Also by Rabih Alameddine
An Unnecessary Woman
The Hakawati
I, The Divine
The Perv
Grove Press
New York
Copyright © 2015 by Rabih Alameddine
âIsrael Spurs Lebanon Exodus,â © The Associated Press, 14 April 1996, reprinted by permission; âWhy Beirut and Not Damascus?â by Arthur K. Vogel, Tages-Anzeiger, reprinted by permission of the author and Tages-Anzeiger; âYet pray even while . . . ,â translation by Lionel Saler of âBete aber auch dabeiâ © 1997. Reprinted by permission of the translator; âParliamentary Electionsâ and âWhat Is a Lebanese Anyway?â by Joseph L. Boohaker, reprinted by permission of the author; âLebanon First,â © The Jerusalem Post, 13 August 1996, reprinted with the consent of The Jerusalem Post.
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First published in 1998 by Picador USA
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-8021-2414-2
eISBN 978-0-8021-9097-0
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
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To my father,
May he forgive me once more
I wonder if being sane means
disregarding the chaos that is life,
pretending only an infinitesimal segment of it is reality.
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, âThis good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth war.â
The rider on the black horse says, âThis good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth plague.â
The rider on the pale horse says, âThis good and faithful servant is ready. He knoweth death.â
The rider on the white horse says, âFuck this good and faithful servant. He is a non-Christian homosexual, for Godâs sake. You brought me all the way out here for a fucking fag, a heathen. I didnât die for this dingbatâs sins.â
The irascible rider on the white horse leads the other three lemmings away.
The hospital bed hurts my back.
âŠ
Time. Time is what I need right now. I canât think straight anymore. I should not have said that. I try never saying the word straight. Letâs say I canât concentrate. That describes my predicament accurately. I canât speak English anymore either. Really. I canât think in English. Itâs back to my roots. I now think and dream only in Arabic. I havenât done that for the longest time.
James was here the other day. Or was it today? I canât think straight. Time gets very confusing.
James says something to me. I reply. He has that look of utter confusion. He doesnât understand a word I say. I switch to English. Itâs really easy for me to switch between two languages. I actually can communicate clearly in three. French is my second language. English is my third. Most Lebanese can speak three languages. I can really speak only two. French has been completely forgotten. I have not dreamed in French since I was a boy. I spoke English when I was a boy. It actually was the first language I spoke. I had a nanny who spoke only English. She was from Liberia. She was black. So is James.
James sits on the chair in front of my bed. I lie down quite a bit these days. He always asks how I am feeling. Great, James, I am feeling great. I am not dying. He always implies that I am. James sits on the chair in front of my bed. James looks tired. He is slouching. His socks donât match. It isnât as if they donât match in the classic sense. That is, they do not match anything he is wearing. My father says a manâs socks must first match his tie. If that doesnât work, they must match the shirt; followed by the jacket, if it is different from the pants. Pants should be the last match. If none of that works, one is supposed to wear black socks. But if you ask me, one should go out and buy socks which match. James is wearing white tube socks, and that simply does not work since he is wearing nothing else which is white. He is slipping. I tell him, but he doesnât understand me. I must have said it in French and he doesnât speak French. Most Americans speak nothing other than English. Hold on a second. I am an American and I speak French, so that statement does not describe my predicament accurately. Actually, French has been completely forgotten and that describes my predicament more accurately.
James sits on the chair in front of my bed. He looks tired. At thirty-nine, he no longer looks as young as he did. Neither does my father. There was a time when James was handsome. Or was he just nice-looking? I canât remember that far. I ask him why he comes so often to visit me. His mouth drops. I guess he understood what I said. I must have said it in English. James looks so cute when he is shocked. His eyes get so wide.
âŠ
I open the door for Kurt. âHi there,â he says cheerfully. I grunt acknowledgment and head back to my chair. He comes into the living room, where Scott and I are sitting. Scott puts his book down to receive a kiss from his latest boyfriend.
âWhat are you reading?â Kurt asks, picking up the book. He sits on the arm of the chair and tousles Scottâs hair. âSpanking the Maid? Thatâs a provocative title. Whatâs it about?â
âSpanking the maid, of course,â Scott replies. He picks...