I’m supposed to have left behind.
But I’ll transform it into a house that’s half Arab. I’ll go back in time, have children, and call them old Arab names: Belqis, Tarik, Layla, Ziyad.
I looked hard at the Spaniard, and from his smile I guessed he knew his house was bait for the houris, but there was no sign that he had any inkling of what I was after.
I claimed I’d had too much to drink and my head was hurting. For the first time I found myself thinking that if Naser called and nobody was at home to answer him, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The Spaniard brought me some Alka-Seltzer and suggested that I lie down somewhere.Vera, a plump blonde with slightly bulging eyes, tried to be concerned, but she didn’t manage to hide her annoyance, as I had monopolized the attention of her friend all evening, talking about Beirut during the siege and occupation, describing how I’d left it and how it used to be before the war. Meanwhile, I could feel Asya watching me, unable to believe that I was the sad, abstracted woman she’d invited to wait in her house in case her lover contacted her there. Every time the caller was somebody other than Naser, I would say the same thing: “He’s forgotten all about me … or perhaps nobody gave him my message.”
And here I was trying to win the Spaniard’s favors. I kicked off my shoes and laughed loudly. “I’m drunk,” I said, and lay back on the sofa.
As I dozed off to the sound of the guests taking their leave, I felt a hand on my forehead, then on my hair. I sat up, pretending to be alarmed. Acting as if I was reassured once I knew it was him, I closed my eyes again. All he did was wrap a blanket around me, then bend over me, breathing heavily and reaching out to touch my face. I opened my
Similar Books
