It’s not really a secret, anyway. So when I tell them, I’m not going to raise their expectations just to have them come crashing down, making me feel bad.
I’m going to tell them.
This is no secret; it’s available information, legitimate and common, the kind of news that would raise nations’ heads high.
Me, raise nations’ heads high? I can’t even keep my own head up. My mother always insists that I keep my head up while walking, and my friends insist that I keep my back straight while seated or standing. And sometimes, I nudge myself because of the way I walk when I see my reflection in a store window. I walk like I’m humiliated, like I’m trying to hide from people’s stares. No, that’s an exaggeration and a hyperanalysis of the moment. I walk on the street like I do inside my house, carelessly. I relax my entire body on the asphalt. I blame gravity—the earth’s attraction, not mine. Even though my attraction is irresistible, but earth’s attraction is much stronger. It pulls me down, lower, and as long as there are more layers to go, I’m willing to be pulled down lower.
I feel sadness clinging to me and hiding behind my descriptive humor, getting ready to pounce on me. I feel it take over. I’m getting depressed. I’m on the edge. Help!
“I have a secret to tell you all!”
God! It issues proudly from my mouth like the declaration speech of the nationalization of the Suez Canal: “In the name of our nation, the international company of the Suez Canal is hereby nationalized, and all company assets, rights, and obligations shall be transferred to the state. The company is under new management, and the investors and shareholders shall be reimbursed according to the value of their shares in the French stock market, and this reimbursement shall be paid after the state receives the complete assets of the nationalized company of the Suez Canal.”
And instead of the cheers and applause that followed Gamal Abdel Nasser’s speech in 1956, my statement receives nothing.
This damn silence follows me everywhere.
“I said, I have a secret that I want to . . .”
“WHAT IS IT?”
They all, except for Georgios, scream the question at me like I am deliberately stalling. So, I end up doing what I was telling myself not to do seconds ago, which is raise their expectations. I do it very successfully as well.
“Well, it’s not really a secret but I haven’t told anyone yet, which makes it a secret. But it’s really not. It’s only news, more like a joke actually . . .”
Zumurrud: “Can you please shut up and tell us the secret?”
“That’s a contradiction. How can I shut up and speak at the same time?”
Zeezee, angrily: “You love to argue, don’t you?”
“Fine, sorry. So, listen, I’ve been thinking of writing a novel for a while now. Not a novel, just a story, a regular story like one from everyday life. It’s honestly the story of the ordinary days we live. Like, do you remember Zumurrud when you got conned into hiring a gardener to take care of your two lonely plants on your balcony? You ended up paying him a hundred bucks for an hour of work, and completely fell apart, and told him that both you and your plants no longer required his services? And you, Shwikar, do you remember . . .”
Shwikar: “Wait, wait. You’re writing a story?”
“You’re still stuck on that? I’ve been telling you for an hour . . .”
Shwikar: “A story story? Like a novel?”
Me: “I told you it’s not a novel, it’s just a story about . . .”
Shwikar: “Bravooo!”
Zumurrud: “Woohooo!”
Zeezee: “Congrats!”
Georgios: “That’s good.”
What an exceptionally positive response.
Me: “But the story will revolve around you. Aren’t you worried about that?”
Zumurrud: “If they make a movie out of it, I want Sophie Marceau to play me.”
Me: “A movie?”
Zeezee: “What about me? Who will play me?”
Shwikar: “I’ll play myself in the movie. Will it tell the story of my childhood or just my adult life? If it’s about my childhood too, I want my niece to play me, she’s . . .”
Me: “Shwikar, you must have a fever, you’re hallucinating.”
Zumurrud: “God, what will I wear to Cannes?”
Zeezee: “I think I can I think I can . . .”
Me: “My nerves!”
Shwikar: “What about Omar and Layla? And Leila and Zeina? And Maher? And Dana?”
Me: “Mercy!”
Zumurrud sneaks her phone out of her purse, “Oh, I have to tell Francois! And Ali and Remi too, they’re all in France so I’ll tell them to buy me a nice dress and heels! Being a celebrity comes with responsibilities, you know.”
Me: “Kill me now.”
Zeezee: “What’s your problem? Why are you being so negative like we’re asking you to write an obituary?”
Me: “Guys, it’s a story I may or may not write, and others may or may not read, and may not even get published!”
Zumurrud, stunned: “Why are you writing it, then?”
Me: “I don’t know, I’m writing it because I want to. I’m enjoying writing it, so maybe . . .”
Zeezee: “I don’t understand, have you been to bookstores lately and read what people are writing these days? They’re publishing everything!”
Me: “And I don’t want my book to become part of that list. I don’t want to become part of everything else.”
A brief pause, like they’re trying to understand my attitude and think of a way out of my negativity.
Shwikar, seriously: “Fine. What are you writing about?”
I think, then say earnestly: “I’m writing our story, the one we’re living in Beirut today at the age of thirty.”
Zumurrud: “Thirty-two.”
Everyone laughs, and I laugh along.
“I’m writing a story with a lot of events. Events that overlap and follow each other, without a chronological order, some that I remember from
