hairs at the back of my neck and peeps into a stack of papers on the desk.
“I knew you worked in a bookstore,” Joumana says, “but I had no idea you had so many . . . so many . . . this is a stockroom of books.” She moves cautiously and reverently, tiptoes almost, occasionally craning her neck to read titles.
I want to tell her to stop, to let me be; no, I want her to stop, she must stop. I open my mouth but the sound gets stuck. Her fingers, her profane fingers, drum—the index, middle, and ring finger of her right hand drum a commotion, they drum on my chairback, on a shelf, on the spines of my books, the torturous tap-tap-tock clattering over everything.
A greater commotion makes a grand entrance.
“They’re gone,” Fadia announces. “I waited till I saw the car leave. They’d better not come back if they know what’s best for them.” Her forehead is damp and pearly, the hair above it flat against her skull. The flush of her cheeks is exaggerated, and naughtiness twinkles in her eyes. She too is surprised at the sight of so many books.
“So this is what you do indoors,” Fadia exclaims. A lit cigarette sizzles close to her fingertips. The sunlight filtering through the windowpanes wreathes her right hand in blue smoke. “I always wondered how you spent so much time all by yourself during the war. Oh, wait. While the Lebanese were experiencing bloodlust, yours was booklust.” She emits a bubbling brook of laughter. When she realizes I’m not laughing, she adds, “You have to admit that was clever.”
“Yes.” I nod patiently.
“And funny, right?”
“Thank you for your help,” I say. “That was very kind of you. I’m not sure how I’d have handled the situation had you not arrived when you did.”
“Think nothing of it,” Fadia replies. “Someday you should come up and see my library.”
“Your library?” Marie-Thérèse asks.
Joumana shakes her head as if to say, “I can’t believe you didn’t see that one coming.”
“My library has two books,” Fadia says, “and I have yet to finish coloring the second one.” She brightens, and her laughter grows louder when she realizes I’ve cracked a smile. “Fadia can be funny sometimes.”
I rake my hair of blue and wait for them to leave.
Such a messy morning. I need to get out of the house, clear the ant farm out of my brain. I intend to breathe some city fumes. My nightgown, crinkly and wrinkled from dried perspiration, I discard on the impeccably made bed. Fresh talcum powder under my arms, clean underwear. I put on my gray dress, which has gone in and out of style a number of times while I wasn’t paying attention, and a blue cardigan. My time of bracelets, perfumes, and frivolous adornments has long since passed. I clasp my locks into a makeshift bun and cover my head with a scarf, making sure I show enough neck skin. I don’t want anyone to think I’m covering up for asinine religious reasons.
I lock the door and try to hurry down the steps, afraid the witches might return. Past Marie-Thérèse’s apartment, I forget about the stone that has worked itself loose on the third step from the top. I land on it. The hollow thud it emits beneath my low heels reminds me to slow. I can relax for a bit.
The stairwell is no longer exposed and friendly. Fifteen years ago, in 1995, half-walls were constructed to protect the building from flying bullets that were no longer around. They look unattractive and unnatural. Part of the post–civil war renovation, they were supposed to serve their defensive purpose while maintaining the building’s older Beiruti character and keeping the common stairwell relatively open-aired. Like most things Lebanese, they arrived after the time when they were most needed had passed.
As soon as I leave the last step and try to cross the street, battered taxis begin to blow their high-pitched beeps, clumsily inquiring about my willingness to use them. The bleating cars comfort me. My pace is
“I knew you worked in a bookstore,” Joumana says, “but I had no idea you had so many . . . so many . . . this is a stockroom of books.” She moves cautiously and reverently, tiptoes almost, occasionally craning her neck to read titles.
I want to tell her to stop, to let me be; no, I want her to stop, she must stop. I open my mouth but the sound gets stuck. Her fingers, her profane fingers, drum—the index, middle, and ring finger of her right hand drum a commotion, they drum on my chairback, on a shelf, on the spines of my books, the torturous tap-tap-tock clattering over everything.
A greater commotion makes a grand entrance.
“They’re gone,” Fadia announces. “I waited till I saw the car leave. They’d better not come back if they know what’s best for them.” Her forehead is damp and pearly, the hair above it flat against her skull. The flush of her cheeks is exaggerated, and naughtiness twinkles in her eyes. She too is surprised at the sight of so many books.
“So this is what you do indoors,” Fadia exclaims. A lit cigarette sizzles close to her fingertips. The sunlight filtering through the windowpanes wreathes her right hand in blue smoke. “I always wondered how you spent so much time all by yourself during the war. Oh, wait. While the Lebanese were experiencing bloodlust, yours was booklust.” She emits a bubbling brook of laughter. When she realizes I’m not laughing, she adds, “You have to admit that was clever.”
“Yes.” I nod patiently.
“And funny, right?”
“Thank you for your help,” I say. “That was very kind of you. I’m not sure how I’d have handled the situation had you not arrived when you did.”
“Think nothing of it,” Fadia replies. “Someday you should come up and see my library.”
“Your library?” Marie-Thérèse asks.
Joumana shakes her head as if to say, “I can’t believe you didn’t see that one coming.”
“My library has two books,” Fadia says, “and I have yet to finish coloring the second one.” She brightens, and her laughter grows louder when she realizes I’ve cracked a smile. “Fadia can be funny sometimes.”
I rake my hair of blue and wait for them to leave.
Such a messy morning. I need to get out of the house, clear the ant farm out of my brain. I intend to breathe some city fumes. My nightgown, crinkly and wrinkled from dried perspiration, I discard on the impeccably made bed. Fresh talcum powder under my arms, clean underwear. I put on my gray dress, which has gone in and out of style a number of times while I wasn’t paying attention, and a blue cardigan. My time of bracelets, perfumes, and frivolous adornments has long since passed. I clasp my locks into a makeshift bun and cover my head with a scarf, making sure I show enough neck skin. I don’t want anyone to think I’m covering up for asinine religious reasons.
I lock the door and try to hurry down the steps, afraid the witches might return. Past Marie-Thérèse’s apartment, I forget about the stone that has worked itself loose on the third step from the top. I land on it. The hollow thud it emits beneath my low heels reminds me to slow. I can relax for a bit.
The stairwell is no longer exposed and friendly. Fifteen years ago, in 1995, half-walls were constructed to protect the building from flying bullets that were no longer around. They look unattractive and unnatural. Part of the post–civil war renovation, they were supposed to serve their defensive purpose while maintaining the building’s older Beiruti character and keeping the common stairwell relatively open-aired. Like most things Lebanese, they arrived after the time when they were most needed had passed.
As soon as I leave the last step and try to cross the street, battered taxis begin to blow their high-pitched beeps, clumsily inquiring about my willingness to use them. The bleating cars comfort me. My pace is
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