“Count me in. I’m coming.” Mustapha’s sister was seventy-six years old, lassitude incarnate, but when it came to good meals, she moved heaven and earth to be there.
Some time to herself before the crowd started arriving. She looked at herself in the mirror. Getting older. Thunder thighs. I must lose a little weight, she thought. At least there was still someone who found her sexually attractive. That was a blessing.
“How many people for lunch, madam?” Miki asked. She came into the bedroom to turn down the beds for the afternoon.
“Eight so far, but I think it’ll be ten.”
The phone rang on cue. Kooky, sleeping on his perch, imitated the sound until she picked up the phone, and then went back to sleep. “What’s for lunch?” No hello, no small talk. Her husband’s nephew was a busy man. He was coming. She knew there would be one more, the other nephew. She knew it would not be long.
The phone rang.
“I hope you won’t be late,” Saniya said. “I can’t believe you waited this long to call. Are they working you hard?”
“You know, business stuff. Have to keep up on all the news.”
“Gigot.”
“That’s all the news I need. I’ll be there. Is he making it with pine nuts?”
“Yes, I’m sure he is.”
“Chestnuts?”
“It’s not the season, silly. It’s only September.”
“Well, tell your son to come back during chestnut season.”
“I’ll make sure to mention that.”
Ramzi came home at one o’clock. Tariq had been driving him. At one-fifteen sharp, Mustapha walked through the door. She could set her watch by his schedule. As was his habit, he began undressing the minute he walked through the door, Saniya picking up after him. The jacket in the anteroom, the tie in the living room, the shoes in the corridor, the shirt on the floor in the bedroom, the pants on the bed, the underwear, the socks. Emerged seconds later in pajama bottoms and undershirt. Saniya followed him with warm socks. “Put these on. It’s cold.”
By one-twenty, everyone had arrived. By one-thirty, they were seated at the dining table, all ten of them. Timing was essential for Mustapha. By two they would be done.
The conversation at the table covered a lot of ground. Ramzi’s health, his work. Mustapha asked his son about clients. Ramzi practiced medicine in a part of San Francisco where clients were not all genteel and white, but a procession of multicolored flesh, a new cause of consternation for his father. Even Saniya was surprised at her son’s choices, not prejudice, but a seeming distortion of the immaculate image she had of him. Mustapha’s pointed questioning had its usual effect on Ramzi. He raised and lowered his eyelids slowly while his father spoke, a sure sign of his waning interest.
“How’s Sarah doing?” Saniya asked, coming to her son’s rescue. “She called today to wish us a happy anniversary. I was surprised she remembered.”
“Of course, she would remember,” Majida said. This was a conversation the whole family could participate in. “Ramzi must have told her before he left.”
“I did tell her. She’s doing fine, still as lost as ever.”
“I wish she’d move back here where she belongs,” Mustapha said. Always the same refrain.
“She never will, Father. You know that.”
“Is she still writing her book?” Amal asked.
“I’m not sure. She hasn’t mentioned it in a while.”
“That girl was just spit out by her mother. She behaves in exactly the same way.” Mustapha’s statement was the usual one, which ended any conversation about Sarah. Saniya could see the girls wanting to find out more, but they would wait until Mustapha had gone in for his afternoon nap. Amal would want to know whether her sister was still obsessed with the man who had dumped her. They could not talk about Sarah’s relationships while her father was present. They could not talk about Ramzi’s lover either. Relationships, the unmentionable topic.
“Can Tariq drive me this afternoon?” her son asked.
“No. I need him. Can you drive yourself?”
“Sure.” He turned toward his father. “Are the players coming this afternoon?” Mustapha simply nodded.
The lunch was over. Two o’clock. Mustapha stood up. “I guess we’ll see you all tomorrow.” Laughter all around.
“Bring the kids tomorrow. It’s Saturday.”
“Ramzi should visit more often.”
By two-fifteen, Mustapha and his wife were in bed for a brief siesta. At two forty-five, Miki came in with the coffee. By three the cardplayers began arriving. They had been playing quatorze every day since before Saniya was married. The same five people every single day, from three-thirty till eight. All of them worked half days, even though they were all professionals. Mustapha played quatorze on his wedding day — they did not have a honeymoon — on the day Rana was born, the day Majida was born, and even the day Ramzi was born.
She started dressing when they were four. She would greet the fifth and leave as was her habit. For the first ten years, she was there every day making sure all their needs were met. She finally began to train the maids to do her job. When the doorbell rang, she was the one to open the door.
“How’s the little business lady?”
“Fine. How are you today?”
“Going off to work?”
“Someone has to.” The last she said as the elevator door closed.
* * *
By four-thirty, Tariq was going down on her, his Hizballah beard proving to be functional after all.
Tariq lay with his arms around her, her back against his chest, their feet touching. He fell asleep nuzzling her neck, a hand holding her breast. She wept, silently, careful not to wake him. Tears dropping into her open mouth, she whimpered softly.
~ ~ ~
Il faisait chaud ce jour-là. Elle avait porté sa longue robe noire et fleurie. Elle aimait cette robe. Sa belle-mère disait qu’elle la rendait trop maigre. Mais elle en aimait le fin tissu frais. La chaleur l’étouffait. Elle était au bord de la route depuis bientôt dix minutes, et aucun taxi ne semblait vouloir s’arrêter. Ses cheveux lui collaient au front. Elle détestait Beyrouth en été. La chaleur et l’humidité rendaient la ville sale.
Une voiture s’arrêta. Elle regarda furtivement le conducteur, puis, lui fit signe de la tête qu’elle n’en avait pas besoin. On lui avait toujours dit de se méfier des jeunes conducteurs. Elle regarda sa montre. Déjà six heures. Elle était lasse et fatiguée. Elle voulait rentrer à la maison. Les séquelles de sa récente maladie commençaient à se manifester. Il faisait tellement chaud qu’elle se sentait au bord de l’évanouissement.
~ ~ ~
It was hot that day. Sarah wore her long black dress with a flower motif, tiny yellow-and-white daisies and red poppies. She loved the dress. Her stepmother had told her it made her appear too thin, the black making her skin look too pale. But she loved the fine cloth, billowing linen perfect for the weather. The heat was suffocating. She had been waiting at the side of the road for more than ten minutes and not a single taxi or jitney seemed to want to stop. A couple had passed filled with the maximum five passengers. Her hair stuck to her clammy forehead. She hated Beirut in the summer. The heat and humidity made the city filthy.
A car stopped. She glanced at the driver furtively, then signaled him with a slight movement of her head that she did not need a jitney. She was always told to be wary of young taxi drivers. She looked at her watch. Already six o’clock. She was tired and weary. She wanted to be home. The symptoms of her recent illness were beginning to reappear. If it were not for the bout of pneumonia, she would have been up in the mountains instead of in Beirut. When she got sick, the family packed their summer home, returning early to Beirut to make sure she could be hospitalized. She ended up spending a couple of days in the hospital when her fever ran too high.