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4 Somewhere between my old life and the new A wave, red henna, the dark shore Between night and sunlight A silhouette, an ocean, and a crossing over If Irene were to tell the story, she would tell it in one way, with one word. Just a whisper. To hear it once would be enough. Enough to enter us quietly. Enough to fill all the shoreless spaces, and to forget the habits and all the little stories we knew by heart. Enough to forget History—the one they write, the one you write—the illusion that we all write together in reconcilable pieces. But all of that is impossible, now and forever, because Irene lives behind the black and white prison bars of these pages. So the story must be told in prose—like every other tale. As time went by, Irene began to know deeply and not just FEEL that she had been living in the center of a poison bubble. She knew that there were treats and favors inside, but there was also a scentless venom hovering everywhere. Between her reading and studying, and her friendship with Kathy, she had begun to prick the skin of that balloon and was starting to breathe fresher air. The fresh air was called “consciousness,” and it had the color of morning sunlight. The world was in a halfway place, like dusk or dawn. In this fragile fertile moment Irene saw herself as someone who might be capable—one day—of something, not just escaping the poison balloon, but creating something else entirely. And there was one day that forever changed the direction of her life, a day when the world parted in front of her, saying: All or nothing.
During the past year, she had become more involved in campus politics. It was simple the way it worked. The more Irene learned about power, the more she was certain that she was on the side of the powerless. The more she learned about war, the more she stood on the side of peace. The more she learned about capitalism and its ruthless pursuit of profit, the more she saw socialism as the only plausible solution. Irene was holding the banner with Kathy and talking. I’ve been reading a collection of Che’s letters, Irene said during a lull in the rally, and I’m amazed by his transformation. He was a medical doctor before he became a revolutionary. What do you think it takes to do this? It takes a sense of vanity. Vanity? asked Irene. I don’t mean pride vanity. I mean you have to confront death and absurdity in a big way. Kathy’s big brown doe-eyes were framed by furrows of shorn hair, now unbleached. She opened her lipsticked mouth to say something else, then stopped because the crowd had broken out into loud chants: Freeeeee Nelson Mandela! Freeeeee Nelson Mandela! It’s about ecstatic madness, Kathy called out to Irene above the din of the crowd. She then reminded Irene that she had to leave to go catch a plane to New York. They exchanged goodbyes, and Kathy handed over her end of the banner, and walked off. The hot southern sun poured down on the crowd of colorful students all chanting, Free Nelson Mandela. At this moment, the world seemed small to the students, not large. Words spoken in Johannesburg could be heard in California ten thousand miles away. Words sung in California echoed back to Soweto, Cape Town, and Pretoria. And Irene loved being part of the noise, part of the movement. She sang loudly, wondering what or who was next on the agenda. At that moment a man in his mid-twenties stepped up and volunteered to hold the other end of the banner that Kathy had left behind. Irene had never seen him at these events before. He had dark olive skin, black curly hair, a slim figure. There was both softness and boldness co-existing in his handsome angular features. He said hello and looked at her with shining eyes. There seemed to be a burning question mark in them. His face was gentle, but tense, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for something. As soon as he said that first hello, she knew, or rather felt—or rather knew without knowing—that she was in the presence of a man who could cause her both immense pain and immense pleasure. The feeling was instantly and crushingly mutual. It was like Braille to a person who can’t read Braille. All the signs are there—visible, clear—but for what? As they introduced themselves, they both felt the tug of burning organs even from nine feet apart. He said his name was Khalid. Immediately a quiver of recognition passed through her. Oh! I’ve heard of you! she exclaimed. Aren’t you a friend of Sarah’s? Aren’t you a painter? The noise of the demonstration became suddenly sidelined. They nudged themselves a little closer to be able to hear each other better. Not really, he answered, I just did that one thing for Sarah, as a thank-you for her help. I’m a student. Then why haven’t I seen you on campus before? Irene asked. I don’t go here. I go to State. Don’t have the money to go here, he said with a hint of irony. I’m sure there’s a way for you to get money. Bank robbery? Loans? Get a job? They both refocused their attention on the speaker up on the podium. He was from the Black Students’ Union, a well-known local activist. He was talking about white supremacy: We don’t have Apartheid only in South Africa. We need to eliminate the Apartheid system right here in America! He slowed his voice down and emphasized the words RIGHT HERE, so that the crowd cheered and clapped. Khalid and Irene clapped along in agreement. Khalid leaned over and asked Irene, right in her ear: So, how does it feel to be a member of the race that rules the world? Irene took his confrontational question as a sign of growing intimacy, a sort of come-on. But it was the kind of pickup line that needed the perfect response. I don’t know, she smiled back, how does it feel to be a member of the sex that rapes, oppresses, and causes all the wars in the world? He shook his head and said nothing, but smiled. The two of them slowly moved closer together, bantering back and forth. The banner between them began to sag. All that was visible was End and Now. The middle section had slumped into a big wrinkle. So where are you from? she asked. I’m a Palestinian. I know that already, she said, but that means that you could be from anywhere. She recalled a recent film she had seen depicting the eviction of Palestinians from their homeland in 1948; she was trying to figure out how he might fit into that picture. So, what then? she asked. Are you from the West Bank? Gaza? Jordan? Where I’m from is a story that might take years to tell… Do you think you have the time? I might. By now, all their efforts at banner holding had fallen by the wayside. He was standing right next to her. Shoulder to shoulder. And it was still too far for her. He reached over to touch her long dangling earrings. They were made of red and yellow beads, done in a Navajo pattern. I like these, he said. They look good on you. She didn’t mind his hand next to her hair at all. All Irene remembers is this: One minute Khalid was saying, Oh, you white women don’t really trust us dark men…and the next minute they were in bed together stroking each other, speaking in low whispers. In a hushed voice he was saying, Of course, I didn’t mean what I said. They were up for hours in the dark, talking, exchanging stories. She told him of lost days when she was tossed about on everyone else’s wind. When her only expertise was at failing. When there was not a friend in sight, except men who wanted to use her. She read him some secret poems that no one had ever seen, and he said, I feel I’ve known you since my childhood. Since even before I was born. His voice was like a breeze blowing through the desert. The one she had been carrying inside of her for years. That’s how Irene now remembers it, dreams of it, retells it, but the steps in between are lost in her memory.
All of a sudden, Khalid rushed off and away into the grass. In a gesture of absolute ease, he reached up and plucked a small orange from a nearby tree. He was back by her side in an instant. He held it first to his, then to her, nose. Breathe deeply, he said, smell right here. He pointed to the small hole where the stem had been pulled out and a tiny bit of pale fruit was visible. That’s the smell of Palestine, he said. The citrus groves of my sad homeland… Then he peeled the orange and tasted it. Not bad, he said, not bad. He broke off a soft section for Irene and placed it in her mouth. She thought she could feel him right then and there entering her body.
How do you know my grades are good enough? She scoffed. Any idiot can go here. Have you seen some of the people heckling the demonstration, talking about “constructive engagement” with South Africa? “Constructive engagement,” Khalid said, that’s the latest way of saying, “Let’s do nothing about Apartheid.” “And make some money while we’re at it!” Irene added. On the ride home, Irene found out that besides politics Khalid liked the arts, especially poetry. Which poets do you like? What else do you read? What do you think of so and so and so? became the questions that filled the space between them. Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Dickinson, Rilke, the Dadaists, Mayakovsky, and others were thrown out, discussed, became mutual references. This literary connection worked like magic on Irene. For the very first time in her life she consciously reached over and buckled her seatbelt. For the first time in her life she found herself thinking, Things are just getting good around here. I don’t want to die yet. Soon Khalid started talking about Sarah and Jules—their common friends. He obviously didn’t think much of the literature professor. I can’t stand that pretentious asshole, Khalid said, but I have no choice but to see him sometimes. Sarah is my comrade. Believe it or not, she’s actually the one who arranged for me to come here from Beirut. Aha! Irene interjected, pouncing on this way to change an uncomfortable subject, so you’re from Beirut! Well, it’s a longer story than that, he said, maybe we’ll talk about it some time. Well...she faked a hesitant attitude. It’s too late. You’re not going to get away from me now. They had just pulled up in front of Irene’s house. She invited him in for coffee, and there was no way he was going to decline. He told her as he walked in the door, You know I stopped for a month in London on my way here. In London when a girl would ask, “Wanna come up fa’ coffee” it really meant “Wanna come up for a fuck?” Irene laughed loudly and said, They have different customs in London. I personally am dying for a real live cup of coffee. Irene didn’t mind Khalid’s bold, straightforward style, in fact she saw him as the first truthful man she had met. She was finally in the company of someone who was unrestrained by rules and conventions, and she liked this for a change. They went into the kitchen and she seated him at a shabby little wooden table in the corner near the window. Meanwhile she busied herself with making a small pot of coffee for both of them. You know, she said, once she had put a mug on the table in front of him, that’s not a very good way to seduce me—to mention all of that coffee you’ve been drinking in London. Khalid combed his black curls back with his fingertips. I didn’t say I actually drank the coffee. I just said I was invited. Irene pulled a bag of cookies from her backpack, and set them before him on the table. He munched on them happily, dipping them in the coffee and grinning. So if you aren’t a painter, what are you then? she asked. I’m studying political science, but I write poetry too. In Arabic or in English? Both. Recite something for me. He closed his eyes and said,
Beautiful, she said, did you write it? I just made it up for you. With every word spoken between them, he leaned closer into her aura, and she was letting her fingers brush his arm and shoulder when she spoke. I’d like to build you a shack on the hills of Jerusalem, he told her, and we’d raise goats together and read and write poetry all day long. And she asked, Could we have a horse too? I’ve always wanted a horse. One minute they were drinking coffee, thick with cream and sugar, and eating broken chocolate chip cookies. The next minute they were up in her tiny room holding each other, his warm hands running up and down her body, their lips making promises and plans. Soon they would climb trees together like children, roll and make love in the grass, and let the purple jacaranda blossoms of springtime fall all over them. At night they would stay up for hours, talking, agreeing that they were soulmates, eternal lovers, and would never be parted. Palestine is a bleeding wound, he told her. We’ve been bleeding for forty years. He touched his naked rib as if to show her an open gash. He reached out and pulled her on top of him. Press down on me hard, he said, make me disappear. And she did. She made him disappear, beneath her hair, her kisses, her naked tears driven into the crevices and ravines of his body. That’s the way they both remember it and dream of it and tell it. But it didn’t happen just that way. There were other things that came first.
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