Read Online I, the Divine by Alameddine Rabih - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alameddine Rabih
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my namesake, continued acting. When she could not walk, she used canes or was helped onstage by the other actors. After she was an amputee, she used an artificial leg. By 1912, she could not jump across the stage. She could not have done L’Aiglon.
I mentioned nothing to my grandfather, ever. He died unaware I knew. To this day, whenever I feel slightly depressed, I dye my hair red.
The water stands ready. Bath foam, Caswell-MasseyBainMoussant , scent of gardenia. She prepares for the bath with her current book, Naipaul’s A House for Mr. Biswas , a bottle of Crystal Geyser, her Sony cordless phone, and a Granny Smith apple—she loves to eat apples in the bath. Beethoven’s string quartet in C sharp minor by the Tokyo String Quartet fills the room, not a great recording, but more than adequate.
White tiles rise only halfway up the walls of her small bathroom, followed by light blue enamel paint. Half of a wall is covered with postcards of paintings: the Comtesse D’Haussonville by Ingres from the Frick, the great Portrait of Cosimo I de Medici by Pontormo from the Getty Museum, The Order of Release by Millais from the Tate, and her favorite painting of all time, The Toilet of Venus by Velázquez from the National Gallery in London. Her faux marble sink, two faucets, one hot, one cold, like the English sinks. On the shelf below the mirror, Crest toothpaste, an Oral-B toothbrush, Listerine mouthwash, dental floss—have to keep up her almost perfect teeth. Mint soap from S. M. Novella di Firenze. Henna for her hair from Lebanon, two hairbrushes and a hair dryer.
She steps into the tub. It is smaller than the one in Beirut. Still, she remembers being lost in that tub, totally immersed, she remembers trying to get clean. She scrubbed herself with the loofah, over and over, as if there was some dark stain and she Lady Macbeth. Out, damn spot. She was dirty, all of her. She wanted to rub herself raw, remove any traces of herself. She wanted out of her skin. She wanted to be a different person, a better person, her tears adding salt to the bath. She scrubbed her arms, her legs.
I had moved to New York with my first husband, Omar, when I was twenty. Two years later, he would take my son and return to Beirut, leaving me completely alone in an unforgiving city, without family or friends. I had no one in America except for my best friend, Dina, who lived in Boston. I visited her often out of loneliness, continuing even after I remarried. Like me, Dina lived apart from her family, but unlike me, she had adjusted better and much more quickly. It seemed she was adopted into a family in Boston the instant she deplaned. By the time she graduated from MIT, she had a coterie of friends so loyal, they functioned unlike any family I had ever seen. Dina is a lesbian.
Her lesbian family was a hodgepodge of strange characters. I was not sure at first how they could have accepted her so quickly, since her appearance was so different from theirs. Transcending the term lipstick lesbian, she dressed like a cheap whore who just came into a lot of money, whereas all her friends looked like regular dykes. Someone has to come up with a whole new definition for Dina.
I visited her and her partner, Margot, sometime in 1984. I watched her while she cooked dinner—both she and Margot were the worst cooks I knew—noticing how serene she looked, how content, how peaceful and composed, as if she had not a single sin on her conscience. I was so envious. I interrogated and pestered her endlessly, trying to discover her secret. In some ways, she had had a rougher life, yet she seemed at ease with every aspect of it, professionally, emotionally, and romantically, while I was floundering. We spent hours talking about the differences in our lives, our perspectives. By the time I finished my amateurish sleuthing, I came to the erroneous conclusion that the basis for her happiness was her care and support of those dying of AIDS. She was a volunteer with a
I mentioned nothing to my grandfather, ever. He died unaware I knew. To this day, whenever I feel slightly depressed, I dye my hair red.
The water stands ready. Bath foam, Caswell-MasseyBainMoussant , scent of gardenia. She prepares for the bath with her current book, Naipaul’s A House for Mr. Biswas , a bottle of Crystal Geyser, her Sony cordless phone, and a Granny Smith apple—she loves to eat apples in the bath. Beethoven’s string quartet in C sharp minor by the Tokyo String Quartet fills the room, not a great recording, but more than adequate.
White tiles rise only halfway up the walls of her small bathroom, followed by light blue enamel paint. Half of a wall is covered with postcards of paintings: the Comtesse D’Haussonville by Ingres from the Frick, the great Portrait of Cosimo I de Medici by Pontormo from the Getty Museum, The Order of Release by Millais from the Tate, and her favorite painting of all time, The Toilet of Venus by Velázquez from the National Gallery in London. Her faux marble sink, two faucets, one hot, one cold, like the English sinks. On the shelf below the mirror, Crest toothpaste, an Oral-B toothbrush, Listerine mouthwash, dental floss—have to keep up her almost perfect teeth. Mint soap from S. M. Novella di Firenze. Henna for her hair from Lebanon, two hairbrushes and a hair dryer.
She steps into the tub. It is smaller than the one in Beirut. Still, she remembers being lost in that tub, totally immersed, she remembers trying to get clean. She scrubbed herself with the loofah, over and over, as if there was some dark stain and she Lady Macbeth. Out, damn spot. She was dirty, all of her. She wanted to rub herself raw, remove any traces of herself. She wanted out of her skin. She wanted to be a different person, a better person, her tears adding salt to the bath. She scrubbed her arms, her legs.
I had moved to New York with my first husband, Omar, when I was twenty. Two years later, he would take my son and return to Beirut, leaving me completely alone in an unforgiving city, without family or friends. I had no one in America except for my best friend, Dina, who lived in Boston. I visited her often out of loneliness, continuing even after I remarried. Like me, Dina lived apart from her family, but unlike me, she had adjusted better and much more quickly. It seemed she was adopted into a family in Boston the instant she deplaned. By the time she graduated from MIT, she had a coterie of friends so loyal, they functioned unlike any family I had ever seen. Dina is a lesbian.
Her lesbian family was a hodgepodge of strange characters. I was not sure at first how they could have accepted her so quickly, since her appearance was so different from theirs. Transcending the term lipstick lesbian, she dressed like a cheap whore who just came into a lot of money, whereas all her friends looked like regular dykes. Someone has to come up with a whole new definition for Dina.
I visited her and her partner, Margot, sometime in 1984. I watched her while she cooked dinner—both she and Margot were the worst cooks I knew—noticing how serene she looked, how content, how peaceful and composed, as if she had not a single sin on her conscience. I was so envious. I interrogated and pestered her endlessly, trying to discover her secret. In some ways, she had had a rougher life, yet she seemed at ease with every aspect of it, professionally, emotionally, and romantically, while I was floundering. We spent hours talking about the differences in our lives, our perspectives. By the time I finished my amateurish sleuthing, I came to the erroneous conclusion that the basis for her happiness was her care and support of those dying of AIDS. She was a volunteer with a
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