at me sideways, scrunching her face. “After all this,” she said, “you think they consider it better for me to stay in Lebanon?”
A couple of Druze men came in wearing army fatigues. Even though they were unarmed, the air tensed. They offered their condolences to the women and left for the men’s hall.
“Are you doing all right?” Dina asked. Her face was lightly made-up, traces of wiped red lipstick clung to the left corner of her mouth.
“Not very well,” I replied. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. I still think I’ll wake up. How does one deal with something like this? You know, my family is very close in many ways but we do not talk about things. My father locks himself in a room. My stepmother shuts down. We try to pretend a crisis never happened. If we don’t talk about it, it will disappear.”
A short, dumpy woman walked in, wearing an old scarf and a tattered overcoat even though it was summer. Her face looked familiar, but I did not recognize her. She offered her condolences to the family, shook each hand quickly and moved to the next. She then sat alone on the side. My aunt began whispering to my stepmother. My relatives were abuzz.
Nervous chitchat moved around the room like a wave, up and down, side to side. Behind us, a voice said, “I can’t believe the gall. Has she no shame? Someone should kick her out.”
Dina looked at me uncomprehending. I scrutinized the woman and finally realized why her homely face was familiar. “It’s his mother,” I said.
Dina’s face dropped. “Oh, my God. What is she doing here?”
“I don’t know. She must have traveled all night.”
The chair she sat in looked like it was a couple of sizes too big for her. She sat avoiding gazes, looking at the floor. The closest women to her were from our father’s village and they stood up and left the room hurriedly, without shaking hands with anyone. The soldier’s mother kept still, her head down, her hands on her lap, fingers entwined. Only her left thumb twitched sporadically. My aunt stood up, her eyes filled with menace. The chair she was sitting on fell backward, an ear-splitting sound. She began moving toward the soldier’s mother, but my stepmother stopped her. My stepmother strode over to the murderer’s mother, sat down next to her. They did not exchange words. The room hushed completely. My stepmother reached over, covered the woman’s hand with hers. The soldier’s mother cried silently.
For Dina
My grandfather, Hammoud, named me for the great Sarah Bernhardt. He was infatuated with her. Since he chose my name, stamped me, I immediately became his favorite granddaughter.
As a child, I spent as much time at my grandfather’s house as I did at ours. My grandparents lived in a spacious apartment only two buildings away. Even though my father was educated, a physician, he viewed education only as a means of achieving a better professional position rather than as a process of satisfying intellectual curiosities. My grandfather, on the other hand, was a newspaperman. His mind was filled with information and trivia, which he shared with anyone who would listen, and I loved to listen.
I spent most of the time with my grandfather in the family room, a green-walled, well-lit room filled with books. I sat on his lap as he regaled me with stories. He told all kinds of tales, but his favorites were about the Divine Sarah, the goddess of the stage. These I came to know by heart.
“Her real name was Henriette-Rosine Bernard,” he told me, “but she’ll always be Sarah Bernhardt, the Divine Sarah, the greatest woman who ever lived. She broke every man’s heart. When she was up on stage, the earth moved, the planets collided, and the audience fell in love. I was a little boy when I met her, not much older than you, but I knew I was in the presence of the greatest actress in the world.”
“Her hair,” went another story, “her hair was red like fire, bright red, and her voice, oh my,
A couple of Druze men came in wearing army fatigues. Even though they were unarmed, the air tensed. They offered their condolences to the women and left for the men’s hall.
“Are you doing all right?” Dina asked. Her face was lightly made-up, traces of wiped red lipstick clung to the left corner of her mouth.
“Not very well,” I replied. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. I still think I’ll wake up. How does one deal with something like this? You know, my family is very close in many ways but we do not talk about things. My father locks himself in a room. My stepmother shuts down. We try to pretend a crisis never happened. If we don’t talk about it, it will disappear.”
A short, dumpy woman walked in, wearing an old scarf and a tattered overcoat even though it was summer. Her face looked familiar, but I did not recognize her. She offered her condolences to the family, shook each hand quickly and moved to the next. She then sat alone on the side. My aunt began whispering to my stepmother. My relatives were abuzz.
Nervous chitchat moved around the room like a wave, up and down, side to side. Behind us, a voice said, “I can’t believe the gall. Has she no shame? Someone should kick her out.”
Dina looked at me uncomprehending. I scrutinized the woman and finally realized why her homely face was familiar. “It’s his mother,” I said.
Dina’s face dropped. “Oh, my God. What is she doing here?”
“I don’t know. She must have traveled all night.”
The chair she sat in looked like it was a couple of sizes too big for her. She sat avoiding gazes, looking at the floor. The closest women to her were from our father’s village and they stood up and left the room hurriedly, without shaking hands with anyone. The soldier’s mother kept still, her head down, her hands on her lap, fingers entwined. Only her left thumb twitched sporadically. My aunt stood up, her eyes filled with menace. The chair she was sitting on fell backward, an ear-splitting sound. She began moving toward the soldier’s mother, but my stepmother stopped her. My stepmother strode over to the murderer’s mother, sat down next to her. They did not exchange words. The room hushed completely. My stepmother reached over, covered the woman’s hand with hers. The soldier’s mother cried silently.
For Dina
My grandfather, Hammoud, named me for the great Sarah Bernhardt. He was infatuated with her. Since he chose my name, stamped me, I immediately became his favorite granddaughter.
As a child, I spent as much time at my grandfather’s house as I did at ours. My grandparents lived in a spacious apartment only two buildings away. Even though my father was educated, a physician, he viewed education only as a means of achieving a better professional position rather than as a process of satisfying intellectual curiosities. My grandfather, on the other hand, was a newspaperman. His mind was filled with information and trivia, which he shared with anyone who would listen, and I loved to listen.
I spent most of the time with my grandfather in the family room, a green-walled, well-lit room filled with books. I sat on his lap as he regaled me with stories. He told all kinds of tales, but his favorites were about the Divine Sarah, the goddess of the stage. These I came to know by heart.
“Her real name was Henriette-Rosine Bernard,” he told me, “but she’ll always be Sarah Bernhardt, the Divine Sarah, the greatest woman who ever lived. She broke every man’s heart. When she was up on stage, the earth moved, the planets collided, and the audience fell in love. I was a little boy when I met her, not much older than you, but I knew I was in the presence of the greatest actress in the world.”
“Her hair,” went another story, “her hair was red like fire, bright red, and her voice, oh my,
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