Koolaids (10 page)

On the way back to DC in the evening, the stewardess was infatuated with Karim. She told him he looked like Rex Reed, except his eyes were prettier. She slipped him her phone number.

I did not see him again for another eighteen months. I went back to DC to check out Georgetown University. That was where I wanted to get my graduate degree. I stayed with him for another week. I was more in love with him than ever. He considered me his closest friend. We spent many a night in his bed. He did not want to have sex with his girlfriend at the time because she refused to have sex with both of us at the same time. He said we would move in together if I went to school there.

One night still sticks in my memory. I woke up when I felt him hugging me. He had his arms around me, his chest snuggling to my back, and his erection plastered on my butt. Only our briefs stood in the way. He was sleeping soundly. I had the courage to actually put my hand between us and touch his erection. He rolled back over to his side of the bed. I took his hand and held it in mine. I loved him so much. He woke up. I pretended to be asleep.

The next day, he asked me if I realized at one point during the night, I had held his hand. I told him I had not realized that. He dropped the subject.

I was accepted at Georgetown. I called him to tell him I was coming over. I had decided to tell him everything. We were going to be living in the same town, most probably in the same apartment. I was going to tell him I was gay. I was going to tell him I was in love with him, had been since the day I met him. I felt more confident. I was coming out of the closet.

He never returned my call.

I got a call from my mother. She said she had some bad news. She said my friend Karim died in a motorcycle accident. He was so drunk he actually drove right into a wall.

I was devastated.

About a year later, I had a man in my apartment in DC. We were lying in bed together, after a fairly dull sexual assignation. He happened to look at my nightstand and notice a picture of Karim.

“He was a handsome man,” he said. “Was he a lover?” I told him he was my best friend.

“It was sad how he died, wasn't it?”

“Did you know him?” I asked incredulously.

“Not really. He just hung around the Spike. He never went home with anybody. Nobody I know of ever had sex with him. He just hung around and got drunk.”

“He hung around a gay bar?” My voice betrayed me.

“Oh yeah. He got drunk at the Spike the night he died. We all saw him hit the wall.”

…

I pine for pine. That is a funny way of putting it, but I really do miss the smell of pine. There are various trees back home, each with its own charm, yet it is the pine trees I miss. Specifically, I miss the scent of pine trees. And, contrary to what most Americans assume, they do not smell like house-cleaning detergents. I do miss the olive trees, and I do miss the oaks. I also miss the cedars. However, it is the smell of pine that gets me. It calls me home.

I pine for pine.

…

Oh, my heart, do not rise up to bear witness against me!

This is an inscription from the Book of the Dead. It's good, isn't it?

…

An hour later. Arjuna and his charioteer, Krsna, on the battlefield. They are now joined by Eleanor Roosevelt, Krishnamurti, Julio Cortázar, and Tom Cruise, who looks a little lost.

ARJUNA:
Why me?

KRSNA:
What do you mean?

ARJUNA:
Why me? Why do all things have to happen to me?

KRSNA:
Oy vey

KRISHNAMURTI:
Is he still singing the same tune?

ELEANOR:
He's been like this for the last half hour.

ARJUNA:
Go ahead. Make fun of me. Go ahead. You all think you are so smart and know everything. I just want to understand.

JULIO:
What's there to understand? I told you, understanding is an intellectual requirement, nothing more.

ELEANOR:
Go out and kill your cousins.

KRSNA:
Stop trying to make sense out of everything. Nothing makes sense.

TOM:
Why me?

ELEANOR:
Oh, shut up.

ARJUNA:
Why me, O God, why me?

KRSNA:
Because you are a soldier.

…

It was humid, a sweltering day. She was beginning to regret her decision. The taxi had moved barely a hundred meters in the last half hour. She was perspiring profusely. It was going to be an unusually bad summer. They would probably have to go up to the mountains sooner than they thought.

She wondered if she should turn back. They would understand if she did not make it. She had only said she would try. “Why don't you come over for lunch tomorrow?” Marie-Christine had said. “There will he so many people you haven't seen in years. It would he like the good old days.”

There were so many people crossing. She wondered who all these people were. Traffic was backed up in both directions. Some were obviously going to work, some were probably visiting friends. So many people.

Crossing the infamous Green Line.

She was born thirty years ago, on the other side, in Furn Ishibek. There were no sides then, of course. One city, her city, Beirut. She was a true Beiruti. Even though many people were born and raised in Beirut, they were not Beirutis. To be one, you had to be from a family who had always been one. One would be able to tell from the name where someone was from, which city or village, even if that person had never been to that village. That was where his family was from, that was where he was from. She was not married to a Beiruti though. He was from the South. In her blood, no matter what others say, she is still Beiruti.

Crossing from West to East.

She paid the cab. She had to get out at the barricade. She stood in line waiting to present her paper to the Syrian agent who manned the checkpoint. It was a long line. It was humid. She felt the stares.

She had worried all the night before, wondering what to wear. She knew she would have to walk, but she still wanted to make a good impression. She decided on a light Lacroix dress to accommodate the heat. She realized it was the wrong choice. The dress made her more attractive. The heels were not a good idea, either.

“Identity card,” the Syrian blurted out loudly. He moved closer to her. She backed off a step and handed him her card. Like the Lebanese passport, those cards have a person's complete history: age, sex, religion, profession, marital status, etc. He scrutinized her card. If he turned her back, she would be relieved. Unlike the hundreds who were in line behind her, she was not exactly afraid of what a Syrian could do to her. Her husband's name was on her card, and even though this agent seemed to be another one of those uneducated rabble Syria produced in abundance, she was sure he would recognize the name.

“Why are you going to East Beirut?” he asked gruffly.

“To have lunch,” she said.

He shook his head in disbelief and let her pass.

It is a long walk to the National Museum, or the military depot which was once the National Museum, where the barricade of the other side was. Maybe they would turn her back. The jacaranda trees surprised her, both because they had withstood all the fighting, whereas the surrounding buildings had not, and because they were bursting in blue-blossomed splendor. She walked, noting the complete destruction of the area. This was a beautiful section of Beirut at one time. In the old days, they would erect risers where the politicians and dignitaries stood saluting and viewing the troops on Independence Day. On her right was Beirut's famed race course. No horses ran these days. It was completely destroyed. She did not want to think about the museum itself. Everybody knew the treasures had been looted, but no one was quite sure who had done the looting. The pockmarked buildings on her left were unoccupied. Even the poorest refugees did not dare occupy them. This was the Green Line.

She felt all eyes on her. The line to get into East Beirut was forming. This was going to take some time. She was afraid. She should not have come. Everybody said it was completely safe, yet she was afraid. She did not trust the Christian militias.

“Identity card,” the militiaman blurted out loudly. He moved closer to her. She backed off a step and handed him her card. He scrutinized her card. She felt someone scrutinizing her. She looked up, but did not see anybody. She looked farther. A fighter stood in front of his white Range Rover. He was smiling at her. She looked down, averting her eyes.

“Why are you going to East Beirut?” he asked gruffly.

“To visit a friend,” she replied obsequiously.

“What's your friend's name?” His tone got softer.

“Marie-Christine Ashkar.”

“Where are you from, madam?” He smiled.

“I'm a Beiruti.”

“I am too. We are honored to have you visit us, madam. Welcome.”

She was in. She thought it was easy. She should bring the boys next time. She would be able to show them the house she grew up in. She looked for the white Range Rover, but it was no longer there. She might make the lunch on time. She never did. Her problems started at the next checkpoint.

…

The good old days. My friends always talk about the good old days. You could fuck whomever you wanted. No condoms, no worries. The bathhouses were full, sex on the streets. It was liberating. No dating, no relationships, not even dinner. A quick blow job here, a quick fuck there.

I did not really know the good old days. People started dying when I came out.

The good old days. Everybody talks about the good old days. You could go anywhere you wanted without being afraid of being killed. No Israeli planes, no Syrian tanks, no shells waking you up at night. Snow skiing in Faraya, then down for a dip in the Mediterranean at Khalde. No refugees in the Saint Simon beach club. You could actually walk the
trottoir
at Raouché. No kidnapping, no disappearances.

I did not really know the good old days. I was too young when the war started.

…

As for death, one gets used to it, even if it's only other people's death you get used to.

Enid Bagnold is a big fucking liar.

…

She got into the waiting taxi. At least the taxis on both sides look the same. They say East Beirut is much cleaner. She probably would not be able to tell until she got farther away from the barricade. Right now, it looked like the same city. She told the taxi where she wanted to go. She even told him exactly how she wanted to go there. This was her city.

The taxi stopped at the next checkpoint. The militiaman asked for her card. He scrutinized the card. He asked her to get out of the car. Instinctively, she asked if there was anything wrong. “No, ma'am,” the youngster said. “We would just like to ask you a few questions.” The taxi driver was visibly shaking.

She controlled herself as she got out of the car. Another militiaman led her towards a dilapidated building. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the youngster telling the taxi driver to move on. She walked erect, holding her purse close. Just before she entered the building, she saw the white Range Rover.

On the second floor, she was led to the only room which still had a door. All the others, one could actually see into from the corridor due to shell damage. The militiaman knocked on the door softly. When the reply came, he opened the door, let her in, and closed it behind her.

He was sitting on a Louis XIV chaise lounge, watching her intently. He gestured for her to sit down on a low ottoman. She looked up at him.

“May I have your card, please?” he asked in French. She gave it to him. He pretended to scrutinize the card. “What are you doing in these parts, Mrs. Marchi?”

“I am going to lunch at a friend's house.”

“What is your friend's name?” he asked.

“Marie-Christine Ashkar.”

“Ah, an interesting woman,” he said. She was not sure what he meant by that remark. Was he using a prurient tone? He was smiling. She was nervous.

“This is the first time you've come to East Beirut, isn't it?”

“I was born here.” Defiance.

“But you are no longer from here,” he insisted. “It is your first time.” He looked at her, still smiling. “Things have changed a great deal,” he went on.

“I understand.”

“You speak French very well. You could fit here real well.”

“I am from here.”

“Why did you marry that fat faggot?” he asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon.” She tried not to show her shock.

“You heard me. Why did you marry that fat faggot?” He was still smiling, laughing almost.

“I will not sit here and he insulted.” Indignation.

“Yes, you will,” he said joyfully. He was having a good time. “I am not insulting you. I am insulting your husband.”

“I don't know behind which herd you were raised, but in a civilized community, when you insult a woman's husband, you insult the woman.”

“It's a different world, Samia.”

“Don't call me by my first name. You have no right.”

“I have every right, Samia. I can do whatever I want. I am the one who gives rights in this part of town.” He said it all in a good-natured manner, as parent lecturing a favorite child. She was terrified. She controlled herself. His eyes asked her to join in the fun.

“Now, back to my original question,” he continued. “Why did you marry that fat faggot?I really would like to know.”

“He is not a homosexual,” she insisted. He finally roared with laughter.

“That's right,” he joked. “They bring him the boys every night, and he plays Chinese checkers with them.” His brown eyes twinkled continuously with eager affability.

“There are no boys. I don't know what you are talking about.”

He moved closer. “Your driver, Jihad, brings him a boy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night at six
p.m
. like clockwork.” He was looking intently at her.”Did you know about that?”