Fishing in Beirut

Aria pulled up the shutters and unlocked the door. The place had an unusual aura first thing in the morning, unsullied by customers and motion. She flicked on the power, and started warming bagels.
The mirror along the wall was sporting a smudge mark. She must have missed it the day before. The warm bagel smell hit her nose as she rinsed a cloth, and set about easing the smudge into a memory. She ran the cloth over the tables, straightening crooked napkin dispensers.
While the coffee machine shuddered into wakefulness, she wrote on the blackboard and placed it at the door. The guy across the street in the flower shop nodded hello. She heard the coffee percolating, and paused in the morning sun, half-inside, half-outside the café. Coffee while it’s forming is called percolating, but God only knows why.
She raised the blinds and the sun crept in. It stretched a quarter of the way across the first table, and she smiled when she thought it would slowly fill more of the room. Its gently increasing advancement would accompany her through the day.
Dust was visible in the air, catching in the rays and dancing about. She was going to swish it with the cloth, but left it act naturally. Already it was May, and she had been in Paris over a year. Whispers of trauma were almost inaudible in her soul.
She replenished the fillings running low or whose appearance was unsavoury. Red onion, olives. The cookie jar looked a little grimy, clouded, so she emptied the biscuits out and gave it a wash. The chewing gum and lollipops in the corner spied on proceedings.
The sun was now a little further. It was in possession of the first table, and had begun serenading the floor. Unfortunately the brightness was revealing more marks and spots. Aria checked her watch and there was still time before opening. Enough to restack the chairs and mop the floor. Bubbles fizzled in the bucket as the mop plunged, clinging to the tentacles and sploshing down on the tile. She chased them dry with a brush, and re-set the furniture.
She expected the owner in today but didn’t know at what time. Because of this it was awkward to invite Frank for lunch. It had happened before that he’d been halfway through a sandwich when she’d arrived, glaring suspiciously and clicking her tongue. Frank had had to pay, handing over fives, tens and twenties.
Karen was a customer who’d recently started visiting. A blind girl, American also, from Chicago, Illinois. Aria found her easy to talk to, wise and with plenty to say. It was impossible not to marvel at her strength despite a total lack of vision.
Aria never said this of course, but couldn’t help thinking it. To be so worldly and competent and yet unable to see. She suspected Karen knew she thought this, even from their minimal customer-waitress relationship. Karen’s movements were all so flowing and defined.
They had never spoken about the bombing or it’s aftermath. Karen had been in four times, twice post-explosion.
With the floor dry, the tables clean, the bagels warm and the fillings ready, Aria stood back and looked at the perfect café. In five minutes time it was officially open, but if someone came in now she wouldn’t make them wait. A breeze pushed through the door, and ruffled one of the specially printed napkins.

Aria stood by the water. The day was monkishly still, death-like, very little traffic on the river or the streets. It was Sunday afternoon, two-thirty. She had the strangest feeling something was imminent.
There were no birds, and they often congregated along the bank. There were no tourist cruisers or pleasure boats. Instead what existed was a foreboding buzz, an energy crackle neither obvious nor sweet. She was aware of heaviness all through the muscles of her legs.
She walked along towards Pont Neuf. The water echoed under the bridge as she approached. The lapping was menacing, a child’s nightmare storybook lap. The monstrous stillness was crushing with the urine smell.
She hurried forward. Back out in the air, stopping, she looked across at the Ile de la Cite as it neared the tip. She turned around towards home to get out of this atmosphere.
The flat was empty. The night before Frank had taken her to a gig. She was a little tired, dozy, and fell onto her bed still wearing her shoes. She thought she probably wouldn’t sleep, but just lying might be enough.
An unusual sense of impending persistently remained. Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily. Her mind hovered above, watching her curled form, seeking out the plateau between asleep and awake. She gave a shiver or a start and stretched out her arm.
A tender breeze whistled through the skylight for an instant, but it failed to relieve the static nature of the day. If anything it served only to exacerbate the doldrums. It was a reminder of the absent alternative, a more lively, active world, and turned a spotlight fully on the choking humidity. Aria placed her hand on her stomach and breathed slow.
Her abdomen rose and fell slower and slower. The more she became aware of it, the fuller her breaths became. Maybe peace is only real as a contrast to the lack of it.
In time she fell asleep with her hand still resting there. A part of her was conscious of the lifting motion in her dreams. She dreamt of seeing that LA boy enter a clothes shop, and of running after him in vain. She didn’t catch him, and forgot about it after she woke up.
With Laura and Marie she ate dinner. The three of them around the table as a self-contained whole. There was caesar salad in the middle and bread to be torn off. Aria drank a little wine, still tired but content.
Marie was complimenting the cooking, having only arrived moments before. Laura batted away her praise and told her to eat. Aria wanted to speak of her feelings by the river, but they weren’t so pressing now. There was more of a lull in her mind, a calming hush.
She tore off more bread. It was fresh, warm, broken easily. Given a few hours it would crack and spray shards of crumbs. The chicken was seasoned, the rice light. Nothing tasted in any way different than it should.

There’s always something you’re going to learn. You’re going to find it out, and you didn’t want to. In Laura’s case this was the truth of what Aria had done. Her actions, and what led to them.
She remembered the day, Aria having called in the early morning. Saturday, and Laura groggy on the phone.
“What, you want to talk now? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
Laura had known there was something the matter for months. This had affected their relationship, made it hard and uneasy and false. Conversations like actor line rehearsals. Wiping foam from the dishes in their Paris apartment, Laura smiled, and felt sad and alone.
Marie came in. She’d been in the other room, tidying around and re-arranging. She said a room never grew stale if its contents were moved.
“Ca va?”
“Ouais ca va. Tout va bien?”
“Oui – mais je suis fatigué.”
“Moi aussi,” said Laura, “moi aussi.”
Marie dried the plates and the rest. She stacked them and put them in cupboards. The day was overcast and threatening rain, bringing a heaviness inside as well. The lack of energy in the air was infectious and tough to counter.
Laura smiled at Marie. The way she just came in and helped immediately. It brought back a memory of when it was the two of them here, before Aria arrived. It was a flashback experience to see Marie stacking the plates.
Laura rinsed a cloth and ran it over the table. It caught in a splinter and the noise tingled through her teeth. It was that momentary shiver, a whistling blackboard intake, a feeling induced by chalk, or nails, or some such. She rolled her shoulders and carried on with the job.
A crack of sunlight appeared, a laser beam across the wet surface, and then thinned even further and was no more. Music from another apartment suddenly took its place. It rushed in, fast heavy metal, startling the two of them by how loud and unexpected it was. The thump of the drums, and lyrics all dense with misogyny.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” said Marie, putting her hands over her ears. Laura closed the window, but was laughing at the same time.
“You don’t like that?”
“Quoi?” shouted Marie, not hearing.
There was a commotion down in the courtyard, the same middle-aged shrews who complained about the bin usage, now up in arms over noise pollution. Pretty soon the offensive ditty ceased.
“C’est fini,” said Laura, making a finished motion with her arms. Marie took her hands away. The silence was broken by the clucking tones from below, the women, having dealt with the music, seizing on the opportunity to once again fuss over the bins. The wrong material was always in the wrong compartment.
“Les poubelles encore?” asked Marie.
“Ouais,” said Laura. “Naturellement.”

Aria bought chicken, peppers, and tomato puree to make a sauce. She had rice already, but needed milk. Curry powder and bread she nearly forgot, but then remembered, and went back down through the aisles and had to queue again. A tiny little kid stole a stranger’s juice at the checkout.
Dinner was going to be for four people. Herself and three others in her life, all of whom she loved. Laura was making salad, Marie was getting wine. She could send a text to Frank and that would be that.
The walk home took her past scaffolding and bars. It was only five minutes, but she heard six different tongues. Builders, drinkers, loiterers on the street; the multicultural city, functioning as one.
She pushed in the front door, the wood expanding occasionally, and needing to be forced. There was music coming from inside, and then she saw Laura and Marie, washing cutlery and singing.
“Well, I got it. A little girl stole some guy’s juice just after he paid for it.”
She put down her bags and stretched, feeling light in her head.
Movement to her right made her turn. A cat charged across the floorboards and jumped onto the sill. All three girls saw it simultaneously, the black feline streamline so alien in the flat. It stopped to lick its paws, and looked at Aria full on. Did it feel it was safe at the window and no longer need run?
They stared as it went about its business, cleaning, stretching, and eyeing the roof. Its whiskers twitched as it crinkled up its nose for some reason. Then it sneezed, sneezed again, and Aria laughed.
“It’s the curry powder. The smell must be crazy to a cat.”
The cat seemed to confirm this by sneezing again. Then it spilled itself out the window and was gone. Marie went to see if it was still down there, but there was nothing, just the bins and the courtyard and the steps. Aria unpacked the shopping and prepared to cook.

Laura picked up her discman and put it in her coat. She was in the park, with a break between lectures. This place was called l’Observatoire, just behind the Jardin du Luxembourg and south of the Sorbonne. It was a narrow strip of greenery with kissing couples and joggers.
The sun was shining, the warmest day in quite a while. It was early March. Laura had been listening to Aimee Mann, thinking of the days when herself and Aria sunbathed at home. Three years is both a long time and an instant.
Four children walked by in a line, with their minder a little behind them. They held each other’s coats with tiny hands. The first one stopped, bending to examine some gravel, and halting the entire train. The other three waited placidly and then moved on.
Inside her mind Laura sat thinking. She remembered a quote from an old Japanese man on TV. Watch a football match like you’re watching a tree in the garden. Just look, and be contented by the looking. It had been on a programme to do with stresses of the modern age.
She took in the scenery around her, the trees, grass, walkways and people. For a second she had the strongest sense they were the same. No difference existed between a woman and a flower. Every single eyelash and every blade of grass were at one. Then it was gone, and she was smiling.
She stood up and prepared to return to college. She gathered her jacket and bag and the packaging from her lunch. It wasn’t a difficult afternoon, the emphasis firmly on exams now, and she knew despite her tiredness it would easily pass. The traffic on St. Michel grew louder as she approached.
She crossed the road and entered through the gates. The smells and bustle of the corridor made her feel quite young. Finding the correct room, she sat down near the back and rooted for a note pad. All of her colleagues, or most of them, shuffled about.

Later she studied in the library. It was easier to get work done here what with Aria and Marie. Two guys nearby giggled over a lad’s magazine, pictures of cars and tits holding them rapt. Laura tried to concentrate on her assignment, but it was hard, and she had to ask them to stop. They stared at her like she was a shrew, but that was their problem.
The book-lined shelves granted more peace occasionally than the study area. She wandered among them, only half-heartedly searching for books. The wood smelled of lonely academia, a frustrating accrual of knowledge with no experience at all. Reading about blood is not the same as the sharpness of the knife swish.
She leaned her head against a philosophy tome. Michel Foucault’s Folie et Deraison.
She laughed silently for a second, because sometimes that described her mind. All those philosophers, with their theories on the ways we breathe.
That night she lay in bed and dreamed of a boy who might understand her. He’d have zero interest in hairgel or strategies of cool. She turned over unconsciously, folding into herself due to a sound. A magnified shard of reality infringed on her sleep.