The Smell of Soap

 I don’t understand what he is saying and don’t dare ask her. I do not care about this man. From the very first moment I felt hatred towards him. This sagging body, this face, this nose on the verge of falling, this death. He doesn’t look like anything. Or maybe he does look like a discarded skull. And then why doesn’t he die. Do we need a movie to see him die. Or does the producer need this man’s death to make a movie. For this reason I don’t like movies. I only like that moment when darkness falls on the hall. I turned my face away from the screen and looked at her. She was placing her hand under her cheek and watching the movie. I didn’t take my eyes off her, but she seemed not to feel it. Then she turned around and shook her head. I extended my hand to her long hair. She dropped her hand from her cheek. I held her hand. She left her hand in mine, my fingers in hers, my hand under hers, my thumb in the palm of her hand. I feel the glare coming out of my eyes. I feel I could carry her and fly. I feel her flying. She stands in front of the theater’s entrance in her short skirt, her elongated white face, her hair tied behind her back, and her eyes, colored in the midst of this darkness, and laughs. She falls, she almost falls. I hold her from her waist. She flies. We go into the dark hall to see this old man who doesn’t die. I am ready to kill him so that this movie ends and I take her. Where shall I take her? To my room. She will tell me that my room is not clean. She will see the piled clothes on the floor. No…when she enters I will run to clean up everything. I don’t want her to see, and I don’t see. I only see her. I see her only. My hand in hers, her hand drops a little. Her hand is on her knee. I flip her hand. I want my hand to stay in hers, with my hand underneath. This way I get to touch the knee. Her hand resists. Her hand rises, holding mine. She brings my hand close to her mouth, kisses it, returns the hand, presses, and pulls hers.

A snapshot of the mother’s face on the screen.

A snapshot of the mother holding her daughter and kissing her.

Another snapshot of the mother’s face that begins to shrink. Above it the face of a man of about fifty fills the screen. The young man walks in the streets alone. The streets are narrow and the vendors’ voices. He stops in front of a seller displaying a basket full of beads, pictures, and knives, and shouting, “one pound, one pound.” The young man continues walking. He enters a narrow street, full of neon-lit names of women. It seems we are in Al-Mutanabbi Street. Sounds of quarrels and a man running without anyone heeding him. The young man enters a semi-bare room. A big couch, and he sits alone and waits. He lights a cigarette. His eyes on the ground. A woman wearing transparent clothes comes near him. The young man takes off his clothes. The woman lies down on the bed. The sound of the radio rises with the news bulletin.

“General Sarrail visits the Maronite Patriarch in response to a congratulatory visit the latter made to His Excellency.” The young man sits on the edge of the bed. The woman, half naked, laughs. She tells him that he is still small. He doesn’t raise his head from the ground. The mother is home. The fiftyish white-haired man is dining alone with her. He puts his hand on hers. The woman pulls her hand. The young man enters the house, doesn’t greet them. He sits in a corner, takes his lute, and the sound of the lute eclipses the dialogue.

The old man walks alone in the street. He knocks on a door. Another old man opens. He enters, puts aside the lute, and they play backgammon.

My hand on hers, she turned her head slightly. My hand fell on the neck. I would take her and she would come. She entered the bathroom, closed the door behind her. Water flowed. I took hold of the knob and turned it. Her voice said, No, please don’t come in. I fell back a little, then opened the door. She stood naked in the bathtub. Soap covered her. I went forward, she turned her back. My hand on her back, my hand in the soap, I was in the soap. I stayed next to her under the falling water. She ran away from the bathtub, wrapped herself in a towel, and left. I went out after her. We drank coffee. I drew near, she moved away and away. And I sat on the bed while she was there. She stopped, got closer. I saw her bare feet on the floor. I saw her colored eyes and elongated face. I saw her hair as if running towards me, as if with me. She stood facing the sink and started washing the dishes. Leave them, I told her. The faucet opened, the water splattered her face, and I stood aside and smoked. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I was afraid of her answer. She would ask me, And what it means that you love me? And I would not know.

My hand on her long hair, her head reclined towards me, my hand extended to her neck, I felt her heart beats while she stretched on my fingers. I drew closer, kissed her cheek. She turned around as if to tell me that she wanted to watch the movie, but I didn’t understand anything from this movie. I didn’t understand the old man.

The old man plays backgammon. The old man yawns. Two old men yawn. Ten faces yawn. Big noses full of little hairs. Yawning noses. They open up and make sounds. Teeth and faces.

 

But why doesn’t he die. I know that he will not die now, because if he dies the movie ends. When the hero dies the movie ends. When my father died nothing ended. My father wasn’t a hero, and this is not a hero. My father died and this one will not die. Perhaps he will die at the end of the movie, but this is not certain. I think that if the hero doesn’t die at the beginning of the movie, his death becomes useless.