Elias Khoury - Gate of the Sun

Now I call Shams’ killing a massacre rather than an execution, as I used to. It was terrible. They tricked her, asking her to go to the Miyyeh wi-Miyyeh camp to be reconciled and to pay blood money, and they were waiting for her. A man with a machine gun came from each family; they hid themselves behind the mounds lining the highway, and when she arrived — you know what happened. There’s no need to describe the shreds of woman stuck to the metal of the burned-out car.

Why am I talking about Shams when we’re supposed to be talking about Mme. Nada Fayyad? Was Nada your way of escaping the incandescence of Nahilah?

You don’t want me to talk about Nada? Okay, suggest another subject then.

I know you don’t like talking about these things, and I never meant to end up here. I just wanted to tell you a story you didn’t know. I must concentrate because one thing leads to another.

I was describing your physical condition to you. After they pulled out the IV needle, they put the feeding tube into your nose. Yesterday I decided to add a drug called L-Dopa that’s used for epileptics and has proven effective for the comatose. This is something I should have done earlier. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? Never mind. We’ll have to wait a few days before we’ll notice its effects.

I know you’re in pain, and I can sense your rigidity in this white atmosphere. Here you are — wrapped in white, surrounded by dust and noise and incomprehensible murmurs.

I know that your back is hurting you. I promise you that will change; I’m rubbing your back with creams that will improve your circulation. I won’t allow poor circulation to give you sores. There’s no way around the pressure sores; we just need to deal with them quickly. Whatever we do, however much we massage you, we’ll never be able to prevent the sores that come from lying motionless in bed.

We’ve inserted a permanent catheter. It has to be there or you’d be poisoned by your own urine, because instead of wetting yourself, as Nurse Zainab had expected, you are retaining everything. The catheter will most likely lead to an inflammation of the urethra. That’s why we take your temperature every day. I know you hate it, but I have to do it. Please let me use the suppositories three times a week — even the milk is converted into shit. God, how horrible we discover our bodies to be — a feeding tube at the top, a tube for waste below, and us in between.

Please don’t despise yourself, I beg you. If only you knew how happy I was when I discovered it wasn’t over, that your cells were still renewing themselves even in the midst of this death.

I’m cutting your hair, clipping your nails and shaving your beard, but the most important thing is your new odor, an odor of milk and powder almost like a baby’s.

I’ll describe how I spend my day with you, so you can relax and stop muttering.

I enter your room at 7 a.m., empty your catheter and clean your nails. Then I mop your room. After that I give you a bath with soap and water, for which I use an expensive soap that I bought myself, because here at the hospital they refuse to buy “Baby Johnson” claiming that it costs a lot and is supposed to be for babies. Then I change your white gown and call Zainab to help me lift you and sit you in the chair; she holds you up while I change the sheets. I don’t want to give you more to worry about, but the sheets were a problem. What kind of hospital is this? They said they weren’t responsible for sheets, so I had to buy three sets. I’ve asked Zainab to wash them, and I give her a small amount for the service. That way I don’t have to worry anymore about changing the sheets every day. Next, I put you back in bed, get the mucus extractor (because you can’t cough now), extract the mucus from your windpipe, clean the extractor, and rest a little.

At eight-thirty, I get your breakfast ready and feed it to you gently through your nose. At twelve-thirty, I prepare your lunch and, before feeding you, tip you a little on your side and wipe your face with a damp towel.

At five, I make your afternoon snack, which is a bit different because I mix honey into the milk, farm honey from the village of al-Sharqiyyeh in the south.

At nine, I rub your body with alcohol, then sprinkle talcum powder on it. When I find the beginnings of a bed sore, I stop rubbing and bathe you again. The evening bath isn’t mandatory every day.

At nine-thirty, you eat dinner.

After dinner, I stay with you a while and tell you stories. Sometimes I’ll fall asleep in my chair and wake up with a start at midnight. Or I’ll leave you quietly and go to my room in the hospital, where I sleep.

My room is a problem.

They all think I sleep there because I’m scared and on the run. To tell you the truth, I am scared. Amin al-Sa’id came to see me three months ago. You know him: he was a comrade of mine in Fatah’s Sons of Galilee brigade and now lives in the Rashidiyyeh camp near Tyre. He told me they’d decided to take special security measures because Shams’ family had sent a bunch of their young men from Jordan to Lebanon to avenge their daughter, and he asked me to be careful. I told him I didn’t care because I had a clear conscience. But, as you see, I’m stuck in this hospital and unable to leave.

The surprising thing, master, is how much you’ve changed. I won’t tell you how much thinner you’ve gotten, since I’m sure you’re aware of that. And your little paunch — which you hated so much you’d run five kilometers every day hoping to get rid of it — is gone. I think you’ve lost more than half your weight.

Zainab thinks that your new smell is the result of the soap, powder, and creams I use to massage you, but that’s not true. You smell like a baby now because you eat what babies eat. Your smell is milky — a white smell on a white body.

I suspect you’ve started to shrink a little; maybe tomorrow I’ll bring a tape measure. Don’t be frightened, it’s just your bones contracting because of the lack of movement or the cells not renewing themselves due to your age. Your bones are getting shorter and you’re getting shorter, but so what? Don’t get upset: Soon, when you get up, I’ll organize a special diet full of vitamins for you and everything will be as it was, and better.

Do you hear me?

Why don’t you say anything?

Didn’t you like the story?

I know what you want now. You want me to leave you alone to sleep, and you want the radio. The bastards stole the radio. Last night I left it on all night. I thought it would keep you company while you were on your own, but they stole it.

I know who they are. They haven’t forgotten their status and wealth during the revolution. Don’t they know I’m the poorest guy here? True, I’m a nurse and a doctor, but I’m also a beggar. The golden days are over, but they haven’t yet digested that we’re back to square one — poor.

And you, have you forgotten those days?

Have you forgotten how Abu Jihad al-Wazir, *God rest his soul, would take a tattered scrap of paper and use it to disburse unimaginable sums to people in need of money? Indignant, I mentioned it to you, but you didn’t agree with me. I told you so I could make the point that money had corrupted us and would destroy us, but you explained everything to me then and asked me not to say anything about Abu Jihad that I would regret later. “Two men, Son, represent all that’s best among the martyrs — Abu Ali Iyad and Abu Jihad al-Wazir.” Could you have had a premonition of his assassination in Tunis? Did you know about it then, or did you just see it coming? You said Abu Jihad used a tattered scrap of paper to disburse money to show his contempt for it, because money is nothing.

I’ll buy you a new radio tomorrow.