De Niro's Game

by Rawi Hage

  I did not do it, I said.

  Tomorrow, he replied, you will remember. I know you have forgotten now, because your head is not on straight, and you had too much to drink. Now sleep.

  Although he left me after that, I could not sleep well. I kept on waking up. I was afraid that the monster might burst into my cell and ask me to walk again. In the morning, he showed up. He shoved me with his boots and said, Now, where are they?

  I started to cry. I did not do it, I said. I do not know anything.

  Okay, Hashash. I think you are the type of man who does not accept kindness. I was fair to you. Did you like the soup? Because that was your last food. Come with me. Yallah! He called his friend, and they dragged me to a civilian car.

  You like BMWs, I heard. You would want to buy one when you sell the old man’s stones, right? Here, we will take you for a drive.

  They shoved me in the trunk and drove for a few metres. Then they stopped and a voice shouted, Rambo, where are you going?

  We are going to finish the communist, Bassam something.

  How are you going to finish him? the voice said, giggling.

  Like Rambo, Rambo answered, and they all laughed out loud.

  Then they drove fast and in circles, making loops. My head bumped into the spare tire, then I felt nauseous, and the smell of the clean leather made me even sicker. Dark, it was dark, dark like my parents’ tomb. Fuck him, I thought, at least I will not be buried in the same place as they!

  Then the car stopped. The monster turned off the engine and the trunk popped up by itself. I kept my hand over my eyes. The little light that pierced the trunk blinded me, and vertigo made me vomit.

  The second man was furious: Akhu al-sharmuta, he dirtied the car! Look — he vomited all over.

  I heard a gun being cranked, and the second man’s voice said, I am going to finish off the garbage now.

  But Rambo ordered him to wait. I am telling you, wait! Rambo shouted, and the two men scuffled with each other.

  Go take a walk, Ya Allah. It is my car, and I will take care of it.

  Rambo leaned his head inside the trunk and said in his usual sarcastic voice: Now, Ya habbub, do you remember where the stones are?

  I did not answer; I vomited some more. The vomit felt like it was going inward, through my nostrils, splashing on my chest a mutant bowl of soup.

  Okay, suit yourself, he said. You know, I could do you a favour by shooting you now. I know that is what you want, but I won’t do it. You and me are not done yet. I have not introduced you to the electric charger yet. I promise you will glow like Mariam Al-Adhra’ (the Virgin Mary).

  And Rambo and his friend drove me back, and carried me to the cell.

  TEN THOUSAND SLAPS landed on my tender skin, and soup was vomited from my stomach like an infant’s cereal from my mother’s feeding arms, from her piercing eyes, from her demanding breath, from her contempt for my father the fatal-ist, the indifferent, the slow walker, the quiet man who burst through the door, late, in the dark, and landed slaps on my mother’s feeding arms, her piercing eyes, her demanding breath, her contempt for my father the fatalist, the indifferent, the slow walker, the quiet man who burst through the door in the dark, like my torturer who landed slaps and offered me soup that was vomited from my stomach like an infant’s cereal from my mother’s feeding hands, from her demanding breath, from her contempt for my father the fatalist, the indifferent, the slow walker like his son in that cell, where he was forced to walk all night, asking for his mother’s feeding arms, her piercing eyes, her demanding breath to save him from the breathless water, to pull him from the bathtub with the duck that floated between the bubbles, and the water slaps that shook the cruise ship, and splashed soap on its wooden deck where once upon a time two strolling Brits, from the rainy north, walked calmly in the moonless night toward the dining hall, before the served soup got cold, and before the jailer, who wore a white apron, burst into the kitchen and asked me to stand up, and not to sit on the job, and not to answer back, and not to steal from the passengers’ purses, and not to fondle the teenage girls, and the horny diamond wives, and to keep on chasing dust, sweeping the deck, cleaning tubs with effervescent gas that precipitated from my drowning face, from my wandering submerged lips that flapped like flying fish over the moonless sea.

  RAMBO OPENED the door and said, You are free to go, Hashash. He held the door open. You have two minutes to leave.

  I stood up and walked slowly out of the room. Now, I thought, he will shoot me in the back and blame my corpse for trying to escape.

  I walked down the hallway. A few other rooms stretched out on both sides. I had shared the same uneven floor, the same cold, moist walls with others who moaned underwater dolphin calls, who swam in the same sea with open eyes, watching the schools of purple bubbles floating by.

  When I reached the end of the hallway, a man opened the gate for me. I struggled up the stairs, and through the blinding light I saw a silhouette of a woman. Ah, my mother is here, I thought. The Rambo bastard must have insisted on a family gathering. Then I heard Nabila’s voice swearing at saints and savages. She met me halfway down the stairs and pulled me to her.

  When Nabila took a close look at me, she became hysterical, which frightened me. Then she caressed my hair, and in the flood of light she cursed the militia, she cursed Abou-Nahra, she cursed Christ and his disciples. She managed to half-carry me to her car, and she drove me to her place. Once we got there, she laid me at the entrance. She went up, called Chafiq Al-Azrak, and they both carried me up the stairs.

  13

  FOR A FEW DAYS, NABILA WASHED ME, FED ME, AND NURSED me back to health.

  You have to leave this place, she said. Get your passport. Do you have a place to go?

  Go to my apartment and see if my money is still under the sofa, I said.

  She came back with a bundle of cash in an elastic band. Where did you get this money from? she asked.

  I saved it.

  You know, looking at this money I might think it was you who killed that man, but I heard that in your absence someone shot his wife. A shepherd found her in the mountains with a bullet in her head. After that, I went to that brute Abou-Nahra and made a scene. Behind all his good manners, he is nothing but a thug.

  Where is George? I asked.

  He is away. He came by and told me that he was going north, camping. I have not heard anything from him.

  What is going on at the other side?

  Al-Gharbiyyah (West Beirut) is still under siege. The Palestinians might surrender soon. And yes, I almost forgot: Nahla said two young guys were looking for you over at Julia’s store.

  Did she describe them?

  No, not really. She just said they were young. She said one of them had a broken nose.

  IN THE MIDDLE OF the night, I woke up sweating and moaning.

  The door opened, and Nabila entered with a flashlight in her hand.

  It is me, Bassam. Nabila. You are having nightmares. Look at you sweating.

  She gently stroked my face. Look what they did to you, those thugs. Ya ‘Um Al-Nur (Mother of Light), look. And she touched my face, kissed my cheek, and put her arm around my shoulders.

  I slipped my hand onto her thigh, and she let me. I searched for her lips. She kissed me, and breathed louder. I slipped my hand onto her breast, and she let me. I ran my hand over her breasts in haste, my lips like those of a hungry dog, and she breathed more heavily. Slowly, slowly, she whispered. Slowly, my little one, slowly on your bruises, do not hurt yourself, slowly, she repeated, motherly. I pulled at her nightgown, and drove my lips to her large, round nipples. She held my head and caressed my hair. I pulled her down, and she lay next to me while I grabbed her flesh with the urgency of a hungry puppy. She licked my wounds like a primitive healer. Her voluptuous thighs opened, and I dove into her wetness; she held my head, and caressed my hair, and brought me to an infantile orgasm.

  In the morning I heard Nabila shuffling pots and dishes in the kitch
en. Her radio joined all the neighbours’ radios in a single choir of bad news.

  I stayed in bed, naked, hesitant, and embarrassed. Finally, I had to use the bathroom.

  She heard the flush and asked me if I wanted coffee.

  I mumbled something and went straight back to my room.

  Nabila opened the door. In her bathrobe she came closer, sat on the edge of the bed, and said, Bassam, you have to go back to your place. Let me see your eye. You need a new bandage. Here, put on your clothes and start working on getting that passport . . . Go. There is nothing in this place. Go . . . Get a passport photo . . . Your money is in the drawer . . . Come eat before you leave. I washed your clothes.

  Then she disappeared. She came back with a paper. She held my hand, opened my palm. She rolled the paper inside it, closed my fingers, and said, Keep this with you. If you ever reach France or Europe, go see this man. He is George’s father. My sister never wanted anything to do with him. She was ashamed. She was stubborn and proud. She made a mistake in her youth. She never needed anyone . . .

  Nabila shed a single tear, just one long, salty drop, and before it reached the side of her lip, she scooped it stoically with her tongue. She looked me in the eyes and said, I want you to see him, for your sake and for George’s sake. His name and number are here. If you do not find him at that number, still seek him out wherever he is. Promise me that. Promise me that you will.

  I nodded. Without uttering a word, I promised.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, I walked down the stairs and into the street and went home. All my drawers had been emptied, a few vases broken, and my clothes dumped on the floor.

  I called Joseph Chaiben. He told me to meet him that night, on a street corner outside of the neighbourhood.

  I will pass by and pick you up, he said.

  I waited, and Joseph passed and picked me up, as he said he would.

  I sensed that he did not want to be seen with me, so I asked him about it.

  Nothing personal, Bassam. But you know how it is with the Majalis. Once they have a red eye on you, all your friends are watched.

  We drove outside the city and into the high mountains, where we parked and took a walk.

  I need a gun, I said.

  Listen, Bassam, it is not a good idea for you to get a gun right now.

  Someone is on my case, I said. I need to have it soon. I can pay.

  I will see what I can do.

  We drove back into the city. When I climbed out of the car, Joseph called me back and said, Bassam, I won’t ask too many questions, but I know you did not kill the old man.

  Who did?

  He did not answer me. Instead, he stepped on the gas and drove away.

  FOR THE NEXT FEW nights, I went over to the building opposite mine and slept in the open air.

  From the roof, I could see West Beirut on fire. The Israelis bombarded the inhabitants for days, orange light glowed in the night, machine-gun bullets left the ground and darted into the air in red arches. The city burned and drowned in sirens, loud blood, and death.

  ONE MORNING JOSEPH sent me a sign; he wanted to meet.

  We met, and he handed me a gun. I gave him money. Then I asked if he could help me in an operation. I confided that I was set on leaving Beirut, and I had an idea for a last hit to generate more money.

  What kind of operation? asked Joseph.

  Robbing the casino.

  Majnun, he said. You are Majnun. I am not sure, Bassam. This is risky; we will be fucking with the Majalis.

  Yes. But what have the Majalis done for you, Joseph? I saw you on the barricades for weeks on end. You risked your life. And all these commanders are getting sports cars and chalets, filling their bank accounts. Look, you can hardly even buy food for your mother and your little sister and brothers. Think, Joseph. The war will be over one day, and they will be walking around in Armani suits, and what will we have? Do you think they will say, Oh yes, he was a good fighter for the Christian cause? Think about it. We can each get a good amount of cash.

  Joseph remained silent.

  Do you know the real name of a man named Rambo? I asked. He drives a black BMW, and he has a long scar on his face that goes from his eye down to his chin.

  Yes, I know Rambo, he is an ars.

  I need to find out where he lives.

  Walid Skaff knows him well; Walid told me that he had been invited to a party once in Fakhra, up in the mountains, at Rambo’s chalet. Rambo confiscated a chalet from some Muslim family that ran away.

  OVER THE DAYS, my wounds started to close, my muscles got stronger. Now I walked without pain, and my nostrils spat out the residue of water. The few bubbles that had stayed inside my mouth from the time when Rambo plunged my head like a submarine into the white porcelain of the yellow-stained tubs, those bubbles popped and evaporated, and sounded like words. So I went back to my old job at the port. When I entered the grounds, the guard came over to me and said, Abou-Tariq wants to see you.

  I walked over to Abou-Tariq’s office and knocked at the door. He was facing a little brass stove, making coffee. He turned slowly, beckoned me in, and poured me a cup. I sat across from him at his desk.

  Where have you been? he asked.

  I was arrested.

  He nodded. Yeah, I heard.

  What happened?

  Someone shot someone in the neighbourhood, and so they dragged me to the Majalis.

  You know Abou-Nahra’s men came and asked questions about you? They wanted to search your trunk. I said, No one searches anything here. When they entered, they walked as if they owned the place. No one fucks with me here, I said. I do not work for them. My orders come from the highest commander, Al-Rayess himself. I only take orders from AlRayess, I told them.

  Abou-Tariq played with his large moustache, then continued in his northern dialect. I said to them, When you enter here, you leave your gun at the gate or I will not let you in next time. They did not like it. Listen, you are a hard worker, and if you really did what they accuse you of doing, you would not have returned to make a living here, right?

  I nodded.

  They beat you up badly, those punks, didn’t they?

  Yes.

  There is an Italian boat coming tomorrow night. For a few days after that, we will be needing you. Be here. Tonight it is slow. Go home and rest.

  THE NEXT EVENING, I went back to the port and worked. On my break, I went up to the deck and looked for the captain. Captain Ashraf, an Egyptian, was eating in the kitchen.

  I sat down and said to him, I work here at the dock.

  He looked at me. Yes?

  I need to leave this place, soon.

  Do you have a visa? he asked.

  Where is your ship going? I asked in turn.

  Marseilles. You have a visa to France?

  No, I admitted.

  I cannot let you come on board.

  How can we work it out? I asked.

  He kept his silence, ate some more. Eventually, he asked. They pay you well here?

  I have money, I said.

  Eight hundred, he said.

  I have six hundred.

  The captain did not answer. He stood up slowly to leave.

  I can give you seven hundred, I said, and I would be left with two hundred for when I got there, to face my destiny.

  We leave on Sunday. Twakkal ala Allah, and bring a warm jacket. It gets cold on the deck at night.

  14

  I WAS LYING ON MY BED AT HOME, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night, when someone knocked at my door. It was my neighbour from next door. She was in tears. They killed him, she said. They killed Al-Rayess.

  The highest commander of the Christian Lebanese forces had been assassinated on a visit to one of his political-party compounds. While he was inside meeting with his supporters, a bomb exploded and brought the whole building down. Meanwhile, in West Beirut, the Palestinians and the leftist forces had surrendered to the Israeli forces.

  I listened on the radio to the burial of Al-Rayess,
and the withdrawal of Palestinian forces from Lebanon to Tunisia. Women in East Beirut wore black, and they all wept.

  Nabila phoned me to assure me that she had dreamed it all the night before. She was taking Valium because the news of the assassination made her sick and depressed. She told me that she had talked to George, and that George told her that they had caught a suspect. His name is Al-Tahouneh, she said. Or something like that. A member of the communist Syrian party. They also found in his house architectural drawings of the foundation of the fallen building.

  JOSEPH FINALLY AGREED to the money-making plan I had proposed to him. So I watched the casino for a couple of days. The militia money-collectors came every other evening — two of them, in a civilian car and wearing civilian clothes. When they went inside the poker place I crossed the street and took a look at their car to see if they carried weapons other than the ones stuck in their waistbands. When they came out, I followed their car from afar and memorized their route. They stopped at one other poker place, and then went straight to the Majalis. They took a long, unpaved side road that led to the headquarters.

  The day after I traced the route, Joseph and I waited for Najib’s poker-playing friend to come home.

  Joseph went up to the roof of the apartment building; I waited across the street.

  Soon we saw the guy park his car and go up the stairs. I whistled with my two fingers in my mouth, and Joseph came down the stairs from the roof, coughing, and with a handkerchief on his face. When he passed Najib’s friend, Joseph pretended to cough and then hit him in the face.

  I flew up the stairs with thick tape in my hand.

  Before Najib’s accomplice could make a sound, Joseph stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth. I tied his hands and ankles, and we dumped him up on the roof of his building. I took his car keys. We got in the car and drove fast toward Joseph’s place. Joseph went up to his apartment and brought down his kalash and guns.

  As I drove, Joseph filled the gun magazines with bullets. He checked my gun and his. We stopped at the poker place and watched the two collectors go in. Then we drove ahead, onto the unpaved road that led to the Majalis.