Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

— ITALO CALVINO, Invisible Cities

Mustapha usually woke Saniya up early every morning by repeatedly poking her side with his fingers. He no longer slept much, getting up much earlier, their age difference causing irreconcilable sleep patterns. His daily finger poking annoyed her, which was why he continued to do it. Annoying her, a pleasant diversion when they first married, had become his only entertainment in old age, teasing and ribbing his only merriment. In the beginning, the jokes at her expense were constant, but as the marriage matured, there emerged a zone of respect he rarely breached. However, in his old age, the marriage turned full circle. Her husband believed they had reached a time in their marriage where they were one, no respect needed when one is with oneself.

Mustapha did not poke her awake that morning because it was their anniversary. He lay close to her, face to face.

“Good morning, darling,” he said in his most romantic voice.

Saniya opened her eyes gently, noticing a strand of his white hair approaching her face. He surprised her by kissing her, a simple peck. She tried not to show her revulsion. She still loved him, yet she could not overcome her distaste of his smells. She realized he could do nothing about it. He bathed three times a day, which did nothing for his early morning aroma, musty, subtly tinged with putrefaction. A month earlier, she had opened the suitcase in which she had stored her wedding dress. Mustapha was on the bed. “That stinks,” he had said. The suitcase smelled exactly like he did in the morning, Saniya thought. She never mentioned anything, not then, not now, knowing fully well how preoccupied he was with age and the ensuing decay. They lay next to each other. His face was slightly asymmetrical, still handsome, not to him though. When he thought no one was looking, he would pull at his slack cheek muscles, staring in the mirror, trying to recapture a time when muscles behaved. His face close to her on the pillow, gravity skewing his cheek in an unnatural, slanting angle she found charming.

“Who would’ve believed?” he asked. The timbre of his voice still deep, attractive, unchanged from the day she met him.

“Happy anniversary, darling.”

He smiled. She smiled. He got close to her and burped, taking her by surprise. She crinkled her nose. He laughed.

She looked away, wishing the newly installed mosquito net was two singles as opposed to a double. He wanted a mosquito net even though there were no mosquitoes. He kept scratching imaginary bites until she relented. He had secretly hoped a mosquito net (such nets have all but disappeared long ago, even from mountain houses) would allow him to sleep like a little boy again.

He rolled over, his pajama bottoms drooping, exposing unnecessary flesh, and got out of bed, energized, headed toward the bathroom. She stayed in bed, staring at the daisy-patterned wallpaper, hazy at first, the net acting as a scrim, clearing as her eyes adjusted. Three inches from the bottom, a peel in the wallpaper was exacerbated by Kooky, who had turned an unnoticeable tear into something that required attention. I must call to have it fixed today, she thought, just as she had every morning for the past three years. I have the extra rolls of wallpaper. I’ll tell Tariq to take care of it this afternoon. She closed her eyes for a minute. I should tell Tariq to get someone to wash the windows as well. They need to be cleaned.

“I had another strange dream,” he said over the sound of the filling bathtub. He always shared his dreams in interminable detail. The sound of running water caused the inevitable pecking on the bedroom door. The pets had been banished from the bedroom when the mosquito net was installed. Alfie, the dog, and Trumpet, the cat, waited patiently for the door to open, but Kooky began pecking as soon as he heard her husband running the bath. She pressed the maid’s buzzer.

“You were in the dream,” he said, “only younger.”

Miki came in carrying a silver tray. One would think it was an extension of one of her limbs. The uniform looks good on her, Saniya thought. She should get two more in the same yellow color. Sri Lankan skin color is probably the only tone that could pull off that yellow. Kooky tried to trip Miki, biting at her big toe through the shoes. Alfie and Trumpet entered the room and waited patiently for Miki to lift the hateful mosquito net.

“Good morning, madam,” she said, placing the coffee cup on the nightstand, trying to ignore Kooky.

“Good morning, Miki. Is my son up?”

“Yes, madam,” as she put the other coffee cup on Mustapha’s nightstand and began to lift the net.

“Did you make him tea?”

“Yes, madam, and orange juice.”

Trumpet was on the bed the minute the net was off.

“You had green hair,” her husband said, “and I mean bright green hair, which doesn’t make sense because I think your hair is the best thing about you, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, darling, I know,” usually enough of an answer to satisfy him.

Trumpet curled up next to her. Alfie waited until she had her first sip of coffee before placing his head on the bed to be petted. Kooky began climbing at the foot of the bed and made his ritualistic daily journey till he reached her chest and squawked.

“Tell your bird to keep it down,” her husband said from the bathroom. “It’s too early in the morning.” His standard response, every day.

“Shh!” Kooky and Saniya nuzzled.

“So what did you think of the dream?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

Ramzi appeared at the door. “Are you up?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, come in, come in.”

“I want to get my email,” he said.

“Sure. How did you sleep?”

“Got up at six, which is not as bad as usual. I should be over it by tomorrow if I take a nap this afternoon.”

“Do you have diarrhea yet? You always have diarrhea when you first arrive here.”

“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t eaten anything yet. Don’t worry about it, okay, Mother?” He was at her computer, the modem dialing. It was only eight in the morning and he was dressed in pleated, tan, casual slacks, a pressed burgundy shirt, and brown loafers with what had become his signature, gold tassels.

“Is my son up?” Mustapha walked out of the bathroom stark naked but dry. Even his pubic hair was now white. “On the computer already, definitely your mother’s son.”

Ramzi stood up and kissed his father. Clothed facing naked.

“You should have woken me up when you got here,” Mustapha said as he began dressing.

“You looked too peaceful sleeping.”

“You,” Mustapha pointing at Saniya, who was still sipping her coffee, “you should have woken me up.”

“I will next time, dear.” Another sip.

He finished dressing in his customary ten minutes — as meticulous in his clothing selection as his dapper son. Still used garter belts to keep his socks up. Drank his coffee in two gulps. “Well, I’m off to work. I’ll see you at lunch, son. We can catch up then.”

Mustapha left the room. Ramzi waited till he heard the distant door to the apartment close before taking a compact disc from his pants pocket and turning on the stereo behind the computer.

“I just love the fact that you have everything you need in your bedroom, Mother.”

“It’ll be your bedroom when we’re gone. Do you ever listen to anybody other than Joan Sutherland, dear?”

“Sometimes.”

The first call of the morning was always at eight-thirty from Amal, her oldest stepdaughter. This morning was no different. The phone rang, in asynchronous stereo for Kooky always followed with an exact trill replica.