Beirut, Beirut

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  Antoinette walked in on us with a tray of coffee. I reached out for a cup, and she said:

  “No. That’s for Walid. He takes it with a lot of sugar.”

  “Why the surprise?” I asked her, helping myself to another cup. “Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she replied.

  Walid took two sips from his cup, then put it back on the tray. He turned toward the office, and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote several lines, then handed the paper to Antoinette.

  “He welcomes you,” she said, after reading the first line.

  She silently finished reading what was on the paper, then folded it and put it in her pocket. She turned to look at him.

  I finished my coffee, and fidgeted in my chair. I told Antoinette that I had an appointment back at the apartment in half an hour. She stood up. “We can leave,” she said.

  Walid’s expression changed. A hint of worry appeared in his eyes. Antoinette gave him an inquisitive look, so he got out of his seat. He walked, limping, to his desk and sat there. He picked up a thick Flo-master pen and a piece of white paper.

  Antoinette went over and stood behind him, telling me, “One minute.”

  Walid busied himself with the paper for several seconds, and then put it to one side and pulled out another one. Antoinette picked up the piece of paper, and then handed it to me.

  I was looking at a drawing, the meaning of which I couldn’t make out. It was made up of several lines and black marks. I turned the paper over in my hand. Eventually I recognized the map of Palestine as it had appeared in 1948, when Zionists cut out a small part of it where they declared their state.

  Walid finished the second piece of paper, and was busy with a third. Antoinette handed me the paper, and I found that it was the same map, but the black mark that looked like Israel had grown bigger and expanded, and contained the West Bank up to the River Jordan, and the Sinai Peninsula, and Syria’s Golan Heights, and the cities of Gaza and Rafah.

  On the third piece of paper, arrows extended from the black mark to southern Lebanon. On the fourth, the arrows reached Beirut, Amman and Damascus. On the fifth, they extended to Baghdad, Kuwait, Dhahran in Saudi Arabia, and Benghazi.

  I felt annoyed. I felt as if he was treating me like a student in his school. What he wanted to make me understand was something all Arabs “from the Atlantic to the Gulf” knew about. Soon my annoyance dissipated, and I saw that, on the face of things, circumstances proved just the opposite.

  I folded the five pieces of paper and put them in my pocket, then I shook his hand. I left the apartment and stood waiting for Antoinette at the entrance of the building. On the wall opposite I saw a poster of a martyr. It had a bad photograph of a smiling face overflowing with youthful virility. Beneath the image was his name, and a notice that he had received academic military training, and that he was killed while dismantling an explosive charge.

  Some time later, Antoinette joined me and we retraced our steps in silence to where we had left the car. As soon as we passed the barrier with the gunmen, we headed out on the road to the center of West Beirut.

  “Walid’s leg was hit during the massacre that King Hussein orchestrated for the Palestinians in Jordan in 1970,” she explained. “I got to know him at the end of ’75. He was completely normal. He talked and sang and everything. After Tel Zaatar, he went silent.”

  “Didn’t he go to a doctor or a hospital?” I asked her.

  “Everyone who examined him agreed that his hearing and vocal apparatus aren’t damaged.”

  She slowed down to avoid hitting a car that had Syrian plates and was driving in the middle of the street. She pressed the horn several times, but to no avail. In the end, she was forced to stay behind the other car.

  “He leaves me the freedom to do what I want. I can leave him if I want,” she went on.

  I gave her a puzzled look. Flushing red, she hastily added: “He doesn’t touch me. But I won’t leave him. I love him.”

  We traveled the rest of the way in silence. I wanted to get out of the car on Hamra Street, but she insisted on bringing me to the door of the building. I stood out on the street until she left, then I crossed to a grocery on the sidewalk opposite. I bought a kilo of grapes, several pieces of cheese, some canned goods, and a few cans of beer.

  The elevator was on the top floor, so I opted to take the stairs. Wadia was out, so I set my purchases on the kitchen table. I took out a can of beer from the refrigerator. I put my finger in the pop-top ring but yanked it too quickly and it twisted. A spray of beer shot out of the can and landed on my face and clothes.

  I poured the contents of the can into a glass, and dried myself. Then I carried the glass to the living room, and sat down next to the telephone. I gulped down half the glass in one swig, picked up the phone and dialed.

  The phone rang for a long time before her voice came to me, cold and reserved.

  “It’s been two days since I’ve seen you,” I said.

  “You saw me yesterday.”

  “But you weren’t alone.”

  She didn’t reply, so I went on: “I want to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Adnan’s family came from their country home, and I can’t leave them.”

  “What about your office?”

  She laughed. “Wait until tomorrow.”

  “But I want you so badly now.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “All I’ve had to drink today is half a can of beer. I decided to abstain from alcohol.”

  She let out a sardonic laugh.

  “I want to kiss you,” I said. “All of you. Even your feet.”

  “Really?” she asked coyly.

  “Really.”

  “I have to go now. Call me in the morning.”

  “It’s better if you call me.”

  I hung up the phone. I poured the rest of the beer into the glass and drank it in one swallow. I lit a cigarette and turned on the television.

  I watched the last scenes from an American TV series, where police cars converged as usual from all directions, their sirens wailing. After that came the news. It carried a report about an Arab summit meeting in Amman to be held within days. And statements by Egyptian officials on the occasion of the third anniversary of the historical peace initiative. The Egyptian foreign minister appeared on the screen, announcing that the peace treaty made the 1973 war Egypt’s last. He was followed by the Egyptian chief of staff, Abu Ghazaleh, declaring the readiness of the Egyptian armed forces to defend the Gulf states.

  I heard the sound of the outer door opening. Wadia walked in, carrying a bag of apples. I took the bag from him and put it on the table. He took off his jacket and threw it on the couch.

  He gestured to the television, and asked, “Did you watch the news from the beginning?”

  I nodded. “The states participating in the summit haven’t been determined yet.”

  “I’ll be going to Amman in the morning,” he said. “I see you finished early today. Have you finished the work of going through the film?”

  “We will be done in two days’ time. After that, two or three days to write the voiceover, then I travel immediately after that.”

  “And the book?”

  “The owner of Modern Publishing called me to apologize. As for Lamia, she hasn’t finished reading the manuscript yet.”

  “Didn’t you say you had an agreement with Adnan? I don’t understand what she’s up to. I’m afraid there’s something funny going on.”

  “You mean they are trying to get out of the contract?”

  “Something like that.”

  I shrugged. “In that case, my only option is Safwan.”

  “But Safwan won’t pay you anything. For now, at least.”

  “So, all I have left is my payment for the film.”

  “How much will they pay you?�
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  “I don’t know . . . We haven’t talked about that yet.”

  “You should bring it up with Antoinette. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone is paid. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

  “No need for that. I’ll talk to her.”

  He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook, then headed toward the telephone.

  “Don’t you need cash?” he asked as he dialed a number.

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  “Why don’t you write an article or a short story for a newspaper?” he asked, dialing again. “You can make some real money if you want.”

  “I know.”

  He put the phone up to his ear. “Write anything. Everyone does that. You know the current terminology – it’s all straight from the revolutionary lexicon.”

  “I’m very stressed. And I haven’t been sleeping well. I have a hard time holding the pen. I wouldn’t even know how to write an opinion piece.”

  He put down the receiver and flipped through the pages of his notebook, adding: “How about an interview with a fascinating personality?”

  “How much would an interview with Carlos be worth?”

  “The international terrorist? There’s a rumor going around that he’s in Beirut.”

  I nodded. “If I meet him, I’ll sit down and have a talk with him. I believe that’s something I could do.”

  He looked at me in astonishment.

  “You mean you know where he is?”

  “No, but I might come across him.”

  He walked toward me in a state of excitement. “An exclusive interview like that would be priceless. All the newspapers and wire agencies in the world would compete to buy it. Are you being serious about this?”

  “Of course.”

  “You would be the first person in the world to interview him.”

  “That’s why I asked you about how much I could get for it.”

  “You would be the one to set the price. Listen. Let me come with you. We’ll put together an unprecedented face-to-face interview.”

  “I’m not certain yet that I’ll succeed in meeting him.”

  He looked at his watch, and then walked over to the phone. He stopped suddenly and started pacing back and forth in the living room while thinking. Then he picked up his jacket, put the notebook back in its pocket and put it on, saying, “I’d advise you to make this matter a priority. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime for any journalist. If you get cold feet or change your mind for any reason, I’m ready to go in your place. I’m going to the agency now. Call me there if you need anything.”

  I nodded, and my eyes followed him out the door.

  Chapter 19

  I ate my breakfast quickly, then swept the apartment and tidied up the living room. I scrubbed the bathroom sink, the tub, the toilet seat and its cover. With some difficulty, I was able to remove the bits of soap stuck to the sink. I washed the dishes piled up in the kitchen, and brought a little order to its chaos. Then I shaved and showered. I changed my underwear. Then I hung the wet towel out to dry on the balcony, and put a clean one in its place.

  Around 10 am, I called Lamia.

  “Are you going to Fakahani today?” she asked me.

  “Yes. Why?” I replied.

  “I can drive you there. I won’t be going to the office.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be waiting for you. What would you say to coming up first for coffee?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then asked me, “Is Wadia with you?”

  “Wadia’s in Amman. He won’t be coming back before tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “And what about your bodyguard? Will he be coming with you?”

  “I’ll get rid of him before I come,” she said with a laugh. “Bye bye,” she added, in English.

  I poured myself a glass of cognac and sat down to drink it in the living room, as I observed the cloud-covered sky through the balcony door. Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer rang.

  I hugged her with one arm while locking the door with the other arm. She gently extricated herself, saying:

  “I escaped Abu Khalil, but I’ll have to go back soon, otherwise he’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”

  She undid the buttons on her raincoat as she walked toward the sofa. Then she took it off and tossed it on a chair, followed by her purse. Only then did she sit down.

  She was wearing tight brown chamois pants and a yellow blouse. There were thick woolen yellow stockings on her feet, in open-back platform shoes.

  “Where’s that coffee you claimed to have?” she asked.

  “Coming right up,” I said.

  I hurried to the kitchen, made the coffee, and brought it out to the living room. I put it on the table. I sat next to Lamia and put my arms around her. Then I kissed her on the lips.

  “What’s that?” she asked suddenly, pulling away from me.

  She was referring to a small black box mounted over the apartment door.

  “The buzzer,” I said, with an air of bafflement.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What else could it be?” I replied.

  “A recording device or a hidden camera.”

  I laughed. She took a sip of coffee and put the cup back down on the tray, saying: “I’d like to use the bathroom.”

  I stood up to let her pass.

  “You have to leave the apartment,” she said.

  “But why?” I asked, perplexed.

  “I won’t be able to if you stay here. I’m embarrassed.”

  “But where should I go?”

  “Buy me something. Do you have mineral water?”

  “I think so. There’s a bottle or two of Sihha.”

  “I don’t drink Lebanese water. Buy me a bottle of Perrier.”

  I put on my jacket and she accompanied me to the door. I locked it behind me. I had just gone out onto the street when it started raining heavily. I found that the grocery across the street was closed, so I ran to the corner and went into another store.

  I bought a bottle of Perrier and hung around inside the shop in the hope that it would stop raining. When I saw it was starting to come down harder, I bought a newspaper, put it over my head, and ran back to the apartment.

  She opened the door for me.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Everything’s fine, ya bey,” she replied.

  I poured her a glass of mineral water, and offered her a glass of cognac, but she declined. I poured one for myself. I went to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I stood and surveyed the room. Nothing gave away that she had been there. Then I discovered that the towel was not in the place I had put it. My eyes fell on a spray bottle on the edge of the sink that wasn’t there before. I picked up the bottle and found that it was French. It said on the label that it was the best product for “cleansing intimate parts of the body and giving them a fresh scent and taste”.

  I put the bottle back where it had been, and stood there thinking: Did she forget it by accident? Or did she intend to leave it there so I could see it? Either way, it led to the same conclusion.

  I went back to the living room and found that she had closed the door to the balcony, and lit the electric heater. She had taken off her shoes and socks, and had her legs stretched out in front of her on the table.

  I sat down next to her, looking at her white, symmetrical feet and her slender toes, with the shiny coat of deep-red nail polish on her long nails. I saw her give her feet a meaningful look.

  I got down on my knees and clasped her feet, running my hands over them.

  “No corns or calluses,” I said.

  “Why would I have them?” she asked.

  “Everyone has them,” I explained.

  “It’s because of their shoes. I pay good money to get comfortable shoes.”

  “From Beirut?” I asked.

  “No, from Xavier.”

  I hadn’t heard the name before, so I stayed sil
ent. I leaned my head over her feet. I brought my mouth to her toes, took one of them between my lips, and slowly sucked it.

  I looked up at her and found that she was watching me in concentration. Her face had drained of any expression. I licked between her toes, then passed my lips over the back and sides of her feet up to her ankles.

  After a moment, I bumped up against the hem of her pants. I adjusted my position on my knees and put out my hand to her middle. She refused for a little, but then helped me. Soon her pants were in a pile at her feet.

  Her white thighs were revealed before my eyes. I felt her soft skin with the palm of my hand. Then I leaned my head over them.

  Her hidden scent made its way into my senses, light and captivating. I kissed her under her knees and between her thighs. The taste of her was cool and fresh, like the taste of a body directly after a bath.

  A diaphanous fabric embroidered with lace presented itself to me, and I licked its rough texture that mingled with her softness. I pulled it down, and her hair – light, carefully trimmed – was exposed.

  She leaned her body back until she was lying flat on the couch with her face toward me. I brought my face close, and her silky skin surrounded my cheeks. My lips attached themselves to her damp flesh. The taste of the salty sea made its way to my tongue, and I lapped it up with pleasure.

  My jaw began to hurt, so I looked up at her. I saw she had her eyes closed. A moment later, I couldn’t move my jaw any longer, so I backed away. I flung myself on a chair, dazed and exhausted.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes. She sat up feebly and began putting her clothes back on. Then she asked me for a cigarette.

  I lit one and gave it to her, then she lit one for me. I noticed that her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death,” she said in a whisper.