“Paris of the Middle East”—fiction by MK Harb

Mohamed Al Mufti, "Beirut Alive," acrylic on canvas, 180X120cm, 2023 (courtesy of the artist, @mohamed_al_mufti_art_archi).

1 APRIL 2024 • By MK Harb
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.

 

MK Harb

 

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, “You might as well switch this fan off. Is it an antique from Basta?” He smirked and walked away placing an ibrik, a traditional water jug, 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 — I interrupted her and asked: “What are you reading?” 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 “étrange” and “Beyrouth.” I nodded in fake knowing and looked back to Sari. 

“I know we’re in Sassine, but replying to me in French?” I said. 

“Let her live her fantasy. It’s Sunday,” Sari said in a contained politeness. 

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 ibrik. She placed her tote bag on the table, gave us a drenched hug, took her Ray-Ban sunglasses off and said: “Wow, it’s more humid than Dubai this August.”

“Exactly, but without the money. How cruel is that?” I said.

“So cruel,” 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 Merweh wine. She sat next to Sari, squeezing his right hand and said, “Soooo, Paris? How exciting!” — Sari had just left his job teaching anthropology at the American University of Beirut, securing a “talent passport” and a ticket out of Lebanon. He was to become a performance artist in Paris.

“Soon he’ll be at all these chichi parties playing Habibi funk music,” I said, with the bitterness of knowing that this is the third friend I’ve lost to a talent passport.

“I’m not a cold brew hipster,” Sari said.

Kareema opened her iPhone, which had a quote by Rumi on its screen. Yesterday I was clever so I wanted to change the world; Today I am wise, so I am changing myself. “Well, I have the party for you,” she said, proceeding to show us a video of these pretty little things dancing and drinking under bright green trees. “This 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,” she said.

“I am not sure I’ll have the energy for bears and otters upon arrival …” Sari said, “but it’s definitely on my list now.”

The waiter came with the Merweh wine, yellow with an orange tinge, and Kareema sipped it with a euphoric, “Hmmm.” She asked me to try it, which I did.

“Fruity and a bit nutty,” I said.

“Yes, you know Merweh is an indigenous plant to Lebanon,” she replied.

“The only thing indigenous to Lebanon is immigration,” I said, ruffling Sari’s hair.

Kareema laughed and said, “I was reading about it’s 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’s keeping secret. It’s so good that it won an award last year for best Mediterranean wine!”

“Bravo!” 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. “Shu Sari, I heard you’re moving to France like the rest of them?” he said.

“Yes, I left Ras Beirut and came to Achrafieh for the day to prepare myself mentally,” Sari replied.

Saleem smiled at me and asked: “Another round, Aşkım?”

“Yes, get us that indigenous grape,” I said.

“Bitch,” Kareema whispered.



Kareema opened her tote bag and took out all these whimsical items for Sari. “A care package for France,” she said.

A recipe for pickled turnips for when it gets too cold or too lonely. Things that are good for the heart are bitter.
A year’s worth of vitamin D from Mazen Pharmacy. “He needs another kind of vitamin D. Last time he got laid the dollar was still at 1500 lira,” I said, opening the boxes and taking one for me.
Half a kilo of Turkish coffee from Bin Tafesh.
A piece of pine from the Chouf Mountains. 

“He’s only moving four hours away from here, not taking a steamboat to 19th century Brazil!” I said. “Plus, there are more Lebanese grocers in Paris than there are in Beirut now. Apparently, they even have Bouzet Bachir and over there they think its gourmet ice cream!” 

Sari shushed me and said, “Thank you, Kareema these are beyond thoughtful. Malek is just spiraling because he’s going to miss me.” It was true I was going to miss him.

“Well, it’s time for tarot cards. I got a deck so we can see what’s in the works for you by the time you get there. Especially since you’re arriving with a wolf moon,” said Kareema. 

“I’m going to let you guys enjoy that,” I said, turning over to the people around me. On my right a girl nervously typed on her laptop which had a sticker in black and white: psychoanalysis and communism. I figured she must be a film student at ALBA. Behind her was a daddy wearing Vilebrequin trunks with dolphins swimming across his torso. He caught my glance and smiled in that naughty, “this is summer in Beirut” sort of way. I waved my right arm across my face and said: “Uff shu shob” — so hot!

At the foot of the stairs lay Kalamanteen, the Cantina’s resident Rottweiler, his eyes droopy and relaxed. A man outside on the street sent a very loud voice note — Khalas eh she can pay the down payment through a chèque bancaire. Someone had sprayed “woman life freedom” on the road block behind him, but I doubt he noticed it. On the other side of the road, three men in dreadfully colorful glasses, guava, maroon, and yellow, were having some quiche and coffee at Des Choux Et Des Idées. A munching sound entered my ears and returning to the veranda, it was the professor snacking on carrots dipped in lemon water and cumin. She finished reading her book and a slight shimmering light danced on the swan pinned to her. She looked over and waved at a tall man in a light blue chemise open to its middle. His chest wore a rosy sunburn. He approached her and asked: “Jeanette?”

“Ah yes Jason, welcome,” she replied, inviting him to her table. Saleem approached them and recommended the Turkish menemen eggs and some Ksarra wine. Jason uttered a hungry, “Sounds amazing.” Jeanette took out a cigarette and began speaking in a more spirited manner while Jason held a nervous corporate smile. At first, I thought she might be attracted to him, but then I realized she was in love with her own voice, and the stories she carried within her. Now was one of those rare chances to bring them out of the archive.

“So, tell me more about this article you’re writing,” she said.

“Well, I’ve always heard about the promise of this city and a friend of mine told me things are supposed to be shaping up after the economic crisis. So, I pitched an article to the New York Times called ‘The Eternal Magic of Beirut’ and I’m here to sniff out some of that magic,” he said.

“Yes, indeed it’s an enchanted city,” Jeanette affirmed, “and if you look around things are back to some degree of normal.”

Hearing this delusion, I was about to stand up and yell, “What normal? A man on a motorcycle shot his gun at the attendants of the gas station I was at yesterday. “This is for being too slow,” he hollered as he fired. But I stayed calm for the sake of Sari.

At some point Jason took out a black moleskin notebook, scribbling and nodding while Jeanette waxed poetically about the contemporary art scene in Beirut. “Did you know there is an original Gérôme painting at the Saint Georges cathedral in Centre Ville?” Jeanette said, “It’s not open for public view, but the priest there likes me, so we can go sometime to see it.”

“So many muses tucked in the corners of this city,” Jason said. “So tell me, what does Beirut mean to you?”

“Beyrouth is the air I breathe, the skin I live in. It has been destroyed seven times and it still rises like the phoenix,” she said.

“Not the fucking phoenix,” I mumbled.

“Did you say something?” Sari asked.

“No habibi, go back to the cards,” I said.

Kareema’s smile was wide and her eyes hypnotic and between her fingers a blue goddess received a revelation from a pearly white moon. “This card invites you to regard your life with compassion,” she said to Sari and I turned back to Jason and Jeanette’s rendezvous.

“On a more political note, we’re surrounded by a youthful energy — even in this café you’d think you’re at a startup incubator,” Jason said. “What about them? Isn’t their government failing them?” — this was no startup incubator; they were here because Cantina Sociale is the only café with 24/7 electricity and wi-fi. But Jeanette hid that little knickknack of reality.

“All these kids here are like my students, even if they are not, and I wish nothing but the best for them. You see, we Lebanese have the same values like westerners and we expect the same high standards like social welfare, education, big museums, public beaches. But the problem is our government is a Third World country,” said Jeanette, eating the last of the carrot. My feet were about to cause an earthquake in the ground below us, but again for the sake of Sari, I kept my cool.

“I have to say despite it all, the magnetic pull of this city is undeniable. I’m thinking of moving here and taking a stab at a career,” Jason said. “What about the neighborhoods? Can you talk to me about your favorite architectural features?” he asked.

“Well instead of talking, let’s get the bill and I will walk you around and show you some of my favorite buildings and corners. You know Beirut used to be called ‘the Paris of the Middle East’ and in some aspects, it still is,” Jeanette said.

“I’d love a walk,” Jason replied and I wondered which Haussmann buildings are they seeing that I am not?

Saleem got them the bill, Jeanette said “merci,” and I was going to let them enjoy their Parisian flânerie, but a voice in my head compelled me to talk.

“You know Beirut is many things. Maybe the Norfolk of the Middle East, but not the Paris of the Middle East for sure,” I said.

Jeanette turned back, gave me a confounded gaze and said, “Pardon, monsieur.” Jason stood awkwardly in that I’m an American in Beirut stillness. Sari and Kareema returned from whatever third dimension they were in with a worry. Sari spoke with a solemn voice, please Malek, not now.

“Jason, do you know that Beirut has a river?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s a revelation,” he said.

“Yes, but it’s not like the Seine. It’s dried up and in between its ravaged Sahara aridness there are pockets of sewage,” I said, “does that seem magical?”

“Well, Paris has some pollution issues too,” he said, attempting to control the situation.

Jeanette smirked and said, “Please ignore him, Jason. Some people just can’t look on the bright side.”

“Jeanette, I want to correct a fact. Beirut turned over eight times. The last time being on August 4th and, no, we have not risen like the phoenix since that day. Would such ‘Third-World’ impunity be allowed in Paris?” I said, slamming the table and when my hands hit the cracked wood, I realized I was spinning out faster than the fan above me. I heard Kareema say, “Is he intermittent fasting? He gets like this when his blood sugar drops,” and in that moment I realized that these friends who notice and accept my varied temperaments are leaving. To Paris, to Dubai, to London, the quiet suburb and the other city, and I might be left here walking like a zombie through the streets of Beirut telling people that there once was a river. I stood up, apologized to Jeanette and Jason, “It’s the heat, I should have gotten some of that mint lemonade instead of a wine,” I said. Sari packed his care package back into the bag, signaling at me and Kareema to head out. We walked by Jason and Jeanette, who were still lost for words and I said, “Pardon, madame.”

We crossed over the “women life freedom” road block and stood outside Des Choux Et Des Idées. Sari’s green eyes revealed red accusatory veins in their middle and as he rolled a cigarette on the sidewalk table, wrapping the Papier de Damas around the tobacco, turned back and said: “Khalas. Couldn’t you just let this woman be? Who the fuck cares if she’s speaking French? Half our conversations are in English, aren’t they?”

“Then why are you going to France?” I said.

“Well, it’s the only place that gave me a work visa,” he replied.

“So, what’s next — Kareema moves to Peru to become a shaman and I’m left to teach the next generation at AUB, waiting for some journalist to come interview me?”

Kareema moved between us and said, “We won’t end Sari’s last day like this. Who wants an éclair?”

Sari and I nod and we walk in, sit amongst another crowd, and stay quiet for a bit. A young man in a blue apron approaches us and takes our order of rose éclairs and double chocolate sablé. “Extra sugar for this hysteric queen,” says Sari. I laugh and apologize again, happy that the silence is broken. “I’m going to miss these outbursts,” he says. My phone buzzes and I open it to find a message from Saleem. “That was quite the scene you made back there. Catherine Deneuve is still on the veranda telling people can you believe how that guy talked to me. Drinks tomorrow night?”

I smile and reply with, “Oui.”

 

MK Harb

MK Harb Mohamad Khalil (MK) Harb is a writer from Beirut. He received his graduate degree in Middle Eastern Studies from Harvard University in 2018 where he wrote an award-winning thesis on escapism in Beirut. MK served as Editor-at-Large for Lebanon at... Read more

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Joumana Haddad’s The Book of Queens: a Review

18 APRIL 2022 • By Laila Halaby
Joumana Haddad’s <em>The Book of Queens</em>: a Review
Art & Photography

Ghosts of Beirut: a Review of “displaced”

11 APRIL 2022 • By Karén Jallatyan
Ghosts of Beirut: a Review of “displaced”
Columns

Music in the Middle East: Bring Back Peace

21 MARCH 2022 • By Melissa Chemam
Music in the Middle East: Bring Back Peace
Poetry

Three Poems of Love and Desire by Nouri Al-Jarrah

15 MARCH 2022 • By Nouri Al-Jarrah
Three Poems of Love and Desire by Nouri Al-Jarrah
Fiction

Fiction from “Free Fall”: I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered

15 JANUARY 2022 • By Abeer Esber, Nouha Homad
Fiction from “Free Fall”: I fled the city as a murderer whose crime had just been uncovered
Columns

Sudden Journeys: From Munich with Love and Realpolitik

27 DECEMBER 2021 • By Jenine Abboushi
Sudden Journeys: From Munich with Love and Realpolitik
Comix

Lebanon at the Point of Drowning in Its Own…

15 DECEMBER 2021 • By Raja Abu Kasm, Rahil Mohsin
Lebanon at the Point of Drowning in Its Own…
Comix

How to Hide in Lebanon as a Western Foreigner

15 DECEMBER 2021 • By Nadiyah Abdullatif, Anam Zafar
How to Hide in Lebanon as a Western Foreigner
Beirut

Sudden Journeys: The Villa Salameh Bequest

29 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Jenine Abboushi
Sudden Journeys: The Villa Salameh Bequest
Music Reviews

Electronic Music in Riyadh?

22 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Melissa Chemam
Electronic Music in Riyadh?
Art

Etel Adnan’s Sun and Sea: In Remembrance

19 NOVEMBER 2021 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
Etel Adnan’s Sun and Sea: In Remembrance
Book Reviews

Diary of the Collapse—Charif Majdalani on Lebanon’s Trials by Fire

15 NOVEMBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
<em>Diary of the Collapse</em>—Charif Majdalani on Lebanon’s Trials by Fire
Interviews

The Anguish of Being Lebanese: Interview with Author Racha Mounaged

18 OCTOBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
The Anguish of Being Lebanese: Interview with Author Racha Mounaged
Book Reviews

Racha Mounaged’s Debut Novel Captures Trauma of Lebanese Civil War

18 OCTOBER 2021 • By A.J. Naddaff
Racha Mounaged’s Debut Novel Captures Trauma of Lebanese Civil War
Art & Photography

Displaced: From Beirut to Los Angeles to Beirut

15 SEPTEMBER 2021 • By Ara Oshagan
Displaced: From Beirut to Los Angeles to Beirut
Weekly

Palestinian Akram Musallam Writes of Loss and Memory

29 AUGUST 2021 • By khulud khamis
Palestinian Akram Musallam Writes of Loss and Memory
Latest Reviews

Puigaudeau & Sénones: a Graphic Novel on Mauritania Circa 1933

15 AUGUST 2021 • By Paraska Tolan-Szkilnik 
Puigaudeau & Sénones: a Graphic Novel on Mauritania Circa 1933
Columns

Beirut Drag Queens Lead the Way for Arab LGBTQ+ Visibility

8 AUGUST 2021 • By Anonymous
Beirut Drag Queens Lead the Way for Arab LGBTQ+ Visibility
Art & Photography

Gaza’s Shababek Gallery for Contemporary Art

14 JULY 2021 • By Yara Chaalan
Gaza’s Shababek Gallery for Contemporary Art
Columns

The Semantics of Gaza, War and Truth

14 JULY 2021 • By Mischa Geracoulis
The Semantics of Gaza, War and Truth
Columns

Lebanon’s Wasta Has Contributed to the Country’s Collapse

14 JUNE 2021 • By Samir El-Youssef
Lebanon’s Wasta Has Contributed to the Country’s Collapse
Columns

Lebanese Oppose Corruption with a Game of Wasta

14 JUNE 2021 • By Victoria Schneider
Lebanese Oppose Corruption with a Game of Wasta
Weekly

War Diary: The End of Innocence

23 MAY 2021 • By Arie Amaya-Akkermans
War Diary: The End of Innocence
Weekly

Beirut Brings a Fragmented Family Together in “The Arsonists’ City”

9 MAY 2021 • By Rana Asfour
Columns

Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim

14 MARCH 2021 • By Claire Launchbury
Memory and the Assassination of Lokman Slim
Weekly

Hanane Hajj Ali, Portrait of a Theatrical Trailblazer

14 FEBRUARY 2021 • By Nada Ghosn
Hanane Hajj Ali, Portrait of a Theatrical Trailblazer
TMR 6 • Revolutions

Revolution in Art, a review of “Reflections” at the British Museum

14 FEBRUARY 2021 • By Malu Halasa
Revolution in Art, a review of “Reflections” at the British Museum
TMR 4 • Small & Indie Presses

Algiers, Algeria in the novel “Our Riches”

14 DECEMBER 2020 • By Kaouther Adimi
Algiers, Algeria in the novel “Our Riches”
TMR 3 • Racism & Identity

Find the Others: on Becoming an Arab Writer in English

15 NOVEMBER 2020 • By Rewa Zeinati
TMR 3 • Racism & Identity

I am the Hyphen

15 NOVEMBER 2020 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
I am the Hyphen
World Picks

World Art, Music & Zoom Beat the Pandemic Blues

28 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Malu Halasa
World Art, Music & Zoom Beat the Pandemic Blues
Beirut

Wajdi Mouawad, Just the Playwright for Our Dystopian World

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Melissa Chemam
Wajdi Mouawad, Just the Playwright for Our Dystopian World
Art & Photography

Arts in the Pandemic Age

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Melissa Chemam
Arts in the Pandemic Age
Art

Beirut Comix Tell the Story

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Lina Ghaibeh & George Khoury
Beirut Comix Tell the Story
Editorial

Beirut, Beirut

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Jordan Elgrably
Beirut

It’s Time for a Public Forum on Lebanon

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Wajdi Mouawad
It’s Time for a Public Forum on Lebanon
Beirut

Salvaging the shipwreck of humanity in Amin Maalouf’s Adrift

15 SEPTEMBER 2020 • By Sarah AlKahly-Mills
Salvaging the shipwreck of humanity in Amin Maalouf’s <em>Adrift</em>

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