by Rawi Hage
Said, another man who worked at the port — he was in charge of the merchandise inventory and accounting — looked at Chahine and said, Well, I want to see how they will treat you in Egypt if you go to work there. You are a Christian. Look at the Copts and other Christians. How are they treated in these Muslim countries?
I am not sure why I opened my mouth — me, who wanted only to finish my sip of coffee, crush my cigarette on the floor, and board a ship to nowhere. To my own surprise, I said, There are many Christians on the West Side of Beirut, still living there, and no Muslim ever bothered them.
They are all traitors, communists, and socialists, Said quickly replied. And maybe you two should join them, he said, and looked at me and Chahine with hateful eyes.
Who are you calling communist, you thief? We all know what you do, Chahine protested, and his gun tilted slightly up toward the edge of his chest. My brother is a shahid (martyr). My brother died fighting for the cause. My brother threw himself on a hand grenade to save his platoon.
Yeah, we have heard that story many times, Said replied. But we also all know that it was your brother’s fault. He opened that grenade and couldn’t throw it, so it fell at his feet. He was clumsy, that is all; everyone claims to be a hero in this war.
Ars (pimp), I am going to kill you, Chahine shouted. He cranked his AK-47, but before he had the chance to aim it at Said, Abou-Tariq grabbed the rifle, pushed it high toward the sky, and started to slap Chahine on the face, telling him to release his weapon.
When the young man obeyed, Abou-Tariq declared: No one raises a weapon toward anyone in my presence or here on my turf. Next time a gun is raised, no matter what direction it is aimed at, it is as if it is pointed at me personally, and I will deal with it. He shouted at all of us and told us to disperse.
As I walked toward the motorcycle, Said drove by me slowly in his beaten-up Mercedes. He stared at me, and I looked back at him.
What was your last name again? he asked me.
I did not answer him, and did not take my eyes off his car window. I remained calm because I could see that both his hands were on the steering wheel.
Said nodded his head slowly, then one of his hands moved and dangled out of the car widow. Yeah, Al-Abyad, I just remembered, he said with sarcasm. There are a few of those names still living on the other side, I bet. He drove away.
I HOPPED ON the motorcycle and drove home. As I reached my street, from the corner of my eye I saw Rana leaving my building. I saw George leaving behind her, heading in a different direction. She looked back at him and fixed her hair. Then she gave him a sign with her hand, and ducked her head into her shoulders, and slipped away fast, brushing against corners and the clandestine walls.
When I saw them, I made a sharp turn and took Saydaleh Street. I drove through Achrafieh; I drove fast, racing and cutting in front of cars. Four young men in a red Renault decided to race me. They jeered at me and honked behind me, and tried to block my way. One of them stretched his upper body from the back window of the car while his friend held him from the waist. He extended his hands and tried to catch me to bring me down. I accelerated, climbed on the sidewalk, stomped one foot on the ground, leaned the machine toward the curb, and gave it gas. It swung in the opposite direction, and I drove the wrong way up the street and lost them.
I went back to my house. The dishes were clean.
I SLEPT ALL MORNING. In the afternoon I walked toward Rana’s house. I waited across from her building, pacing, with a cigarette in my hand. I leaned against the wall of the fish store. I waited, and it rained and poured, and the water rushed down from the roof and peed its way through pipes and drains, splashing on sidewalks. Faces sunk beneath colourful umbrellas passed me by. Cars made their way through little pools and drove wedges through the water, splashing it into ephemeral, flying waves.
Then the old sun came out again, and the roofs, like wet dogs, shook the rain from their backs, and the fisherman’s fish had a last bounce, shedding its freshness, forgetting its home under the sea. I waited for Rana, but she never came down to dip her feet in the wet streets.
THE NEXT DAY I arranged to meet Rana at my house. I asked her why she never came by any more.
I have been busy, she said.
You never passed by?
Busy, I have been busy. She looked away, confused.
Should I thank you for doing the dishes? I asked, seizing Rana by the hair, pulling her head back, and kissing her neck violently, fumbling at her breasts.
Bassam! she whispered, sounding scared and bewildered. I pulled her by her dress to my parents’ room, ripping her clothes, snapping the buttons on her blouse. She attacked me with her nails. I slapped her face. She cried, escaped me, and ran out of the room with a naked breast, stumbling over chairs and hitting the wall arches. She threw herself on the door-knob, twisting it as if the house was on fire, and staggered out.
I went to my parents’ room and looked in the mirror. Tears slipped out of my eyes. I opened the drawer, grabbed my father’s handkerchief, and wiped my face with it.
Then I loaded my gun and walked toward George’s place. I banged on his door, but no one answered.
I took his motorcycle and drove fast up to the mountains and into the empty hills. I parked at the top of a cliff. I looked down at the green, and watched and cursed the brown valleys that were covered with listless patches of soil. I pulled out my gun and shot at the hills, and at the birds, and the echoes of my shots bounced on stones, and lamented and boomeranged treacherous syllables back to me.
11
A FEW DAYS PASSED AND TEN THOUSAND JOHNNY WALKERS marched west, burning throats and breaking houses. Men drank liquor, and bedroom doors slammed, and thighs closed with promises never to reopen, and rings were pulled from fingers and tossed toward old dressers, weeping mirrors, and joining walls.
One afternoon I received a call from the whisky manufacturer. He asked me to do an urgent delivery for the next day.
The next morning I picked up the whisky from the warehouse. Then I passed by Joseph’s place and picked him up. In the van, I handed Joseph some money. He counted it and smiled.
Ali was late for his delivery, so we waited. Soon, one of the kids showed up and informed us that Ali was on his way. I asked Joseph to back up the van. Then I walked behind the wall and met Ali. He shook my hand, opened his jacket, pulled out an envelope, folded it in two, and quickly slipped it inside my jacket. He winked at me. I waited until Joseph was far from the van, watching the kids unload, then I quickly hid the envelope under the van’s seat.
On the way back to our neighbourhood, Joseph mentioned that he had seen a few Israelis on the street recently. They are coming, he said. Give it a month or so, and you will see them here, chasing out the Syrians and the Palestinians.
How do you know?
De Niro came by to see me the other day, said Joseph. He told me that he needed me for a security operation. He picked up a few other trusted men, and we drove to the mountains. When we arrived, they told us that Al-Rayess was there for a meeting with an important Israeli general. So we cleared and surrounded the whole area. Half an hour later, a helicopter landed and five Israeli military men came down. They all had burgundy boots: Special Forces. They held a three-hour meeting with Al-Rayess. Your friend De Niro is a big shot now, the right hand of Abou-Nahra.
What is the Israeli general’s name? I asked.
General Drorir something . . . I can’t remember.
When I arrived home I rushed to my room and opened the envelope from Ali. It was a letter from my Uncle Naeem:
Dearest Bassam,
I learned of you mother’s death with great sadness. It brought tears to my eyes, and it even made me sadder not to be able to attend the funeral. I long to be with you, especially in these hard times. I often wonder what your life is like on the East Side alone, and orphaned at such a young age. I did not attempt to get in touch with you or your mother all these years for fear that my position with the leftist
forces might put you and your mother in jeopardy. But you are welcome to cross to West Beirut any time. I can arrange for your coming here. You can stay with me, my wife, Nahla, and your cousin, Nidal, whom you have never met. I have sent you this small amount of money, in case you might be in need. I have also enclosed another envelope to be delivered to an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Jallil Al-Tahouneh. Enclosed is his contact information. He is expecting your call.
I send you all my love.
Your uncle who misses you,
Naeem
I copied down the name and the number of my uncle’s contact, tore the letter to pieces, burned it in an ashtray, and counted the money. There were ten hundred-dollar bills, new blue bills that almost whistled. The other envelope from my uncle was closed and bore the initials J.T., for Jallil AlTahouneh. I opened it. There was a bundle of money and what looked like a map, or architectural drawings of a house foundation. The word asas (foundation) was written in red and circled on some areas of the map.
THAT NIGHT, I wanted to avenge a wrong done to me. I stood across from the poker place and waited. I saw Najib’s friend leaving. I watched him from across the street. I saw that he drove an old, beaten-up blue car.
I put on my helmet and hopped on the motorcycle and followed him to Dawra.
In Dawra, I waited until he parked his car. He went inside a baker’s store and came out with a lahm ba’ajin in his hand. He unwrapped the newspaper around his food and took a few bites, then walked to his apartment. When he entered the building I followed him up the stairs. As he arrived on the landing between two floors, I grabbed him from behind and twisted his shoulder, and once his face was exposed to me I hit him with my head (I was still wearing the helmet that, I hoped, would make me appear to him like a spaceman from a B movie). He fell on the stairs and moaned, his hands on his bleeding nose, his eyes bloodshot. I searched his pockets, pulled out money, put it in my jacket, and walked away and around the block. I found my motorcycle and drove it back home.
When night came again, like it always does, I dressed in black and smudged my face and hands with black shoeshine liquid. I lit a candle in the window on the street side of my apartment and locked my door. I wore a hat that covered my curly hair, a hat long enough to hide my wide eyes, a hat that concealed me from nights, birds, and the grocer’s eyes. I crossed the street to the building opposite. All is in opposition, I thought: cities, guns, friends, and foes. I went straight up to the building’s roof. Slowly and calmly I opened the heavy metal door, gently closed it behind me, walked to the edge of the roof, and sat and eyed the street below. I watched the light that shone and danced in my window.
A car drove by once, slowly, then came back again, turned off its headlights, and stopped in front of my house. I rushed down the stairs with my gun in my hand. I hid in the entrance and watched Najib and his accomplice, who had a bandage on his puffy blue face and wrapped around his broken nose. They looked toward my window. They appeared childish, clumsy, scared, hesitant. I stood there, like a vindictive ghost in a squeaky attic restraining his accusing finger from pulling the trigger, restraining himself from reaching an invisible arm inside his enemies’ throats to extract their last breaths. Najib and his friend whispered to each other, and then suddenly they drove away and did not return.
I went back to the roof and thought of George. I had almost killed George, my childhood friend, my brother who stabbed me and kissed me, and who kissed my lover long enough to leave me . . . I have to leave this place, I thought; I have to leave this place. I pulled all my money from my pocket, and counted it again, and wrapped elastic around it to make a round, fat bundle.
I walked to the other side of the roof and watched Rana’s house. Her window was dark. I swung the gun around in every direction, waving it at the vacant water-barrels, the dancing partridge bird, the whistling bombs, waving it in Rana’s direction and in mine. I looked the gun in the face and I thought of the many ways to leave: The ghost could twist your arm and squeeze the trigger in your face, and if you’re lucky, my friend, he will push you over the roof and wait for the partridge bird to carry you back up, and he will chase the falling rockets back to the Nevada desert, or to the ticking Big Ben, or to the bent Pisa tower. Or you might hold the cooing partridge tight, and dive into the sea, and hunt for poison fish and a few snapping clams. Or you might gracefully catch a cruise ship by its sails and swing it to its own mambo tune, careful not to spill champagne on the tourists’ evening gowns while shooting water guns on migrating, sexless Byzantine angels. Or you might well trap sailors’ ghosts in water bubbles, and watch them burst on the surface, and drown them again. Or you might slay underwater nymphs, collect their tiny green jackets, roll them like grape leaves, like the money in your pocket, like Persian carpets aired on white balconies.
Or you might just walk down the empty stairs, back to your flickering candle, and get some sleep.
IN THE MORNING, I heard a knock at my door. It was Monsieur Laurent. He looked distressed, and his eyes were red.
Your friend George came to visit me last night and acted like an animal, Monsieur Laurent told me. He wanted more money. I gave him what I usually give him, but he said that he wanted more. Then he took Bébé by the hand and left, and they have not come back since. He was hostile, very hostile. Could you look for him, please? I couldn’t sleep all night.
Monsieur Laurent, I said, I am not George’s agent. George asked me to do him a favour the other night when I brought you what you needed. If I had known what it was all about, I wouldn’t have delivered the bag to you.
George was very hostile, Monsieur Bassam, pleaded Laurent. I even think he was a little high. He is asking for a lot of money now. He threatened me. Il faut qu’on quitte cet endroit. C’est devenu vraiment dangereux ici. I guess this is my destiny to be an exile, always an exile. Could you please look for George and Bébé? I just want to see mon Bébé.
Did you check George’s house, Monsieur Laurent?
No. I am afraid your friend might get angry. C’est un fou. S’il te plaît, go look for them.
I asked Monsieur Laurent to have a seat while I went inside to change. I brushed my teeth and splashed my face with a handful of water. I walked to the bedroom and put my pants and shirt on. On my way out to the living room I held my jacket with my finger and slipped my hand in the jacket’s sleeve. Monsieur Laurent held the second shoulder and helped with the other sleeve.
I walked out of the apartment and down the street, and Monsieur Laurent followed me. Then he rushed to walk beside me. Abou-Dolly, the grocer, passed us. He ignored me, but turned his face to Monsieur Laurent, and they both nodded politely to each other.
At George’s place, I knocked on the door. Laurent stayed down by the entrance, pacing with his cigarette, coughing an old man’s cough.
I banged on the door again. Finally Bébé opened it, half-naked, half-asleep.
Is George here?
Non, il n’est pas là.
Where is he?
He left.
Your husband is downstairs looking for you.
Ah, oui! Loulou est là? Barefoot, she rushed down the stairs.
When Laurent saw his wife, he coughed some more, threw the cigarette on the pavement, and walked toward her.
Bébé, Bébé.
Mais, ça va, mon amour, ça va, Nicole said, and she caressed Laurent’s blond hair.
J’ai pas dormi.
Oui, mais ça va. Nicole held his hand and kissed his cheeks.
While the two of them were downstairs talking, I entered George’s home and went to his room. Beside the bed, there was a thin needle and a burnt spoon; his rifle was lying in the corner. The place smelled of fumes and medicine. A lace bra was on the floor. I walked to the kitchen; the dishes were dirty and filling the sink. I glued my lips to the faucet; the water was weak, about to die and become extinct. I ran the last drops down my throat. They tasted of the air in the pipes.
I went back down the stairs. Bébé
was rushing up, into George’s house.
Je viens, papa, je serai là dans cinq minutes, j’apporte mes affaires.
Downstairs, Laurent held my hand and tried to kiss it. I pulled it away fast.
Merci, merci, he repeated like a servant as I walked past him. When I reached the sidewalk, I stepped on Monsieur Laurent’s cigarette and put out its fire.
On my way home, I passed by Romanoce, the magazine store owner, and picked up a newspaper. The headlines: Israel moving on the southern borders. Fighting in the mountains between the Christians forces, the Muslims, and the socialist forces. Long, empty speeches by ministers and clergymen. A model or Hollywood actress marries a Saudi millionaire. Woody Allen plays the clarinet. Saheeb Hamemeh declares his love to an Egyptian actress. Meanwhile, Romanoce wondered if I would ever buy the newspaper, or would read it and put it back on the rack like I usually did.
