Rabih Alameddine / Features / Untitled Books

There was one professional on the stage and it wasn’t me. I blame this diary.

Rabih Alameddine

Rabih Alameddine, author of The Hakawati, gets nervous on a whirlwind tour of England, Ireland and Scotland, spends evenings filled with wine, poetry and song at Colm Toibin's house and battles endless, endless rain.

Even as I was reading, I knew that this was payback. In my novel, I had written about the punishments in folktales for those who boast. I had boasted.

Thursday

This week I'm doing book events in England, Ireland and Scotland. I began the day in London with a radio interview for 'The Ticket' on the BBC (wonderful building on the Strand.) On the way there, I wondered why I wasn't nervous. I had the jitters a couple of times early on tour (nothing major by my standards: shaking hands, sweaty palms, mild stuttering, eyelid spasms − and yes, that's mild by my standards). But for the last six weeks or so, I've been as calm as an inland sea. Hell, I've sailed smoothly doing television and radio interviews in Arabic/Lebanese, something I'm not used to. I speak Lebanese fluently, but like many of my countrymen, I sometimes find it difficult to come up with an Arabic word for literary terms.

I'm changing my middle name to Equanimity or maybe Equanimonious. It used to be Dizzy.

R. Equanimonious Alameddine has a nice ring.

What happened to me? Am I the same person? What did I do to anxious me?

I can't think about this much because I'm flying to Dublin in the afternoon, and I'm sure if I really think about it, I'll have a nervous breakdown the next time I get on air.

Friday

So, of course, I was a bit nervous. Nothing major, mind you, but I wasn't as calm as an inland sea. A wide, slow-moving river? The morning interview, a news programme on the Irish station ERT, went swimmingly, maybe one or two stutters. The host asked me what kind of stories kept me enraptured as a child growing up in the Arab world. 'The Avengers' − I was smitten with Diana Rigg. 'So were a lot of us,' he said, 'we must be the same age.' I agreed with him. What I did not say was that though we conspirators may have both adored Mrs Peel, our infatuation might have taken different forms. I bet he wanted Mrs Peel, whereas I − I wanted to be her. I wanted to wear those outfits.

After the interview, I rushed through a couple of museums, Dublin art in a nutshell − Francis Bacon's studio at the Hugh Lane (and a good Manet), the Caravaggio and the Vermeer at the National Gallery, and a series of Polish wildlife photographs during a walk in the park.

Took the train to Kilkenny, and was able to make a great reading by Ruth Padel and Harry Clifton.

Saturday

Heavy rain in the morning. I took a walk in town, protected from the Irish elements by a large umbrella borrowed from the hotel. Went into the cathedral of St Canices, a thirteenth century early Gothic. Unfortunately (or not) the glorious stained glass windows made all the contemporary art being shown in town seem puny and un-ambitious.

I heard Paul Durcan read two excerpts from his long poem 'Christmas Day' in a movie theatre, after which 'The Dead' was shown. The previous night, I'd sat next to him at dinner and told him my favourite John Huston story. While he was directing 'The Dead', a reporter asked Huston what his best film was, and he replied: 'I can't tell you which of mine was the best, but I can assure you that the one I am working on now is the worst.'

I couldn't decipher the great poet's reaction. Durcan looked at me, kindly, I think. 'I find that difficult to believe,' he said. 'Huston had waited years to be able to make that movie. He was very old and sickly by then. There was a man assigned to carry the oxygen tank while the director worked.'

In the afternoon, Colm Tóibín drove Ruth Padel and me to his house in Wexford to spend the night (Colm is the cruise director for the Ireland part of the trip. He's in charge of my itinerary). We listened to a CD of Seamus Heaney reading his poetry interjected with Irish bagpipes. It had been raining all day, but once Heaney began, the sun came out and the landscape sparkled. I couldn't ask for a more perfect drive.

Andrew Sean Greer and his partner were already at Colm's house. We ordered Thai food for dinner, and drank a lot of wine. For dessert, Colm and Ruth recited poetry (Yeats, Tennyson, Larkin, and Durcan, of course). Then Colm sang Irish songs, and Ruth sang English songs and Greek songs and Cretan songs, and Colm sang Catalan songs, and Andy sang Joni Mitchell songs and Bob Dylan songs, and I sang (briefly) a Lebanese song (terribly).

More Yeats,

More song,

More Larkin,

Late night.

Sunday

We had to take the long, scenic drive from Wexford to Kilkenny because the direct road was flooded. Lucky.

The book event was part of the Kilkenny Arts Festival. Andrew Sean Greer and I were reading in Kilkenny's castle (A stunningly modern hall in what seemed like the turret of a Norman castle). I was looking forward to it. Andy is a friend and neighbour in San Francisco, and our novels came out at the same time, but this would be the first time we read together. Colm introduced us. He is the most well-read man I know, which is impressive in itself, but add to that almost perfect recall and a wondrous ability to distil thoughts and ideas and what you get is a writer that I'd be willing to sail stormy oceans in a rickety contraption to listen to.

I read first for 15 minutes (slightly nervous − I blame this diary because now I'm thinking about it − my middle name is no longer Equanimonious) and Andy followed. Colm interviewed us and we fielded questions from the audience. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. A good event.

On the drive back to Wexford, we stopped for pints of Guinness. The pub was filled with young men watching analysis of the day's hurling games on a large television. The Guinness was creamy and smooth.

Monday

Drove from Wexford to Dublin. Rain, rain and more rain. The drive took longer. Ireland seemed about to drown. Gray and green enveloped us.

Nine people for dinner at Colm's house in Dublin. More wine, more song, more poetry.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I had only a fleeting acquaintance with the works of Yeats.

The more I heard, the deeper I dropped. I went to sleep sailing to Byzantium.

Tuesday

I took an Aer Lingus flight to Edinburgh. Colm was on the same flight as he had an event that evening with Patrick McGrath at the book festival. It turned out to be an outstanding occasion, terribly funny and extremely intelligent.

Rain, more rain, rain.

Wednesday

My event at the Edinburgh Book Festival was set for 6pm. Since I wouldn't be sharing the stage I was afraid that I'd have an audience of two or so. My worries were unfounded. The room seated seventy and sixty tickets had been sold by the time the festival began. Fortunately for me, and the audience, Rosemary Bennett chaired my event.

There was one professional on the stage and it wasn't me. I blame this diary. I had jinxed myself.
The only lights in the room were in my face. Apparently at an earlier event, the audience complained that the lights were in their eyes, so the seating was switched. I couldn't see the pages I was supposed to read, and I was lost. I couldn't stop my hands (or feet) from shaking, I stuttered (just a bit), and elided syllables and even sentences. Yes, R. Nervous Alameddine finally showed up in full glory. Even as I was reading, I knew that this was payback. In my novel, I had written about the punishments in folktales for those who boast. I had boasted.

I was supposed to read two sections. Once I finished the first, I put the book down and asked the audience to forgive me. I told them about this diary, about the fact that I haven't been nervous in a long time. I blathered. A ship going down, one porthole disappearing at a time. But then Rosemary just smiled and began to ask me questions. We chatted. She made me sound intelligent and charming (quite a feat). The audience got involved. We were having a great time. And at the end, Rosemary asked if I would like to end the evening by reading some more. Wonderful. It didn't matter that I couldn't see the pages very well. I slowed down. Read. Had fun with the audience. It was great.

Have I told you that I'm a wonderful reader? It comes naturally to me. I never worry about it.

Friday, 5 September, 2008

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Issue 20 / February - March 2010

There was one professional on the stage and it wasn’t me. I blame this diary.