Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

She placed herself under the waters of the shower, vigorously rubbing her skin, to erase the marks, the bruises, any trace. She scrubbed.

She put a new dress on. She covered her face with makeup. She left her room to face the tribe. Everything must go on like before.

Hello everyone , she addressed the card table. A chorus of hellos. That’s a wonderful dress you’re wearing. The man overflowed his seat with his girth. You like it? She twirled coyly. It’s a beautiful dress , her father said. Did he still love her? she wondered.

She sat in front of the television. Her stepmother watched her intently. Are you all right? Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine. For a minute, but only a minute, she considered how many girls must have gone through what she did and sat silent. Are you sure you’re all right?

* * *

Her best friend was spending the night. They were in bed together. What’s going on? It’s been a while since you’ve been yourself. Don’t you think I’d know if you’re not all right? I’m your best friend. For the first time since the incident, tears ran down her cheeks. Her best friend gently touched her cheek. I missed my period. Oh, my god. You didn’t tell me you went all the way with him. I didn’t. Oh, my god! I was raped. There. She said it. I was raped .

A best friend is someone who cries when you do.

We’ll go see Dr. Baddour. What if he tells someone? He won’t. But everyone will know. No one will know. There’s something inside of me. I know it. We’ll just get rid of it. Who’ll pay? I have some money, and anyway, I’m sure he’ll give us a discount.

Dr. Baddour scheduled her in the morning. She did not dare look down while he worked. She looked up. At the white ceiling, which became hazy sometimes.

The pain in her stomach was unbearable. She stayed in bed, told her parents she had stomach flu. She tried to be quiet for fear her father would want to examine her. Her best friend held her hand for a whole week.

Six months later, a group of her friends were over for dinner. Bombs were exploding somewhere in the distance. The electricity went out. They played a French version of Pictionary by candlelight. They were divided into teams of two, one to draw and the other to guess what was being drawn. She was teamed up with her best friend. They had been playing for over an hour. The next word was in the category of action. The first artist looked up the word. Oh, boy. This is going to be hard. He passed the card to the next artist and then to her best friend. She saw her best friend’s jaw drop. Okay. Time. The artists began drawing. Her friend put the pencil on paper, but was unable to make it move. Stick figures in various forms of coupling appeared on the other artists’ papers. Have sex. She was looking at her best friend, who still could not draw anything. Making love. The other guessers yelled out possible answers. A lump stuck in her throat. Fucking. It has to be fucking.

Her best friend finally looked at her, her eyes moist. Rape? she asked quietly, incredulously. I can’t believe you figured it out. You should have drawn it differently. How can I tell this is rape and not just fucking? I put those lines around the figures. That means it’s violent. Those lines mean violent? You’re crazy. Well, sorry, I don’t know how to draw rape. I can’t believe you figured it out. You two must be psychic. You must have some kind of connection.

For the rest of her life, she would try and figure out why a game of Pictionary would have the word rape in it.

How does one draw rape?

I don’t believe artists know half the time what they are creating. Oh yes, all the tralala, the technique — that’s another matter. But like ordinary people who get out of bed, wash their faces, comb their hair, cut the tops of their boiled eggs, they don’t act, they’re instruments which are played on, or vessels which are filled — in many cases only with longing.

— PATRICK WHITE, The Vivisector

She wakes up from her afternoon nap feeling heavy. She is still trying to adjust to sleeping on her back. Her neck aches. So does her back. She hears steam building in the heaters. Soon the apartment will transform from a freezing cold to a stifling heat in time for those returning from work. She does not understand why the most advanced country on earth still has apartments where you cannot regulate the heat.

Sarah gets out of bed slowly, puts on her terrycloth robe, which she abhors but has to make do with because it is her only maternity robe. She will not buy one she likes. This will be her one and only pregnancy. She toddles over to the window. Looks out. She has to crane her neck at an unnatural angle to see the sky. Blue, not a cloud in sight. Must be cold outside. She looks below, confirms the snow still on the ground, probably ice as well. The usual hordes walk the streets of the Upper West Side. She sees the Haitian woman coming out of the building across the street with the white baby. The nanny pushes the stroller down the five steps, one step at a time, until it is on the street. She comes around, bends over to see if the baby is well wrapped. From her height, Sarah can see nothing of the baby but a large, multi-hued bundle. The nanny pushes the stroller past the side of Sarah’s window. How lucky, Sarah thinks. How fortunate to have to take care of a baby during working hours only, to be able to trudge back home and leave everything when her time is up.

With each step, her feet sink slowly into her thick slippers as she walks to the bathroom. She did not realize one could gain so much weight. She sits on the toilet and empties herself. She keeps sitting even after she is done. She thinks she is getting a headache. Without getting up, she stretches, reaching her bottle of Tylenol, and swallows two pills without water.

He walks home from the university after classes. It is still early, but light is fading quickly. He has yet to adjust to the disappearance of light this early in the day. He longs for the Mediterranean sun. The colder it gets in the city, the more vivid his azure dreams.

It is a decent walk from Columbia University to his apartment. Omar walks the thirty-three blocks briskly, never takes the subway. He can’t stand the stench of the underground. He does not particularly like the aboveground smells much either. At least winter ameliorates the city’s horrific odors. As he thinks of the smells, he instinctively breathes deeply and gauges. Musty ammonia with a subtle tinge of putrefaction. Disgusting. He feels weighted down in so much clothing, oppressed by the sweaters, the ski hat, the woolen scarf. It is difficult to move. He is wearing long johns, for crying out loud. He did not realize he would ever have to wear long johns.

Sarah walks into the kitchen. She needs a cup of coffee. She turns on the magical Mr. Coffee, the greatest invention. Omar hates American coffee. She likes it. Or has she gotten used to it? She never cared for Turkish coffee, too thick, too permanent. When in Beirut, she drank Nescafé, and anything Mr. Coffee makes is better than instant. She leans back on the counter and stares into space. Looks at the black-and-white clock on the wall, realizes it is time for Omar to come home. He did not notice the clock in the kitchen. She bought it two weeks ago thinking it was cute. Instead of going from one to twelve, it has one, two, three, and then etc. She loves that.