Elias Khoury - The Journey of Little Gandhi

That night she cried, Ralph said. Pain was everywhere. My joints ached. And she, she became more beautiful, no one was more beautiful. Beautiful and glimmering under the lights. She put on her pink robe and walked. around the house barefoot and started to sing. I stayed on the edge of the bed alone. I could feel her, but she wasn’t herself.

Ralph said Nuha was not Nuha.

“How could a woman be another woman?” Rima asked.

“I don’t know,” Ralph answered. “I swear I don’t know anything. I mean, I was there and she was there, but I wasn’t really there. Until now her voice rings in my ears. I hear it but I don’t understand. I feel like my body isn’t my body.”

“And with me, you don’t feel?” Rima asked.

“No, it’s different. You I love. With her it was pure lust. She controlled me. Not you, making love with you is like making love.”

Rima thought about the concierge, but she didn’t say anything.

And Husn didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell his father he killed the woman, Gandhi figured it out himself. He saw the smell of murder in his son’s eyes. It was the same smell he saw for the first time in the eyes of Zaylaa, who later turned into a lamb in the Montana. Gandhi thought he could fix the matter with the help of Doctor Atef, since Doctor Atef had important friends in high places and could save Husn from the gallows. But no one investigated the murder of Madame Nuha. An officer from the Hbaysh precinct came by and filed a report and the corpse was taken to American University Hospital. The crime was considered a casualty of the war. No one knew how or where Madame Nuha was buried. Some said they couldn’t find a grave for her and so they temporarily buried her in Mar Elias Btina Cemetery. Some said they couldn’t find a Maronite priest to pray for her, and so a Protestant minister temporarily prayed for her. This was the exact opposite of what happened to the White Russian woman Vitsky Novikova, who died as a maid and was buried as a queen.

Madame Sabbagha went half-crazy. She called the bishop of Beirut and stood in front of her house wailing. Everybody came, all the families of Ras Beirut attended the funeral of Vitsky Novikova. Heading the procession was the bishop of Beirut, the Reverend Amin, the leaders of the political parties, even the Soviet ambassador was planning to attend but couldn’t make it. The coffin was carried out of Mar Elias Church surrounded by women in black, incense burners, icons, and wreaths. Madame Sabbagha stood in front waving a black handkerchief; next to her was her stupid daughter who didn’t know how to talk. From then on people said Madame Sabbagha had gone crazy. She started following the Reverend Amin in the streets, ranting and raving about this and that scandal, until finally one of her relatives came along and took her and her daughter away. After that, no one heard anything about her.

Ralph didn’t want to kill Madame Nuha. He didn’t kill her. He told Rima she died, she slipped, hit her head on the bathtub, and died. Ralph said he carried her to her room because he thought she was still alive. Ralph was lying. “You’re a liar, Ghassan. You’re a murderer, and I’m afraid of you,” Rima said and left the house and never came back.

Ralph didn’t want to. Madame Nuha told him. He came to her in the evening as usual. He was still intoxicated with what had happened the night before, which he told Rima all about, and which even now he didn’t know how to tell. He came, ready as usual, to do all the things that made her laugh. Madame Nuha used to laugh a lot when Ralph stood up after making love with her and started imitating the Reverend Amin, his slow gait, the way he slurred every word that came out of his mouth, especially “You are the salt of the earth,” which was almost impossible to understand. He came only to find Nuha telling him, “It’s over”.

“What’s over?”

“It’s over, Ralph, my darling. I’m going to get married, we can’t do it anymore. I’m getting married next week. Please go.”

There was a new tone in her voice, as if she were about to cry.

“And what about me?”

“You? How do I know?”

“Who is he?”

“Constantine. Constantine Mikhbat, a well-known businessman, and my late husband’s friend.”

“And how old is he?”

“Fifty-six.”

“Do you love him?”

“I love him and he loves me. It’s over, Ralph. You have to understand.”

They were sitting in the living room, in the same place they were drinking whiskey and eating a light supper before going to bed.

She told him Constantine had always been in love with her and she had always turned him away. She couldn’t understand how he, her husband’s friend, could dare to talk to her about his love for her.

“But I was faithful. I never went out with him once. I let him hold my hand a few times, but never let it go beyond that.”

“Then what happened?”

“My husband died in the war, and he started calling me every day. We’d meet once a week. I’d go to his house in Ashrafiyyeh because he was afraid to come here.”

“And do you love him?”

“I told you I love him. It’s not a game.”

“Have you been sleeping with him?”

“What kind of question is this? Of course.”

“You’re sleeping with him and with me at the same time?”

“It’s different with you. Him I want to marry. You’re something else.”

“You’re a whore; come over here.”

Nuha didn’t move. Ralph was being careful not to look at her. The entire conversation had taken place without him looking at her. Nuha hadn’t told Constantine anything about her relationship with Ralph, but she had intentionally wanted to sleep with Ralph before going to see Constantine. She didn’t sleep with Ralph every night, as Ralph had told Rima, or as he had remembered. She refused him many nights, but the night before she was to go see Constantine Mikhbat in Ashrafiyyeh she made a point of sleeping with Ralph. She’d wake up the next morning radiant and beautiful, smelling like soap.

Ralph didn’t know where the night had gone. They were in the living room and it was getting close to one o’clock in the morning. Madame Nuha was yawning. He moved over next to her and held her hand.

“No, Ralph. No more.”

“What do you mean, no more?”

“It’s over, I told you. We’re over. You have to go home now. Get up. Come give me a kiss. Good night.”

He went close to her and she kissed him on the cheek. He tried to hold on to her but she pushed him back. He fell onto the couch, sitting down. He tried to stand up and almost fell.

“You’re tired. Shall I make you a cup of herbal tea?”

“No. I don’t want anything.” He tried to get up. He stood up and the whole world started to spin.

She told him he could sleep there. “It’s all right. You can sleep here if you want.”

She went and got some sheets and a blanket for the sofa in the living room. Ralph took off all his clothes and threw himself naked onto the couch and covered himself with a green wool blanket.

She sat next to him and kissed his forehead.

“You know I love you,” she said.

“And I love you.”

He grabbed her by the hand and tried to pull her toward him.

She said no and went to her room, her three cats following behind.

One week later the smell started to seep from the house, and people found out that Madame Nuha Aoun had died of a sharp blow to the head, which caused internal bleeding and eventually led to her death. No one came to her burial. Even Mr. Constantine didn’t come. He was in Greek Orthodox Hospital with an inflamed liver, which would eventually lead to his death, in his own bed, all alone.

Rima was listening to Ghassan’s story and trying to get closer to him, but he kept moving farther away. His distance was comforting to her in a strange way.