Beirut, Beirut

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  I couldn’t find the publisher in his office, so I left him a copy of the manuscript with a brief letter that included Wadia’s phone number. I took a taxi to Hamra. I had no difficulty being directed to the headquarters of the publishing house that Safwan Malham had founded two years ago.

  I was welcomed in by a petite olive-skinned young woman with wide eyes and severe facial features. Soon enough, Safwan came out to see me. We embraced, and I walked with him into his office.

  We drank some coffee as we recalled the circumstances in which we had come to know each other at the end of the 1960s. At the time, he was an editor of little consequence at one of the Lebanese newspapers that was financed by the Egyptian Embassy.

  I gave him a letter similar to the one I had given to the director of Progress Publishing, regarding another book by a friend; Safwan had published it for him when he had started up his operation. He took out a file from a cabinet behind him, and went through its contents. Then he wrote down some numbers on a piece of paper and presented it to me. He smiled apologetically, saying, “There’s nothing for him. To date, we’ve only distributed nine hundred and ninety copies of his book. And taking into account the amount of money he’s actually received, he’s gotten all he’s owed and more.”

  “Based on what royalty rate?” I asked him.

  “Fifteen percent,” he replied.

  He got out of his chair and pulled me by the arm, so I followed him to a side room where stacks of books were piled up. With the apologetic smile still on his lips, he explained, “Distribution is the biggest problem of all. A book isn’t successful unless a government buys a thousand copies of it. And of course, they pick books using extremely strict criteria. After that comes the job of dealing with the bureaucracy, and then lots of connections in high places. The upshot is that I’m continually in crisis.”

  I flipped through the books, and he asked me to take what I liked. I chose one about the role of the Saudi kingdom in supporting the global capitalist system, and another about the Iranian revolution, and a third about Israel’s plans for the future of the region in the next decade.

  We went out to the hall and I cast my eyes about looking for the olive-skinned girl, without finding her. We went back to his office.

  “Perhaps you’ve brought something for me with you,” he said as he sat down at the desk.

  I pulled out my manuscript from my shoulder bag, and presented it to him, saying: “Unfortunately, I promised it to Adnan al-Sabbagh. But if he can’t publish it, I will give it to you.”

  He picked up the manuscript. “Poor guy,” he said. “He suffered a terrible loss. But he’ll get back on his feet easily: he has a lot of sources of support.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “His sources are well-known, my friend,” he replied. “There’s no need to mention them by name.”

  A woman of about forty joined us. She was wearing a green chamois jacket over an embroidered dress. In her hand she clutched a pair of prescription glasses. She had fair skin and light-colored hair, but I realized it was dyed.

  Before Safwan could say a word, she declared: “I’m traveling tomorrow morning.”

  He introduced her to me, explaining that she was a Jordanian writer. She paid no attention to me, but instead directed her conversation to him:

  “Did you prepare the contract?”

  “It will be ready tonight,” he replied.

  “Then I’ll be leaving now.”

  I gestured with my head toward the door as she went out. “What does she write?” I asked.

  “Things in the style of Manfaluti’s In the Shade of the Jujube Tree and Wuthering Heights. If it weren’t for the fact that she pays for the cost of the paper and the hiring of the printing press, I wouldn’t publish anything by her.”

  I stood up. “I will let you know in the next two days where Sabbagh stands about the book.”

  “How long do you plan to stay in Beirut?”

  “Probably until the end of the week.”

  “You must come over to my place tonight.”

  “I don’t know where you live. I’m afraid I might get lost.”

  “I’ll come by to pick you up in my car, or I’ll send one to you at seven.”

  I asked him for directions to Wadia’s office, which was located on a nearby street, and he accompanied me to the front door. The olive-skinned woman was leaning over a book on her desk. She could feel my eyes on her, but didn’t look up.

  I found Wadia in his office listening to the radio. “What’s the news?” I asked, as I threw myself into a chair.

  “Sixty-eight kilograms of dynamite exploded in two car-bombs in East Beirut. The victims include nine killed and eighty wounded, in addition to the businesses, homes and cars that were damaged.’’

  “Who did it?”

  “Persons unknown, as usual. But we know what the result will be.”

  “What?”

  “An act of revenge against West Beirut.”

  The young man brought me a cold can of beer which I sipped nervously.

  “And you?” Wadia asked. “What have you been up to?”

  I briefly mentioned to him the meetings I’d had. He commented on the story about the 990 copies, saying, “Did you really think you’d be getting anything out of them?”

  After a moment, he asked, “Did you get in touch with Lamia?”

  “I couldn’t find her, but I left her my name and phone number.”

  “Obviously, you’ll be staying with us for some time. That’s great.”

  “Why?”

  “I have some work for you.”

  “I’m not ready for anything. I’m overstressed and completely incapable of focusing.”

  “It’s something that will certainly interest you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Writing the voiceover commentary for a documentary about the civil war.”

  “But I don’t understand anything about this war. I still don’t know who’s on whose side, and who’s fighting who, and why.”

  “That’s not a problem. You can easily figure out the whole story.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if a Lebanese writer did that, or at least someone who has lived through the war? There are lots of writers in Beirut.”

  “It’s the director – she thinks it would be better if the writer of the voiceover came at the problem from the outside, so that his point of view is objective and fresh.”

  “It’s a female director?”

  “Yes. Antoinette Fakhuri.”

  “I’ve heard about her. Is she good-looking?”

  “She’s not bad.”

  “Who’s the producer? Who’s behind the film?”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “I don’t want to end up finding out I’ve been a shill for one of the organizations.”

  “So what?” he replied. ‘‘Do you remember your friend Abd al-Salam? He wrote a book about the life of the ‘Guiding Leader’ Saddam Hussein that had millions of copies printed. He made piles of money. It was his good luck that Saddam got rid of most of his longtime political allies who were mentioned in the book and then had the book pulled from the market. Abd al-Salam was commissioned to write a new book. That way, he was guaranteed never to be poor again. Then there was your other friend who made it known that he was Gaddafi’s lapdog. In any case, the film has nothing to do with any government. It’s being produced by a cooperative group of young Lebanese film-makers.’’

  “And where are their political loyalties?”

  “They’re not related to any party or movement. But generally, they’re leftists.”

  “Are you sure there’s no one behind them?”

  “I’m certain. The film is Antoinette’s project. She’s the kind known as a ‘clean-hands progressive’ – someone who’s still mired in foolish idealism.’’

  “Would they pay me, or would they see me as a partner with a share in future earnings?”

  “They’ll pay you, of co
urse. Everything nowadays is done for pay.”

  “How much do you think it will be?”

  “I don’t know. But it will be a reasonable amount.”

  I thought for a bit. “I’d have to see the movie first,” I said.

  “Bon, as the Francophile Lebanese would say. We’ll go see her in an hour and a half. She’s using the studio that belongs to the PLO.”

  We ate some shwarma sandwiches, and I drank two cans of beer. Around three, we left the office, and we took a taxi to the Fakahani district that was teeming with people.

  We walked by the tall building that housed the Palestinian Media Bureau, then we turned into a street packed with working-class coffee shops and restaurants. We stopped near a taxi stand, from which emanated a repeated call: One seat left for Damascus!

  We went into a building guarded by two armed men. They took charge of inspecting us, after they confirmed by phone that we had an appointment. An elevator with a filthy floor carried us to the third story where Antoinette occupied a small office that had a desk, file cabinet and several chairs.

  She was slim, of moderate height, in her late twenties, and was wearing a denim outfit. She stretched out to me a rough palm that she used to squeeze my hand with a force that betrayed her seriousness, while I gazed on two beautiful eyes that tended toward green, and a pale face that spoke of undernourishment, or stress and nervous tension.

  She led us into a side room that was taken up by a table with a Moviola machine where the film editing was being done, saying, “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to reserve a screening room. But you’ll be able to get some idea about the film from the Moviola.”

  There was a young man with long sideburns sitting at the table in front of a polished glass screen. The screen stood over a small projector surrounded by several reels, one of which held the black film tape, while another one had the brown audio tape.

  Wadia and I sat down on a pair of chairs behind the young man. Antoinette leaned over him, following his hands as they spliced the two tapes together and affixed them to a double row of sprockets on the calibration machine.

  She switched off the lights, and the room went dark, except for the thin light coming out from the table.

  The young man touched one of the reels, and the two calibrated tapes started moving. A musical rattle made its way into our ears, while film frames followed each other in succession on the small screen.

  The first frames were dark; they were followed by others defaced with scratch marks and circles. Then a large title card appeared in the middle of the frame with a scratch mark on it:

  What happened to Lebanon?

  Brief shots followed one after the other: of villages, of Beirut’s streets in both rich and poor districts, of storefront windows, of posters on walls, of television ads and photos of leaders. Fairuz’s enchanting voice wafted over them in several of her songs. Finally, the large title card appeared once again:

  What happened to Lebanon?

  Then Antoinette’s name, identified as both writer and director, and the names of those who worked with her. And then, finally, the film began.

  At first, I was able to follow the various events and keep track of some of the key individuals. I was helped in that regard because the film resorted to the silent-movie tradition of using title cards that filled the screen in order to explain some details. But soon enough, I found myself incapable of following events, which started to blend into each other, and I was no longer able to keep track of individuals or places.

  The screening went on for an hour and fifteen minutes. And when the light went on in the room, Antoinette took off her glasses. She offered me a pack of American cigarettes, so I took one and lit hers.

  “What do you think?” she asked, smiling nervously.

  “The film certainly grabs the viewer,” I replied. “And it has an obvious political value. But I would be lying to you if I told you that I understood everything.”

  The muscles on her face relaxed, and her eyes sparkled as she responded, “That’s our problem. The only person who could absorb the film this way is someone who already knows Lebanon well. So from the beginning I resorted to using title cards. But clearly they haven’t solved the problem; they just created a new problem with the film’s balance. The solution I’ve reached is to replace the title cards and accompanying music with a voiceover commentary that closely follows the narrative, fills in all the gaps, and plays a part in supporting the dramatic structure of the film.

  “Something that would tie the entire film together,” she added, nervously waving her hand. I nodded my head to show I understood what she was saying, and she took that as my agreement to write the desired voiceover, saying: “Bon. I’ve put together some books, reports and newspaper clippings for you: they’ll give you a clear idea about the Lebanese problem as a whole. Read them first, and then we’ll talk.”

  Wadia helped me carry a number of tomes and folders to a car belonging to the media office. The car took us to the house, and then delivered Wadia to a bookstore.

  It was nearly six o’clock, so I took a quick bath and changed my clothes. Then I poured a big glass of whiskey and sat down in the living room in front of the television. Around seven fifteen, the taxi that Safwan had promised me arrived.

  At his place, I found the Jordanian writer from that morning, and the olive-skinned woman who worked in his office, along with two young Libyan men from the embassy. We congregated in a big room stuffed with pieces of expensive furniture, from two Louis XV chairs, each of which occupied one and a half square meters, to enormous carved tables covered with a sheet of black marble.

  The two Libyans were sitting next to each other on the edge of one of the chairs, facing the two women. While the olive-skinned woman relaxed serenely in her seat, a glass of whiskey in her hand, the Jordanian woman perched on the edge of hers, holding a key chain as if she were getting ready to stand up at any moment.

  I sat down near the Libyans, so that the olive-skinned woman was directly in front of me. Safwan brought me a glass of whiskey; then his wife appeared, carrying several dishes of food. She was taller and younger than he was, by a wide margin. She moved with a noticeable listlessness. When she shook hands with me, she gave me a smile that didn’t radiate past her lips.

  I heard them address the olive-skinned woman as Randa. I saw she had drained her glass and refilled it. The Jordanian woman refused to drink. She started shifting her gaze among the guests, and then she suddenly stood up, saying she had to leave, because she would be traveling early the next morning.

  Safwan tried to dissuade her, but without success, so he said goodnight to her at the door. He sat down beside the Libyans after putting on a Fairuz tape. His wife didn’t join us in eating or drinking, but she sat down where the Jordanian woman had been, grabbed a hookah pipe, and busied herself with smoking, letting her eyes wander. Randa was avidly, steadily downing her whiskey. I looked at her several times, but she pretended not to notice.

  I suddenly moved over next to her, saying, “I’m impressed by the way you drink.”

  She laughed, but didn’t say anything. Then she turned her attention to the conversation going on between Safwan and the young Libyans.

  I filled my glass and heard her tell Safwan, “They’ll take a thousand copies of each book.”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” interjected the older of the two Libyans.

  The other one, who had a drunken look in his eyes, added, “The writer was the reason one woman left the party. Now he wants to drive the second one away.”

  “Calm down,” said Randa. “That won’t happen.”

  She got up from where she was sitting beside me, and walked around the tables until she stood in front of the two young men, saying, “Make room for me between you.”

  The two gladly obeyed. Safwan got up and sat next to me. He clinked his glass against mine.

  “The Iran–Iraq war struck me a mortal blow,” he said. “When the Iranian revolution began I pu
blished several books about it, and the result was that the Iraqis boycotted all my books; in fact, they refused to pay me what they owed me.”

  We were joined by a young Lebanese man. He was elegantly dressed, with an animated face, and carried a Samsonite briefcase. Safwan’s wife beamed with joy when she saw him. He looked a lot like Safwan, even if he was younger than him. Safwan introduced him to me as his brother.

  Safwan’s wife left her hookah, getting up to bring the young man a glass of gin and a plate of mezze.

  I asked him if he worked in publishing too, but his sister-in-law jumped in: “One brother is enough for that wretched profession.”

  The young man said he worked in the music industry, making tapes.

  “He makes in one day what I make in an entire year,” Safwan added.

  His wife sneered and asked him, “So where is the money you’ve made in the last year?”

  Safwan kept silent and stared into his glass. Then he turned to me.

  “You haven’t told me about the situation in Egypt,” he said. “You know it’s been ten years since I was last there.”

  “You wouldn’t recognize it if you saw it now. Everything’s changed in these last ten years. The air itself has changed, in some people’s view.”

  “How so?”

  “The streets have grown crowded with expensive cars and luxury buildings, and with potholes, dirt, rubbish, and foreigners. The stores are filled with imported goods and rotten foods. The newspapers are filled with lies, and drinking water with live worms.”

  “What about the people? How can they stay silent about all that?”