Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

Sarah shakes her head. “I know what your early work looks like. I know all your work. Remember?”

“I meant in person. We can see the cabin for real instead of blueprints. Self-exposure in the woods instead of on paper.” Dina grins seductively at her friend, which only causes Sarah to shake her head even more.

“Where’s Margot?” Sarah asks pointedly.

“She’s at home.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Big one?”

“Yes. Big one.”

“Really big one?”

“Biggest one we’ve ever had.” Dina disentangles herself, stands up, and moves closer to the railing. She absentmindedly runs her gloved hand over the metal, removing the snow from the guardrail.

“I see. And you left?” Sarah shuffles her feet, stares intently at her friend.

“Packed a small bag.”

“Does she know?”

“She’ll find out tonight.”

“Just like that?”

“She told me to go to hell.”

“And here you are.”

“This isn’t hell,” Dina exclaims. She turns around smiling, her arms gesturing to encompass everything around her. “Look. This is beautiful. This is closer to heaven. My kind of heaven at least.”

“This is hell. Did you notice all the churches?”

“There’s a great vintage clothing shop.”

“Used clothing. Used, not vintage.”

“No, no. Vintage. Believe me, what they have in that store should be in a museum. It’s vintage.”

“Are you going to call her?”

“No.”

“You’re going to let her suffer not knowing where the fuck you are?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you being childish?”

“Sarah Nour el-Din. Let’s not talk about being childish, shall we?”

“I’m just repeating what you say to me.”

“I know.”

“Call her.”

“Fuck no.”

“Call her.”

“No way. She called me a baby.”

“You’re acting like one.”

“I’m not calling.”

“I will if you won’t.”

“You die if you do.”

“This is so unlike you. I can’t believe you will stay here when she’ll be worried sick when she gets home tonight.”

“Tough.”

“No, no. Hold on a second.” Sarah looks energized, as if finally comprehending. “I know you, Dina Ballout. Margot knows you’re here.”

“Nope, she doesn’t. I just packed and left. Didn’t tell her anything.”

“She’s been here. She knows about this forsaken place. She must know about this place. She probably knows exactly where to find you.”

“She has been here.” Dina says this, pretending nonchalance.

“You’ve been here together.”

“We come here every year.”

“This is where you met?”

“Right here.”

Dina stands staring at the water. She cries softly. Sarah comes over and hugs her. “She’ll be here,” Sarah says.

“Well, she’d better drive over tonight or I’ll break her fucking legs.”

“I know her. She’ll be here. She’ll figure it out.”

“Well, I packed my thermal underwear so she knows I didn’t go to Florida!”

“That’s a good clue.” They both giggle.

“Hey, no one can accuse me of not planning ahead. And I packed the espresso maker. She knows the swill they serve for coffee here.”

“Great idea. Let’s get some coffee. I’m freezing.”

We see them walk up the embankment, arm in arm. And this is as good a place to end our first chapter as any.

I sat down in front of the television with my first quart of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (the first, Chunky Monkey; the second, Cherry Garcia). I was confused, slightly blue. I flipped channels as I stuffed my face. Ice cream worked better for me than any antidepressant or mood enhancer.

I was having trouble writing my memoir, not being able to figure out how to attack it. I had tried different methods, but the memoir parried back expertly. When I was a little girl, I used to watch a cartoon called Touché Turtle , the name of a fencing turtle musketeer whose sidekick was a talking dog called Dum-Dum. Every time I tried something new with my memoir, I felt the memoir become Touché Turtle, fighting me all the way. “Touché,” the turtle would say every time it stabbed me, which was fairly often. At the end of each frustrating writing session, I would hear the damn turtle’s farewell call, “Touché away,” complete with closing credit music. I sat in front of my television devouring ice cream, healing my saber wounds before I attempted to enter the fray again.

I settled on a PBS nature documentary about lions in Africa. There was Red, the dominant male of the pride, getting older and barely holding on to his position within the pride. Juna was the best hunter, and the pride began to follow her lead while hunting. It was exquisite to see the pride on a hunt, the interminable wait, the coordinated movements, as if they were one organism, such murderous poetry in motion.

A lioness called Pinky delivered three delightful cubs, Bucka, Monk, and Ginny. Ginny turned out to be the cutest cub of them all, playful and cuddly.

Time passed. One of the younger males, Lewis, matured and decided to leave the pride and make his own way. Bucka, Monk, and Ginny were about four months old. It was a joy to watch and I was lost in a whole new world. I loved the interactions and relationships. I enjoyed the friendship between Pinky and Lisa, who seemed inseparable. I loved the communal rearing of the young.

A new lion appeared on the horizon, Corey, in his prime, beautiful, strong, and obviously up to no good. He stood on a hill and roared. Old Red, now alert, roared back. But even from the roars, you could tell the fight was over before it even began. Old Red was done for. I felt sad for him, but hey, that was life. The old had to go at some point. Old Red left the pride after a token fight. Corey was the new leader, but then that son of a bitch did something that shocked me.

Corey walked over to where my babies, Bucka, Monk, and Ginny, lay shivering with fright and began to kill them one by one. He started with Bucka, while Monk and Ginny cowered at his feet. He lifted Bucka by his neck, shook his head ferociously until the cub’s neck snapped, and flipped the corpse away. He then picked up Monk while Ginny stayed where she was, waiting her turn for annihilation. By the time he killed Ginny, I no longer recognized myself. The announcers were pedantically explaining the logic of Corey’s behavior, while I sat open-mouthed, shocked, unable to hear anything. I sweated, felt porous, like my body was made of clay not yet fired. I was afraid if I moved even an inch, one of my limbs would fall off.

On the screen, the pride was adjusting to life with Corey. Slowly, I began to grapple with what had happened. Individuals came and went, but the pride was what survived. Always. I had identified with each lion or lioness as a separate entity. I had thought I knew about lions because I saw Ginny as a cute and cuddly cub.

If I wanted to know about lion , I had to look at the entire pride. I had to look at it not as a single organism per se, but as a new unit much larger than the sum of its parts. Red was lion ; Lewis, the lion who left the pride, was lion ; Lisa was lion ; Corey was lion ; and my baby, Ginny, whose life was snuffed out to ensure Corey’s new lineage, was lion . I could not begin to fathom what being a lion was if I only looked at each lion individually, or even at the relationships between the lions. All of them together, not all of them individually summed up, but all of them as a dynamic organism, were the species; all were the word lion .