Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

Sarah woke up late, on an early August Sunday in San Francisco, had slept much longer than was necessary. She rose out of bed, stumbled slowly into the bathroom, swaying as if drunk, trying to disentangle her brain from the cobwebs of sleep. She looked out the window, was not surprised to find a heavy, wet fog. Summer in San Francisco. She still felt groggy. She slapped her face, shook her head vigorously from side to side, and sat on the toilet. She noticed the empty toilet roll dispenser. She thought she had gotten a new roll yesterday. She was almost sure of it. She remembered the roll was on the small table in the corridor. She was bringing it into the bathroom when the phone rang. She must learn to complete her projects. She used facial tissues. She stood up, annoyed with herself for being so easily distracted. She would go directly and fill the dispenser.

As she passed by the mirror, she stopped. Her reflection looked good today. Her features were soft, as were her brown eyes. She felt relieved. She put her head outside the bathroom door and yelled, “Are you up?”

From the kitchen, “Of course, I’m up. I don’t need ten hours of sleep.”

“Maybe you should try it. I look wonderful this morning.”

“Go back to sleep then.”

“No, no. Come see and bring me a cup of coffee, please!”

Kamal turned the corner into the corridor, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He was already dressed, ready to go. “I think you should be the one bringing me coffee. I’m on vacation, a guest here.”

“Shut up and get your butt over here!” He slowed down, began sauntering. She had to admit she loved the way he walked. She thought her son was handsome, with his dark, long hair, and brown eyes. She was thankful again that he did not take after his father in looks. He pretended he was moving in slow motion, every step taking an eternity.

“Get in here,” Sarah said when he was close enough for her to grab. She took the coffee from him and kissed him. “Look at your mother. Doesn’t she look wonderful this morning?”

She held him, made him stand next to her facing the mirror. “You look the same as yesterday,” he said.

“Ah, what do you know? You’re not even looking. You’ll always miss the finer things in life.”

“ This is one of the finer things in life? I worry about you, Mom. Staring at yourself in the mirror? Hey, looks like there’s water damage here.”

“Where?” she gasped, her hands going quickly to her face.

He bent down to look at the wall next to the bathtub. “You should fix this,” he said. He was right. She should have fixed that five years ago when she first noticed it.

He stood up and walked out of the bathroom. “Well, what’s the point of looking wonderful if you’re going to spend the morning having breakfast with homosexuals?”

She yelled at his departing form, “Your uncle doesn’t have breakfast, he has brunch.” Pleased with herself, she began to get ready. Happy.

Sarah went into the hardware store. “Your uncle asked us to get him a pitcher. He broke his.” Kamal followed, dragging his feet. On her way to kitchenware, she stopped in front of an ugly fake plant, bright plastic fuchsias dangling from dusty synthetic leaves in a tattered woven pot. Sarah began tearing. Her hand covered her mouth and she wept silently. She knelt on one knee to look closer.

“It is awful, isn’t it?” a man asked her.

Sarah glanced up at him in surprise and quickly wiped her tears away. “It’s terrible.” She tried a weak smile.

He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He ran his hand though his hair, raking it back.

“Oh, yes. This thing just reminded me of someone.”

The man looked both ways, tying to gauge if anyone was watching, then with wrists on hips, arms akimbo, he whispered, “Well, you know what, hon? If this thing reminds you of him, believe me, you’re better off without him. I mean, come on, a plastic fuchsia?”

She giggled.

“Anyway,” he went on, “like I always say, ‘And this too shall pass.’”

She stood up, noticed her son was standing back observing, bemused.

The man, no longer looking at her, but up at the ceiling, sighed. “And sometimes it doesn’t pass, which is why I’m on Paxil.”

“Paxil?” Sarah asked. “Doesn’t it make you sleepy? I couldn’t deal with it. I was sleeping all day. I prefer Zoloft.”

“Zoloft works for you?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well. I love it.” She looked at her son, who pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Thanks so much, dear,” she told the man as she grabbed her son by the arm and began moving away. “You’ve been a great help.”

Sarah dragged her son along the aisle. She could not help but chuckle with him. “No, I don’t always discuss my medications with strangers,” she said. “So don’t you start.”

“You attract homosexuals.”

Kamal seemed distracted as they walked. She put her arm in his. “Do you still think of him?” he asked her.

He still wanted to be her confidant. Her ex-husband told her a couple of years earlier that Kamal had ceased to confide in him. Would he still confide in her? One benefit of her son growing up thousands of miles away was that he did not have to rebel against her, or so it seemed.

“Do I still think of whom? David? Not often. Every now and then something will remind me of him, like that stupid fake plant, but for the most part I no longer do. It has been so long.”

“But why do you even bother?” He asked this sternly, looking at her. She noticed the left corner of his mouth twitch momentarily, and then go slack.

“I don’t know. I guess I just loved him.”

“But you loved a lot of people. You always say you loved Dad.”

“I still do. It’s different, that’s all.” She slowed down. They were getting close to her brother’s house, and she wanted to enjoy this walk a little more. “Who is your girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly, careful not to let her eagerness show. She ran her finger across his cheek.

“Well, if you know I have a girlfriend, then I’m sure you know who she is. Dad must have told you.”

“Well, why the subterfuge?”

“Because it’s nobody’s business.”

“Oh, my. This is serious.” She watched him begin to redden, even his ears changed color. “Is this love I see before me?”

“Cut it out.”

“So is it true what your father said, that your lips and hers seem to be sewn together?”

“Glued together. The metaphor is glued together, not sewn.”

“I can use whatever metaphor I like. I’m the writer.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, my, my, my. This is serious.” She could not help smiling. She had heard about what was going on, but had not expected to find him so smitten. “This is love. I can see why you’d have a fight with your dad over her.”

“Is that what he told you?” He shook his head in consternation. “He told you the fight was about her? He didn’t tell you about FreeCell, I assume.”

“FreeCell?”

“The computer solitaire game. That’s what all politicians in Lebanon do. They drink coffee and play FreeCell. Dad doesn’t let anybody use his computer. You know why? He doesn’t want to fuck up his FreeCell ratio. Can you believe that? I sat and played the dumb game and I lost. I broke his record of eighteen straight games. He freaked. He started screaming I should leave his FreeCell alone.”

She started laughing again. “That wasn’t about FreeCell, you know.”

“Don’t start with psychoanalysis, Mom. Please. FreeCell isn’t a metaphor for his penis. I don’t care about his FreeCell or his penis.”

By the time they reached the door, she was convulsing with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes.