I, The Divine Read online

  I can’t sleep. Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.

  Sarah turns on her side once more. She reaches out to the clock and moves it closer so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see it.

  So you thought you should wake me up? Dina asks.

  I thought you’d be up.

  Can this wait?

  Yes. Sure. Call me when you’re ready.

  Pause. Sarah does not hang up.

  Are you all right? Dina asks.

  Depressed.

  Drive out of town, Dina says. Go somewhere far from the city where you can’t hear the fireworks. That’s what I’m doing. We’re driving to New Hampshire. It’s quiet up there.

  I will. I’ll go up to Sonoma.

  Why are you anxious?

  I’m depressed a little. That’s all.

  Are the drugs not working?

  I changed. Paxil was knocking me out. My doctor prescribed Zoloft. It’ll take some time before it kicks in, but I’m not sleeping well.

  You don’t sound that depressed to me.

  I am too.

  How come you don’t get depressed like normal people? You know, turn the lights off, draw the curtains, get under the covers and not talk to anyone.

  I’m not normal. We figured that one out a long time ago. In any case, I am under the covers.

  That’s progress.

  Oh, shut up. Do you want to call me when you’re really up?

  Will do.

  Five-twenty. The clock has not moved much. Maybe she’ll run a bath.

  Sarah gets out of bed, walks over to the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror, freaks. Dark circles under her eyes. She looks ghastly. Begins to rub a Lancôme fond de teint on her face. She is startled by Pascal rubbing against her naked legs.

  Hi, sweetie.

  He meows in reply.

  No, no. You can’t be hungry at this hour. I’m never up at this hour.

  She ignores the cat and begins to fill the tub. A hot bath will do her good. She looks at her bath paraphernalia. Should she use oils or bubbles? Oils or bubbles, oils or bubbles? Why not both? She dumps in two balls of jasmine oil, followed by some gardenia bubblebath. She sits on the toilet and waits for the tub to fill. Pascal rubs himself on her shins. She picks him up and scratches behind his ears. He gets comfortable, digs his claws gently into her skin.

  Let’s hope this is not a bad day, she tells the cat. She looks at what she has on, a haggard T-shirt and satin Victoria’s Secret pajama shorts. She shakes her head in consternation.

  She waits. The tub fills slowly. Pascal purrs. She wishes she had a bigger tub. It would make taking a bath more pleasurable. She’ll make do. The cat meows.

  No, no. No food yet. I can’t have you getting used to eating at this hour.

  Sarah puts Pascal down. The tub is almost full. She undresses, steps into the bath. Her foot almost slips from under her. Too much oil. She settles in. The water is a bit hot. Using her left foot, she turns the cold faucet a touch. When the tub is full, she turns the faucets off with both feet simultaneously. Ambidextrous feet, years of soccer. She keeps her feet up and dunks her head in the water. She rubs her face underwater and realizes she has forgotten that she had begun putting makeup on. Fuck. She lifts her head, opens her eyes, is shocked to find Pascal staring at her, his black-and-white face close to hers. His paws are on the edge of the tub and he is looking in. The minute he realizes her eyes are open, he lets loose a loud meow.

  No, no. No food.

  He meows louder.

  No food. I will not have it.

  He meows louder still. She turns her back to him, pretends to ignore him. He meows again and again. She sighs, begins to stand up.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. You run my life, you know that. I have to interrupt my bath just to feed your majesty.

  She puts on her bathrobe. Pascal begins to lick her calf, always had a taste for fancy soaps. She walks to the kitchen, leaving water puddles along the hardwood floors of the corridor. Pascal follows, scampering between her feet. She decides to go down the stairs to make sure the front door is locked. Pascal whines as she comes back up. She turns on the kitchen light. Turns the small television on. CNN, maybe she can catch up on some news. Sarah stares at the screen. Pascal bites her calf.

  Oh, sorry, she tells him.

  She opens a can of turkey and giblets, pours it into his bowl, puts it on the mat. His head goes into the bowl. It will not reemerge until the dish is wiped clean. She changes the water, cleans the litter box.

  I do all this for you, but are you grateful? Fuck, no.

  She pets him, but he doesn’t stop eating. She decides she needs a cup of coffee, decaf, doesn’t want caffeine, which might bring out her anxiety. Turns on Mr. Coffee and waits.

  It’s almost six, four in the afternoon in Beirut. She can call her son. She’ll worry him if she calls. She’ll send him an email telling him she’ll call and then call. She goes into the room to get her laptop. Comes back into the kitchen, sits at the breakfast table, and turns on the machine. Mr. Coffee announces he’s ready. She pours herself a cup. Pascal, just finished eating, jumps on the counter to be petted.

  No, no, no, she says. I told you not on the counter. Get off. Get off. How come you don’t listen to me? I should trade you in for a dog.

  She takes her cup back to the table and writes.

  Dear Kamal,

  It’s early in the morning here and it’s the Fourth of July. I wanted to call, but I thought you might worry that something is wrong if I called now. So I am writing to tell you I am about to call. And I hope you get this before I call. Well, maybe I will wait a little before calling. How are you doing? Look forward to your coming here. Is Saniya doi

  Pascal walks across the keyboard.

  No, no. Get off. Why are you being a bad boy today?

  He doesn’t budge. She lifts him onto her lap and begins to pet him. She sips her coffee.

  You’re such a spoiled boy, you know that.

  She looks at the television. More commercials. She gets up, still carrying her cat.

  Let’s go into the room. Dina will call soon.

  She walks down the corridor and, as she passes the bathroom, drops Pascal.

  My bath, she exclaims.

  She walks in and tests the water. It’s barely tepid. She shakes her hand dry and walks into the bedroom. Gets under the covers. Pascal follows, jumping on her stomach. She should leave town, rent a room in Sonoma or Napa, some out-of-the-way place. She doesn’t want to hear any explosions. She wants this day over with already.

  This city is cold, slushy, and gray. It is only November, but the people have already journeyed inward. The never-quite-familiar labyrinths of city streets overflow with people going somewhere else, a sea of moving humanity. The trees are bare, forcibly divested of honor. Autumn carpets the ground in colors of decay. Ominous clouds dress the solemn pedestrians in gray-colored spectacles. With lonely eyes, she notes the subtle images of death and destruction. Here, she may be the only one with eyes to see.

  In Beirut, death’s unremitting light shines bright for all to see, brighter than the Mediterranean sun, brighter than the night’s Russian missiles, brighter than a baby’s smile. An interminable war rages. The city is warm, fall still hesitating at the gates. The brutal winter winds are still dormant, but drafts of deadly violence permeate the air. The city braces for the upcoming winter without its heart and blood, no electricity, no water. She wonders how her child will endure.

  She feels alone, experiences the solitude of a strange city where no one looks you straight in the eye. She does not feel part of this cool world, free for the first time. But at what price? How can she tell the difference between freedom and unburdening? Is freedom anything more than ignoring responsibilities, than denying duty? She walks the morose streets, circular peregrinations that leave her soul troubled. Lost afternoons. Yet she cannot go back there. She does not feel part of that world either. She never did. The family she abando
ned is there. Her husband. Her child. She will put it behind her. There will always be there.

  In New York, she can disappear. What is the purpose of a city if not to grant the greatest of gifts, anonymity? Beirut offered no refuge from unwavering gazes, no respite from pernicious tongues. But her heart remains there. To survive here, she must hack off a part of herself, chop, chop, chop.

  In America, a colorful national newspaper is born in time to report President Reagan’s declaration of the war on drugs, while the war in Lebanon is shown in prettily colored pie charts. Snipers shoot innocents with cyanide-laced bullets, while here they lace Tylenol capsules with cyanide. She walks to class confused, tugged on by both worlds.

  Can there be any here? No. She understands there. Whenever she is in Beirut, home is New York. Whenever she is in New York, home is Beirut. Home is never where she is, but where she is not.

  These [Asian] paintings I could get into and they made me wonder who I was. By contrast, Western painters tried to tell me who they were.

  —JOHN MCLAUGHLIN

  DAVID AND I

  I can almost see David, calm and inscrutable, disconnected, getting into his car, a gray older-model Nissan, and driving away. He arrives at his home somewhere in the city, some place I do not know, is greeted by someone I do not know, a woman most probably. His car may be modest, but not his home. It is where he entertains. The house has beautiful views of the Bay and the Bridge, floor-to-ceiling windows through which he and his woman can watch the sailboats.

  I can almost see David at the Museum of Modern Art looking at the newly acquired Mondrian, thinking the master must have copied McLaughlin, the California painter whose work I taught him to recognize.

  “Look,” he will say to the woman. “This painting is by someone trying to imitate John McLaughlin. Why, look here. He left the masking tape on the painting.”

  “Who’s this McLaughlin guy?” she will most probably ask, unconcerned with the answer, but, having been indoctrinated with inane politeness since her youth, she feels obliged to ask.

  “A California painter who was the obsession of a woman I went out with once.”

  David left me before I could teach him Mondrian.

  I can almost see David having a picnic in his backyard when his sisters come to visit. He may have a barbecue going. The woman entertains the sisters with stories of how she and David met, how she knew they were just perfect for each other. A laugh here, a giggle there.

  The brother-in-law whispers in David’s ear, “She’s quite a catch.”

  “She sure is.”

  “Are you going to reel her in?”

  “I’m seriously thinking about it.” David smiles with his brother-in-law, two conspirators in the game of life.

  I can almost see David everywhere I go. He has been an indecent obsession. I was always told time is the great healer, obliterates memory, sublimates passion. Not true. I was never a plaything of time. David left me over two years ago and I have not seen him since, yet I still feel for him as if it were yesterday. There are certain things that transcend time. Nothing seems to have changed with regard to my feelings for him. I am stuck in quicksand.

  DAVID AND MCLAUGHLIN

  I met David at a low point in my life and he gave me direction, became both my compass and my anchor. I was flailing and he gave me focus. For the first few times we were together, we did nothing but spend time in bed, exploring each other, literally and figuratively. I did not see him enough, since he was constantly busy, which meant that the minute he showed up at my doorstep, I dragged him into bed. I did not realize at first that he felt most comfortable in my bed, when we were alone, no one to see us together. It was in my bed, with me naked, irrespective of whether he was nude or not, that he felt the least threatened.

  Our first outing was to the Museum of Modern Art. The curator had set up the corridor with paintings by California artists, Northern California artists on one side and those from Southern California on the other. David and I looked mostly at the Northern California painters because of their use of colors. As we were walking, a painting on the opposite wall stopped me in my tracks. It called to me. “Sarah,” it said, “look at me.” It was a simple painting, of a style that had never appealed to me and which I had considered pointless. Yet I was rooted to my spot, spellbound. It was a medium-sized painting, thirty-two inches wide and thirty-eight inches tall. The main surface was smooth, no signs of brush strokes, the color a yellowish white—it was actually a mixture of zinc white, cadmium yellow, and a touch of raw umber—with a yellow rectangle, slightly off-center. Eight horizontal and four vertical black lines of varying lengths and thicknesses intersected at various points in the painting. I was not seeing a painting at all, but a three-dimensional mobile object, a live sculpture. The black lines moved back and forth across the space. The yellow square pushed farther back into the painting, creating a depth difficult to comprehend. Colors burst through in unexpected places. It was my introduction to John McLaughlin, the painter who opened my eyes.

  David could not understand why I refused to move from my spot. “You like this painting?” he asked me.

  “Yes. It’s beautiful.” I looked at him, hoping he would not think me a complete lunatic. I could not understand my awe.

  “What do you like about it?” He looked at me, intrigued more by me and my reaction than by the painting itself. I tried to explain, surprising myself by doing an adequate job. I could not elucidate the spiritual and emotional aspects of the painting I saw, but I showed him how the lines moved, how the intersections of lines changed colors as you looked at them, even though they were painted black. By the time I was done, he agreed it was a good painting, saying he would consider putting it up in his house.

  “I wish I could take it home,” I said. “I’d love to have it.”

  “Even if you could,” he told me, “it would probably cost you a fortune.”

  “It would be worth it. I’d pay anything for this painting. If the museum would sell it to me, I’d buy it in a second. It’s so grand.”

  “You’re being silly,” he said. “This is a nice painting and it would look nice in your house, but why would you want to pay so much for it? It’s only paint on canvas. No, it says here it’s on Masonite. That’s probably cheaper. This isn’t something unique.”

  “What do you mean it’s not unique? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “No,” he said in all seriousness. “I don’t mean anybody can do the original, but anybody can copy it. You can do this. You’re an engineer. If you like this painting so much, why don’t you make one exactly like it? It shouldn’t be too hard. Don’t you think?”

  I had never thought of that. I looked at the painting and began to wonder if I could copy it. I did not see why not. That was how it started.

  It took me seventeen paintings to achieve an adequate copy of the McLaughlin. I tried painting it on canvas, on linen, on Masonite, and learned about texture. I tried different kinds of paints. I painted the square by covering areas with masking tape, by using a ruler, as well as freehand. By the tenth painting, I got the colors right, but it was only on the seventeenth, once I figured out the correct measurement and placement of the lines, that the painting worked. David was encouraging during the whole process. He could not tell the difference between each painting, but he was patient as I tried ineffectual explanations. He liked my first attempt as much as he did my seventeenth, so as a present, I gave him the first painting. I considered it the perfect gift. It meant the world to me at the time. From the moment I put paint on canvas, I realized a pleasure so primitive, so intrinsic to my nature, it is hard to fathom how I could have gone so long without it. I wanted David to share in my pleasure. I wanted him to have something of me in his house. Little did I know I would never see the painting again. Once the painting left my house, I lost it. David never trusted me enough to tell me where he lived.

  David was instrumental in furthering my artistic career. He had been to a small
gallery’s opening and told me about it. He suggested I give them a call since they seemed to exhibit abstract paintings. I spoke to the director, a wonderful woman, younger than I, who supported herself as a waitress and had converted a small garage into a gallery to show her friends’ artwork. I told her I was a beginning painter and would like to have her opinion on my work. She showed up within thirty minutes, saying she had nothing to do that afternoon. She loved all sixteen of the paintings. She wanted to exhibit all sixteen paintings, in chronological order, to show the progression, even though the final painting was an exact replica. The exhibit was not a resounding success, but it was not an embarrassment either. We placed the sixteen paintings in order, with an elaborate explanation of the methodology used. It may have not changed the art world, but it was instructional. Having my work exhibited changed my whole view of myself. I was no longer as lost. I had a purpose for waking up in the morning. And for that, if nothing else, I will always be grateful to David.

  David suggested I take classes, that I might learn more about painting. I took an extension class at the San Francisco Art Institute. On the first evening, the teacher told us there were two ways we could not paint in his class: we were not allowed to paint diagonally and we were not allowed to paint black. For the life of me, I could not figure out why a painter—of middling success, I might add, but still a painter—would come up with such arbitrary rules. What was wrong with the color black? My first instinct was to leave the class and never come back. I stayed, though, and for the entire tedious semester I painted nothing but black diagonals. I had black diagonal lines crossing solid-colored canvases, black diagonal lines crisscrossing each other, black diagonals all over the place. The teacher never said anything to me the whole semester. At the end of term, I was the only student to receive an A for the class. No other student received a grade higher than a C. I did not take any other art class after that.

  By the time I had my second exhibit, I had developed a distinctive painting style, consisting of large, square canvases with colored bars on a solid color background, always two colors, thinly painted. The owner of a New York gallery wrote saying he would show my work in his gallery for three weeks if I was able to pay the expenses. The deal was fairly straightforward; I would get a New York show, in a SoHo gallery no less, if I paid two thousand dollars plus the cost of shipping my paintings. I was hesitant at first, unsure if it was simply a vanity exhibit. I agreed on the deal because of two things: the owner said all proceeds from the sale of the paintings would go directly to me until I recovered my expenses after which he would take his commission, and David thought it was a great deal because of the publicity I would receive. We scheduled the show for January of 1995, just over two years after I began painting. Luckily, I ended up recouping a lot more than my expenses from the New York show. I had shipped my paintings by UPS and they destroyed two of them, one on the way to New York and the other on the way back. I had insured them, thereby receiving four thousand dollars from UPS. So, of course, on my resumé, I include UPS as a major collector of my paintings.