They walked through the main dining room, drawing appreciative glances from several of the men, and entered the smaller and more intimate room. Walking past the booths, Jane noticed that in most of them, men seemed to be dining with very young and attractive women. Jane thought she saw one man stroking the breasts of his luncheon companion through the thin fabric of her blouse.
When they were seated, Madame Jezzine leaned across the table and spoke to Jane in the same conspiratorial tone she had adopted at the doctor’s office.
“Surely you know this restaurant?” said the Lebanese woman. “This is where the men of Beirut bring their mistresses to show them off. And sometimes, to do a bit more.” She nodded toward the nearby booth where the man had been petting his date.
Solange Jezzine ordered a kir. Though it was midday, too early to drink, Jane did the same. This was an adventure, she told herself. When Solange offered a cigarette, she accepted, even though she hadn’t smoked one in years. She coughed after the first puff, and Solange laughed at her inexperience.
“I’m afraid I am a novice,” said Jane.
“You’ll learn,” said the Lebanese woman.
Jane felt embarrassed and wanted, for a moment, to retreat into her ordinary identity of wife and mother.
“Do you have any children?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” said Solange. “Years ago. It seems like another lifetime.” They talked amiably about children for several minutes, until the drinks arrived.
“I thought that you were leaving Beirut,” ventured Jane as she raised her glass. The cassis was swirling through the wine and darkening it like a sudden thunderstorm.
“Why? Because of my husband’s legal difficulties?” answered Solange bluntly.
“Well, yes,” said Jane. “I read in the paper that he was expected to stay in Switzerland. So I assumed…”
“That as a loyal wife, I would go there with him,” said the Lebanese woman, finishing the sentence.
“Yes.”
“Not yet,” said Solange. “Perhaps I will go eventually. Certainly I will go eventually. But not now. It is spring and the most beautiful time of the year in Lebanon. It snowed last week in Geneva, did you know that? I will go later. But not now. There is so much to do here.”
She smiled in the most charming and coy way. Looking at her, Jane concluded that men must find her absolutely irresistible.
“And how is your husband?” asked Solange, arching her eyebrows.
“Fine,” said Jane. “Wonderful, actually.”
“You are a lucky woman, to have such a handsome husband. I am sure everyone gives you the same warning: Watch out!”
“No,” said Jane. “To be honest, people don’t tell me that. Why should I watch out?”
“If you need to ask, take another walk past these booths.”
Jane wanted to say, No, my husband isn’t like that. But she said nothing.
“What do you think of Lebanese men?” asked Madame Jezzine.
“I find them very charming,” said Jane.
That’s not a very honest answer, Jane thought to herself. She took another sip of her kir, and then spoke again.
“I find them very charming and very sexy, but they don’t seem very reliable.”
“Ahaa! Then I think you must know them very well,” said Madame Jezzine with a wink.
“Not at all,” said Jane. “Or hardly at all. But I would like to understand them better. Perhaps you can explain what they are like.”
What am I saying? Jane thought. Why am I doing this?
“I can tell you a great deal,” said Solange. “But first let us order some lunch.” She pressed a buzzer under the table and a waiter arrived promptly to take their orders. Clearly she was no stranger to the booths, either. The waiter recited the list of specials. Jane ordered the filet of sole Duglere, poached and served with a sauce of white wine and grapes. Solange ordered a lobster, broiled. And a bottle of white Burgundy.
“And salads,” called out Solange as the waiter was walking away. “And potatoes!”
Heads turned in the quiet room. Madame Jezzine smiled and lit another cigarette.
“Let me tell you about Arab men,” said Solange Jezzine quietly. “This is a topic on which I am something of an expert.”
“Goody,” said Jane. She giggled as she said it. This was like a dormitory party at Mt. Holyoke.
“Do you want to know everything? ” asked Solange, taking a drink from her wine.
“Yes,” said Jane, still feeling girlish and giggly. This must be what it’s like in the harem, she thought. Women who barely know each other exchanging confidences about the men who rule their lives.
“The first thing to understand about Arab men is that they grow up sleeping with everybody. Men, women, uncles, brothers, sisters, aunts. It’s very hot in the Middle East and people don’t wear much clothing. So things happen. It is nature.”
“Come now,” said Jane.
“It is true,” said Solange. “One of my lovers, a man who is famous throughout the Middle East, told me once about how he was seduced by his aunt. It happened during the afternoon siesta, when the wind was blowing through the curtains. The poor woman denied that it happened. She said that she had been asleep and unaware of what was going on. But my lover told me that she came to his bed and took his penis in her hand and stroked it, and then straddled his body and put him inside of her.”
Jane was blushing. Her cheeks felt hot. All she could think of to say was: “My goodness.”
“Am I embarrassing you?” asked the Lebanese woman.
“No,” said Jane. “You are answering the questions I would never dare to ask.”
“Good,” said the Lebanese woman. “Now, the second thing to understand is that the most important person in every Arab man’s life is his mother. Not his wife, not his mistress, but his mother. Most Arab men see their mother every day. They all want to be on their own, men of the world, but they also want mothering. From every woman they find.”
“I think most men are that way,” said Jane.
“Perhaps, but in the Arab world everything seems more extreme, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” said Jane. She looked for the waiter, who was nowhere to be seen. Rather than ring the bell, she picked up the wine bottle from its ice bucket and poured another big glass of wine for herself and Solange.
“What is the third thing?” asked Jane.
“The third thing is…I am ashamed to say it.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Jane. “I can’t imagine that you would be embarrassed by anything.”
“The third thing is that Arab men are afraid about their penises.”
“What?” asked Jane, pretending that she hadn’t heard.
“They are afraid because of circumcision. You see, in the Arab world, men traditionally are circumcised when they are seven, not at birth. By that age it can be quite painful. And it is a public ritual, at least for the Bedouin. I had one lover, a very rich Saudi prince, who told me how he watched them do it to his older brother and listened to his screams of pain. When it came his turn several years later, he ran away from the sheik who was trying to apply the blade of the knife. I’m not sure the poor boy ever got over it.”
Jane looked so wide-eyed and innocent as she listened to these tales that the Lebanese woman suddenly wondered if her American companion, birth-control pills or no, was really very experienced.
“My dear,” said Solange. “Have you ever had an Arab man for a lover?”
Jane dropped her head sheepishly.
“Actually, no,” said Jane.
“Would you like to know what they are like?”
“In bed?” whispered Jane.
“Yes,” said Solange.
“I suppose so. Yes, I suppose I would.”
“They don’t make any noise when they make love!” said the Lebanese woman.
