Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

I looked around me. I was in Never Never Land, the green line of Beirut, not too far from Martyrs’ Square. I must have taken a wrong turn. Destruction was all around, but so was greenery. Trees and bushes sprouted from unrecognizable buildings. A jungle attempting to reclaim its glorious past from its concrete counterpart.

In the distance atop a hill of rubble, I saw the silhouette of a young boy, with a machine gun growing from his hip. I began to shake. I realized it was ironic I was not afraid of the gun as much as I was of the boy’s silhouette. Some memories are hard to release. He began walking toward me. I tried the ignition, but the car would not start. The only sound that could be heard was the false starts of the Volvo. The engine caught. I stepped on the gas. The car lurched forward, toward the approaching boy, and died. I tried again. Another false start. The engine caught again and died before I could step on the gas.

The boy tapped gently on my window. I lowered it, trying hard not to stare at his face that seemed to have suddenly erupted in a rash of pimples and choral cystic acne. He was smiling gently. I smiled back, nervously.

“Are you all right?” he asked me.

“Yes, I think so. I seem to be lost and my car won’t start.”

“Do you want me to look at it?”

“Do you know anything about cars?” I asked. Behind the pimples, his face was cherubic, high and full cheekbones. He looked innocent, or at least trustworthy.

“I know some. My dad was a mechanic. Let me look. Open the hood.”

I pulled the latch and just as he lifted the hood, I heard gunfire. The boy showed his head from behind the hood. “Uh oh,” he said, still smiling. “We should get out of here. It’s going to get messy.”

“Where to?” I asked. “Where can I go?”

“Come with me. I know a shelter.”

I got out of the car gingerly. He walked in front, too slow it seemed to me. I caught up with him and tried to move him along. He would not hurry up. I heard men shouting from one of the pockmarked buildings. Some men shouted back from below. I could not understand what was being said. We arrived at a building, getting there from the side. There was a hole at ground level, caused initially by a shell, but enlarged by men for easier access. The boy stepped into the building, and I followed bending my head as I entered. The smell of burned refuse, decaying flesh, excrement, and urine greeted me.

“You’ll get used to it in a minute,” he said. “The nausea passes.”

A kerosene lamp lit the windowless room. A thick layer of dust covered everything, a small table, four rickety chairs. A couple of M16s and three hookahs stood in a corner next to a television set whose screen had been shattered by bullets. A guitar stand, without the instrument, occupied another corner; under it lay a dead rat. An exquisite backgammon board lay open on the table.

“Do you play?” the youth asked as he sat on one of the chairs.

“I don’t think I should,” I replied. “I’m too anxious and I don’t have my Xanax. I don’t seem to have my handbag.”

“That’s okay. They won’t take long. The shooting will go on for ten minutes or so and then they’ll stop. Everybody is exhausted.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“Who can remember anymore? Habit, I guess. Nobody knows anything else. They start shooting, forgetting why. They stop. They start in a different way. They stop again. Try a different attack. They can’t seem to be able to finish a battle. It’s endless.”

“Can’t someone get them to stop?”

He shrugged. I guess the question was too silly. I sat on one of the chairs. My heels were killing me. “Why aren’t you fighting?” I asked.

“Because my father died.”

“You were fighting for him?”

“Oh, no,” he said. He took out a deck of cards from his pocket and began laying out a solitaire game. “My father did not want me to fight at all.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If he didn’t want you to fight, why did you stop fighting after he died?”

He looked up at me and gave me an angelic smile, white teeth and all. “Because I’m the bad son. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to stand around while they took everything away from me. I took up the gun. He said he had no son anymore. I was free for a while or I thought I was. But now he’s dead. I don’t have to be unlike him.”

“You can fix cars?”

“Yes.” He sighed, the smile disappearing. “I’m good at it too. Just like he was. I can’t run far enough.”

The battle outside was going full blast. We were hearing every type of weapon. I hoped the boy was right and it would be over soon.

“Are we safe here?” I asked. “I mean a shell came through here once already.”

“A shell never hits anywhere twice.”

“That’s lightning. That rule doesn’t apply to shells.”

“Oh, well. Is anywhere safe?”

On cue, the battle stopped. More men shouted. I looked through the hole in the wall, but I could not see anything.

“Shall I fix your car now?” he asked.

“Yes. I should get out of here. It’s not safe.”

He stood up and came toward me. He held my hand as he went through the hole. I followed, the harsh sunlight blinding me. I took a deep breath. The cleaner air was disorienting. I could smell cordite and smoke. I tried to breathe again, but felt myself blacking out. I looked at the boy before I lost consciousness.

I wake up to the barely audible voice of Bernard Shaw reciting the news on CNN. I had slept slouched at my desk. My neck is sore. I stretch it backward, then bend it down and rotate my head sideways to release the crick.

Fish swim languidly across my laptop’s screen. A red fish eats a blue fish and swims away. Blue fish swallows the red fish. Fish come and go without any discernible purpose. Rain slaps my bay windows, water streaking along thin paths on the glass. I look outside, a dreary, stormy day in San Francisco. Without moving from my desk, I click the remote and mute the television blather. I run my hand along the edge of my mahogany desk.

I consider taking a plate with a piece of half-eaten buttered toast back to the kitchen.

Lightning flashes outside, momentarily brightening my study. I look around at the walls. I am no longer sure I can live with the butter yellow color. Maybe I can paint the trim something other than white. One of my paintings hangs on the wall, a strong one, one of my chosen. Cadmium red bars on titanium white background. The second lowest bar on the right is not a perfect rectangle, which tilts the whole painting. Few people realize that. The eye always fills in the imperfections. Eleven perfect rectangles; the twelfth must be as well. Maybe that is why I feel irritable. I should hang the painting in another room, or repaint the rectangle, or repaint the walls a peach and not butter yellow. I should paint peaceful paintings.

The pigeons sheltered above my window, under my roof, flap their wings in unison. I hear movements, an apparent jockeying for positions. Then softer, and the cooing recommences. This is their home now, I think. Shoo, Fly, Don’t bother me. They coo softly, settle in.

I can paint the walls a robin’s egg blue.

I drag my forefinger across the computer touchpad to eliminate the carnivorous fish. Out pops my manuscript. My manuscript. Mine. I tense, feel a knot building in my right shoulder. I feel about to faint.

I stand up and put on my coat. I will walk across the street for a coffee, something to ease the tension. I stretch my back.