I figure out the reason: the cab driver seems to suffer from a condition that forces him to honk his horn every ten seconds—one quick beep to pierce the emptiness of the street. His honking remains constant as long as there are people on the street whom he keeps trying to pick up. It doesn’t matter if the people are walking on the opposite side of the road or in the other direction, or jogging or getting out of their cars or another jitney, or getting off a motorcycle, or window shopping, or sitting outside a café, or greeting each other, or just walking by casually. It doesn’t matter. He continues to honk relentlessly at them, oblivious to the outside world.
I control my nerves to keep from exploding in his face. Why? Because he’s an elderly, unshaven man, staring ahead and clearly not watching the road but analyzing some movie scenes from his memory instead. The look in his eyes is empty and distant. His honking is his only connection to the here and now and to his occupation. The scenes are clear in his eyes: long, calm, in black and white, abstract, intellectual—time is of no consequence. Calm. He’s watching Télé Liban serenely inside his head.
I won’t disturb him. But putting up with him is difficult. His honking is starting to get in the way of my thinking anything about him at all.
I will wait until we reach the top of that hill, then I’ll get out. It’s spring, the song hasn’t reached its end yet on my iPod, and my feet still serve me well. I will walk from the end of Hamra Street to its beginning, alone in the calming sun while the sea breeze hasn’t reached me yet.
We reach the top of the hill and the driver’s not surprised at my request to stop the car. He parks on the right side of the road and reaches in my direction, out of habit, to take the dollar fifty from my hand. I thank him; he nods as if he knows I’m leaving because of him. I get out of the car and close the door “gently,” like the handwritten note on the cardboard sign that’s taped to each side window suggests. I glance at his face; he’s not smiling, so I take a breath and start walking.
Beep. Beep. Beep . . . until he’s out of earshot and out of sight, but not out of my mind. He resides inside my mind now, just as his memories reside inside his.
I wear the headphones and press the play button to listen to the Leonard Cohen song from earlier.
The song hesitates at first, as if admitting life’s defeat, and the urge to turn it off takes over me: I can’t take any more defeats.
I browse through the list of tracks and singers. I find it. I smile, connect to it and press play. I listen to the song like it’s the first time.
And every time I come across this song, I hear something new in the singer’s voice, a new joy in her words, a new lightness in the music. A smile settles on my face, masking my laugh, and I head toward the café like a butterfly painted by the gentle hands of an artist.
It’s spring and the weather’s so fine / Come on, leave your cares behind / No excuses, no debate / It’s spring—there’s nothing more to say . . .
It’s like a marathon of joy, colors, and bliss has taken over my heart, and I begin to regret every sad moment I’ve ever lived.
Then I remember that both the singer and songwriter suffered from depression. They probably committed suicide too.
But what the heck, “it’s spring” when it’s spring, and “fall” when it’s fall. Wow, what is this joie de vivre that suddenly took over me? I won’t resist it; it’ll fade on its own soon enough without any interference from me. So let it be.
Anyway, being happy all the time is boring.
I keep on walking toward the café, replaying in my head the song lyric I’m going to sing to my friends over and over: Cool blood is surely gonna win / Hot blood ain’t got a chance.
I’m feeling especially comical today and that’s probably going to annoy my friends.
I see them sitting outside a café, on chairs that are practically in the street. The sun is shining on their faces, soaking in their pores, and surrounding them as if humming their names: Zeezee, Zumurrud, Shwikar, Hassan, Sophia, Mona, Georgios, Ali, Rima.
Is it a cheerful gathering? It’s our usual luncheon on our only day off before we all return to our daily routine.
They look reassured to see me happy.
I order a cold glass of fresh orange juice and wait for it while listening to their conversation about Hassan’s new computer. He expresses his conviction that his computer can outperform any human being and that it can also do his laundry and dishes and answer the door and cook his food too.
We laugh.
And in the middle of our laughter, she arrives.
Who? Nadia, of course. Is there a better time to sell roses than in this friendly spring weather?
We see her, and with no second thought or plan, and before we even say hello to her, we rush to her with our wallets in hand.
She greets us, “Bonjour, my dear ones.”
We look up smilingly to return her greeting, and that’s when I see it: Nadia’s carrying a cane.
She now needs to support her bent back with an annoying thick wooden cane, its surface mottled in light and dark browns. Her bent back is now in need of a cane to keep her from falling.
“I wish you good health, tante.”
“Don’t worry, habibti. It’s alright, it’s old age that’s all.”
. . .
“Your name?”
“Samantha Fox.”
He slaps my face with full force. I fall off my chair.
“Your name?”
“Faten Hamama.”
He punches me in the nose. I fall backwards, still in the chair.
“Your name?”
“Umm Kulthum.”
Another
