Read Online An Unnecessary Woman by Alameddine Rabih - Free Book Online

toilet broke down last year, I had to set up three appointments with three plumbers because the first two didn’t show and the third appeared four hours late. Rarely can I walk the same path from point A to point B, say from apartment to supermarket, for more than a month. I constantly have to adjust my walking maps; any of a multitude of minor politicians will block off entire neighborhoods because one day they decide they’re important enough to feel threatened. Life in Beirut is much too random. I can’t force myself to believe I’m in charge of much of my life.
    Does reliability reinforce your illusion of control? If so, I wonder if in developed countries (I won’t use the hateful term civilized ), the treacherous, illusion-crushing process of aging is more difficult to bear.
    Am I having an easier time than women my age in London?
    Marie-Thérèse calls for her cat to come home, the daily aubade. The uncaring, intricate world begins to rouse. In time the curtain edges will grow light.
    “Maysoura!” Marie-Thérèse’s voice has risen in volume since her husband passed away. “Maysoura!”
    I don’t understand why she allows her two cats to roam the streets of our neighborhood. Beirut isn’t a pet-friendly city. Like my mother, Marie-Thérèse loves cats. However, my mother never owned a cat; she showered her love on the city’s ferals.
    The generator comes on with its soft hum. Fadia must have awakened. I don’t turn the light on, remain in the not-quite-as-dark.
    I think of Brodsky:
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won’t be again.
    The sun rises, and the kitchen takes shape, revealing its details. The awakening of my city is more beautiful to my eyes, and to my ears, than the breaking of dawn in some bucolic valley or sparsely populated island paradise, not that I’ve actually been to a bucolic valley or an island paradise. In my city, the sun multiplies its effects on the myriad of windows and glass in colorful reflections that make each morning distinct. The faint light creeps through the window, curious to see what is happening in my kitchen. It falls across my face and falters. I make myself stand up. I sway a little, lean on the wine-red and urine-yellow abomination of a breakfast table that my husband brought with him when we were married and left when he left. I shake the loose folds of my robe de chambre. Dust motes hang thick in the air. The kitchen has two windows on adjacent walls. A spider with shockingly long front legs busies herself with prey caught in her web. All that remains is a wisp of gossamer with striated veins. The spider chose the wrong window; her home will be washed away with the first rains. I stretch on my toes, draw back the short drapes of the second window, and unveil more morning light. I allow brightness to flood the kitchen from both sides. I slide open the pane for the first time in a couple of days. This window looks onto the outdoor stairwell, and my neighbors are able to quench their curiosity as they click-clack up and down. A slight breath of air makes the stagnant motes waver; a handful of sunlight kindles them golden and luminous.
    Apollo, ever the alchemist, still sails his chariot in the skies of Beirut, wielding a philosopher’s stone. Into gold I transmute the very air.
    You must change your life.
    The surprising sound of Marie-Thérèse’s strapless sandals floats through the window—surprising since my downstairs neighbor hasn’t made the trek upstairs in a long while. After she passes the window, I lean over to observe. She doesn’t seem to be dragging her shadow and isn’t wearing a mourning dress. It takes me a moment to remember that this is the day after the one-year anniversary of her husband’s death. As my heels return to the floor, I realize my neck has stiffened.
    Fadia’s voice descends from above. “Well done, my love, well done. I’m proud of you.” The voice sounds invigorated, as if its owner has