Flying Carpets by Hedy Habra

Author:Hedy Habra [Habra,Hedy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781566569576
Publisher: Interlink Publishing Group Inc

PERSPECTIVES

On my way back from the hospital, I enjoyed the solitude of the empty apartment. My son Fady was spending the weekend in Jounieh at the Rimal Resort with my brother Joe, who had a chalet overlooking the beach where his family spent most of their weekends. I wasn’t sleepy anymore. On the contrary, I felt alert as if I’d slept through the night. Despite the early hour, I poured myself a glass of Armagnac and sat on the leather recliner, oblivious of opening the shades, enjoying the semi-obscurity. I was totally free now and not eager for the day to begin: I needed this time alone. After seven years, Nicole and I just had our second child, but these years weighed on me as if twenty interminable ones had elapsed.

* * *

I remembered Fady’s birth, our first years together. When did Nicole and I grow apart? At first, I attributed her change to a difficult pregnancy. Her back hurt constantly and she’d lie in bed or lounge on a couch all day long, reading or watching TV. Where was the energetic young girl, always eager to go out, always ready to have friends over? I gradually took charge of all the chores, thinking it was just temporary, hoping things would get better. With time, I resented coming home early because Nicole would always welcome me with comments like, “Ah, Paul! At last! I bet you forgot the bread again!” or as we’d put the groceries away, she would burst, “What’s in your mind? You bought the most expensive cheeses! Don’t you check prices?”

Later, when my paintings weren’t selling, she didn’t miss one opportunity to remind me, “You must switch to a more remunerative work, something more . . . commercial! That’s the only way to get ahead.” It’s true that my pay at the Art Institute took care of only our basic needs. I’d spend hours in my studio, staring at half-painted canvasses. I’d sketch some ideas, then put them away, discouraged. The only place where I could concentrate was a loft at my parents’ summerhouse, twenty minutes from Beirut in the heart of Broumana, which became my studio. Situated above the garage, in the midst of trees, with windows on all sides, it offered a striking view of the pinewoods and the sea. From there, I enjoyed the changes of seasons as if I were living in the wilderness. I loved this place. It had a private entrance and I could get in and out without even being noticed. My parents used the house mainly during the hot summer months, when the humidity got unbearable in Beirut. Whenever there, they made themselves invisible to allow me maximum privacy.

Nicole was jealous of the time I spent away from home. “You’re not much of a father,” she’d complain, “you surely got the easy part.” She’d constantly enumerate the projects done by her friends’ husbands. I kept hearing that our neighbor John was redoing their landscaping and basement, that Lily’s husband was a wonderful cook and helped with the laundry.

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