The abbess said that they would come back at ten o’clock the next morning. “Tell the gentleman to expect us,” and the two of them left.
When Wajih came back to the shop and his father confronted him with the truth, at first he denied everything and said that Thérèse was crazy and that she had made up the story, and that it had nothing to do with him.
“We’ll take care of everything,” his father said. “Just tell me how you slept with her. She’s a nun, how did she agree to it? Tell me what you did with her in the hotel.”
At first his son insisted that Thérèse was not a nun but a postulant, and there was a big difference, and that she must suffer from a touch of dementia because she had made up this story from A to Z. But when his father told him that the abbess would show up the next day, he broke down and admitted everything. He said that he didn’t know how he would get out of this mess.
“Don’t worry, my boy, if you can’t, I’ll take her.”
“You pathetic old man, you want to marry a nineteen-year-old girl?!”
Salim told the cohno how his son had hit and kicked him, and how Wajih had all of a sudden been possessed by a diabolical rage. “My son is lost, lost forever, my father. I can assure you I did not want to marry her. I’m not up to that, and anyway she was a child. I thought that way I’d be able to protect her and my son at the same time. And anyway, why did the abbess speak to me that way? Wajih told me he did not deflower her, she was already deflowered. Anyway, I don’t know anything anymore.”
Wajih disappeared and it was said that his wife had thrown him out of the house so he went to live in a cheap hotel in Bourj Square until his fate took him to the insane asylum in Aleppo.
Yalo did not sleep that night, after his mother recounted some details of the story, how the postulant came to the shop every day at ten o’clock, how she finally disappeared leaving no trace. Wajih’s wife had a nervous breakdown and then asked Salim Rizq for her husband’s share of the business and completely broke off relations with the Rizq family.
The scandal made its way to the family’s birthplace in Aleppo. Wajih went to build his pillar beside the pillar of St. Simeon Stylites of Aleppo, and was arrested, then sent to a hospital for the feebleminded. Now, the father could find no trace of his son, neither from his relatives there nor at the hospital, so he became certain that Wajih had started the rumor of the pillar to get rid of his wife and live in peace with his virginal nun.
Yalo did not sleep that night. He saw the beautiful tawny-skinned nun and reincarnated himself as Wajih the engineer as he took her to the Grand Kamel Hotel in Souq al-Gharb, breathing in her long hair that fell to her shoulders, immersing himself in the incense-fragrance emanating from her neck. He stayed with her for three days without ever leaving the room. Their meals were brought to the room. They bathed, ate, and slept together. She told him she loved him and that she loved the Lord Jesus Christ. She asked him to kneel beside her because the Lord blessed their love. And Yalo, or rather Wajih, drank in her youth, which dripped forth drop by drop from her pores into his own, and recited her prayers with her; he took all of her and she engulfed him.
Nor had Yalo seen the blood of her virginity.
“Where’s the blood?” he asked her.
She pointed to what resembled butterflies drawn in a floral color on the white sheet. He pulled her to him and told her she would remain a virgin forever.
Yalo must not refer to Mr. Salim and his son the engineer in the story of his life, so how could he explain his infatuation with wood inlay and Arabic calligraphy?
“I am an artist,” he told his grandfather when the cohno proposed that he join a religious seminary. “No. I don’t want to be a cohno. I am an artist, and someday when I’m older I want to be a calligrapher.”
But he did not become a calligrapher. His grandfather died a year after they left West Beirut during the war. Yalo joined the barracks and became a fighter, like thousands of young men who left their studies and met the fate that the war had fashioned for them.
How would he explain to the interrogator his beautiful script, his infatuation with wood, and its connection to Madame Randa?
It was true that the name Randa had not been spoken during the two months of questioning he had spent in torment. But who could guarantee for him that the fortyish woman would not appear at any moment and claim that he raped her? And how would he explain his knowledge of woodworking if she were to acknowledge her relationship with him?
Yalo lived alone in the Kesrouan village of Ballouna, which experienced a major revival during the Lebanese civil war, as was the case with many villages in Kesrouan, the heart of the Maronite area in Mount Lebanon, which was peripheral in the war. So it became a refuge for people fleeing other regions of Lebanon. There was a neighborhood of Greek Orthodox who had left Mseitbeh in West Beirut, which resembled their old quarter in Beirut. They built a church to which they gave the name St. Nicholas, which came to be called Mar Nicholas, in which served Father Seraphim Azar. There, Beirut accents, which overburdened the letters and were pronounced with both cheeks, mingled with the Kesrouan accent, which twisted Arabic and melded its letters together in a strange manner.
Yalo lived alone in his cottage and got acquainted with boredom. One day Madame summoned him — M. Michel had traveled to France to take care of some business of his there — to ask him to help her repair one of the valuable mother-of-pearl inlaid chairs; it had tipped over, breaking one of the legs. She asked him to carry the chair to the car so that she could take it to the carpenter.
“Why the carpenter?” asked Yalo. “I know how to fix it.”
Yalo sat on the floor and began mending the chair. When the Madame saw him at work, she asked him why he was not using nails, and he explained to her that this kind of wood did not need nails.
“How do you reattach it? With glue?”
Yalo told her about dovetailing and how wood could be made male or female, and how once the pieces were joined, they clove together permanently.
“Male and female, huh?” she said.
“Come, look, Madame,” Yalo said.
She leaned over the back of the slender young man who was bent over the wood, giving off the scent of jasmine.
“That’s what you call the joining of tenons and mortises?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s called ta’shiq, the coupling of wood,” he said.
“So wood is like people, it cleaves together?”
“Wood is better than people, Madame. Because it stays together.”
“Without getting bored?” she laughed, and left the living room. At that moment Yalo sensed the ghost of randification, and he would call that year the year of ta’shiq.
She told him that she fell in love with him as he was joining the wood, and that she wished he had taken her just as the wood took the wood and stayed that way permanently.
He would have to eliminate Mr. Salim, his son, and the ta’shiq from his story. It was true that he had spoken to Madame Randa about the old blind man and his infatuation with Arabic calligraphy, and how Wajih the engineer had made him memorize whole verses from the Koran so that he could engrave them on the wooden doors. But what should he do? If he wrote the story, he might lose his Lebanese citizenship, and if he didn’t write it, he might end up in an endless labyrinth. Yalo was aching for a second cigarette. He put the end of his pen between his lips, and began to suck at it and blow imaginary smoke in the cramped cell. He got up and paced, trying to organize his memory. “I have to tie the story together with a single thread,” thought Yalo, and before his eyes appeared a line of blood extending from Ain Ward to Beirut — “My line,” Yalo said to himself. “I began there with my grandfather the cohno, all of whose family members were killed in the massacre. Who could account for a massacre victim? I’ll write that I was slaughtered. I, Daniel, am the descendant of the victims of the massacre. My grandfather was born in blood, and began to drink blood Sundays with every mass he celebrated. And I’ve gotten drunk on blood. What does it have to do with me? Did I start the war myself? Everything you say is true, but me too, I am true. Anyway, there were no explosives. I swear to God this business of explosives, of Haykal or Abu Ahmad al-Naddaf, is a frame-up. They made me confess so that the sack torture would stop. It was either I confess to being in with the explosives gang, or I get more of that wild animal in the sack that attacked me from below. I either agree, or eat shit. And the way it turned out, I agreed and ate shit anyway.”