by Rawi Hage
As we drove back down the hill, Rana’s hands caressed my chest. She drove her nail into my flesh and said, I could have shot you here.
MY MOTHER CAME shuffling up the stairs with bags in her hand: vegetables, meat, bread.
She called me into the kitchen. What is going on between you and Rana? This morning over coffee her mother asked me about you two.
What did she ask?
About your job, and if you are interested in visiting their house with me. She said Rana is at the age to be engaged.
We are just friends, I said.
Don’t lie to me, Bassam. Rana is like a daughter to me, and she is not that kind of girl. If you are not serious, do not ruin her future. People talk here. People talk.
I walked away. She shouted at my back, Yeah, just like your father. He always left, and he kept on leaving. A good-for-nothing, he was a good-for-nothing.
I heard the kitchen door slam behind me.
MORE THAN TEN thousand bombs had landed, and I was stranded between two walls facing my trembling mother. She had refused to go down to the shelter unless I came with her. And I refused to hide underground. I, descended from a long line of mighty warriors, would die only in the open air above an earth of muddy soils and whistling winds!
My mother jumped at every explosion. She called upon one female saint after another but none of them, busy virgins, ever answered her back.
Petra, the little neighbour girl, crawled up the dirty marble stairs and knocked on our door; she looked suspiciously at my glittering sword and warrior face, then covered her lips and whispered a secret in my mother’s ear. My mother stood up and walked straight to the bathroom. She came back with a box of Kotex and said, It is empty, habibti, but do not worry; come with me.
The little menstruating body stood up, her face a deep, bashful red. She dashed inside, to my mother’s bedroom.
I walked down the stairs, out of the building, and across the deserted street toward Abou-Dolly, the grocer. The store was closed, but Abou-Dolly lived with his family in the back. I knocked. The grocer opened the door a crack. He saw me and frowned and asked me what I needed. Kotex, I said. We are closed now, he answered in a dry tone.
It is urgent! I said.
Come in.
I entered the house. It smelled of villagers’ soap, ground coffee, and rotting vegetables that had fallen under the loud fridge, and two cats that fed on brown mice, and the grocer’s daughter, Dolly, who was breastfeeding her newborn from her round white breast that made me thirsty. When I stepped in, Dolly covered her baby and her breast in a pink wool quilt. Um-Dolly, the grocer’s wife, was there knitting in the corner; his son-in-law, Elias, was wearing suspenders and gazing at the wall and smoking. They were all gathered around two pitiful candles that flickered in a wild, diabolic motion, projecting everyone’s shadow on Hades and its burning walls.
Abou-Dolly, a middle-aged man who had never had a son, and whose nickname referred to his older daughter, handed me two packs of Kotex. Which kind do you want? he asked me.
I held both cases close to the candle and smelled them, which made his wife shiver and puff and murmur in objection. What are you smelling them for? Abou-Dolly rushed at me and snatched the boxes. Get out, get out. He started to push me; I shoved him back. His son-in-law picked up a long broomstick and threatened me with it. I snatched back one of the boxes from Abou-Dolly’s hand, slipped my other hand behind my waist, and pulled out my gun. I let it hang off my fingers, pointing toward the floor. Um-Dolly shouted, He has a gun! He has a gun! Dolly cut off the jet of warm milk to her baby’s lips, which made the baby cry, and rushed into another room.
Clutching the box, I stepped outside the door into the fresh air and walked away. In the background I heard Abou-Dolly shouting, I knew your father, I knew your father, he was a friend of mine, and he would be ashamed to see what his son turned out to be. A thug! Shame on you, insulting me in my own house, in front of my family. A thug! That is what you are, my son, a thug. And he spat on the floor and cursed my generation and my kind.
The thug walked between the buildings, avoiding the falling bombs. The thug crossed streams of sewage that dripped from broken pipes. He walked with a gun in one hand and a box of tender cotton in the other.
THE NEXT DAY, George came by to pick up his motorcycle.
It was parked, tilted toward the earth, over a round pool of dried oil, in the shade in front of the vegetable store, facing the hospital, its back to the church.
I gave George the keys; he dangled the ring from his longest finger and said, Let’s go talk.
He drove, and I held on to his waist. We drove down to Quarantina, to the old train tracks where the Kurdish shanty-town had been conquered and demolished by the Christians. Now the earth was flat here, the tin roofs, the little alleys, the pools of sewage all evaporated, vanquished and levelled to the ground. The fighters had been massacred in cold blood. Their women had fled in little boats bouncing on Mediterranean waves, barefoot kids with dripping noses in their arms. It was here that Abou-Nahra and his men had stormed the camp, killed the men and pulled out their golden teeth; it was here that he had gained his reputation as a ruthless commander. His victorious men had pierced the heads of the defeated on bayonets and paraded the streets. Cadavers had been tied to the backs of jeeps, bounced on asphalt roads and hurtled down the little alleys.
The camp was a meadow now, with wild weeds growing from the cadaver compost, ashes of burned walls, and troops of flies that once grazed on blood and empty bullet shells.
Speak, I said. Speak, before the buried under our feet come to life.
I am leaving the poker place, George said. I asked Najib, my distant cousin, to take my place. You can still do the deal. I will show him the trick.
Why are you leaving?
Abou-Nahra asked me to do some work.
What kind of work?
I will be leaving for Israel soon for some training. The forces are establishing relations with the Jews down south.
It is a mistake, I whispered.
No, Bassam, we are alone in this war, and our people are being massacred every day. And you . . . whose grandfather was butchered. . . your father killed . . . you. . . you. . . We will unite with the devil to save our land. How are we to make the Syrians and the Palestinians leave?
I am fleeing and leaving this land to its devils, I said.
You believe in nothing.
Thieves and thugs like us, I said, since when have we ever believed in anything?
WE DROVE DOWN the highway to the seashore. The roads were empty; it was a summer day, and the wind was warm. We sat at the shore and watched the water.
Little boats rocked, modest waves advanced, and still we sat. Night fell, and we lit fires on thin paper, and smoked and gazed and watched and hallucinated, and laughed and smoked some more. We burned the joints down to the tips of our fingers, sealed the embers with our nails. I had a vision of trees and plains, and a house — an open house, and shadows and a sun that travelled in a straight line and not in a circle, and a moon that stayed still and was lit at night by candles, by stars, by nothing but tiny holes through which light passed and landed on an ocean. The earth smelled of wetness, but the grass was brown, dying and changing and floating on salty water. I got up and walked, and I met a fisherman; we passed each other in utter silence — not a glance, not a glimpse. I had a dream of a table, a woman with dyed hands, and a broken chair, all under one roof. I saw doors that I had to open. I walked toward the first door and pulled it with all my strength; I entered and rushed toward the second door, but it was locked. I stayed there for days, begging the door to open. Then I fell asleep and dreamt of the door opening. A naked woman with a bag smiled at me and said, Take off your garments. I looked down and saw my robe turning to water. I gathered the water and gave it to her. She held it in her hands and poured it in my eyes. Now, she said, go through the third door and if you see your father tell him that you left your garment. I saw two paths. I will
take the narrow path, I said. I had another dream, and in that dream I was in a river; I held a piece of bread that I threw to a bird. I crossed the river and found the fourth door. I pushed it with all my might, but it wouldn’t open. I touched it gently with my finger, and it opened. I entered into a garden with a chair and a book. I sat on the chair and smoked. Then I sang, and another door opened to me. I rushed through it and passed through emptiness and no trees, no tables, no chairs, no bird wing, no moon nor lights, no thoughts. I stood still and closed my eyes. I dreamt of a large flower. I smelled it. I climbed its stem and made a bed out of its petals. Then I slept and had another dream, a vision of a friend immersed in a pool of light and blood.
GEORGE AND I drove back, the road ahead of us brightened by the single light that shone under our numb chests, our knuckles, and our heavy, red eyes. We drove toward the darkened city lit by dim lanterns hung on barricades. The city’s feeble rays bounced off shiny soldiers’ boots.
When I arrived home, the phone rang, but I did not pick it up. I lay down on my bed. I could not sleep. I pulled out the gun from beneath my shirt and hid it under the mattress. Noises came from below: cat fights, occasional rushing feet, murmurs, quiet murmurs that entered my mind and my dreams and turned into familiar words.
Suddenly my mother’s hands were rocking me, pulling my cover and begging me to wake up.
Come down; they are targeting the neighbourhood. Come down and away from the window. How can you fall asleep like that? The bombs are all around us.
Nahla, our neighbour, was with her, and she pleaded with me as well. Have pity on your mother. Come down with us to the shelter. She has waited for you all day and all night. How can you be so thoughtless? She did not sleep all night. Where were you?
I will stay between these two walls, I said. You two go down; I’ll be fine here.
No, come down! We need a man in the shelter. Come down now, my love. On your grandfather’s grave, come down!
We heard a loud blast. A bomb fell nearby. The women shrieked and threw themselves on the floor. Close! This is a close one, they said and got up and ran into the hallway. Glass and chunks of stone fell from above, onto the street. My mother was shaking. I looked in her eyes and noticed that wrinkles had surfaced to channel her tears down her sunken cheeks.
The kids, my kids! Nahla cried.
I grabbed Nahla’s hand to stop her from running outside. The second one must be coming, I said. Don’t move!
Nahla tried to run, but I held her. She fought in my arms like a captive beast. Then she scratched my face and escaped. I followed her down the stairs. In hysterics, she shouted her kids’ names all the way down to the street filled with broken glass. A sudden loud, penetrating boom shook the building. I felt it pressing on my chest. I heard the noise of delayed glass falling; I saw a fog of smoke that tasted of old dust and cruel soil. The smell of powder and burned bread pushed me through the smoke and up the stairs where, breathless, I cried: Mother.
TWO
Beirut
7
MY PARENTS, WHO HATED EACH OTHER IN LIFE, NOW rested together in wooden boxes under the same earth.
They had fought and screamed at each other when my father came back late at night with alcohol on his breath and a pair of defeated gambler’s hands that slapped my mother’s face, and blackened her eyes, and chased her to the kitchen under flying saucers and above broken plates. Now still, two corpses devoured by slimy carnivorous worms, they were at each other’s throats under the moist earth.
I threw the first grain of dust over my mother’s coffin, then turned and walked back toward the house, away from the repetitive chants, and white smoke of incense, and tears.
FOR DAYS, NEIGHBOURS and friends came and knocked at my door, but I didn’t open it.
I smoked. Somehow, the quiet of clinking pots, the silence of the radio, the absence of the subtle rustle of a broom, the solitude, gave me tranquility.
The wind blew as it pleased through the two large holes in the house. Only the wind entered; only the wind could. Late one night when I opened the door on my way out to buy cigarettes, I found a plate of bread on the doorstep. The neighbours had left it there, after their knuckles had turned red and tired from knocking at my door.
I walked the streets and found my way down to the cemetery. I smoked, then climbed over the fence and stood in front of a pile of soil. It was still not shovelled down. I stood and listened to my parents’ murmurs. Or was it the winds stroking the white stone crosses?
Later that night, Nabila and George broke the lock on my door and entered the apartment. Nabila wore black. She rushed toward me.
Skinny, she said. Look at you, how yellow and skinny you are. You have to eat. I brought you food. She sat at the edge of my bed and said, You have to eat. Please, Bassam, eat.
George stood quietly, a little farther away. He strolled between the pieces of broken furniture, looked through the open walls. Then he pulled out a box of cigarettes and offered me one. When he struck the match, Nabila hissed at him, Enough cigarettes. He has to eat. Look how yellow he is.
THE NEXT DAY, I went back to work at the port. Abou-Tariq, the foreman, walked slowly toward me. He gave me his condolences, and I thanked him. I could see he was waiting for signs of sadness or for me to shed tears like the salty waves that dropped below our feet and fractured on the concrete edges of the dock. But I had no sadness to spare or parade. If anything, the death of my mother had liberated me. Now I would leave nothing behind. Her death had made me closer to birds and farther away from humans. Birds fly, and I aspired to my own flight. I wanted to stray, with my head close to the ground, watching the passing pebbles, and smelling dust. Now I was a creature closer to dogs than to men.
At the end of the day, I entered my apartment building and saw Rana sitting on the stairs. I walked past her without saying a word. She followed me up the stairs and into my bedroom. Then she walked around the house and began to pick up pieces of broken furniture and scattered stones.
Leave it, I said.
No! she shouted and started to cry. Then she held my hand and said, You have to fix the house. You hear? You hear me?
She picked up objects, and shed tears, and shouted at me, Days pass and you hardly say a word.
I kept silent.
Enough! Say something! Say something! She pushed me with open palms.
I tried to leave; she blocked my way. No! You are not leaving before you say something to me. No.
I pushed her away; she bounced back and obstructed my way again: No, no. No more silence.
I pushed her again. She slapped me. I held her hand and forced her hard onto the dusty floor, and then I walked down the stairs and into the city.
WHEN I MET NAJIB at the casino, it was morning and the gambling machines were still unplugged. The place smelled of the last night’s smoke, unwashed whisky glasses, and the gamblers’ heavy breath.
I am George’s friend, I said.
He nodded as he came from behind the bar and plugged in one of the machines.
LATER THAT afternoon, Najib and I met on the church stairs.
He was more nervous now than he had been in the morning.
I walked past him and asked him to follow me. He hesitated, waited a minute, then followed me down the stairs.
The church corner smelled of piss and the dew of old city walls. I handed him the money. He counted it, slipped it in his pocket, and abruptly asked me, When are you coming again?
Friday morning, as usual. Did George tell you to bring me whisky if you suspect anything?
Yeah, yeah, he told me everything, Najib said. He turned away, bouncing up the stairs in a hurry.
Friday, I called out after him.
TEN THOUSAND COFFINS had slipped underground and the living still danced above ground with firearms in their hands. Over the next few days I bought a gun from Joseph, and fixed the house walls. Winter was coming and the migrating winds were no longer welcome. Rain fell and soaked the earth and bath
ed my parents in soft mud. I smoked all day as I lay in my bed. The house was quiet, and I was alone.
One afternoon I picked up my mother’s radio and held it in my arms.
I pulled back the cover. Inside, the wires were green and yellow. The speaker was round and mute, tinny silver metal glued on green plastic sheets. I looked for Fairuz, but she was singing in Paris.
ON FRIDAY WHEN I went to the casino, Najib was dismissive. He made me wait for my change; finally he injected a small amount in the machine, less than the usual. While I was playing, another young man entered. Through the reflection in the glass of my machine, I saw Najib waving his hand to the man. The man made a sign to Najib and left.
I cashed my money and left.
I crossed the street and waited in the doorway of a nearby building.
I saw the young man going back into the casino. I took a long look at him and I waited. I smoked and I waited. When the man came out of the casino I followed him from afar until he got into his car and drove away.
THE NEXT TIME I saw Najib, he had new leather shoes, a leather jacket, and gel in his hair.
We met downstairs under the church. I gave him his half of the money I had made.
Najib counted it, then calmly said to me, There is more.
What did you say? I said.
There is more. You heard me.
No, that is it, I said. There is no more. I stood closer to him and looked him in the eyes.
He looked back at me and said, Yes, there is.
Inject more on the screen and there will be more for you, I said.
He said nothing but turned and left. When he got to the top of the stairs, he looked down at me and said, Najib always gets what is his.
I said, Let the little kid Najib do whatever he has to do.
He will. Najib spat on the floor and walked away with his peacock walk.
A COUPLE OF DAYS later, I went to King Falafel for a sandwich and a Pepsi. I saw George and Abou-Nahra eating. I should have known they were there by the strip of power cars stretched on the sidewalk, but I was hungry and not thinking. I tried to dodge them, but it was too late; George saw me and called me over. I walked straight to him and we kissed. Abou-Nahra had on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, so you couldn’t tell whether he was looking at you. George introduced me; the commander smiled, asked me to sit, and invited me for a sandwich. I declined, but he insisted, shouting to the boy behind the counter. So I ate.
