I, The Divine Page 2

  My ex-husband Joe had called and asked if I would be willing to fly and attend a party in his honor. His company had just promoted and relocated him to Dallas. Both he and his wife wanted me to join them in celebration, to see their new house and so forth. Joe was in constant touch with my brother, Ramzi, in whom I confided, so they knew I was feeling blue.

  I started to make tea, but decided against it. I took a walk to Duboce Park, a short distance from my flat. Every weekday, beginning at four in the afternoon, the park transformed into canine heaven. Barking, frolicking dogs of every breed, color, and shape raced around the grass. Owners stood in groups chatting while their pets played, sniffed, chased, and did group somersaults. I had been coming to the park every day for the last two weeks. I was dogless, but I came prepared.

  The instant Sally, a collie, saw me, she bounded over, jumped with joy as I reached into my coat pocket for her biscuit. I tossed it and she caught it in midair. Mindy, a tan pug, began licking my jeans. In less than a minute, I had ten dogs to play with.

  “When are you getting one?” Annette, Sally’s owner, asked me. She towered over me, looking taller from my new position, flat on the ground with dogs all over me. “Get off there. You’ll ruin your coat.”

  “It’s cheap,” I joked. The dogs disbursed in different directions, forgetting me as I stood up. Annette was popular with the other dog owners; a couple of women moseyed over. “Besides, you know I can’t get a dog. I can barely take care of myself. I don’t even have a job right now. Anyway, my cats would hate me.”

  “A dog does wonders.”

  In a couple of minutes, a thin, lanky woman showed up, a sprightly spring in her step. I recognized the leashed dog, but it took me a moment to realize it was Sandra. She released her cocker when she reached us.

  “Jesus,” Annette exclaimed. “You’re looking wonderful.”

  “I’m dating.” Sandra beamed. She looked as if only her heavy coat kept her grounded.

  “That really works,” Annette laughed.

  “We just had sex,” Sandra giggled. “I left him sleeping on the bed.” She looked ten years younger than she had the day before. Her appeased lust had softened her face, smoothed her miniscule wrinkles.

  After polite time had passed, I excused myself and walked the six blocks back home, alone.

  I locked myself in, clicked on the teakettle, and sat on the sofa in the big mess otherwise known as my living room. I picked up the phone and dialed Joe and Charlene.

  “I would love to come,” I said. “It’ll be good to see you both.”

  “I’m so happy you’re coming,” Charlene cooed. “You might even find Mr. Right. You should think about moving to Dallas. San Francisco is so depressing and morbid.”

  I was actually thinking of Joe. I would go to Dallas to show my support and try to give him the approval he always sought from me.

  I overbrewed my tea; drank it slightly bitter.

  I called my hairdresser and made an appointment to cut and dye my hair.

  I arrived in Dallas two days before the party and planned on leaving the day after. I hated the city as much as I thought I would. All anyone could talk about were the Cowboys and their chances in the playoffs. Charlene was happy. Joe was not, or so it seemed to me, in spite of the fact that he had finally gotten exactly what he thought he wanted from a wife: she gave him an adorable boy, she did everything in their home including laundry, and most important, she did not embarrass him.

  Whenever I was alone with Joe during the two days I was there, Charlene would send her son into the room with us. The first time I carried him, Charlene made sure to mention how surprised she was that I had motherly instincts. She probably used the pronoun we more in one day than I have in my whole life. I did not blame her. Most plain women stake their claims clumsily.

  I decided on a short, fitted black Chanel for the reception, scoop neck, a tad risqué, but I figured one can never go wrong with black, and this dress in particular highlighted my best feature, my legs.

  “I wish I had the nerve to wear something like that,” Charlene said. She wore a long pink gown with white chenille daisies. She scrunched whatever was left of her eyebrows, lifted her dress, showing a purulent cyst on her upper right thigh. “Look, I can’t wear anything above the knee until this is gone.”

  Joe watched the exchange, a puzzled look on his face. I saw him shudder and put his right hand in his pocket. He looked skinnier.

  The reception was at a downtown hotel. As usual, the first thing I noticed was how badly most women wore evening dresses. There are a few places on the East Coast, and maybe Los Angeles, where women understand evening gowns. The rest of the country still has far to go. That night most of the women wore expensive prom dresses in all kinds of pastels. The second thing I noticed was that, other than the help, there was not one nonwhite person in the room. These were the company executives and their clients. I began to see why Joe would want me there. I had always been his defense against American gentiles, the country club set.

  David stood in the center of the room surrounded by four people, holding their attention. He was unlike any of the men who usually caught my eye. He was a little over six feet, dark blond hair graying at the temples, not in very good shape, big-boned, with a slight belly. He had high cheekbones, cherubic and baby-faced, and the light turned his cheeks a Bonnard pink. He listened intently to one of the men in the group, while the others looked at him, but his full attention was on the speaker. A man who listened was an anomaly in my life.

  He glanced up at me and hesitated. At first, I did not make much of it. In that room, I looked different from all the other women. I was also standing next to Joe, the guest of honor. David kept looking back at me, though. At the first break in conversation, he excused himself and walked over to Joe and Charlene. They exchanged pleasantries, and he was introduced to me as David Troubridge, senior vice-president in charge of the Western region. He was formal until he found out I was Joe’s ex.

  “It’s wonderful you two are still friends,” he said. “I wish I could say the same about my ex.” That should have been my first warning, but I never listen to warnings, mine or anybody else’s.

  “Actually Sarah is close to both her exes,” Joe said. “She’s good that way. No acrimony.”

  “You have an accent.” David had his full attention on me. “Are you Israeli?”

  Joe chuckled.

  “He wishes I were,” I laughed, pointing at Joe. “Nour el-Din is a Lebanese name. I am originally from Lebanon.”

  Joe had to chime in. “Technically, the name is Druze, so it could be an Israeli one . . .”

  “An Arab woman marrying a Jewish man,” David interrupted, ignoring Joe. “What did your family think?”

  “They didn’t approve.”

  “I can imagine. Do you work for the company?”

  “No,” Joe said, trying to include himself one more time, “but she could. She’s a good engineer.” He stepped closer to me.

  “Was,” I said. “Was an engineer, but not a good one.” I took a sip from my drink, but kept my eyes locked on David’s.

  “Why did you give it up?”

  “I found out I hated it. I would call myself an academic engineer. I was good at solving problems on paper, but hadn’t a clue when it came to the real world. Anyway, I could not function at all in such a structured environment.”

  “And what do you do now?”

  “Professional divorcée,” I said, thinking it a clever reply. His face registered confusion, followed by disappointment, which he tried quickly to mask. I lost him. He looked at Joe, wished him well in his new job, said his very-nice-to-meet-yous to Charlene and me, and withdrew.

  I was sitting in the airport lounge waiting to board when I felt someone behind me. David smiled as he came around and sat next to me.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Where are you going?”

  Home, I told him, to San Francisco. That was where he lived as well. We were bo
th surprised, each assuming the other was a Dallas resident. He suggested we sit together on the plane and said he would take care of it. He returned from the counter with a new boarding pass. It was next to him, in first class.

  We talked the whole flight. I did more of the talking than he did, a pattern that would prove typical. I told him about my first marriage, my second, the relationships in my life. I brought up my brother, I told him about my son. In that confined space, with an avid listener, I poured out my feelings, my fears, my hopes. I felt heard. He asked all the right questions, wanting details of the story. He told me about his marriage, his life in New England before he moved west. He spoke about his divorce. He was caught cheating. No, it was not the first time. He had no children. How did I feel about abandoning my son?

  I told him about Kamal, about the crushing choices I had to make, how much pain being without my son caused. I told him about my inadequacies as a mother, as a wife. He attempted to stem my tears with platitudes and admissions that he had not been the greatest husband either. By the time we left the plane we were holding hands. We kissed in the cab. We made love on the stairs in my flat, surrounded by luggage, with my cats watching.

  In bed, where we were to spend the next three years, we talked and explored each other. His caresses were gentle, intimate. He asked me the most interesting questions. He was all ears and hands. We talked as he caressed my breasts. I found out more about him, about his work, how he became the youngest vice-president, his style of management. I was captured by everything about him.

  He did not spend the night, saying he was unable to sleep well anywhere but in his own bed. He also left a little frustrated because he could not bring me to orgasm. He felt inadequate, even though I told him it was the best sex I had ever had.

  David was more mature than any of the other men I had loved. Whereas Fadi, my first lover, Omar, ex number one, and Joe, ex number two, were emotional, David was reserved. Physically, they all had Semitic features, while David was as waspish as you could get. But more important, while all my previous lovers could make me laugh, David could make me cry as well.

  For our second date, he showed up at my door carrying a smile and two bags of groceries. He was going to cook since I had told him I was not very good at it. His unkempt hair fell on his forehead. He wore khakis, a yellow merino sweater, his brown shirt had the top button undone, the left collar tucked beneath the sweater, light brown tufts of hair sprouting from the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple.

  He placed the groceries on the kitchen counter, took me in his arms and kissed me. “Won’t it go bad?” I asked. He led me to bed.

  He washed the vegetables in the kitchen, standing barefoot, in his khakis, shirtless, beltless, and underwearless. “You should stock your kitchen better,” he said. He went through my cabinets. “Oh, my God. You don’t even have a lettuce spinner.”

  I gave him my best helpless smile, shrugged my shoulders.

  “You don’t know what a spinner is, do you?” When he admonished, his voice rose a little higher. He shook his head in consternation. “It’s a good thing I came prepared.”

  I studied an arabesque of sun-induced freckles on his back, walked up behind him, kissed them, tried to connect the dots. He reached behind and spanked my butt. “Not while I’m cooking.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Can’t you tell?” He handed me a computer printout with recipes for tabbouleh, fried potato and coriander salad, and fatteh, a dish of minced lamb, baked pita, garlicked yogurt, and sautéed pine nuts. “A full-fledged Lebanese dinner.”

  “Have you done anything like this before?”

  “Nope. I just checked the recipes on the computer.” He turned on a burner under the deep fryer. “I had trouble figuring out what to choose, what goes best with what. I wanted to ask you but I thought that would spoil the surprise. I ended up choosing this. I know it’s two salads, but I thought the fried potato salad sounded more like a vegetable dish.”

  “Jesus. When you said you’ll deal with dinner, I thought we were going to order a pizza.”

  “Order a pizza?” He pretended to be offended. “I make my pizzas from scratch using my very own pizza oven.”

  “Well, can I help with anything?”

  “Why don’t you chop the tomatoes?”

  I did as I was told only to be rebuked again. “No, no, no. You’re squeezing them. Leave it be. Why don’t you open the wine?” I took out the wine bottle. “You’re domestically disabled,” he joked.

  “This is Lebanese. Chateau Musar. I love this wine. Where did you find it?”

  “At my favorite wine shop. I already tried a bottle just to make sure. It’s quite good. Have to say I was surprised.”

  He chopped the tomatoes with the speed of an accomplished chef. His fingers, though long and thick, seemed delicate, feminine even, like a doctor’s, or a surgeon’s to be more precise. I began to entertain erotic thoughts again. The knife traveled deftly over vegetables.

  “You went to so much trouble,” I said.

  “Say thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can thank me better by getting a knife sharpener. You don’t have one.”

  “And a spinner.”

  “And a lettuce spinner. Come to think of it, I’ll get them. I’m not sure I trust you in a kitchenware store.”

  As the scent of sautéed minced lamb wafted in the air, my cats, Descartes and Pascal, began to meow. David bent down and stroked them. Descartes licked his hand. David scooped some lamb into a saucer and set it on the floor. “I got more than enough lamb,” he said.

  I sipped my wine. I noticed the delicate hair on his arms. “One could fall for a man who cooks,” I said.

  “One could.” He smiled.

  In those early days, I was oblivious. I wanted nothing but to be in his arms. I wanted

  For Dina

  Mustapha Nour el-Din:

  My father

  Janet Foster:

  My mother

  Saniya Nour el-Din:

  My stepmother

  Hammoud Nour el-Din:

  My grandfather

  Amal Arouti:

  My sister

  Ashraf Arouti:

  Amal’s husband

  Lamia Shaddad:

  My sister

  Samir Shaddad:

  Lamia’s husband

  Rana Nour el-Din:

  My half-sister, unmarried

  Majida Salameh:

  My half-sister

  Alaa’ Salameh:

  Majida’s husband

  Ramzi Nour el-Din:

  My half-brother

  Peter Westchester:

  Ramzi’s lover

  Kamal Farouk:

  My son

  Omar Farouk:

  My ex-husband

  Joseph Adams:

  My ex-husband

  Charlene Adams:

  Joe’s wife

  Dina Ballout:

  My best friend

  Margot James:

  Dina’s lover

  Fadi Arna’out:

  My first lover

  David Troubridge:

  My lover

  I had a fairy-tale childhood complete with the evil stepmother. She arrived at our house a young girl. Only fifteen years separated us (twelve between her and Amal, the eldest). She decided early on she did not like me and set a course of discipline that would last until my teenage years. She was strict with my two sisters as well, but she was a Nazi with me.

  I did not do well in a disciplined environment, not in my stepmother’s house nor later with the nuns at school. I had an independent streak not easily vanquished, though my stepmother tried. My father and uncles used to teach us girls all kinds of pornographic swear words and laugh hysterically when we repeated them. When my stepmother arrived, she found them offensive and demanded a stop to all foul language. My father’s compromise was to have us use swear words only when my stepmother was not around. My sisters never slipped. I
did. I liked the shocked look on faces when I came out with a delicious curse. When she was not around, I received a hilarious response. When she was there, I got hot peppers. But still I slipped.

  She was always upset that I never did what she asked. I was a precocious child, and all I ever wanted was for people to explain why they wanted me to do something. She never would. She always demanded and I wondered why. For every why, I received a smack. I never stopped asking.

  Since I was the youngest until my half-sisters were born, I was the house slave. My stepmother was constantly demanding things. “Get me a bottle of water, Sarah.” “My slippers from under the bed.” “Get me the blue jar of face cream, Sarah. The one on the nightstand. Make sure it’s the blue one and not the green one, Sarah. Not the green one.” I brought the green one back and got smacked.

  Every night, I walked on her back because I was the perfect weight. She had walked on her mother’s back when she was my age, so I had to do it. She moaned with each step I took, and I imagined breaking vertebrae, my small feet making tiny indentations on her back. Skin turning pink.

  I got revenge. Taking her shoes was my favorite. Once I figured which pair was her preferred, I would throw one of them down the garbage chute and listen as it clanked down the six floors and landed in the garbage containers with a tiny thud. No one ever looked in there. I always threw out one of the shoes, not the pair. That way she believed she had lost a shoe as opposed to someone having stolen them. I also liked to empty half of her perfume bottle down the toilet. When Violet, our nanny from the Seychelles, passed by her, my stepmother would smell the air. She was never able to pin anything on Violet, of course, and I don’t think she believed Violet was capable of doing the things I was doing. Nonetheless, she sent Violet packing within a couple of years of her taking over our house. When she did that, I declared war.