I have to find a way to step out from the modern world. Step out from our small screens and the aggravating addiction, well perhaps dependency we are philosophically imprisoned beneath its riddles. Somewhere inside its secluded reality. Very virtual, am informed.
I urge my sister to come with me to Ras Beirut to step into the world of a celebrated painter in my favorite part of the Capital, and very much a healer who understands the essence of pain as it hides somewhere inside our bodies.
Lucky for me, we have to park the car further away from her old stylish building since, for a reason or another, our beloved Ras Beiruti residents choose the intimacy of their home, this afternoon. It seems that facing the heatwave embracing us is doomed to failure. We must all declare our glorious defeat. And accept to roast under its venomous sting.
And so we walk.
I talk non stop about the memories I store in every corner of my favorite part of the Capital . My sister disapproves of my constant talking. I take pity on the world of silence she lives in. She points out to the caring unknown people who left some water and leftover food for the stray animals of the neighborhood.
I could turn that into a short story. A novella disconnected from reality. A heroine who finds true love midst a blinding heatwave emerging out of nowhere, engulfing the Capital with a sense of despair and loss. Perhaps those words best describe my early years in Ras Beirut, making a name for myself in the old offices of the newspaper I called home for 30 years. My sister is in a hurry to arrive chez the renowned painter who was a close friend of my late father.
Ever since I decided to write about my father, all his remaining friends have been welcoming me and my sister in their seemingly permanent homes in Ras Beirut. They need to talk about him just as much as we need to hear stories that would bring us closer to what remains of a life well lived. Yet, it somehow ended before we were ready to let it go.
The Entrance of the building where our dear artist resides, is decorated with paintings from different art schools, or so I like to scribble for no useful reason. An elegant armchair (is that its proper name?) flaunts its sensuality beneath them. It looks old yet maintains an air of dignity. Maybe I should follow its example. And age gracefully, that is.
We could have taken the stairs which are the embodiment of the traditional old buildings of Ras Beirut, and yet escape any accusation of being so narrow one could suddenly be struck by a sturdy panic attack.
or heaven forbid a claustrophobic fit, similar to what the elderly gentleman felt towards my keen interest in him a few years back. He felt the urge to tell all his family members that I was harassing him, for he was far too aristocratic to tolerate a silly dreamer such as myself.
For privacy purposes, I shall name this lovable, brilliant artist we are visiting this afternoon, MIU MIU, and my oh! my are we happy that the elevator didn't fall in the abyss of time, and the electricity stood tall and didn't suddenly decide to runaway from home and join the circus.
MIU MIU is already waiting for us at the door with her aristocratic, mildly arrogant nameless Cat.
Canvases everywhere, candles, scented oils, books, healthy banana bread, and paintings she spends tens of hours on each, scattered in all corners of the vast rooms, golden cardamom coffee, strong and perfumed. Another cup of golden coffee, one more slice of banana bread.
I need to take pictures of the neighboring buildings. Needless to say, my sister points out to me sternly that there are people, you know, who value privacy, and would rather I refrain from invading their universe.
She does seem, however, impressed by the towers of luxurious modern buildings nestled next to old, traditional Ras Beiruti tinier ones.
"This does not give us the right to take hundreds of pictures of people's homes, though".
MIU MIU is kind enough to read our fate in the dark traces left at the bottom of our cups.
Will I find true love? I keep asking.
Well, MIU MIU answers, are you ready for partnership? Some people are born to be loners, you know.
My father was a loner. Yet he needed us next to him. He only enjoyed his solitude when mum and I were around him. He stretched higher and higher into the sphere of his imagination, then. Mum and I were his anchor back home.
Although, my father, to be honest, never really had a home.
Am I ready for partnership?
The distribution of my precious time fairly and generously between my 3 fur babies and this man who will hold my hand calmly yet steadily, and I hope, firmly, seems rather a peculiar notion.
My sister and I really do try to win over the snobbish and refined cat. She uses the motherly tone she expertly seduces her 6 fur babies with. I, however, use a napkin. A flying napkin, mind you. And a very menacing stare right into his aristocratic disdain.
Nothing works.
The nameless Cat snubs us with an insulting ease. He is high value, you see.
The heatwave registers firmly on the walls of the spacious Beiruti apartment of MIU MIU and her majestic paintings.
Am I ready for partnership?
My sweating sister does not concern herself with my existential crisis. She is thinking of father. In this apartment, she is suddenly faced with the grief and mourning she has not allowed herself to feel, even though two years have already passed.
The hum of the Streets of Ras Beirut, My Ras Beirut, calls out my name. I smell of sweaty vinegar intertwined with Jasmine perfume.
MIU MIU offers me some Eucalyptus oil to elevate my energy. So now I smell of Sweaty vinegar, Jasmin perfume and eucalyptus oil, dabbed on my wrists. My breath, emanates echoes of delicious Golden Cardamom .
MIU MIU recounts endless tales about this emperor we called father. If I run around the Streets of Ras Beirut, without warning, will this sudden sadness melt into my vinegar smelling sweat?
Don't worry, says MIU MIU, when you start writing the book, you will not lose the piece of your father you still carry within you.
On the way back to the car, I look at my watch and discover that three hours have passed.
I steal one picture of a striking old building. Continue my meaningless chatter. A calm voice inside me suddenly reassures the frightened girl I have become that this will not be the only book I would write about this man I thought I knew. This man I never knew.
EN 
AR