Canceled Memories: A Novel

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1 1 Huda set up her camera, steadying it on the tripod. She estimated the distance to the church, adjusted the lens, and put on a filter just right for the sunny April day. Then she pressed the button, turned her camera a little bit, and pressed again. Pointing the lens upward, she pressed a third time. She turned her camera right and left and kept pressing, taking pictures of the present. Lebanon: The Land of Hospitality—in the past. She remembered the title of the book as she took pictures, fixing her eyes first on the church and then on the camera. She wanted her pictures to be clear, accurate, funny, artistic. Maybe she too could compile these pictures in a book that would include some historical information. Her book, however, wouldn’t be about the land of hospitality, she thought bitterly as she picked up her camera and walked toward the church. She recalled the pictures from that tourist book: the ‘Ayn Mrayseh houses with their red roof tiles; the Hôtel Saint Georges with the sea waves rocking against its walls, spraying the white sailboats on the docks, the steam-driven boats awaiting the water skiers, and the white chaises longues lined up, ready to receive the tanned bodies. Overlooking all of this was the Terrace Saint Georges, the gathering place for elegant ladies, businessmen , politicians, journalists, tourists, and spies. Across from the picture of the Hôtel Saint Georges was that of the Phoenicia Hotel, whose top floors housed the city’s most popular restaurants and whose bottom floors were home to al-Tawoos al-Ahmar, Le Bain Rouge, its dance floor crowded with dancers. Pictures. More pictures. A past of which only pictures remained and a present of which only pictures—like hers, for example— and the memory will remain. 2      N a z i k S a b a Y a r e d Standing at the threshold of the church, she remembered The Land of Hospitality again. It used to bother her that the church doors were closed except for the scheduled hours of prayer. Now there was no door to keep the people out. “The house of God welcomes everybody,” the church’s pockmarked walls and empty doorway seemed to be saying. Huda responded to the invitation, crossed the threshold, and stepped inside. A dreadful emptiness dazed her. The benches and chairs were gone. A roof tile and broken pieces of wood lay in place of the altar. Her eyes roamed over the punctured walls and pillars. Even the bombs and missiles could not shake those pillars, only crack them here and there. Her gaze was met with rooflessness—the blue sky. The sons of the land of hospitality wouldn’t allow a barrier between man and God, so they blew off the ceiling. The church was full of people. Faces faded, swam, disappeared in the fog of my anxiety. My arm trembled as I clutched Dad’s. It fell. Another arm locked elbows with mine, pressing. I felt a tender power moving it. As we crossed the threshold of the church, I felt people staring at me, scrutinizing my dress, my face, my jewelry. Although my eyes were fixed on the floor, I could feel those eyes. We were met by the white ribbon, which stood as a barrier , forbidding people from walking up the aisles before the bride arrived. His hands stretched out to hold mine. Together we untied the ribbon blocking the way. Together we continued walking, slowly, toward the altar and the waiting bishop. I couldn’t make out what the bishop—or priest?—was saying . Figures disappeared behind the incense; words disappeared behind the thoughts, the dreams of the future. Huda went back to her camera. She readjusted for the distance, the frames, the light, and the shade and took more pictures. She looked at her watch, then packed the camera in her big black bag, folded the tripod, and left the church. Two burned-out stores stood across the street. Although the first store’s sign was riddled with holes, the bullets had failed to erase the name. The sign, in Western characters, read “Bouquet.” The other store’s rusty, wornout sign was also in Western characters; it read “Mode Bébé.” A florist and a babies’ fashionable clothing shop, spelled out all in French. Foreign products C a n c e l e...