Read Online Bone Ash Sky by Katerina Cosgrove - Free Book Online
Authors: Katerina Cosgrove
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lived in the heart of the PLO enclave in west Beirut. Her waterfront promenade and the boulevards that radiated from it still retained the beauty of an Orient past so idealised and yet so corrupted in these halfway countries, neither East nor West: delicately amoral, carelessly imprecise, in an advanced state of decay. The scraggly palm trees were indicative of it, the heat that embraced then lacerated, the grit between her teeth from watery coffee sold by vendors at the seaside, overblown fruit hawked by peasants from the south.
In these last few days before the Israeli invasion she discovered â reluctantly, shyly, almost ashamed â how much she was bound to this city. In refusing to leave, in clinging to her flimsy life, she found something interior, precious and reserved, close to love, for the city that mirrored her every breath, her every moan and fear. At night she lay back on her kilim cushions and smoked shisha tobacco scented with apples, gazing out into the middle distance past crowds on the seafront, as if by doing this she might somehow avert their shared fate.
When she was younger, she thought she would travel as soon as she could, explore the whole of Europe â live on the fringes, flout moral codes, a fleeting sparkling citizen of the world. She would promise herself in those nights spent lying awake in bed, hearing the clock tick, hearing her parents argue: When I turn thirty Iâ ll be somewhere completely different, Cyprus maybe, Greece, or taking in the shimmer-heat of the south of Italy. She envisaged days of lassitude and iced drinks, nights of tanned skin and cool passion. She had no ambitions; studying was always a chore. She wasnât good at anything in particular, and hadnât really minded. She liked dancing, music, was capable of putting people at ease. She didnât judge. That was her one shining achievement. Now she wished she had something: a hobby, a passion to occupy her days, to make life sing. She should have gone away when she had the chance.
She despised her parents and their small-minded existence, that bitter, hard-earned, middle-class wealth, a dirt-floor factory and its underpaid workers. Manufacturing cheap nylon pantyhose; sheer nude, opaque white, dirty black, she refused to ever wear a pair. She loathed the obligatory end-of-year appearance, the grudging line-up to shake her hand, such a good girl, such a compliant daughter, the pretty child of the boss. Handing out presents, meagre parcels of tangerines and roasted nuts. Her parents would bend down, whisper in her ears, twin conspirators. You know all this is for you. She knew it wasnât. If she were dead, her parents would still be doing it. Now they were dead in her place, and she felt as if she had killed them.
She had dreaded the petty rounds of protocol, decorum: endless afternoon visits to fourth cousins and distant friends of friends. Muslim boys chosen for her to marry one day, all on display like so many fake clown-heads at the circus. Aim for the mouth, pop in a ball, win the prize. They sat in a row on stiff high-backed chairs, gobbling down food, betraying their indifference to her with their lack of manners. She watched them, sipped, never smiled. Tea and syrup cake disappearing down their gullets, scent of rosewater, glasses of pure arak poured from a little green bottle for the ladies. She hated it all: Beirut the implacable hostess, Beirut the hypocrite matron, Beirut the painted whore. Now, at the age of thirty, she realised just how much she belonged to Beirut, and the city to her.
It could be because she was now all these things. The slapdash hostess, the failed matron, the virgin whore. Beirut and she had an understanding, or at least something in common. She finally appreciated â if not accepted â her role in a society that alternately condemned and praised her for the very same attributes on different days. And she was no longer ashamed. No, she was defiant. It was
In these last few days before the Israeli invasion she discovered â reluctantly, shyly, almost ashamed â how much she was bound to this city. In refusing to leave, in clinging to her flimsy life, she found something interior, precious and reserved, close to love, for the city that mirrored her every breath, her every moan and fear. At night she lay back on her kilim cushions and smoked shisha tobacco scented with apples, gazing out into the middle distance past crowds on the seafront, as if by doing this she might somehow avert their shared fate.
When she was younger, she thought she would travel as soon as she could, explore the whole of Europe â live on the fringes, flout moral codes, a fleeting sparkling citizen of the world. She would promise herself in those nights spent lying awake in bed, hearing the clock tick, hearing her parents argue: When I turn thirty Iâ ll be somewhere completely different, Cyprus maybe, Greece, or taking in the shimmer-heat of the south of Italy. She envisaged days of lassitude and iced drinks, nights of tanned skin and cool passion. She had no ambitions; studying was always a chore. She wasnât good at anything in particular, and hadnât really minded. She liked dancing, music, was capable of putting people at ease. She didnât judge. That was her one shining achievement. Now she wished she had something: a hobby, a passion to occupy her days, to make life sing. She should have gone away when she had the chance.
She despised her parents and their small-minded existence, that bitter, hard-earned, middle-class wealth, a dirt-floor factory and its underpaid workers. Manufacturing cheap nylon pantyhose; sheer nude, opaque white, dirty black, she refused to ever wear a pair. She loathed the obligatory end-of-year appearance, the grudging line-up to shake her hand, such a good girl, such a compliant daughter, the pretty child of the boss. Handing out presents, meagre parcels of tangerines and roasted nuts. Her parents would bend down, whisper in her ears, twin conspirators. You know all this is for you. She knew it wasnât. If she were dead, her parents would still be doing it. Now they were dead in her place, and she felt as if she had killed them.
She had dreaded the petty rounds of protocol, decorum: endless afternoon visits to fourth cousins and distant friends of friends. Muslim boys chosen for her to marry one day, all on display like so many fake clown-heads at the circus. Aim for the mouth, pop in a ball, win the prize. They sat in a row on stiff high-backed chairs, gobbling down food, betraying their indifference to her with their lack of manners. She watched them, sipped, never smiled. Tea and syrup cake disappearing down their gullets, scent of rosewater, glasses of pure arak poured from a little green bottle for the ladies. She hated it all: Beirut the implacable hostess, Beirut the hypocrite matron, Beirut the painted whore. Now, at the age of thirty, she realised just how much she belonged to Beirut, and the city to her.
It could be because she was now all these things. The slapdash hostess, the failed matron, the virgin whore. Beirut and she had an understanding, or at least something in common. She finally appreciated â if not accepted â her role in a society that alternately condemned and praised her for the very same attributes on different days. And she was no longer ashamed. No, she was defiant. It was
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