The Angel of History by Alameddine Rabih

corporealed.
    First you have the maidens, the virgins, Saint Catherine with the wheel, Saint Barbara with the tower, and Saint Eustace with the stag and the cross and the Jäegermeister—no, wait, Eustace wasn’t a maiden, let me start again, alphabetically—Saint Agathius if you had a headache, Saint Barbara if you had a fever, Saint Blaise if you had a sore throat, Saint Catherine if you died suddenly, Saint Christopher if you suffered from plague or fear of flying, Saint Cyriac if you had an eye infection or temptation while dying, Saint Denis if you wished to visit a prostitute in Paris, Saint Erasmus for stomach flu, Saint Eustace for family discord although he certainly didn’t help me with your mother, Saint George the vet, Saint Giles if you were a cripple, Saint Margaret if you were pregnant, Saint Pantaleon who was always on call, Saint Vitus if you had epilepsy, and basically all of them if you had bubonic plague or AIDS.
    As the mahoganettes sprang out of the bookshelf to help, I began to differentiate one from the other. The short passable Asian was obviously Saint Catherine, who always studied hard, she was easy and first to be figured out. I thought the Cher impersonator was Saint Barbara, but no, Cher could never be a virgin, no, she was Saint Cyriac, Saint Barbara was the one with the crazy hair, which was due to static from the lightning bolt that struck her father. Saint Margaret held you in her gentle arms during your last days, she stroked your face, which looked as if it belonged on one of her painted Romanesque icons, your eyes had grown larger and yellow translucent, she kissed your forehead every so often, kind and so loving, generous with her time always. I loved her. I could see her face as she comforted you even though it was covered with seventy diaphanousveils of the most exquisite black silk, each as thin as mist, as insubstantial as a flimsy flame, seventy veils because she had His face, and she lifted her veils every time she kissed you, and her lipstick left a cerise stigma upon your forehead. She told you that in Heaven God wipes the tears off His children’s faces. Did you by any chance hear her? With each of her kisses I felt blessed, even though they obviously had no effect on your health, but I know I wouldn’t have been able to carry on without their help. Blaise used to brew a wonderful tea for me when I felt blue, a dark oolong with a slight cherry infusion, whenever I lowered myself slowly onto the couch after a rough patch, there was Saint Blaise with a cup billowing heavenly steam. Pantaleon was the joker among them, some might have thought his jokes were staid or puerile but I found them funny. Does anyone tell worse jokes than physicians, Doc? When I cried, when the high tide of the gulf of sorrow hit my shores, all fourteen dropped whatever they were doing and tried to comfort me, Saint Agathius most of all; one would hold my left hand, another my right, one would hug from behind, usually Erasmus, who is very loving but a bit shy, like a fawn who wants you to stroke him but will not approach until you turn your gaze away, and Agathius would get me to breathe in and out, like a coxswain he set a rhythm for me to inhale hope of a new light and exhale bad worries, in out, in out.
    A nun at school, Sœur Salwa, taught us how to pray to the Fourteen Holy Helpers and to remember their feast days, which we, the Arab orphans, must do to keep our traditions alive. She taught us knowing full well she would get into trouble for such lessons, for spreading dangerous dogma and heretical liturgy, according to the French mother superior.Like her saints, Sœur Salwa believed while knowing what became of true believers. Catherine of the Wheel taught the Word of Christ, Barbara did the same, Sœur Salwa would not let those Western Catholic nuns keep the true Word of Christ at bay, she was true knowing the punishment that truth begot. The pope, blinded by the heretics surrounding him and