Zumurrud extends her arm toward me and grabs the remote from my hand. She then turns the television off and says, “We’re just surprised, that’s all.”
“At what?”
“Well, maybe it’s just me, but I found the story too sad. Very well written, but depressing. Especially because I was expecting to laugh at my character, and yours, and all of ours. I thought that you had gone with the plan you told us about in the car. I really like the idea of your writing about our daily lives because the novels I read usually talk about one exceptional event in time only. And I would’ve really liked to read about ordinary stuff because—well, it’s ordinary! And I would’ve liked us to have a story about us, where we would have different names, but it would still capture our essence. I knew you wouldn’t write about me as I am but as you see me, or even as you would think I would react to events in the story. A modified version of me that’s like me but isn’t exactly me. I was expecting that. I think we all were. But, if writing about us is so difficult for you, then drop us. Write a story about a good life. The Interpol, and Palestine, and Paris . . . yeah . . . by the way, I realized while reading this part how much I miss Paris! I can’t believe they wouldn’t renew my visa! Anyway . . . what do you guys think?”
Zeezee: “Yeah, I feel the same way. I can imagine how difficult it must be to write about friends. But, don’t worry about us! We’re adults and can handle it. And I know you wouldn’t point out something in my character that would hurt me. But if digging into my personality hurts your story, or holds you back, then you should of course go with whatever makes you comfortable.”
Shwikar: “It’s nice. Hayat’s story is nice. Depressing, like Zumurrud said, yeah. And sure, I completely agree with Zeezee. I was excited to read how you see my character. I liked that idea; it didn’t scare me at all. It excited me. But still, Hayat’s story is great. I mean, bittersweet, you know?”
Me: . . . [Silent]
Zeezee: “Why are you quiet? You hate quiet.”
Me: . . . (I smile.)
Shwikar: “Are you upset? She’s upset. Don’t be upset.”
Me: . . . (I shake my head.)
Zeezee: “Cleopatraaaaa! Say something!”
Me: . . . (I fix my gaze at the floor. There’s dust under that sofa.)
Zumurrud: “If you’re going to stay like this, we’re going to leave.”
Me: . . . (I shake my head, then readjust my position indicating that I’m about to speak.) “I don’t know what came over me, but I know it didn’t happen last night. I think I decided on this when I made up my mind to write a story with heroes the same as the ones in my life. I think the problem is in writing about my life, not yours. Like just now, when one of you said she wants to read about herself as I see her, I felt annoyed instead of liberated. I need to justify my escape from my life.”
Silence takes over, but no one breaks it because they can see on my face that I’m not finished.
“I imagine what I want to write about us, but I can’t write it. The problem is our lives. No one writes about a life like ours because it’s unpublishable in an Arab world that’s swarming with forbidden things.
“Drinks and alcohol, okay, that’ll slide. Eyes can tolerate them, just as they do with movies. But, what about love and sex? Would that slide? How would I tell about your relationships, and mine? That would be scandalous!
“I know what you’re going to say: nobody will know it’s us. But how wouldn’t they? They know that I’m the writer, and they know who my friends are. They will be able to place the right name to the right character and will figure out that it’s me, you, and her. And maybe they will think other characters are us too.
“I’m writing this to have fun, not to go up against society. Confrontation is not what I’m after. I’m not a martyr, nor am I ‘bold’ enough. In fact, I hate being bold. And I know you do too!”
Zumurrud interrupts, “May I say a something?”
“I want to finish first . . .”
“No, I want to say something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t think this finding out it’s us thing is as big of a problem as you think it is. And I don’t think that writing about people’s relationships is the bad kind of boldness. And I am not convinced that you’re having trouble writing because of any patriotic, national, or historic reasons. I’m not trying to provoke you, I’m only brainstorming with you.”
Me: . . . [Awkward silence]
Zeezee, carefully: “Zumurrud’s right, habibti. Let’s all think together. Your reasons aren’t convincing. I read ‘bold’ stories every day that are much bolder than ours. As for the characters, I, as a reader, don’t tend to look for the real people behind them—except for few instances here and there where I might be tempted if I think I know the character. You know how much I love gossip, but if the novel hooks me with the plot and ideas, then I lose myself in it and look for what would benefit me. I mean, if the characters are complex in a way that . . .”
Zumurrud: “Zeezee, stop. Your point’s clear, you’re just repeating yourself now. Don’t be mad at me, I’m telling you this for your own good, you don’t . . .”
Shwikar, disapprovingly: “Can we go back to the subject?”
Zumurrud: “Sorry, I pulled a Zeezee.”
We all laugh a little too long in an attempt to cheer up.
Shwikar: “Anyway, I agree with what Zumurrud and Zeezee were trying to say. There’s something that’s bothering you, and, like you said, it didn’t happen last night,
