Koolaids (15 page)

I hope you can pardon the rambling of an old man. I needed to write what I did. As I said earlier, the fact that the request came from you, the one who is accused of ending the family line completely (You bad boy!), amuses me to no end.

I realize you may be facing some hard times, but keep your head up. You are a prince. You are Emir Samir Basil Bashar. I know that titles do not mean much anymore these days. Nonetheless, they should mean something to you. You are still a prince. God gave you that title.

I understand you are living with someone. I hope you two are happy together. I know it is practically impossible for you to bring him here when you next visit. I would have liked to meet him. Who knows? I am still in good health. Maybe I can arrange a trip to America at some point. It would be nice to visit you and meet your friend. I might be able to visit San Francisco. That has always been a dream of mine.

Please write again soon. The mail does work here sometimes. I did enjoy hearing from you. I hope this letter finds you in good health.

Sincerely,

Your great-great-uncle!

Bashir Salaheddine

…

I would have canceled the exhibit if I could. The gallery refused to even entertain the idea. Scott had just died, but the exhibit had been set for months. I flew to New York to set it up. I told the gallery I would be flying back the minute the exhibit was completely hung. I was not attending the opening reception.

As usual, we finished hanging the exhibit barely on time. It was only hours before the opening reception. I went to the hotel to pack. I ended up in the bar drinking. I was drunk when I decided to attend the reception and insult a few people.

I arrived while the reception was in full swing. I walked across the gallery to the open bar. I asked for a double Scotch on the rocks. The director, Jana, asked me if I hadn't had enough. I waited till I swallowed the whole thing before saying no.

I scanned the whole room. I saw my mother staring at me. I laughed at myself. My mother was never this young. That reproving look was my mother's.

“Hey you,” I scream across the room. “I painted you.”

She walks towards me, sizing me up.

“Look,” I tell Jana, pointing at one of the paintings. “I painted her. I paint her all the time.”

“You're drunk,” the girl says softly. “You're making a fool of yourself.”

I am so confused. I can't reply. I haven't spoken in Arabic in so long. I want to ask who she is. I know her. I know I know her. I can't place her. I can't think straight anymore. She takes my hand.

“Come on,” she says. “Let's go to my place. You can sleep it off.”

I want to say something, but the language fails me. I struggle. The words come out in Arabic.

“I killed him.”

“Let's go home.”

My sister leads me out by the hand. I weep.

…

She picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“I got your message.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Come on, Samia. It's not that difficult to get what you want in Beirut.”

She composed herself.

“Don't call me here, please,” she said. “I don't want to talk to you.”

“Can I come see you?”

“No. What is the matter with you? I don't want to see you.”

“But I do.” he said. Still jovial, even on the phone.

“You are crazy. You know they would kill you if you cross.” “You think you would be able to hire someone?”

“I wouldn't have to. I found out who you are. There are a million people here who would love to get their hands on you.”

“I love it,” he laughed heartily. “You care about me.”

“You're crazy. Absolutely nuts. I'm going to hang up now. Don't call me again.”

She hung up the phone.

…

Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves him.

The mild-mannered E. M. Forster said that. Eddy knew a thing or two.

…

There were only five of us who started the history doctoral program at Georgetown in 1983. By the second year, we were only four. We rarely hung out together socially. I was having a difficult time reintroducing myself to my countrymen. I left Washington when I was seven, came back when I was twenty-one. The change, in the city and in me, was palpable.

There was one girl in the program who intrigued me. She had an intellect far superior to mine. Her family was Catholic, blue blood from New England. Of course, she was loud, scruffy, obnoxious, and fun to be around. I probably was the only guy in the department she had not slept with. Her name was Wanda, but everybody called her Wicked.

January, 1984, was a hell of a cold month. I was leaving class and going home, when I heard her call my name. I saw her running at me, wearing a camel's hair coat, which made her seem twice her natural size. Her dark hair blowing in the brumal wind. She wore a long canary yellow scarf, Isadora Duncan–style, which was the only color I saw for miles around that bleak day.

“Samir, darling.” She kissed my cheek. “How are you doing?” The voice of the charmer. She had never used it on me before. I figured she wanted something.

“I'm doing okay, Wicked. The weather is somewhat depressing.”

“Where are you going?” she asked me.

“Home.”

She put her arm in mine. It made me somewhat uncomfortable. I steadied myself. It was time I told the truth. It was time I put the sign above my head. I am a homosexual. “Would you mind if I walked with you a bit? I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “I wouldn't mind the company.”

It was cold. We walked huddled together.

“I have a favor to ask you.”

“What is it?” I prepared myself for what was coming. I am gay, I am gay, I practiced in my mind.

“There is this real cute guy I am interested in.”

“Oh.” I practiced nonchalance. I had not gotten used to a girl hitting on me.

“He is a great guy. I think he likes me, but I think he is gay.”

“Oh, really?” This was proving difficult.

“Well, you know how it is. He treats me the same way you do. So I figured maybe you can help. I thought maybe if you met him, you would be able to tell for sure. You know, the gay thing. You can tell each other and so on.”

I started blushing. I had to pretend I was not shocked by what she was saying. It would be more embarrassing if she found out I did not know she knew I was. I was unsure how to proceed.

“I'm not sure I would be much help,” I stammered. “I am not very good at telling.”

“Are you a virgin, dollface?”

“No, of course not,” came my quick reply.

“Well, you're acting like one, darling!” She looked at me intensely. I realized I was in over my head.

“I am not a virgin,” I said emphatically. I should have added “technically.” By that time, I had been with one female prostitute and four men; two of those times actually occurred in a bed. I had never been kissed. The sex I had had consisted of mutual masturbation and receiving oral sex twice. I had convinced myself I would be able to relax sexually once I got over Karim. Unlikely, but I had convinced myself nonetheless. “I have been with a few men,” I said.

“I think you will like Mark. He is really cute. I figure if I can't have him, you should. Maybe if you get laid, you'll stop looking so drab. You're the worst-dressed homosexual I have ever known. Did you know that?”

“I'll alert the media,” I said sarcastically.

“You don't have to. Everybody knows already!”

I wondered if I could ever be as ebullient as she was.

She was right. Mark was gay. She invited both of us to a party at her flat, a crowded, raucous affair. I walked in, she took my arm and led me to Mark. I knew right away he was gay, the only one at the party. She introduced me by saying, “Mark, this is Samir. He's from Lebanon. I invited him just for you. I think you'd make a great couple. He's practically a virgin, so be gentle with him or I'll be on your ass.” She left us there, both crimson red, stuttering, unable to believe what she just did. That was January 21st. Our anniversary.

…

My four brothers and I are having breakfast on a grand piano. I tell Farid, my eldest brother, that he needs ketchup on his meal. I pour the ketchup out of the bottle and onto his plate. I pour so much it overflows and drips down on the piano.

I sit on the piano to play. I try to play a chord. There are no black keys. The piano has only white keys. Nawal joins us. She sits next to me on the stool and asks me to play with her. The piano now has both white and black keys.

The six of us cut up the piano, divide it up among us, and eat it.

Siblings always divide up the pie.

…

Scott came home one day and told me the bookstore he was working at was up for sale. He was unsure what would happen to him, and his coworkers, if it were sold. His birthday was coming up, so I bought it for him.

…

An hour later. Arjuna and his charioteer, Krsna, on the battlefield. They are now joined by Jesus, Eleanor Roosevelt, Mame Dennis, Julio Cortázar, and Tom Cruise, who looks a little lost.

ARJUNA:
Hear my cry, 0 God; attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou has been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever: I will trust in the covert of thy wings.

KRSNA:
That's nice.

ARJUNA:
You don't hear me. In an ordered world, you would hear me.

JULIO:
This world is a mess, unbridled chaos.

JESUS:
I hear you. If you pray to me, I hear you. I am the alpha and the omega.

KRSNA:
Just shut up. Stop trying to confuse the boy. This world is fucked up as it is without you trying to fuck it up some more.

ARJUNA:
But he may have the answer. He may know what the meaning of life is.

JESUS:
I do. If you worship me, I will give you all the answers. I am the alpha and the omega.

MAME:
Is this guy for real?

JULIO:
Of course not. He just shows up to distract people. He's loads of fun, though.

ARJUNA:
I wish someone would just tell me what it's all about.

MAME:
Live, you fool. Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.

KRSNA:
Go out and kill your cousins.

MAME:
Live, live, live.

JULIO:
Kill, kill, kill.

TOM:
I'm horny.

ELEANOR:
Oh, shut up.

…

Operation Grapes of Wrath.

Where do they come up with these names, I wonder? Desert Storm and Desert Shield. I still like Kurt calling it Operation Panty Shield.

Operation Grapes of Wrath killed about 150 Lebanese, which is relatively minor in the history of the Lebanese wars. The operation did help unify the Lebanese for a little while. Israel's bombing of the UN base outraged the Christians, even though the majority of those killed were Shiites. For the first time since a February 1994 bombing of a Catholic church north of Beirut killed ten people, there were displays of unanimity among the various citizens of my country.

Black-robed Maronite bishops stood by turbaned Shiite clerics during the funeral in Qana, site of the massacre. There was a mass grave for 103 people. The precise number of the dead was unknown since many of the victims had been so blown to pieces and disfigured by the shells and the ensuing fire that they were not complete corpses. There were no foreign dignitaries at the funeral. If it were 103 Israelis that were killed in a shelter, would the world have been so silent?

The Shiite clergyman told the world, “The Jews committed a holocaust in Lebanon.”

The old Lebanese proverb still holds. My brother and I against my cousin, my cousin and I against the stranger. Just let me hate somebody.

The Grapes of Wrath.

…

Remember me. Remember me, please. Please remember me. Please.

Forgive me.

…

When Scott was hospitalized the first time with PCP, Mo and I became closer. The wall he kept hiding behind went down. He became an integral part of my life.

He was the first person to tell me my paintings were bad. The funny thing was I was not devastated by his harsh criticism. I always thought I was so insecure about my painting I would be devastated by criticism. I guess I was lucky in the beginning. For the first eighteen months or so, everybody liked my paintings. Some said they did not understand them, but even those who said so, said they liked them anyway. In the first eighteen months I was in four group shows, two of which were juried. That was quite a feat. I was very proud. I even had a solo show at an alternative gallery, the second floor of a nondenominational church. I invited everybody I knew to the reception. All showed up. Even the artists I knew made sure to emphasize what a great show it was. Mo did not show up till about fifteen minutes from when the reception was supposed to end. I had been waiting for him the entire time. I wanted to tell him I started painting because I had seen his exhibit and it inspired me.

Everybody knew who he was. I saw the gallery curator prepare to go meet him. He came in, barely glanced at the paintings, before turning around to leave, not saying anything to anyone. I caught up to him as he was going down the stairs. I asked him why he was leaving so fast. He said he hated openings. He made an appearance because I asked him to. I asked him what he thought of my work. I will never forget the way he looked at me, as if he was wondering whether I could handle it.

“Your paintings suck,” he said. Just like that. I smiled nervously, trying to cover up my embarrassment. It was the wrong reaction. He left shaking his head.