{"id":32349,"date":"2024-04-01T19:49:45","date_gmt":"2024-04-01T17:49:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=32349"},"modified":"2024-04-03T08:57:32","modified_gmt":"2024-04-03T06:57:32","slug":"paris-of-the-middle-east-fiction-by-mk-harb","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/paris-of-the-middle-east-fiction-by-mk-harb\/","title":{"rendered":"“Paris of the Middle East”\u2014fiction by MK Harb"},"content":{"rendered":"
As a city drains, tempers flare, and friends say goodbye with things signifying home: tarot cards and a recipe for pickled turnips. A new short story from Beirut.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

MK Harb<\/span><\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

We waited for Kareema at the veranda of Cantina Sociale under a rusted fan that carried within it more noise than a breeze. I took off my sandals, placing my feet on the faded terrazzo tiles, wishing for a coolness to go through my spine. I turned to the waiter and said, \u201cYou might as well switch this fan off. Is it an antique from <\/span>Basta<\/span><\/i>?\u201d He smirked and walked away placing an <\/span>ibrik, a traditional water jug, <\/span><\/i>filled with mint lemonade on the table of the lady on our left. She wore these professorial circular glasses and on her turquoise vest, which furthered the heat of August, was a golden swan brooch pinned to the right side of her chest. She was consumed by a book for what seemed to be hours \u2014 I interrupted her and asked: \u201cWhat are you reading?\u201d Sari nudged me with his right elbow to remind me not to talk to strangers. The woman mumbled something in French and all I could make out were the words \u201c\u00e9trange\u201d and \u201cBeyrouth.\u201d I nodded in fake knowing and looked back to Sari.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know we\u2019re in Sassine, but replying to me in French?\u201d I said.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet her live her fantasy. It\u2019s Sunday,\u201d Sari said in a contained politeness.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A short while later Kareema arrived with a breeze. Somehow despite all the aging that has passed around us in Beirut, she still was the same, with dove-like hazel eyes, a posture elongated with years of Pilates at a studio in Hamra, and hair fresher than the lemonade in the <\/span>ibrik<\/span><\/i>. She placed her tote bag on the table, gave us a drenched hug, took her Ray-Ban sunglasses off and said: \u201cWow, it\u2019s more humid than Dubai this August.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cExactly, but without the money. How cruel is that?\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo cruel,\u201d she said, proceeding to kiss me on my right cheek. She waived at the waiter to get her usual, shanklish dip, rosemary chips and a glass of <\/span>Merweh <\/span><\/i>wine. She sat next to Sari, squeezing his right hand and said, \u201cSoooo, Paris? How exciting!\u201d \u2014 Sari had just left his job teaching anthropology at the American University of Beirut, securing a \u201ctalent passport\u201d and a ticket out of Lebanon. He was to become a performance artist in Paris.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSoon he\u2019ll be at all these chichi parties playing Habibi funk music,\u201d I said, with the bitterness of knowing that this is the third friend I\u2019ve lost to a talent passport.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a cold brew hipster,\u201d Sari said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kareema opened her iPhone, which had a quote by Rumi on its screen. <\/span>Yesterday I was clever so I wanted to change the world; Today I am wise, so I am changing myself<\/span><\/i>. \u201cWell, I have the party for you,\u201d she said, proceeding to show us a video of these pretty little things dancing and drinking under bright green trees. \u201cThis is the Rosa Bonheur gathering in Buttes Chaumont park, in Paris, in Belleville; so many artists and cool people go there. You have to go the Saturday after you arrive, Sari,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am not sure I\u2019ll have the energy for bears and otters upon arrival \u2026\u201d Sari said, \u201cbut it\u2019s definitely on my list now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The waiter came with the <\/span>Merweh <\/span><\/i>wine, yellow with an orange tinge, and Kareema sipped it with a euphoric, \u201cHmmm.\u201d She asked me to try it, which I did.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFruity and a bit nutty,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you know <\/span>Merweh<\/span><\/i> is an indigenous plant to Lebanon,\u201d she replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe only thing indigenous to Lebanon is immigration,\u201d I said, ruffling Sari\u2019s hair.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kareema laughed and said, \u201cI was reading about it\u2019s history. Turns out it was grown all over Mount Lebanon, but during French colonialism it was replaced with olive and mulberry trees which were more lucrative. But this guy from Batroun has found them in four villages, which he\u2019s keeping secret. It\u2019s so good that it won an award last year for best Mediterranean wine!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBravo!\u201d I said, turning my gaze to Saleem, arriving in time for his afternoon shift. He wore a tight white shirt, round collar with three beige buttons, accentuated with a bronze honed with Sunday visits to Sporting beach. We had this unspoken romance for a year now, and somehow both of us could not muster the courage to talk beyond his obsession with Turkish pop. He walked towards us, my flustering increasing with his footsteps, and stood over the table like a little demigod. \u201cShu Sari, I heard you\u2019re moving to France like the rest of them?\u201d he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I left Ras Beirut and came to Achrafieh for the day to prepare myself mentally,\u201d Sari replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saleem smiled at me and asked: \u201cAnother round, A\u015fk\u0131m?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, get us that indigenous grape,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBitch,\u201d Kareema whispered.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n