Authors: Rabih Alameddine
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Amalgam.
I am back at the Berkeley campus. I am passing by the Arts building. Bullets fly overhead. A soldier shouts at me to get out of the sniper fire. He leads me into a warehouse. We enter an office together. I find the soldier extremely masculine. I am terrified of him. I am in awe of his sexuality. I ask him if I can suck his cock. He shrugs. I kneel in front of him as he leans back on the desk. I unbutton his fly. I take out his cock. I am surprised at its size and rigidity. I start sucking. As I do, the soldier begins to transform. He develops breasts. His hair grows longer and fairer. I am still sucking his cock as she becomes a gorgeous woman. I still find her exciting. I do not want to ever stop sucking her cock. I can feel her getting bored. She takes her cock from my mouth, stuffs it back into her panties, and straightens her dress. She exits the building as I run after her, offering her money to let me suck her cock. She walks on the arms of a handsome man. She looks back at me and smiles. She keeps walking away. We are back in Beirut.
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The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.
Hermann Hesse wrote that. He was full of Jungian crap. I told him so myself. I told him what I thought of his friend, Jung, as well.
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Georges calls my name. I see him at the entrance of our building's garage. Today some people shot at other people. Everybody got scared and stayed indoors. It is calm now, so Georges is downstairs. He calls me again. I go flying down the stairs to see what he wants. He says he has something to show me. Am I interested? Sure, I say. I would do anything he wants. He is my hero.
He takes me down into the garage. He leads me to a dark, secluded corner. It is dark, damp, and putrid. He asks me if I want to see his cock. I say sure. Only if I drop my pants, he says. My pants come flying off. He shows me his cock. It is beautiful. You can touch it, he says. I do. You're a natural, he says. I am aglow. Tum around and bend over, he says. I do as I am told. I feel his hands massaging my ass. I feel a wet finger penetrate me. It feels uncomfortable. I like it. You're a natural, he keeps saying. I am proud. I feel him press something bigger against my ass. I know what it is. I am not stupid. I try to help him, but it gets too painful. He is all the way in. It hurts a lot, but I like it. You're a natural, he keeps saying. He keeps pumping until he gets rigid and shouts all of a sudden. At the same instant, the sound of gunfire erupts again, so I can't distinguish what he is shouting.
He pulls his pants up. He looks at me and smiles. He says we'll do that again tomorrow. I say, sure. We both run up home to find out what is happening. My dad is on the roof, trying to figure where they are fighting. I run up to join him. I am so excited. I hang over the safety railing and look in the direction of the fighting. I stand on the lowest railing hoping to see better. My dad says we should go back down to the house because he sees some men with their faces covered running towards the Beirut-to-Damascus road. Just as he says that, some other men a little farther off start firing in their direction. My dad starts moving towards the roof's exit. I am still excited. I still stare at the fighting. I see this incredible thing. It is coming at me at an incredible speed, but I do see it. The bullet comes at me pretty fast and it hits the metal railing right in front of my crotch. The bullet calls my name. I go flying down the stairs to get home.
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September 5th, 1988
Dear Diary,
Today is without doubt the worst day of my life. Samir told me he has the AIDS virus. I don't know what to do. I love him so much. I don't know what to do. As if we didn't have enough problems. I don't know what to do. Oh God, why us? What have we done to deserve all of this? I don't know if I can go on. I don't know what to do.
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My sister, Nawal, comes into my room. She brings me soup. I hate her cooking. It reminds me of home. She thinks I like her cooking. Every now and then she cooks instead of Maria. I am sure Maria does not like that. I don't like that.
“Marwa is coming to stay with us again tomorrow,” my sister says. “She'll be staying for a couple of weeks. Do you remember Marwa?” I hear her. I understand what she says. She still thinks I have lost all my marbles. “Marwa is my friend in Washington. We have been friends since we were three. Remember Marwa Habayeb? You like her.”
“Of course I remember. I have AIDS, not Alzheimer's.” She looks at me disapprovingly. At twenty-five, she is looking more and more like my mother. I tell her so and she understands me.
“I destroyed all my paintings,” I say in Arabic.
“No, you didn't.”
“I did too. I thought I was the one who is blind here. Didn't you see the torn-up paintings in the studio?”
“Those weren't yours. I moved your paintings to your North Beach studio.”
“Then what paintings did I destroy?”
“Some godawful paintings of naked boys. Worst paintings I ever saw. They were done by a Ben something or other.”
“Oh.”
“Who is he?”
“A friend. A friend of Kurt's. He's dead too. Did I destroy Kurt's paintings as well?”
“No. I liked his work. I took it over to the other studio with the good paintings.”
“Oh.”
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I wish I could write better. I have never been able to write anything because I don't trust my writing.
I have had many ideas which could not translate well into painting. I wanted to write them down. I never really did. I just did not have a good command of the written word.
When I first started seeing my friends die, I wanted to write a book where all the characters died in the beginning, say in the first twenty-five pages or so. I never went beyond the incipit, which I thought was a damn good one.
Death comes in many shapes and sizes, but it always comes.
I thought it was great. I wanted to make sure death and sex were associated. Look at the words
shapes, sizes,
and
it always comes.
Sexual allusions galore.
I showed it to Scott. He said I should stick to painting. I guess he thought my incipit was insipid. He did not like the idea of my book. He said one could rarely write a book about death without being sentimental. He thought only Danielle Steel could write a book about the ravages of the AIDS epidemic and get away with it.
He did like my idea of a book about Jesus meeting ÂMohammadâthat is, the real Mohammad, the last prophet, not me. I never wrote that either.
I miss Scott.
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I sit in a house in the mountains in Lebanon. I look through the window to see the Mediterranean. I see a mist covering everything below, a sumptuous, exquisite mist. It is calm and serene. I feel so safe. I feel so secure.
I hear the sound of water. I cannot figure where it is coming from. The mist comes closer, pure white. The sound of the water is coming from the mist. I am confused. The rolling mist comes closer. I begin to see waves. The mist is water. I see patches of blue. The waves grow bigger. The sound grows louder. I wonder if the Mediterranean can reach this high. The waves get darker. A darker blue.
I worry. How could this he happening? The waves get bigger. An even darker blue. They cover the house. It is storming. Water submerges the house. It is coming in. Water, water, everywhere. Cracks in the ceiling appear and water comes in. Through the windows. Through the doors. The house shakes. The water is all enveloping. It is rough. I panic.
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A process of genocide is being carried out before the eyes of the world.
Pope John Paul II told the world that in 1989, when the Syrians were shelling Christians in East Beirut. A rumor started circulating that the Pope was coming to Beirut. He wanted to suffer with the Lebanese. The amazing part of this story is everyone believed it. Christians and Muslims alike believed the Pontiff cared enough to make a statement with his physical presence. The Pole never showed up, of course. The Syrians annihilated the Christians. Lebanon became a Syrian state. The Pope did brunch with Ronnie and Nancy.
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Much had changed in Beirut since Samir left. Much had remained the same. He returned for the first time in the early eighties. He spent most of his vacation at the Coral Beach. The Coral was one of the better beach clubs in the city.
On one occasion, he was swimming in the pool. He noted the usual lineup of sunbathers circling the pool. Very few, if any, went anywhere near the beach. Very few, if any, actually went in the pool. The club's clientele consisted mainly of women who socialize. The sunbathers were all perfectly tanned. All wore designer bathing suits, never too revealing, but always alluding to something more.
While he was swimming, the sound of a huge explosion rocked the club. Cabanas shook. Some of the empty beach chairs moved. He panicked. His first reaction was to dive underwater. He realized that was silly since whatever happened had already happened. He figured it must be one of those car bombs he kept hearing about. Nobody around him budged.
One woman finally sat up on her recliner. She lifted the designer sunglasses from her face, looked around her, and said, “That was close.” She repositioned her glasses, lay back down.
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Kurt was one of those people who believed in embracing the virus. He felt it had a positive impact on his life. “Crisis awakens,” he used to say.
Crisis awakens.
He thought people walked around comatose. He said the virus woke him up. He quit his job in 1986, the day he found out he was positive. He embarked on a self-exploration program. He wanted to self-actualize, he always said. He loved attending personal growth workshops.
I found his I-love-my-virus attitude irritating as hell. Luckily, he was not the proselytizing type. Even I had to admit, whether he embraced the fucking virus or not, the transformation was incredible. When I first met him, he was a mousy troglodyte who worked as a headhunter. How the hell he kept his job was beyond me since I could not imagine him selling anything to anybody. By the time he died, he was a fairly well-respected artist in the city. His memorial filled Grace Cathedral with friends and admirers.
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I found a sentence in an old notebook:
In the commemoration of death, I unearthed myself.
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I hate Yoko. I do not know her. I do not even like the Beatles. I find them sappy. I was born the year they broke up, so they are not part of my history. I do not blame her for breaking them up. To tell you the truth, I think she did the world a favor if she was the cause of the dissolution.
I hate Yoko because my father's catch phrase was “Damn that Yoko.” I grew up damning Yoko. Whenever he was surprised, annoyed, or angry, he would use his favorite aphorism.
I was four when my mother served stewed okra for dinner. It looked revolting. I told my mother I hated it. She insisted I eat it. It was good for me. Dad consoled me by reminding me we had rice pudding for dessert, my favorite. I stared at the slimy okra. “Couldn't we send it to the starving children in Egypt?” I asked. Dad laughed, but Mom did not. “You have to eat it,” she said. “Damn that Yoko,” I said. Dad almost fell off the chair laughing. My mother pretended to be upset, but I saw her smile. “Damn that Yoko.” Louder, each time I repeated it. I stood up on the chair, screamed, “Damn that Yoko.” Mom, openly laughing now, sat me down. “You still have to eat your dinner, champ.” Dad tousled my hair. I ate the okra. It didn't taste too bad.
I was five when I first saw my mother cry. Everything was fine. We were going to visit my grandparents. I was sitting on Grandma Salwa's lap when she said, “Will you kiss Grandma Nabila for me?” I agreed. The heater wheezed. The room was large, yet warm. I thought she was cold. “Are you wearing the present I gave you last year?” she asked me. “Sure,” I said. I took out the gold cross from under my sweater and showed it to her. “Can we give it to your mother to keep in a safe place?” “I won't lose it,” I said. She wheezed, like the heater. “I know that, Makram. I know that. You're a big boy now. You wear this when you are proud of it. These days, it is nothing to be proud of. We have to keep it safe until you can be proud of it again.” I didn't understand what she meant, but I let her remove the cross. I heard my mother gasp behind me. When I looked back, I saw her walk towards us like a queen, but she was crying. She kissed Grandma Salwa and told her she loved her. She took off her gold chain, which said Allah in Arabic, and took my cross from my grandmother. My dad gave her his cross. He carried me and said, “One day soon we can be proud of wearing them again.” My mother and grandmother hugged and cried. I was very confused. “Damn that Yoko,” I said. “Damn that Yoko,” my father repeated, laughing.
We lived in a big house, in the town of Ba'abda. It was where the president lived. My father did not like him. From the front side of the house, I could see all of Beirut. From the back, I had an unobstructed view of the woods. It was my playpen. On a clear morning, in February of 1978, my father and I had just taken a bath together. We both dried off. The Beatles' song “Revolution” was playing on the record player. Mom was making breakfast. The music was loud. We were singing right along. I stood on a stool, but I was still much shorter than my dad. I combed my hair. He combed his blond hair back into its usual ponytail. “We all want to change the world . . .” We sang together. He lathered his face and I wanted to do the same thing. He covered my face in lather. I watched him shave. I got to “alright” in the verse, “Don't you know it's gonna be . . . alright,” when the shell exploded in the woods. The house shook. The music stopped. The foam on my face was red. A piece of shrapnel had flown through the window and hit my father in the throat. Blood was everywhere. My father sat on the floor holding his throat. Mom rushed screaming into the bathroom. He couldn't breathe. I kept screaming, “Damn that Yoko,” but he wouldn't laugh.