priest, who had sat down atthe dining table to prepare the announcement of her death and had written, “The late lamented Laure Tibshirani, wife of Nasri Shammas, departed this life having performed in full her religious obligations, etc.”
“No!” Nasri had screamed. “She didn’t depart this life!” And the priest had said, “You’re right, Mr. Nasri. We should write, ‘passed into the mercy of the Almighty.’ ” “No!” said Nasri. “She didn’t depart and she didn’t pass. Life departed from her. The pity of it! Those eyes of hers kept on shining even after she was dead. She didn’t depart and she didn’t pass. The pity of it, Laure!”
Karim didn’t remember what they wrote in the announcement because he was too young and didn’t understand that the clichés written at the important moments of people’s lives aren’t just clichés. They are complex figures of speech possessing a status in people’s souls so emotive it makes tears fall from their eyes. He did remember his mother’s eyes, though. The father had led his sons toward the bed of their dead mother, whom cancer had transformed into something more like a small child, and ordered them to look into her eyes, which shone with a brilliance like that of water: “You mustn’t forget your mother’s eyes, the way they stayed open gazing at life even after death.” The father went forward, placed his hand over his wife’s eyes and closed them. At that moment everything went white. All Karim could remember was the white that filled his eyes. It wasn’t a fainting fit because the child didn’t fall to the ground. He remained rigid where he was and didn’t move. The milky white surrounded him on all sides. Nasri led his sons to the living room, which was crammed full of people, and there they heard the wailing, and they cried. Karim said that the tears that fell from his eyes opened them, and he saw the people and felt the need to hide.
When Karim attempted to remind his brother of the scene, he was surprised to find that Nasim didn’t remember the open eyes. Nasim said he hadn’t seen anything: “I saw something small and white on a white sheet.Are you sure Father closed her eyes? Why, did she die with her eyes open too?”
Karim was aware from his experience as a doctor that lots of people die with their eyes open and that it has nothing to do with the dead person’s psychological state; it’s a purely physiological matter connected to the circumstances of the moment of death. But at that moment he saw his father lying on the ground, the blood running out of him, his eyes open onto the abyss of death.
5
T HEY WERE TWINS , or so they believed. Karim was born on January 4, 1950, Nasim on December 22 of the same year. This was a source of pride to the pharmacist Nasri Shammas and a compensation to him for the fact that his wife, Laure, had been incapable of bearing more children. The boys were alike in every way and never left each other’s side.
Nasri Shammas, owner of Beirut’s Shefa Pharmacy, spent most of his spare time at the Gemmeizeh Café, where he never stopped recounting his heroic deeds and telling of his ability to father two children in a single year. He would smoke his daily narghile, play backgammon, and narrate. The boys only discovered why their father insisted on taking them each day to the café, where they were bored, when they found out that their mother was ill.
Two light-skinned boys who looked so much like each other they could have been twins. The elder, Karim, was introverted, while the younger was cheerful and sociable, but they never left each other’s side. After their mother’s death they turned into a single person, or so it seemed to most people. Nasim, the sturdy one, defended his brother at school and stoppedthe bigger boys from hitting him, while Karim did the studying for both of them. He trained his younger brother till their handwriting ended up looking the same and the teachers couldn’t
“No!” Nasri had screamed. “She didn’t depart this life!” And the priest had said, “You’re right, Mr. Nasri. We should write, ‘passed into the mercy of the Almighty.’ ” “No!” said Nasri. “She didn’t depart and she didn’t pass. Life departed from her. The pity of it! Those eyes of hers kept on shining even after she was dead. She didn’t depart and she didn’t pass. The pity of it, Laure!”
Karim didn’t remember what they wrote in the announcement because he was too young and didn’t understand that the clichés written at the important moments of people’s lives aren’t just clichés. They are complex figures of speech possessing a status in people’s souls so emotive it makes tears fall from their eyes. He did remember his mother’s eyes, though. The father had led his sons toward the bed of their dead mother, whom cancer had transformed into something more like a small child, and ordered them to look into her eyes, which shone with a brilliance like that of water: “You mustn’t forget your mother’s eyes, the way they stayed open gazing at life even after death.” The father went forward, placed his hand over his wife’s eyes and closed them. At that moment everything went white. All Karim could remember was the white that filled his eyes. It wasn’t a fainting fit because the child didn’t fall to the ground. He remained rigid where he was and didn’t move. The milky white surrounded him on all sides. Nasri led his sons to the living room, which was crammed full of people, and there they heard the wailing, and they cried. Karim said that the tears that fell from his eyes opened them, and he saw the people and felt the need to hide.
When Karim attempted to remind his brother of the scene, he was surprised to find that Nasim didn’t remember the open eyes. Nasim said he hadn’t seen anything: “I saw something small and white on a white sheet.Are you sure Father closed her eyes? Why, did she die with her eyes open too?”
Karim was aware from his experience as a doctor that lots of people die with their eyes open and that it has nothing to do with the dead person’s psychological state; it’s a purely physiological matter connected to the circumstances of the moment of death. But at that moment he saw his father lying on the ground, the blood running out of him, his eyes open onto the abyss of death.
5
T HEY WERE TWINS , or so they believed. Karim was born on January 4, 1950, Nasim on December 22 of the same year. This was a source of pride to the pharmacist Nasri Shammas and a compensation to him for the fact that his wife, Laure, had been incapable of bearing more children. The boys were alike in every way and never left each other’s side.
Nasri Shammas, owner of Beirut’s Shefa Pharmacy, spent most of his spare time at the Gemmeizeh Café, where he never stopped recounting his heroic deeds and telling of his ability to father two children in a single year. He would smoke his daily narghile, play backgammon, and narrate. The boys only discovered why their father insisted on taking them each day to the café, where they were bored, when they found out that their mother was ill.
Two light-skinned boys who looked so much like each other they could have been twins. The elder, Karim, was introverted, while the younger was cheerful and sociable, but they never left each other’s side. After their mother’s death they turned into a single person, or so it seemed to most people. Nasim, the sturdy one, defended his brother at school and stoppedthe bigger boys from hitting him, while Karim did the studying for both of them. He trained his younger brother till their handwriting ended up looking the same and the teachers couldn’t
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