My bitterness is caused by most NGOs. But that’s a topic for another day.
Right now, I want to relax. Why do I always think up annoying topics? Because I’m in that kind of mood.
Knock knock knock.
Ring ring ring.
Door knocking, doorbell ringing.
I am scared out of my sleep and fall on the floor.
The villagers are here!
I open the door and find three angry faces staring at me.
It appears that I didn’t hear them knock the first time and so they were left waiting outside my door. I could’ve sworn I didn’t fall asleep though! Weird.
Zeezee: “If you don’t want us over . . .”
Me: “Come in.”
Shwikar: “Here—wine, cucumber and carrots, we didn’t come empty-handed!”
Me: “Upstanding friends, God bless. But I already bought wine and chips.”
Zumurrud, angrily: “Chips?! Are you trying to assassinate my healthy diet?”
Me: “You weigh like eleven pounds!”
Zumurrud: “Yeah, eleven pounds of pure fat!”
Me: “All right, all right, come in. Or would you rather leave?”
Shwikar: “Fine.”
Like knights they sat at the round table waiting for me to speak.
But in this seating position specifically, I find it difficult to voice my words.
Let’s have a drink first and do some spiritual exercise—a.k.a. gossiping—so I can get comfortable enough to talk.
One drink after the other and I relax. Words are dripping out of my mouth like the clear water running in the spring in my village blah blah blah.
And so, I begin:
“I started writing my book, but I didn’t write about any of you. I tried to write about myself and about you too, but I got worried. Every story I remembered of us worried me. What if Zumurrud didn’t like my point of view, I would think, or Zeezee? What if Shwikar hated that I said that she sometimes sits holding her cup half-empty, closing the doors of possibilities around her, and looks away? What if she never realized that this depression of hers occurs regularly? What if she hated me for calling the reasons behind her depression seasonal?
“No, no, I don’t want any quick answers. I want to say everything on my mind. Please.
“What about Koko? Since I told her that I’m going to write about her in my book she’s been acting cautious around me, asking me not to include this or that detail every time she tells me a story. And Koko can’t even read Arabic! It’s not like I’m going to use her real name anyway, but she makes sure to draw the line between what she considers to be personal, and therefore unpublishable, and what she considers to be public information, and so leaves me the choice of including it or not.
“And Tante Nadia: I haven’t even told her yet that I’m writing a book that’s going to include her, her with roses in her hands.
“Maybe I’m exaggerating.
“But I asked myself whether I’m exaggerating and really thought about it. Nadia in my book is not the same as Nadia on the street. And Koko, I would be telling my story with her in it and not her story of herself. Her story will remain hers and I can never know it. And of course I’ll keep secret everything she asks of me.
“I convinced myself of this logic in the case of Koko and Nadia, but I can’t with you guys.
“Even if you tell me that I am free to write whatever I want, I will refuse to. The problem is, I’ve censored myself.
“And I found myself last night in front of a piece of paper that, every time I cover it with writing, I replace with a blank sheet and start over.
“But then, I found the solution.
“The way out is imagination.
“Imagination can take me far from your stories but still keep you the protagonists of my novel.
“So now, I want you guys to read these few pages, then we’ll talk about them”:
“Woohoo! Finally! I got an email from her.
I have a friend living in Paris . . .”
I head to the kitchen and take out a bottle of wine from the fridge. I refill the empty glasses and wait for them to finish reading.
I glance at the computer screen to check which page they’ve reached:
“And so, Hayat moved to Paris.
That was three years ago.”
I go to the bathroom. I stay there a long time on purpose, reading a tabloid containing celebrity scandals with all the juicy details. I wash my hands and go back to the living room to find them still staring at the bright computer screen. I approach the laptop and read:
“After all, death didn’t happen to her, she needed it. From where she was standing, she saw death as a solution. And what do I know about this to judge?”
I sit on the couch and wait.
Just a few more lines and I will face their opinions.
“I love you. Don’t cry. Goodbye.”
They all finish reading at the same time almost. Zumurrud takes a little longer; then they all lean back on the sofa and adjust their positions. They almost look like they share the same body.
I say nothing. I don’t rush them. I wait.
Zeezee lights a cigarette. Shwikar takes a sip of her wine. And Zumurrud stares down at her nails with the utmost interest.
They look depressed. Or maybe awkward?
All right, I’m going to have to say something. This silence is suffocating me.
“So?”
Zumurrud smiles. Zeezee gives me a meaningless nod. And Shwikar has an obscure expression.
“That bad?”
They all smile.
It’s my turn to be quiet now. I try to mask my hurt and embarrassment, and I grab the remote control and turn on the television.
I can see them out of the corner of my
