Mister N by Najwa Barakat

Author:Najwa Barakat
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Arabic;Metafiction;Middle East;Lebanon;Lebanese;Writers;Civil War;Torture;Mental Illness;Loneliness;war zone
Publisher: And Other Stories Publishing
Published: 2022-03-11T16:19:48+00:00

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When I entered my room, I found someone standing in front of the window, staring out, still and silent as a corpse. My entrance did not startle him, nor did he turn from the window to face me. I sat on the edge of the bed, worn out from my session with Andrew and wanting to sink into the stillness to give my ringing ears some relief from the noise of all his talking.

Daoud remained silent, frozen in place. All he did was raise his right hand to the back of his neck, squeezing and massaging the point where the skull connects to the spine. I imitated him, placing my thumb under the lower rim of my skull. I pressed down and took a deep breath. I held my breath for a few seconds, releasing it with a sigh. A delicious numbness spread through my limbs. With my feet still resting on the floor, I lay back and sank into a deep sleep. I dreamed about my father, swimming through a sea of animal intestines, clean and white as plastic pipes. “Look how pure it is!” he cried as he plunged in. “Smells like lemon!” Then Thurayya appeared. Her mouth was painted red, like some misshapen clown. She was crying, and when she saw me, she turned and whispered, “I only want Dior!”

Dior was the only brand of lipstick she found acceptable. If anyone ever praised her beauty, she would pucker her red lips and say, “Dior of Paris!” When I was very young, before Mary came to us, I would hide in a corner of Thurayya’s room in order to watch her, without her knowing I was there. Sitting at the dressing table where she kept her makeup, she would first comb her hair and put on her pearl necklace and her ring. Then she would open a wine-colored jar with a fine white powder inside and use a small pink velvet pad to brush it lightly over her face, neck, and décolletage. When she was finished, she would pass a mascara pencil across her closed eyelids and apply the red lipstick that I remembered.

When Thurayya finished making herself up, she would stand up, strip off her robe, and remain standing there in a silk chemise—either black or skin-toned—that hugged her thighs and revealed her legs past the knees. She would go to the wardrobe where her many dresses hung in a row, pick one out to put on, and then return to the mirror to spray her Femme perfume before taking one last look at herself and leaving the room to start her day. Thurayya never neglected her appearance. In all circumstances, she kept herself ready, as though about to go out, receive a guest, or attend some function. I wished she would hold me to her breast so I might smell her, play with her hair, and feel her touch. I wished she would seat me on her lap and wrap her bare arms around me, that she would place her hand on my head, upon my heart, on my secret spot.

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