Adele Ne Jame – II
First Night at the Beirut Commodore
for H.M. 1965-2007
I
The power suddenly out,at the high windows, I see
lightning strike Hamra’snarrow streets below. Black rain
lashing in from the Mediterranean—turns to hail, shuddering the pines
along the broken concretein this March storm. Such extravagance,
just as you said whenBeirut welcomed you back
after the war—city of half-burned buildings,
city of the-forever-lost,city of the gorgeous call to prayer.
The Garden of Forgivenessin the middle of it all—
secluded on the green line betweeneast and west in the shade of Weeping
Jasmine bowers, and below them,lovely benches for perennial grieving.
I close my eyes for a second, a stranger
in this place that should have been
my home, and I see your face again. Oh, dreamyfirst steps off the plane
rushing with the crowdtowards whatever happens
in this world. Explosions, black smokebillowing off the tarmac,
collapsing walls, shattered glass falling—but not this spring day.
Just suddenly friends—I never knewcalling my name– waving
on the other side of CustomsAli, Ghassan, Mohammed—
their effusive welcoming. Each oneheaving a bag off the carrousel into a cart
and, for a moment this could beany other airport in the world
where we met up, De Gaulle,Shoreham, Kahului—any other place
but for the heavy scent of rose waterI must be imagining
wafting through clouds of cigarette smoke.In the drift of this stormy night
again there is the image of Ghassan
rushing us into a waiting car curbsidepast army tanks ,
soldiers in fatigues sitting atop turrets wavingtheir automatic weapons in the air—
handsome young men at check points,just boys, really. We see them for miles
along the coast road northat the edges of banana farms,
against the chrome of the shining sea,and at Raouche, finally, mountainside—
near the quaint hotel district withpretty balconies above them everywhere.
The president is on the move, Ali says,then Mohammed: some tension now—
meaning anything, I suppose,but all out war. You would have said:
such masters of indirectionand flatly—assassins here, a dime a dozen.
You would have said fear is a smoky cloudthat floats into every cell of your body—
It’s a slow white burning phosphorus—dump it into a pail of ice water
and it keeps on burning and burning.First night of storms and electrical dreams
tossing about,
and now the morning’s cold sunpouring through the glass–
Along the street below, the wind-drenched pines,and the loud voices of venders
wheeling their noisy carts –city of renewal and delirium,
city of paranoia,where car bombs still explode—
targeted executions, my friend says to reassure.So many confessions
burning with love. Breathe it in,you say to yourself, open your arms to it—
Do you love Beirut? My friend will ask–Ah, you’re hooked like the rest of us, she will say.
And you know you’ll be returning and returningluck on your side or not.
II
The South
It’s all over the morning news—
an explosion in Sidon,
three cars and a resistance leader blown up,protesters in the street—burning tires.
Still, Ali says over boiled coffee,man’ouche’ and lebne,
the provocative—ubiquitousyalla, why not?
So we leave Beirut, heading southpast the rolling hills of orange groves,
the sun blazing gorgeously over the ocean,over the blackened shells of condos
in the sand where Israeli troops livedfor months during the long war.
From this distance they could almost be toysa child might abandon along the shoreline.
Beyond a huge ficus, roots hanging down and
fig trees along the circular drive,
we find your family villa—Layla and Hassan waitingin the study, a fire going.
Their eyes are blue, so blueI am struck—unlike yours.
But as I walk in, I feel your presenceeverywhere, the young boy
back and forth between here and Paris.Later, the poet talking art
with his uncle, old historian from the Chouf,world traveler, collector,
dashing man still, no question.Layla offers us thyme pies,
Hassan pours fresh squeezed juice proudlyfrom his orange groves
then calls us to the grand window to seethe ocean below—he says, where Jesus walked,
his gift, one confession to the other–in this tender moment when
we both know nothingbut our common loss. They speak haltingly of
the July war, 32 days of nonstop bombing—A life of fleeing and returning to rubble,
rebuilding time and again.Grieving for you still, they tell the stories of
the photographs in the silver framesand on the walls—one by one— because I ask—
because I want more of you than I have.III
The Sidon Cemetery
Now there are no words.
We have worn them into silence.
Rather, there is this high mountainroad, painfully lovely, that Hassan drives
taking each ascending turn slowly,until we see the tall iron gates.
He pulls over on the shoulder,and we start walking towards
the soldier posted there withan AK47 in his lap—
guarding the dead, the overgrown wisteria,blue clusters hanging
like arabesques of tears.Hassan nods, no word passes between them—
As the gates open, I followthis man I’ve fallen in love with,
who is suddenly older,and more broken as he leads the way
through a maze of olive trees,blooming flowers and grave markers.
And there it is—nestled among the treesoverlooking the Mediterranean —
your headstone, carved withyour own words
above the wild Algerian iris:Home I say to the man,
my passport wet in his hands,
I want to go home.
Hassan drags a hose over to fill the vase
with water for my roses
grateful, it seems, to have something to do,then he wanders away.
After ten thousand miles, more than that,
I am finally here with you, alone again
with that irreducible afflictionthat sooner or later marks us all.
You, too-young-buriedsharing the grave of the father
you longed for all of your life –how many times you said to me,
in the voice I still hear—he died six months before I was born
as if disbelieving.If I could, I would say something poetic to you
now—how rich the light here
under a huge Pollock-blue skyon this magnificent hilltop
above the cyan sea you loved so much.But in truth, there is only
a bereft silenceexcept for a gusting wind
now and then that trembles theWeeping Winter Jasmine—a profusion of
heavy sprays and their star-like blooms thatshiver loose and flutter into the open air.
Note: man’ouche is a round, flat bread baked with olive oil layered heavily with thyme and seseme seeds. Lebne is yogurtcheese. Yalla: let’s go.