A few months ago, on another mundane Saturday, I had a dream I used to have as a child – a decapitated woman sat in a tub of her own blood, her head beside her on the white tiles, gnawing at an apple.
That morning, as I prepared my usual black coffee, I imagined myself succumbing to a slow, agonizing asphyxiation, the gas seeping from the stovetop. My motionless body lying on the carpet near my bed, a big dark blotch on the side of it where the coffee would spill.
As the first bitter sip of coffee touched my lips, I pictured my death by poison. The searing sensation of toxins in my veins. My mind created images of the blood I would cough onto my grey bed sheets. My breath would shorten as my body would wither and fall, the coffee mug falling with it onto the carpet.
For the next few days, all I would think of is killing myself – a thought not foreign to me. One that comes and goes as it pleases.
On the Friday after the thoughts reemerged, I woke up to the telephone ringing. It was my Aunt Salwa.
“You’re coming tomorrow, aren’t you habibti?”
The country was in the midst of war, but Aunt Salwa was throwing one of her lavish women’s brunches where her salon would turn from ordinary to a scene from a movie. Fairy lights across the windows. Mini pastries, desserts, chocolates, mana’eesh, serving bowls of hot and cold dishes all spread out. Purple, orange and yellow juices. Coffee and tea stations. Party favors.
She’s been inviting me every year since my mother passed away, and I’ve been attending for the past eight years. Part of me believed she only wanted to flaunt me to her friends, all of whom have sons. Afterall, most girls my age were, in the least, engaged. Not me. She never failed to remind me.
“You’re 24. Don’t you want a husband?” she always asked me.
My answer never changed.
The constant thoughts of my death halted when she asked if I’m attending. Ever since I lost my mother, Aunt Salwa has felt like the only family I had. My father and brother sometimes seemed like foreigners to me. We shared a home, but nothing beyond that. Aunt Salwa was a mother-figure to me. She listened to my rants, wiped my tears, supported my dreams. She’s been there through parts of my teenage angst and rebellion years. But I could never muster up the courage to tell her about my urge to kill myself. I couldn’t let her down. I wouldn’t.
“Only if you have a surprise planned,” I joked. She had one every year.
My mother had died when I was just fourteen. That morning, as she woke me up to go to school, I was being stubborn, refused to get out of bed, refused to put on the school uniform. I wanted to wear pants, not a skirt. I wanted to get my hair cut, not have it tied in a bun. My stubbornness was making everyone late, but eventually, we made it to school somehow.
On her way to pick us up, my mom had made a detour. She wanted to get me a treat to make me feel better about earlier that morning. And that’s where the crash happened. She was in a coma for a few days before she took her last breath. Not a moment goes by that I don’t regret being such a stubborn kid that morning. Haven’t been like that since.
The day after the phone call, the invite, I found myself sitting in Aunt Salwa’s salon in a long floral skirt, and for the first time in a while, my lashes curled with mascara. If I’d worn my usual jeans and T-shirt, Aunt Salwa would’ve sent me back. She sat next to me in a white Abaya adorned with gold around the sleeves. Her hair was pinned in a bunch with a gold brooch.
Other women chatted loudly while sipping their juices and coffees. I thought that the whole street must’ve heard their roaring laughter. They wore their best gold jewelry; some wore tailleurs, others chose Abayas. One woman, Rawan, tied her headscarf around her waist while the women around her sang Fairouz’s Bosta.
In a matter of minutes, Rawan’s scarf was back where it belonged as aunt Salwa’s maid announced the arrival of Yusuf.
“Who’s that?” I pointed to the older man with the perfectly twisted moustache, wearing a black Sherwal and the traditional Tarboush.
“This year’s surprise, dear,” said Aunt Salwa.
“Salam, sisters,” he said, walking by all the ladies who were now sitting on beige sofas with carved wooden legs and upholstered cushions on either side of the room, their eyes fixated on him.
“A huge thanks to Madame Salwa for having us today,” he said, lifting an embroidered cushion from an empty seat to the floor. He sat on it and twirled his moustache.
“I’m Yusuf, and I’m here to tell you stories. Just like your grandfathers, and their grandfathers, and generations before them would gather around to listen. Today, you are my muses, and all I ask is that you lend me your ears.”
The women looked at each other, their jewelry twinkling from what little sun beamed through the windows. Some looked bewildered, others giggled like teenagers at recess.
“My husband has told me about you Hakawatis. Said his grandfather knew one who was hanged in Martyr’s Square. That it’s a dying art, what with the colored television and all that,” said Rawan.
I was facing Rawan and noticed when the woman next to her had pinched her.
“What? I’m only telling the truth. Anyway Yusuf, what will you dazzle us with first?” Rawan continued.
I could sense a hint of sarcasm in Rawan’s tone, but I didn’t know her well enough to know for sure. I did, however, know that her father owned a private textile company in Beirut, and her husband was a businessman. Aunt Salwa often described her faith weak, despite the veil on her head, because Rawan was insatiable. Her husband was never frugal, always spending money on her, showering her with the latest in fashion and technology. She attended every social event of the season, and still, it never satisfied her.
“My first story… Is about greed,” said Yusuf, immersing us in the world of a character he called Loulwa. “Once upon a time in a small village in the South, there lived a woman named Loulwa…” he began, beautifully describing every detail about her blonde hair, her four children and her lavish lifestyle. He recited a poem that her lover had written her when she was eighteen, before Loulwa chose to marry someone wealthier. As Yusuf took us through Loulwa’s life, I felt as if I had encountered her. Loulwa was the representation of many upper-class women, obnoxious and materialistic.
“Sound like anyone you know?” I leaned my head against Aunt Salwa’s and whispered. She turned and frowned at me, unappreciative of my gossip about her friends.
His parable continued, revealing the fate of Loulwa. “On a cold night, after Loulwa had blown out all the candles and made sure the kids were fast asleep, she rested her head on her pillow in a bed separate from that of her husband’s. And in her sleep… she was visited by a demon,” said Yusuf. The slender, dark figure warned her that if she does not change her ways, she will be regretful. But Loulwa woke up the next morning as if nothing had happened, keeping her children with the nannies while she adorned herself with jewelry for an event. Soon after, her rich husband died of an unknown disease, forcing her to abandon her exuberant lifestyle. She worked as a seamstress to provide food, but when winter hit, two of her four children died of cold. Her eldest son died attempting to flee on a fishing boat, and her only remaining child became mute from the shock of losing everyone in the family.
Yusuf took a sip of his tea before continuing.
“Loulwa prayed every night for the demon to visit her again, to tell him she’s willing to change her ways. She prayed God would forgive her. She understood now. Family matters more than anything she owned or any event she could attend. She spent the next ten years working to improve her and her daughter’s life, until one day, the daughter, overcome with melancholia, stabbed Loulwa twenty-three times, then stabbed herself.”
The women sat silent.
“I think… we were expecting something more cheerful,” said Aunt Salwa, as the women murmured to each other. I caught bits and pieces of their conversations. One woman said it made her eyes water. Another was trying not to forget it, hoping to share it with her family.
“I loved it. Thank you, Yusuf,” I said.
He nodded. “My next tale will be as cheerful as your smile, Madame Salwa.”
“But first, let’s take a little break; ladies, and Yusuf of course, please help yourselves to some snacks, another drink,” said Aunt Salwa.
I stepped onto the balcony, the view of the half-demolished city in sight, grey smoke covering the clear sky. I pulled out my pack of Cedars. I hated Cedars, but Marlboro was hard to come across those days, and if I could’ve found them, it would’ve cost a kidney. As I took my first drag, I imagined my dead body on the mosaic tile floor next to me, stabbed twenty-three times. When I puffed out the smoke, the body disappeared. I stood there, contemplating more ways my life could end, or how I could end it, until Aunt Salwa called me back in.
The women threw out words to inspire Yusuf’s next story.
“A marriage.”
“A beautiful woman desired by everyone.”
“A forbidden love.”
Yusuf’s eyes turned to a quiet woman.
“Who’s she?” I whispered to Aunt Salwa.
“Her name’s Jamila. Her son was killed during the war two years ago. Her husband forced their daughter to marry a man who now abused her.” Aunt Salwa whispered back.
“How about a story about freedom?” said Yusuf.
“Once upon a time in a village in the North, there lived a princess in a dungeon…” He began, before continuing to tell the tale of a fair princess who’d been imprisoned for years by her father. He wouldn’t let anyone come near her. Wanted her to remain pure. The princess had become friendly with one of the guards who delivered her food, a tall, handsome man, always in uniform. He would write her poems and leave them on her tray. He left her a pencil once, and she scribbled back to him whatever she could in the empty spaces. They fell in love. Years had passed before the guard led a coup, and the king was taken hostage. The guard and the princess then fled together.
“The king had been unjust to many others, depriving villagers of their full wages, taking other young women hostage. The guard had saved the village from injustice. His love gave the princess everything she could’ve ever wanted – freedom.” Yusuf clasped his fingers together and raised them to his chest, as if meditating.
I peered at Jamila. A few silent tears fell down her face. I understood then that Yusuf was appealing to the women through stories they could relate to. What I didn’t understand, though, was how he knew so much. Was he just lucky? Was he some sort of magician? Could he speak to the Jinn?
“Brilliant!” Aunt Salwa clapped her hands.
The women were in awe of Yusuf’s narration and his vivid imagination. They paid him compliments, some even asked for his contact information for future events. For the rest of the brunch, Yusuf told two more stories; one about a man who strayed from traditions and another about losing a loved one.
“Once upon a time in a village…” He’d start. And by the time he’d finish, the women would already be clapping. Yusuf told many stories that day, and after he left, the women continued talking about his stories.
That brunch was the last time I’d see or hear about these women for several weeks. The already war-torn Beirut was invaded. When I stood on the balcony or walked to the supermarket, all I saw was the remainder of buildings where families once lived. Blood stains. Crushed cars covered in layers of dust and debris. My father, brother and I had moved in with Aunt Salwa when a missile landed near our home. I had packed what I could and left – some sweaters, my favorite pair of jeans, the book Elijah gave me on my birthday. What I couldn’t leave behind were the thoughts of killing myself.
For weeks after that brunch, thoughts of my death haunted my dreams and followed me even when I tried to enjoy a cup of coffee and cigarette. What would happen if I threw rocks on the army tanks? If I climbed to the roof of the eight-storey building and stood at the edge, wind in my face? If I took a handful of Aunt Salwa’s pills?
One time I thought about driving my dad’s car into a wall but couldn’t relive what my mother had gone through. Nor to feel what she might have. What her last words might have been. She didn’t do it on purpose, like I would, but that’s how she was taken from me, my best friend. I cried at that thought.
No time to think about the war though, nor the life it had forced me to give up – working in research at a distinguished institution like The American University of Beirut, exploring the art scene, cruising along the shoreline, pit stops at my favorite bar. How’s Rola, my childhood friend? What about George, the colleague-turned-friend, and Elijah, the forbidden love? What about Metro, our favorite place to drink beers? I wondered about all the people and places once in my life. I wondered, especially, about Elijah. He was stuck on one side and me on the other. Sometimes we’d talk on the phone, but it’d been days.
Every now and then, we’d hear news about families and people we knew.
“Rawan’s house was struck yesterday,” said Aunt Salwa one night while we had dinner. Candles flickered in the darkness of the dining room. We ate what we had been eating for the past few weeks – bread, labneh, cheese, olives and Ghandour’s 555 biscuits for a sweet treat. It was harder now to get anything other than what the local mini-mart had in store.
“I just heard it on the battery radio. Her husband and kids have been killed. I reckon she will move back in with her parents. They’ve moved from Beirut to their summer house in Hammana. It’s safer there…” She continued.
All I could think of in that moment was Yusuf’s first story, the greedy woman who lost everything. That was Rawan. But how could he have known? I often found myself thinking about his stories, wondering if I’d ever hear new ones again.
I couldn’t smoke in the room I now shared with Aunt Salwa. She hated it. Said it reminded her of my mother. I stood on the balcony, just me, my cigarette and my thoughts. My mind wouldn’t rest. As thoughts of my death resurfaced, a new urge consumed me. The mystery behind Yusuf’s magical stories.
A few weeks had passed before Aunt Salwa shared more news over dinner. Jamila’s daughter’s husband had been killed; the father finally agreed to let them both go abroad while he finalized some business before following them. Freedom, I thought. Just like Yusuf’s story of the princess.
That night it was Aunt Salwa who was on the balcony, clutching her cup of tea. When she heard my footsteps approach her, she slightly turned to me.
“Are you all packed, ya rouhi?” she said, her back still to me, eyes fixated on the floor as if in a trance.
“I’ve already been forced to leave my home once; I won’t do it again, Auntie.”
Aunt Salwa turned to face me. The wrinkles on her forehead had multiplied.
“Stop this nonsense, Dalia. It’s not safe here anymore.” Her voice trembled.
When Aunt Salwa went inside, I lit a cigarette. My thoughts raced. How will I find him?
The next morning, I sat in the salon flipping through every entry in the Yellow Book, looking for people named Yusuf with no specified occupation listed. Aunt Salwa was in the kitchen, making Halloumi and cucumber sandwiches. “No time to grill the Halloumi,” she said to my brother, who was slicing the cucumbers, “we’ll have them as is.” Snacks for the road, I figured. She had also gotten out packets of 555.
“I’ll be back soon,” I said, as I kissed her forehead then walked to the door. Her voice echoed in the background, screaming at me to stay, that I’d be a fool to leave now, asking what I was doing this for.
My father went looking for me, but I had already made my way to the first Yusuf’s house. It was not the Hakawati. I moved on to the next. I found a taxi on the street, the fare higher than anything I’d paid for a ride. He dropped me off at an intersection.
“Can’t go in any further. Be careful, they might ask for ID,” he warned me.
I walked steadily, trying not to raise any suspicion, moving from street to street, looking for the second Yusuf’s building. Militia men in black T-shirts and face covers looked at me oddly, as if they wanted to approach me. Rifles hung from their shoulders.
The address in the Yellow Book didn’t take me to a typical building. Instead, it led me to a detached townhouse with a black front door, riddled with bullet holes. I knocked.
The Yusuf I was looking for opened.
“Marhaba, I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I said, peeking inside his home. The furniture behind him was covered in a thick layer of dust, parts of the walls beside him were on the floor. “You were at a brunch a few months ago, and every story you’ve told has somehow come true…” I continued. He twirled his moustache.
“My wife and I are getting ready to leave, is there anything I can help you with?”
“I think you know how you can help me.”
His eyes scanned me from toe to head, as if analyzing my black high-top Converse, jeans and the way my hair was in a messy bun.
“I can read what’s in people’s hearts. The loss of a loved one. The uncertainty of a relationship. Feeling trapped. Like a failure. In need of saving. That’s what’s in yours, right? My stories, dear, were lessons. It’s not I who made them happen, it’s the people. Their choices. What they needed or what they deserved, depending on who they are. Do you understand? The choices you make will write your fate.”
“I want what I’ve wanted for months, years even. Maybe I didn’t want it enough then. I do now. An end.” A single tear trickled down my right cheek.
“Then let me tell you a story of heartbreak, pain and salvation.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and continued.
More tears streamed down my face as Yusuf told me the last story I’ll ever hear from him. My story. As he spoke, I could imagine myself on the balcony having coffee and a cigarette with my mother. Dancing in my favorite bar with Elijah whose hands would be around my waist. Our life together – me, him and the dog we’d adopt. My mother visiting us. Traveling with George and our other friends. Paris. Switzerland. Germany. Meeting Rola’s baby. My brother as a friend. My mundane job more exciting, rewarding.
Then my heart turned heavy for all the things I could never have. Instead, I thought of all I did have – guilt. My mother wouldn’t have died had she not been on her way to pick me up. Me with a man from outside my religion… What would my family think? Amidst this sectorial war, nonetheless. Guilt. The suicidal thoughts, the feeling of unworthiness, the dreams. Why was I like that? More guilt.
By the time Yusuf finished his story, I had already been staring at my Converse for a while, tears lingering on my cheeks.
“Dalia?”
I looked up. Smiled. Thanked him and walked away.
When I returned, my father scolded me. Said he looked around the neighborhood for hours. Weird to hear him yell, after all, it was my mother who raised me.
I’ve lost count of the weeks that have passed since I stood at Yusuf’s door. Aunt Salwa, my father, brother and I have all left her house to a hotel in the mountains. I’ve heard Elijahs voice. He and his family have gone to France. He’ll be back soon, he said when we spoke. He told me George also travelled with his family to Canada. He hates the snow. Still haven’t heard from Rola, but I’m sure she’s fine. She’s always been the one I worried least about. We’re hearing less and less about families now. Just the mountain breeze, the rustle of newspapers and the occasional radio static.
It’s me, my cigarette and a bathtub with water turning from clear to red. Today, I’m finally at peace.
