I laughed. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I want to hear this.”
“As you wish. Maybe we’ll begin from prison, which you left after one week. Or from 1968, when they appointed you to Beirut, while all your friends were either in prison or just coming out.”
“And how do you explain that?”
“Weren’t you one of those responsible for organizing the Socialist Union? You used to write reports about trends in public opinion; that is, the opinions of your colleagues in the newspaper?”
“You’re amusing me quite a bit with your detective-novel revelations. I always considered you my closest friend. And here you are, proving me wrong in my estimation of you.”
“Life is a series of letdowns. The strange thing about it is that I – in my heart – don’t blame you for anything.”
I happened to glance at the television screen, and found that the news had started. I turned up the volume and listened to the anchorman talk about 3 billion dollars that Iraq had received from Saudi Arabia to make up for its losses in the war with Iran. Then a photo of Sadat appeared on the screen in relation to an interview he gave with the German magazine Der Spiegel, in which he stated that Egypt and the US had a strategic relationship, and that “his country” was ready to offer facilities to the United States and Western nations so those states could defend their interests in the Gulf.
Sadat seemed to have monopolized the evening news, since he soon appeared at a convention for his political party in Cairo. This time his distinctive voice came out to us as well: “On May 27, 1979 . . . that is, after I raised the Egyptian flag over Arish . . . On the 27th I was in Arish and Begin came up to me . . . We went ’n’ visited Bir Saba . . . Y’know, the topic of Sinai is totally over . . . uhh, by raising the flag over Arish . . . I told him, c’mon, let’s sit down . . . That happened yesterday when I raised the flag over Arish . . . That means a lot . . . Why? It means that you really respect your agreements . . . I know that . . . You really carry out your obligations . . . OK, what’s still to come is we have a year left for Palestinian self-rule . . . Starting from now, we get rid of the agreement . . . What’s still to come, Begin . . . Begin said, That’s OK . . . What do you think? He didn’t need – he didn’t ask me for anything more than security measures . . . All the security measures they asked for, I told them, I’ll give ’em to you and more. He told me something really great . . . I told him what would you say to a million square meters a day of Nile water . . . He told me something really great . . .”
I suddenly felt overtired and wanted to sleep. As I stood up, I said, “I’m going to bed.”
He didn’t say a word and kept looking at the television screen in an anxious silence. I leaned over him and put my hand on his head.
“Believe me, Wadia,” I said, “I don’t blame you at all.”
Chapter 24
The macho bodyguard had a serious look on his face. He occupied a seat next to the secretary’s desk, stretching his long legs out in front of it. He nearly blocked the way. As usual with him, his gun hung from his waist.
“Madame is waiting for you,” the secretary said, gesturing to the inner office.
I walked down the corridor leading to her office. I saw her standing at the door, with her hands out to me. She took my hand between her palms and drew me inside. Then she pulled back from me and headed to her chair behind the desk, saying, “Have a seat and tell me what happened.”
I sat down in the chair by the front of her desk. I noticed she had combed her hair back and gathered it into a knot. She was wearing a pink silk sleeveless blouse, and a full skirt of the same color. I immediately noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra.
She saw where my eyes were looking and her face went red.
“The sun is strong today,” she said. “Happy, ya bey?”
I told her all about what had happened to me; we laughed together at the Carlos story.
“What’s the news with my book?” I asked her.
“I really liked it, and we’ll take it. When are you leaving Beirut?”
“I have a reservation for the plane on Friday.”
“I’ll draw up your contract today.”
“What about the money?”
“As soon as you sign it, you’ll get it.”
She pulled out some paper and said, “Can you wait for me a little bit? You can drink some coffee and read the papers until I’m done.”
The secretary brought coffee. I picked up one of the newspapers. The front page was shared by news about the Arab summit conference in Amman, a new sweep of arrests against the Palestinians there, and Sadat’s two interviews, which I’d listened to yesterday. There was a reference to a third interview with Danish television, in which he was quoted as saying: “It has been confirmed that God is preparing me for a special mission.”
I flipped through the newspaper and on the last page, I saw a photo of a boy around seven years old, with a handsome face and wide eyes. He sat between two friends behind a desk in a schoolroom. The photo was taken from the front, and at a low angle, so the legs of the three schoolboys showed, as well as a bookbag belonging to one of them on the floor. They all had their legs crossed, revealing their socks and shoes, except for the handsome-looking boy, who put the tip of his pen in his mouth, quietly thinking. His left leg, thrown over his right one, consisted of an empty pants leg.
The accompanying article talked about artificial limbs, on the occasion of the International Year of the Disabled. I read that the market for artificial limbs in Lebanon had been flourishing recently, despite the difficulties it faced. The progress that had been made in their manufacture meant that only the rich were able to benefit from them, while the overwhelming majority of injured people in Lebanon were among the poor.
Below the photo of the boy, I read this caption: “An artificial limb is not like a natural limb, as many believe, but is a device to help people make some of the essential movements they need to get around.”
There was another photograph of the same boy on the street: he supported himself on crutches next to his two friends, and had his bookbag slung over his back. His neck was turned to follow a soccer game among boys his age.
In a third photograph, another boy, around four years old, appeared. He was wearing a vest over his shirt, and he was standing between two metal barricades that revealed his lower half, while the doctor was bent down over his amputated leg, fitting him for an artificial limb. Beneath the photo I read: “Walking is a series of movements made by several joints in the leg, hip, knee, anklebone and toes. Amputation usually takes place above or below the knee.”
Lamia got out of her chair and walked to the bookshelf. She pulled out a folder and brought it back with her. She stopped next to me, laid the folder flat on her desk, and bent over it.
The office door was open, and I could see one side of the hallway leading to the outer reception room. Without taking my eyes off the door, I leaned over a little, and placed the palm of my hand on her calf. Slowly, I traced my fingers up to the back of her knee, then I wrapped my hand wrapped around her knee from the front, and continued moving it up her thigh.
Her skin was firm, smooth and warm. After a moment, my hand bumped against a piece of cloth. I stopped and looked up at her. She was still bent over the folder, but her eyes were closed.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and they met mine.
“I’m not embarrassed in front of you,” she said.
The noise of the explosion was powerful; the building shook down to its foundations. I quickly pulled my hand away, while she stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.
“It’s the sonic boom,” she said, hurrying to the window.
The noise was repeated again. Then several weak, sporadic explosions echoed back, similar to anti-aircraft gun rounds. The secretary walked in on us in an agitated state, saying, “Israeli planes.”
She joined us at the window. We stood there, looking at the sky without seeing anything. The noise did
n’t occur again, so the secretary left, closing the door behind her.
I brought my mouth up close to Lamia’s bare arm, and imprinted a kiss just outside her armpit. I noticed that her face was pale.
“Are you afraid?” she asked me.
“Of course,” I replied.
I put my arms around her and plucked at her ear with my lips. She rested her breasts against my chest, then pulled away from me, whispering: “Someone’s coming in.”
She picked up the folder and brought it back to the cabinet. Then she sat down behind her desk and became engrossed in her work. I went back to my chair, lit a cigarette, and began observing her.
Suddenly she tossed the pen aside and pushed back her chair.
“Oof. I can’t concentrate.”
“Let’s go – we’ll get out of here.”
She thought a moment and then said, “I have to go home.”
I put my hand out on the desk and clutched her hand. I felt her nails with my fingertips.
This time the noise was extremely close to us. I could distinguish the sound of two gunshots, one after the other. The door swung open violently and the secretary appeared, looking pale and trying to speak. Right behind her came two of the young men who worked in the office, and behind them one of the two armed men who guarded the entrance to the building.
From the flood of rushed and contradictory words, we were able to piece together that Abu Khalil had gone out to buy cigarettes, and when he came back in the elevator, he noticed an armed man he didn’t know on the stairs. The man raised his machinegun to shoot Abu Khalil. But Abu Khalil was faster: he shot two bullets at him but missed, and the gunman was able to escape toward the roof.
We all rushed out together. We stood in front of the elevator; the glass on its wooden doors looked shattered.
We heard the sound of heavy feet and heavy breathing. Abu Khalil appeared at the top of stairs, his gun in his hand.
“I chased him up to the roof, but he managed to escape.”
The outer door guard shook his head.
“No one came into the building that I didn’t recognize.”
“So where did that guy come from?” shouted Abu Khalil. “Out of thin air? He must have come through the door, while you were asleep on the job!”
The guard was furious. “You’re the one who’s sleeping all the time!”
Lamia intervened to break up the fight, and asked both of them to check the building thoroughly.
We made our way back to the office. She closed the door and leaned her back against it.
“It’s a good thing Abu Khalil saw him,” she said, tapping her fingertip against her lower lip.
Still thinking, she walked over to her desk.
“What time is it?” she asked me.
“Two thirty,” I replied.
She walked toward me and stood in front of me, then she put her hand out to my chest and pressed against it. I leaned my head against her chest and took the tip of her breast between my lips. She drew her legs close and held them against my body.
“I’m very turned on,” she said in English.
“I can’t take much more of this,” she added in Arabic. “Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded. “Let’s go to my place.”
“What about Wadia?” she asked.
“I can call him now at his office and make an arrangement with him.”
“I don’t want that. I won’t feel relaxed that way.”
She looked at the two sofas leaning against each other in a corner of the office, and said, “Not here, either. Not after what happened today.”
Suddenly she made up her mind and picked up her purse.
“Come with me,” she said.
“Where to?”
“To my place.”
Abu Khalil was waiting for us in the outer reception area, and he walked ahead of us to the stairs. We followed him down to the front door, where we were met by the two guards, brandishing their guns.
Abu Khalil asked us to wait inside; he gestured to Ibrahim, one of the guards, and left the building. After a few moments, he reappeared in the front seat of the Chevrolet, next to its driver wearing an official uniform.
At a nod from Abu Khalil, Ibrahim raised his gun to his chest, as his eyes swept across the rooftops, windows, and entrances of nearby buildings. He walked up confidently to the car; pulling open the back door, he nodded at Lamia. He remained standing there until she got in, then he closed the door behind her. Then he walked around the car and opened the other door. Stepping aside, he addressed me: “This way, sir.”
Ibrahim closed the door, then wheeled around the car and opened the door next to Lamia. She moved over in my direction to make room for him, so that she was pressed up against me. He sat down with his gun in his hand.
“I was planning to get rid of His Excellency here at the end of the month,” Lamia said to me in English. “But it seems as though I still need him.”
The driver set off through a network of intersecting streets, carrying out the instructions from Ibrahim, who kept his eye on the cars, watching them come up behind us until we reached her house.
Before the car came to a complete stop, Abu Khalil had opened the door and jumped onto the sidewalk with his gun in his hand. The armed man did likewise, and he stood next to the car with his machinegun up to his chest and his finger on the trigger.
We got out of the car and walked up to the building under the protection of the gun and the Kalashnikov. We were joined by two of the armed men standing in the entranceway. We went up the wide marble stairs, then we crossed the inner reception room. Ibrahim took the key to the elevator from Lamia, and rode up to the top floor to make sure there were no explosives.
The elevator came down after a few minutes, and Lamia and I took it to her apartment. She led me to the room I had sat in the last time, and she left me there.
I headed to the library and stood looking at its contents. I saw that the shelf with the photograph of Adnan was empty, and I discovered the photo placed on the floor, next to the library, with Adnan’s face to the wall.
I pulled out a fat, strangely-shaped volume, and found that it was an Arabic–Hebrew dictionary. I flipped through its pages until Lamia walked in on me. I noticed that she had added a new layer of eyeliner to her eyes, making them appear wider.
“The food is ready, ya bey,” she said.
I put the dictionary back in its place, and followed her to the living room. Sections of carpet hung on its walls, as well as giant trays made of silver engraved with Islamic decorative motifs. In the middle of the room sat a large wooden table, with a large number of chairs lined up around it.
The table was set for only two people, so I asked her, “Won’t your daughter be eating with us?”
“Salma ate with her nanny and they went out for a walk,” she explained, sitting down.
I sat down in front of her and looked around me.
“Isn’t there anything to drink?” I asked.
She pointed to a bottle of orange juice and smiled.
“We don’t keep any liquor in the house. You forget that we’re Muslims.”
Two waiters in white jackets and black pants took charge of serving us. We moved from various kinds of salads to kishk with chicken breasts and stuffed grape leaves. Then pieces of cooked meat with the light-green zucchini known as kusa, and boiled carrots.
Dessert was a concoction of chocolate. I contented myself with an apple I took from a wide bowl filled with apples, plums and grapes.
I lit a cigarette and we moved to the library, where they brought the coffee to us. Lamia left the room for some time, and when she came back, she sat down next to me and took my hand. My hands were cold, so she let go of them.
“Come with me. I’ll show you my room,” she said.
We walked down a long corridor with a marble floor. She stopped in front of a room.
“Is the bathroom near here?” I asked.
She pointed to the opposite
door, so I opened it and went in. I found myself in a wide cave made of black marble streaked with pink veins. Mirrors covered a large part of its walls.
I urinated and washed my hands and mouth in a wide sink with gleaming yellow faucets that looked as though they were made of gold. Then I dried my hands while contemplating my face, which had several reflections in the mirrors. Finally, I left the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind me.
The room where she was waiting for me was medium-sized. In the center was a low, round bed without pillows, but covered by a thick pink bedspread.
She pulled me by the hand and led me to a plush couch, then she sat down in front of me on the edge of the bed, watching me with interest, and observing my mood.
My eyes wandered from the thick carpet topped with wavy tufts of wool to the enormous curtains that revealed a glass panel looking out over a wide balcony. I relaxed into the couch, burying my body among the soft cushions.
I felt at peace as I cast my eye over the clean, carefully arranged furniture, and the dark sky visible through the glass. The peaceful feeling was total. I felt the desire to succumb to the couch and its cushions. And the desire not to move or speak, in order to prolong this moment a little.
She leaned over to me and put her hand on my knee. I took her arm and gently pulled her toward me. She moved over to sit next to me and buried her head in my neck.
Her body was warm, and I felt her tremble. But my nerves were relaxed, and I was enveloped in a kind of numbness.
I put my hand on her leg, and felt her soft skin. Then I ran my hand along the curves of her thighs. I looked up at her and saw that she was breathing heavily, with her eyes closed. Soon she began trembling with every touch of my fingers.
My fingers grew tired after a little while and my wrist started to hurt. But I continued touching her without taking my eyes off her face until her shudders subsided, and I took my hand away.
She collapsed on my chest, with her eyes still closed. After a while, she opened them, then sat up straight and readjusted her clothes, saying, “We’d better go back.”
I followed her to the library and sat facing her. I lit a cigarette as I watched her. She had a serious look in her eyes, lost in a flow of inner thoughts.
Beirut, Beirut Page 25
