Pages from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris — 4

(Continuation of what appeared in the previous issue)

Rosina's eyes gleamed with the joy of a child surprised with a gift she loves. She made no attempt to hide her pleasure, and hurried to the string hanging from her neck to replace it with the new chain, and nervously slipped the bracelets onto her wrist; then she took Gibran's hand and was about to kiss it. I said to her: "On his cheek!" Her cheeks flushed, and so did Gibran's, and he let her kiss him without daring to return the kiss! He was a lover who mastered the arts of courtship only in writing and in speech.

Gibran, during his time in Paris, was no "Don Juan," as some claim!...

Ameen Visits Paris

In the spring of 1910 Ameen Rihani arrived in Paris and lodged in the commercial quarter near the Gare du Nord. He came to visit us, Gibran and me, in the Latin Quarter — the quarter of art and letters — and found us absorbed in painting "The Woman Borne on the Arms of the Angels." He began to joke with Gibran, now in Arabic and now in English, stealing glances at Rosina's bare body stretched out upon the table. Rosina had sensed the fall of his glances, and she rose, gathered up her clothes and dressed in haste, muttering in Italian: "This man is no artist, and I find myself ashamed in his presence!" In vain did Gibran and I try to persuade her that the visitor was a friend of ours, a man of letters and "a fledgling philosopher"; she was not convinced, and left after we had agreed on another appointment...

Gibran hired a horse-drawn carriage and the three of us went out for an excursion in the city. We passed first by the Palais "Bourbon," the Chamber of Deputies, and barely spared it a fleeting glance, for local politics did not concern us... we... look upon the universe from on high... We crossed the bridge to the Place de la "Concorde" and began to climb — that is, the horse began to climb, pulling the carriage up the Avenue des "Champs-Élysées" — the most beautiful avenue in the world, without exaggeration!

Rihani was sitting on the right, Gibran on the left, and I in the middle. Ameen said: "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" — keeping for himself the title of "the Father," because he was seven years our senior; Gibran was "the Holy Ghost," because he had taken to fluttering his wings, trying to fly... and I "the Son," to complete the trinity! And "the Father" and "the Holy Ghost" straightway began to set right whatever had gone wrong in the universe — in their opinion — now in Arabic and now in English, while I spoiled it for them, saying: "Look, brothers, how beautiful this road is... and these palaces — this is the Arc de Triomphe... long live the Emperor!"

Over the jolting of the carriage, from behind my shoulder, Gibran said: "Our brother Youssef is content with the universe as it is..." Ameen overwhelmed me with affection and said: "This is my beloved son... When the priests in Lebanon put me under the ban and the brethren deserted me, he came to visit me and look after me, and how glad I was of him!..."

We reached the Bois de "Boulogne," and the carriage went roaming with us through all its parts until the horse tired and the coachman grew restless, so Gibran paid him the fare and dismissed him... We sat down to lunch, at Rihani's invitation, in a quiet restaurant on the bank of the lake... and we did not forget that "a little wine gladdens the heart of man!" And within hearing of the ducks floating coquettishly on the water, Rihani and Gibran poured out, with some harshness, the vials of their wrath on the heads of the exploiters of religions, and on religions in general, as "Voltaire and Diderot" and their companions had done 150 years before... in Paris, and perhaps on the very same spot!

And today, grieving, 46 years later, I ask: where is Gibran? And where is Ameen? "And this universe remains as it was... and as it will remain forever" (the words are Voltaire's).

Toward evening we chose to return on foot. And on "the beautiful avenue among avenues" Ameen whispered in my ear: "What do you say to an evening at the Moulin Rouge?" I answered him: "No harm in it, if you wish!" Gibran was tired, so we saw him to his lodgings and made our way to the quarter of "Montmartre" to see the strangest theater among the night theaters of Paris... the kind they call a "night box"... On the way Ameen asked me whether I often frequented the night boxes, and I told him how I had visited one a single time, by way of making the thing's acquaintance, and then from time to time in deference to the wish of some friend who was a stranger to Paris — and at his expense! Then he asked me: "And our friend Gibran — has he not asked you to accompany him there?" "No — we go to see the great theaters, whenever complimentary tickets come our way!"

...Ameen and I sat, among the seated crowd, on comfortable seats at the front of the hall, and before us on the stage a "flood" of half-naked girls... heads following one upon another... eyes shining... hair set with jewels, and lips colored and painted, and jutting bosoms swaying and dancing... bellies adorned with ornaments to draw the eye, and legs parting from one another and coming together to rise above the heads... arms playing like serpents... and voices of song and laughter, and the din of strange, clamorous musical instruments, and tobacco smoke rising thick and heavy, then settling back into nose and throat and chest until the breath grew tight! I turned to Ameen and said: These are the "night boxes" — are you pleased, O eternal Father??

The first act ended... the hall surged with the crowds, and all was thrown together pell-mell, the women with the men, leading them to the drinks "bar," where money flies from the pockets! Rihani and I sat like idols, saying nothing and thinking of nothing... two strangers in that strange atmosphere... Suddenly I felt a hand patting my shoulder and another on Ameen's shoulder, and heard a sweet voice saying to us: "Are you made of tin, gentlemen, or are you nailed to the seat?"

Rihani jerked his arm away from the pain of his neuralgia, and I peered into the girl's face, questioning: "I am Marguerite," she said, "Rosina's companion!!"

"And who could recognize you under this painted-up face? And this dress that is no dress?? What are you doing here?!"

Perhaps my tone was harsh, for Marguerite laughed an unnatural laugh and answered: "And you — what are you doing here with this 'personage'?..." — and she stared into Ameen's face, and Ameen stared into hers. I asked her, questioning: "And does Rosina come here too?" "No — her brothers do not allow her. She has family who watch jealously over her; as for me, there is no one to ask after me..." And she went on laughing and crying at once, wiping her tears gently lest the kohl and the rest of the colors come away, and at last she said: "I am not inviting you to the bar... that would cost you a great deal of money. This is a den of thieves, gentlemen!"

But Ameen rose to the occasion and took from his pocket half a gold lira — a fortune in those days — and placed it in Marguerite's palm, while I looked on astounded, not knowing what moved him to this Hatim-like generosity!... Whereupon the girl threw her arms about him, kissed him on his forehead, and vanished among the crowds, leaving above the meeting of his brows the print of her two red lips...

"Health to you, Ameen... health to you" — I kept repeating it in Ameen's ear as I wiped away the rouge with the corner of my handkerchief, while Ameen teased me gently: "Don't wipe it off, Youssef... it cost half a gold piece!!"

The signal was given for the second act to begin, but we had had our fill of watching the flood of half-naked women and of breathing the smoke, and Ameen grew uncomfortable and the neuralgia in his arm worsened... so we left, and I accompanied him home, and rubbed his shoulder for him as "Umm Ameen" used to do in Freike... and we agreed to visit the Louvre Museum on the morrow...