Koolaids (11 page)

“No,” she replied. She was still controlling herself. “It's not true. Where would Jihad bring the boys to? He can't take them to the office.”

“He has an apartment at Ramlel Baida. Much better than the one you live in. I can show you photographs if you want.”

“You have photographs of my husband having sex with boys?” He roared with laughter again.

“I wish. Those would he fun to look at. No, I have pictures of the boys getting into the apartment building. They are all under seventeen, in case you're interested.”

“Then you can't prove anything. They are just rumors. They are just old rumors.”

“Samia, look at me,” he said gently. “Your husband fucks little boys. Not only that, he provides young boys for his friends to fuck as well. He has been doing that for twenty years. Who do you think brought all the boys to Arafat all those years back? Why do you think the Syrian brass like him so much?”

“That is just a rumor.”

“Okay. Okay. You still haven't answered my question. Why did you marry that fat . . . prick? How many years older is he? Thirty?”

“Twenty-six. And it is none of your business. Obviously you think you know more about my marriage than I do. Make up your own answers.”

“It can't be the money. Your family is rich. It can't be connections. Twelve years ago, he was nothing but a small-time pimp. We know it can't be the sex. What would make a beautiful eighteen-year old marry a fucking asshole like Marchi?”

She pulled her purse and stood up. “It is none of your fucking business,” she said angrily. “I want to go home. You can kill me now, otherwise I am just walking out of here and going home.”

He was smiling again. “I'll have a driver take you. He could drop you at your house. He'll cross over at the Franciscaine.”

“No, thank you. I would rather walk.”

“No, you would not,” he laughed. “My driver will take you. He can get you to your house in fifteen minutes. It's much easier.” “Fine. Fine. I just want to get out of here.”

“I want to see you again.”

“What?”

“I want to see you again.” He was standing beside her at the door.

“You are sick,” she said. “You are very sick. I would rather die. You are very sick.”

“I assume your husband is not having sex with you—”

“You are a sick man,” she interrupted him. “I want to get out of here.”

“But if he does touch you again, I will personally cross over and kill him myself.”

“You are a sick man.”

“My name is Nicola Akra, by the way, but you can call me Nick.” He smiled.

The heat was stifling as she left the building.

…

Subject: Charges against Nicole Ballan

beirut
, Lebanon—A lawsuit against the former beauty queen and her boyfriend was filed by the State Prosecutor. The couple are charged with filming a homemade porno movie. Two other men are charged as well with the distribution of the film. If found guilty of making the film with the intent of selling it, both parties face sentences of one year in jail.

Nicole is a beauty, one of those extraordinarily beautiful Lebanese girls. The boyfriend has such a big penis, even the straight men have no compunction talking about it. The film became the centerpiece of Lebanese conversation for a hell of a long time. A couple decides to give the public what they want and their lives are ruined in the process. Nicole had modeling contracts with a couple of French firms who withdrew their offers when the scandal erupted. She was also unable to get a visa to any European country. She is stuck in Lebanon. She opened a store in the Zouk, a northern suburb in Beirut, selling
abbayes.
Nobody wears
abbayes
much these days, and those that do wear them only as house robes, yet her small store has a line of men desperately trying to get in and buy something. They come from all over Lebanon. The men who ruined her life would pay anything to get a glimpse of her.

…

It is true. He is right.

“Nick is a great guy,” the driver says cheerfully. If she keeps quiet, he'll probably stop talking. They keep getting younger. He, on the other hand, is probably the same age as she. She is sitting in the back seat of the Range Rover, the current car
du jour
of gangsters and militiamen. Her husband has one, of course.

There is nobody at the Franciscaine crossing, which takes its name from the Franciscan school. The car breezes past the Christian checkpoint. When it gets to the other checkpoint, the driver shows them a government pass and is let through. Mr. Akra must be important.

“I want you to relay a message to your boss,” she says calmly.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Tell your boss that if he ever sets foot in this part of town, I will have him killed. Very slowly.”

The driver is aghast. He did not expect that.

“Can you relay the message, exactly, or should I send it with somebody else?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he stutters. “But why? Nick is a great man. He is a gentleman too.”

“You just give him the message, okay?”

“Yes, ma'am. Does that mean you don't like him?”

She shakes her head in disbelief. Her ten-year-old is smarter than this.

“He will be disappointed, ma'am. I think he likes you. He told me I am supposed to remember how to get to your house because I will be picking you up to help you cross over.”

“He told you what?” The man is completely crazy. “Just give him the message. Just give him my message.”

…

Sex. In America an obsession. In other parts of the world a fact.

Marlene Dietrich said that. She never used verbs because she was a cheap German.

…

I wake up in my own room. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can't move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can't move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can't move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. I wake up. I try to get up. I am unable to. I can't move. There is nothing constraining me. I should be able to get up. I am unable to. I am terrified. I realize I am still sleeping. I am dreaming. Life is a repeating pattern.

…

Brain stem, you say? By that definition, Juan should have been declared dead long before he even got to the hospital. I went to visit him and I could not believe what I saw. How do I describe the state he was in? He had his eyes open, but he was unconscious. Insensate? Insentient? But he wasn't catatonic. He was shaking constantly. Palsied? He was drooling continuously, farting every ten seconds.

His lover told me I could speak to Juan. He could hear me. Speak to him? I wanted to shoot him and put him out of his misery. He had completely lost motor coordination.

God is merciless. Juan had claimed he beat the virus. He went around the country lecturing on how he overcame AIDS. He felt better. Bang. What a way to go, huh?

I wonder if he was conscious. Just think of it. What if it were you? You are lying in a hospital bed. Spittle oozing out of your mouth constantly. You have to rely on your loved ones to wipe it for you, but it is endless, so they stop doing it. You are constantly shaking, not mild shaking, but heavy shaking, like an epileptic seizure. Think about this. All your loved ones are there and you keep farting every ten seconds. You can't stop. Fart, fart, fart, fart, fart. How would you feel? It's a good thing you have not eaten anything in a while. Who knows what would come out of your butt then?

Don't worry. It won't happen to you.

…

Firing on Israel has a long history. The PLO started it. Before the war, the PLO basically occupied southern Lebanon. The Lebanese government was powerless to stop them. The PLO even collected taxes from the Lebanese farmers, who were mostly Shiites. Just as they did with Hamas, the Israelis started helping the Shiites in the south organize and defend against the PLO. Those Shiites later became Hizballah.

The Shiites fought the PLO, but when the Israelis invaded in 1982, they turned their attention to their new enemy, Israel. The Israelis then started helping the Christians in the South organize and defend against Hizballah. Those Christians became the South Lebanese Army.

Hizballah learned much from the PLO, but they introduced a few sadistic twists of their own. What they did learn, though, was how to fire rockets across the border into Israel. They used the well-known military tactic of fire and run, which is sometimes called, by those in the know, the
Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino
school of advanced warfare.
Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino
is an Egyptian virus, first discovered in June of 1967, probably in the Sinai. It afflicts Semites in the Middle East, both Arabs and Israelis. Those infected with the virus are known to close their eyes, and fire, hoping to hit something. Translated from the Egyptian dialect,
Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino
means “Oh God, I hope this gets him in the eye.”

Hizballah would fire rockets into northern Israel, hoping to hit something. They actually begin running away before the rockets hit anything. If a rocket lands in Israel and not southern Lebanon, they declare victory. If it actually hits something, like some poor sucker's house, they declare complete victory. This is not an uncommon tactic among Arabs. Assad is called the Hero of October by the Syrians, based on his performance in the October war of 1973. You would think losing that war would not make one a hero, but he did give the Israelis a scare, attacking them on Yorn Kippur, so he is the Hero of October.

The Israelis fire back. They use heavier weapons, but they too are afflicted with the
Ya Rabbi Tegi Fi Aino
virus. They hit everything but Hizballah targets. In all their attacks, not one Hizballah fighter has fallen, not one Hizballah target. They have, however, killed many southern boys who might have one day grown up to be Hizballah fighters, so it evens out in the end.

So there you have it, a brief history of the Middle East version of
The Art of War.
Who needs poor old Sun?

…

Death comes in many shapes and sizes, but it always comes. No one escapes the little tag on the big toe.

The four horsemen approach.

The rider on the red horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth war.”

The rider on the black horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth plague.”

The rider on the pale horse says, “This good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth death.”

All three together chant:

When the sun shall be darkened,

When the stars shall be thrown down,

When the mountains shall be set moving,

When the pregnant camels shall be neglected,

When the savage beasts shall be mustered,

When the seas shall be set boiling,

When the souls shall be coupled,

When the buried infant shall be asked for what sin she was slain,

When the scrolls shall be unrolled,

When the heaven shall be stripped off,

When Hell shall be set blazing,

When Paradise shall be brought nigh,

Then shall a soul know what it has produced.

“What the hell is this?” the rider on the white horse asks. “Those are not my words. I never said that. You guys are reading from the wrong fucking book, you idiots. That's the Qur'an. You're not allowed to read from that when you're with me. The Bible is my book. What the fuck am I supposed to do with you guys? Pregnant camels? Pregnant camels? We're in America now. Who cares about stupid camels anyway?”

The cantankerous rider on the white horse leads the other three lemmings away.

I would give anything for a good night's sleep.

…

If I had my life over again, I would form the habit of nightly composing myself to thoughts of death. I would practice the remembrance of death. There is no other practice which so intensifies life. Death, when it approaches, ought not to take one by surprise. It should be part of the full expectancy of life. Without an ever-present sense of death, life is insipid. You might as well live on the whites of eggs. You might as well drink Kool-Aid.

Muriel Spark wrote that. Then again, she probably didn't. I did. I may have read it in
Memento Mori.
How could I, though? She is British. They don't have Kool-Aid. I wrote that, not poor deluded Muriel.

How would you like to go through life with a name like Muriel?

…

Mohammad had a show in DC in 1988. Like most Lebanese, I had heard of him, but had never seen his work. I had met his sister, Nawal, once, though. I really did not know what to expect, having never followed modern art. Most paintings in contemporary museums completely baffled me; the sculptures and installations, I would have thrown out with my garbage. Artistically, I have been indoctrinated in Lebanon. The art movements reached their peak with the Impressionists and have been on a quick decline ever since. Give me Monet or give me death.

I went to the opening reception with my lover, Mark. He was much more up-to-date on modern painting. It was crowded. We could not see all the paintings at once because of all the people. Mark led me to one of the paintings. We stood in front of it. It was stunning. I did not want to move. I kept looking at it for a couple of minutes, when an effeminate young man came and stood beside us.

“It's a beauty, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I replied.

He told us his name. Jack, I think it was. He was with the gallery. I liked him. Unlike most salesmen, he made no bones about the fact he was trying to sell us a painting. He said Mohammad's paintings were already in some of the best collections in the country. They had just sold a painting to a museum, but he couldn't tell us which one. We had never asked. I told him I would love to have the painting, but I probably could not afford it. I asked about the price. He quoted an exorbitant sum. It was more than our annual income before taxes. We laughed together. I did like him. He admitted he was still new at the job. We talked some more about the paintings.