The room had gone stale, stinking of smoke and ashes. A burned out fire, drawing out the oxygen.
I open the window, I remember our meeting, I inhale deeply and exhale...I remember the air being sucked out of me, and I take another breath. One meeting replacing another, one face another, one name another...
R. was like a breeze of fresh air, and I was waiting to exhale...Exhale the memories, the promises and the words whispered in the stillness of the night. Exhale them all, for I had been holding my breath...
The staleness of the room felt heavy, and the smoke turned into another curtain, blinding my vision, a fog of false hopes...
I agreed to meet R. I felt no particular anticipation, I did not hold my breath, I still needed to exhale... I agreed when I glimpsed in his eyes, a silent plea, even though he tried hard hiding it...A pair of eyes replacing another? And I was waiting to exhale...
I saw him again, the following day, late in the afternoon, I was late.
I am not sure whether that was deliberate on my part, or if I was still being pulled to that stale smoky room, where sentences had been buried, in every corner and in every crack...
Maybe I was late because I was undecided as to what I should wear, knowing in advance what I would wear and pretending I did not. I knew it was going to be black slacks and a black shirt. So why the hesitation ? Maybe it was my urge to wear the single row pearl necklace that my father had given me a few years before he left us, me. I had not worn it in years, but that afternoon, it was imperative that I find it. I knew it was in some little box in one of the drawers, but like everything else, I had left it there for too long, and could not remember where I had placed it. Left it in forgetfulness or maybe because wearing it was too painful.
I stood in front of the mirror, pulled my hair up, and delicately placed it around my neck, caressed it as if rubbing some magical piece of jewelry, like those sultans rings that embraced secrets...
I dabbed my usual perfume, the one I had been using for the past few months - Ange ou Démon. But that day, I was neither. Neither an angel nor a demon. I was just me with a pearl necklace.
Y. kept pushing me in that role, half angel-half demon. He could not see beyond these two images.
His world was black and white, saints and whores, pure and polluted...and I was stuck in the image, somewhere in between, dying to exhale...
He had me where he wanted me, well framed, a mirror for himself, where he would either love or hate his own reflection. And I was stuck in between, dying to exhale... Dying to come out from this frame, smash the mirror and stand in front of him wearing my pearl necklace...My attempts were futile. I should have realized that I was placed as an added ornament, an extra decorum in his inner tower, his fortress...Another trophy. Another conquest. Another caged one...
I was lured and lulled into it for reasons I ignored then. Maybe today they make sense.
Y. had been preparing his terrain for quite some time. He had observed me from close and from afar. He read through my lines and heard my conversations. My omissions, what I had left unsaid, and what I had revealed. I suppose he got intimate with me from a distance, taking note of my vulnerabilities, listing my weak spots, assessing my insecurities and my strengths...He was a predator and he had decided I was his prey.
And one day the occasion presented itself and he presented himself. Suave and sure of himself, with an air of arrogance balanced out with a humble admiration. I suppose this particular mixture was enticing. I should have known better...But that day I was no angel and no demon, I was just me.
Y. and I met and talked for hours, day after day, week after week, month after month...Long conversations. Y. had a hard time listening, after all mirrors should not really talk, but only reflect back...
Personal discussions were very difficult, one could not have intimacy with a mirror. Mirrors are made for self admiration and adulation. So he believed.
Y.also flexed some muscle in front of this mirror, this angel-demon mirror of his, making sure that all his past conquests and scores be faithfully recorded, and leaving blank spaces, blank dots for the present, so even though framed, I will only tiptoe within a well delineated space, a space that he had constructed for him and for me. And every time I wanted to get out of the mirror, the puppeteer would play his erotic puppets and dangle them in front of me, forever reminding me of the fragility of glass...
Y's emotional sadism would sometimes take a more macabre turn, and degenerate into a quasi pornographic dance with demons. He'd hurl insults, demean me, humiliate me, undermine me, then would smile and say ever so calmly "come on, it was just a joke."
At times, he would profusely apologize, but his apologies, I later realized, held no sincerity, he was just going through the motions of pretence, so he could secure once more opportunity to lash out his fragmented, incongruous, hollow self on me.
And in his own image, one minute I was the angel, the virgin, the pure and one minute I was the devil, the witch, the whore...And I was stuck somewhere in between, in the middle, waiting to exhale...
When I think back on that period, I try to figure out what was his grip made of.
Believe it or not, it was Iraq. As crazy as that may sound, but that is the truth.
The door he used was just that - Iraq, the broken, destroyed gates of Babel.
He knew that that was my weakness and my passion, the source of my grief and my hope.
Thinking back, I realize he was just another invader, another occupier, using and abusing a ravaged terrain so he could come out as a hero, a victor, a winner... trampling on me in the process. But that did not seem to matter, since I was nothing but a mirror, holding my breath, his breath...dying to exhale.
A narcissistic emotional sadist coupled with political opportunism. Is that not what invaders and occupiers are made of ? Is that not what torturers and rapists are made of ?
I remember sitting in that stale room, at my desk. In front of me was a plain beautiful ceramic turquoise ashtray, which I had carefully carried with me from Baghdad to destination X.
Blue ceramics were a typical handicraft of Baghdad. And this turquoise ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ashes, reminded me of Baghdad. I loved that ashtray, I was attached to it. It meant so many things to me. I can even write a whole post on it.
Y.calls. One of his abrasive, cruel phone calls. He masterfully throws the words that he knows will hurt right on target, right where it is most raw, like some expert...
The ashtray is full of butts, cigarette butts and ashes...
He talks of the butts, his butts, the many butts he conquered and is about to conquer. I light another cigarette, adding another butt to the butts, flicking more ashes on the grey pile that is hiding the turquoise.
He continues his mind game, his vindictive revenge through,across the receiver, me. I am silent for a while, contemplating my turquoise ashtray, pushing the ashes to one side with the tip of my finger, so I can re-appropriate its color, the turquoise color...
One wrong move and it falls to the floor, smashes in two, my Baghdad ceramic, smashes in two, right in the middle...split in the middle, gone...
The cigarette butts are all over the floor and the ashes thrown, blown away in all directions...
Finally I see it, the turquoise blue, a beautiful blue like the depth of the sea on clear day, but broken...
I hang up, leave his butts and mine lying on the floor, like consumed corpses. I leave them lying amidst the ashes with my Baghdadi ceramic turquoise ashtray slit in the middle, cracked beyond repair, broken beyond mending...
I leave it there with the butts around it and the ashes sprinkled all over, like some gun powder. I leave it there like I have left Baghdad with its cadavers dispersed covered in desert dust...
I place my hands on my throat, as if to trying to swallow something that has stuck there in the middle. As I move my hand towards the middle of my chest, towards my heart, I stumble upon the pearl necklace that my father gave me. I caress it one last time before heading for the door, onto the street, towards the café where R.is waiting for me. And I exhale deeply...
Painting : Iraqi artist, Haidar Dahluz.
I open the window, I remember our meeting, I inhale deeply and exhale...I remember the air being sucked out of me, and I take another breath. One meeting replacing another, one face another, one name another...
R. was like a breeze of fresh air, and I was waiting to exhale...Exhale the memories, the promises and the words whispered in the stillness of the night. Exhale them all, for I had been holding my breath...
The staleness of the room felt heavy, and the smoke turned into another curtain, blinding my vision, a fog of false hopes...
I agreed to meet R. I felt no particular anticipation, I did not hold my breath, I still needed to exhale... I agreed when I glimpsed in his eyes, a silent plea, even though he tried hard hiding it...A pair of eyes replacing another? And I was waiting to exhale...
I saw him again, the following day, late in the afternoon, I was late.
I am not sure whether that was deliberate on my part, or if I was still being pulled to that stale smoky room, where sentences had been buried, in every corner and in every crack...
Maybe I was late because I was undecided as to what I should wear, knowing in advance what I would wear and pretending I did not. I knew it was going to be black slacks and a black shirt. So why the hesitation ? Maybe it was my urge to wear the single row pearl necklace that my father had given me a few years before he left us, me. I had not worn it in years, but that afternoon, it was imperative that I find it. I knew it was in some little box in one of the drawers, but like everything else, I had left it there for too long, and could not remember where I had placed it. Left it in forgetfulness or maybe because wearing it was too painful.
I stood in front of the mirror, pulled my hair up, and delicately placed it around my neck, caressed it as if rubbing some magical piece of jewelry, like those sultans rings that embraced secrets...
I dabbed my usual perfume, the one I had been using for the past few months - Ange ou Démon. But that day, I was neither. Neither an angel nor a demon. I was just me with a pearl necklace.
Y. kept pushing me in that role, half angel-half demon. He could not see beyond these two images.
His world was black and white, saints and whores, pure and polluted...and I was stuck in the image, somewhere in between, dying to exhale...
He had me where he wanted me, well framed, a mirror for himself, where he would either love or hate his own reflection. And I was stuck in between, dying to exhale... Dying to come out from this frame, smash the mirror and stand in front of him wearing my pearl necklace...My attempts were futile. I should have realized that I was placed as an added ornament, an extra decorum in his inner tower, his fortress...Another trophy. Another conquest. Another caged one...
I was lured and lulled into it for reasons I ignored then. Maybe today they make sense.
Y. had been preparing his terrain for quite some time. He had observed me from close and from afar. He read through my lines and heard my conversations. My omissions, what I had left unsaid, and what I had revealed. I suppose he got intimate with me from a distance, taking note of my vulnerabilities, listing my weak spots, assessing my insecurities and my strengths...He was a predator and he had decided I was his prey.
And one day the occasion presented itself and he presented himself. Suave and sure of himself, with an air of arrogance balanced out with a humble admiration. I suppose this particular mixture was enticing. I should have known better...But that day I was no angel and no demon, I was just me.
Y. and I met and talked for hours, day after day, week after week, month after month...Long conversations. Y. had a hard time listening, after all mirrors should not really talk, but only reflect back...
Personal discussions were very difficult, one could not have intimacy with a mirror. Mirrors are made for self admiration and adulation. So he believed.
Y.also flexed some muscle in front of this mirror, this angel-demon mirror of his, making sure that all his past conquests and scores be faithfully recorded, and leaving blank spaces, blank dots for the present, so even though framed, I will only tiptoe within a well delineated space, a space that he had constructed for him and for me. And every time I wanted to get out of the mirror, the puppeteer would play his erotic puppets and dangle them in front of me, forever reminding me of the fragility of glass...
Y's emotional sadism would sometimes take a more macabre turn, and degenerate into a quasi pornographic dance with demons. He'd hurl insults, demean me, humiliate me, undermine me, then would smile and say ever so calmly "come on, it was just a joke."
At times, he would profusely apologize, but his apologies, I later realized, held no sincerity, he was just going through the motions of pretence, so he could secure once more opportunity to lash out his fragmented, incongruous, hollow self on me.
And in his own image, one minute I was the angel, the virgin, the pure and one minute I was the devil, the witch, the whore...And I was stuck somewhere in between, in the middle, waiting to exhale...
When I think back on that period, I try to figure out what was his grip made of.
Believe it or not, it was Iraq. As crazy as that may sound, but that is the truth.
The door he used was just that - Iraq, the broken, destroyed gates of Babel.
He knew that that was my weakness and my passion, the source of my grief and my hope.
Thinking back, I realize he was just another invader, another occupier, using and abusing a ravaged terrain so he could come out as a hero, a victor, a winner... trampling on me in the process. But that did not seem to matter, since I was nothing but a mirror, holding my breath, his breath...dying to exhale.
A narcissistic emotional sadist coupled with political opportunism. Is that not what invaders and occupiers are made of ? Is that not what torturers and rapists are made of ?
I remember sitting in that stale room, at my desk. In front of me was a plain beautiful ceramic turquoise ashtray, which I had carefully carried with me from Baghdad to destination X.
Blue ceramics were a typical handicraft of Baghdad. And this turquoise ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ashes, reminded me of Baghdad. I loved that ashtray, I was attached to it. It meant so many things to me. I can even write a whole post on it.
Y.calls. One of his abrasive, cruel phone calls. He masterfully throws the words that he knows will hurt right on target, right where it is most raw, like some expert...
The ashtray is full of butts, cigarette butts and ashes...
He talks of the butts, his butts, the many butts he conquered and is about to conquer. I light another cigarette, adding another butt to the butts, flicking more ashes on the grey pile that is hiding the turquoise.
He continues his mind game, his vindictive revenge through,across the receiver, me. I am silent for a while, contemplating my turquoise ashtray, pushing the ashes to one side with the tip of my finger, so I can re-appropriate its color, the turquoise color...
One wrong move and it falls to the floor, smashes in two, my Baghdad ceramic, smashes in two, right in the middle...split in the middle, gone...
The cigarette butts are all over the floor and the ashes thrown, blown away in all directions...
Finally I see it, the turquoise blue, a beautiful blue like the depth of the sea on clear day, but broken...
I hang up, leave his butts and mine lying on the floor, like consumed corpses. I leave them lying amidst the ashes with my Baghdadi ceramic turquoise ashtray slit in the middle, cracked beyond repair, broken beyond mending...
I leave it there with the butts around it and the ashes sprinkled all over, like some gun powder. I leave it there like I have left Baghdad with its cadavers dispersed covered in desert dust...
I place my hands on my throat, as if to trying to swallow something that has stuck there in the middle. As I move my hand towards the middle of my chest, towards my heart, I stumble upon the pearl necklace that my father gave me. I caress it one last time before heading for the door, onto the street, towards the café where R.is waiting for me. And I exhale deeply...
Painting : Iraqi artist, Haidar Dahluz.
