Careful silence looms over my living room. The silence feels harsher than the statement made about me being the source of the problem and that the problem is psychological and not social.
Our drinks look back shyly at us, as if they, in turn, are feeling awkward and trying to be careful.
Zeezee and Zumurrud’s silence make it obvious that they agree with Shwikar and are surprised at her daring honesty. That honesty that we all try to run away from, but that, this time, has caught up with me.
Who will breach the silence?
Zeezee, with an enthusiasm that makes our feeling of shame smaller so we can escape from it, says: “Come on! Here’s a toast to our sick selves!”
We all laugh and raise our glasses. Then I say: “Good thing I ordered three bottles of wine! This session is going to get tragic thanks to our ambassador to the stars, Shwikaaaar!”
We all clap and laugh loudly, then gradually calm down, trying to make ourselves look well adjusted.
I decide to deal with the result of this session and take on the responsibility of asking for their opinions. I can’t talk about anything other than the point made last by Shwikar. If I talk about anything else, I will officially become the best escape artist in the Arab world.
“Okay, Shwikar has a point. The problem is that . . .” I go quiet.
Zumurrud: “What’s the problem?”
Me: “The problem is that Hayat . . . Hayat’s story . . .”
Shwikar: “Yeah?”
Me: “Well, I imagined myself as her while I was writing it. So it’s not exactly fiction, the story is . . . kind of what I would imagine my end to be like.”
Silence this time resembles the silence at a funeral march. No, actually, I’m mistaken; they’re just taking time to think.
Shwikar tears up.
Zeezee looks sad and surprised as if she were feeling that she neglected me as a friend.
Zumurrud: “Don’t get too upset you two, it’s not that weird. We all have times when we imagine what our end would be like.” Then she addresses me jokingly: “Feeling depressed, sugar bun?”
I laugh, “No.”
Shwikar, firmly: “Clarify.”
“Okay, so, I read Interpol and the National Press websites. And I also thought of jumping under the train every time I waited for it during my stay in Paris. And I’m petrified of death, but also obsessed with it. So this way, I killed two birds with one stone—death and my fear of it, and I did it without feeling scared at all.”
Zumurrud: “And how will you finish the story?”
Me: “I was thinking of going back in time and telling my story backwards. Then, I will imagine it. It won’t be my real life, of course. And suspense won’t be the goal. It will be a calm story.”
Zeezee: “Are you really convinced that your life up to this point will lead you to suicide?”
Me: “It’s not suicide, but death. Every life ends with death. And the hardest thing about death is usually imagining it. I will die, and you will die, and so will Zumurrud and Shwikar, and my mom and yours, your sister and mine. Everyone will die.”
Zumurrud: “Sure, but we’re alive now and have to deal with life. Death is always present, but living in it will result in always debating the result of living and the reasons behind it.”
Me: “True.”
Shwikar: “I experienced the death of someone close to me and I was never able to break free of his death until I imagined that he disappeared, that he wanted to get away from us so he pretended to die.”
Zumurrud: “To each his own.”
Me: “I see. I have to consider my relationship with death rather than think of death itself. And since that requires a lot of thinking, I hereby declare that we’re done thinking for tonight. Thank you my sisters in struggle, we can now talk about something else.”
Zeezee, yelling like a kid: “Cheers to all those who have lived and died, and everyone else who’s aging until they lose all their teeth!”
We all laugh.
Death has overstayed its welcome. We can almost touch it.
We have to get some fresh air.
I’m not deeply depressed, but I flirt with depression every now and then just like any person living in this country (or any other) would.
Now, it’s time for life and living it. Getting to know it and living every moment.
I will try to wrap my head around life, slowly, if death gives me enough time to.
Ufff, enough of this.
Zeezee: “One final question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you choose the name Hayat?”
“Did you like it?”
“No. I mean it’s just that it contains an obvious organic contradiction.”
“An organic contradiction?”
“Yeah. I mean it’s clearly symbolic. Hayat means life. Hayat who dies. Yes, it’s symbolic, but too direct.”
Zumurrud, mockingly: “Genius, Zeezee!”
Me, laughing: “You’re right, it’s too obvious. The entire story is an exaggeration. I mean her story is, well, exaggerated. Tragic. It’s like she insists on dying even though everyone has lost a loved one in the war and has had to find their way back to life.”
Shwikar: “But that’s just how she is! You want to suppress her in the name of ‘everyone else’? Who said that everyone else was on good terms with life during the war? Who said that whoever survived but lost a lover ended up living a happy life? This is the story of her.”
Me: “I agree.”
Zumurrud: “So do I.”
Zeezee: “I meant the name, just the name!”
Shwikar: “It’s true, Hayat is a bit much . . .”
Me, interrupting: “Court’s adjourned.”
Zumurrud: “Finally!”
. . .
Prasanna is coming to live in Lebanon.
Koko found him a job at the electric company
