“Another one,” says Ahmad.
This time the explosion is huge. The building trembles and they are covered with dust. The cataclysmic noise and the vibrations threw Intissar to the ground. Her ears are whistling. She gets back up, dusting herself off. Carefully, two fighters go out the back to see where the bomb fell.
Why go on bombing if they know they’ve won? What isn’t already shattered? She feels an impotent rage building up inside her, a white-hot fury, as happens every time. What can you do against planes? The few SAM-7 and -8 missiles they have are unusable; not enough people know how to use them properly. Marwan. Tonight they’ll go look for Marwan’s body, she’ll bury it, she’ll cry, and she’ll wait for everything to collapse.
•
The war had displaced her many times since 1975. From her parents’ house to this room in Hamra. Seven years. The first autumn of the conflict, around the time of her twentieth birthday, it was butchery. Armed posses, axe massacres, shootings, pillages, bombings. Then habit set in. She remembers demonstrations, strikes, universities closed, the massacres of the Quarantaine, the siege of Tell Zaatar, it became a kind of macabre routine. Until that morning in August 1978, almost four years ago to the day, when her parents died. Both of them. The attack completely destroyed the PLO headquarters, 150 dead. Mourning struck her down. For the months that followed, she was wiped out. Wandered ghostlike with no weight on the ground. The apartment empty, the windows taped to keep them from shattering when the bombs fell. Permanent twilight. Endless menstruation, a body that kept bleeding. No willpower, nothing. She was floating, like Beirut, according to international agreements. Losing Marwan today isn’t any harder. Or less hard. Start everything over again, always. Lose the city, each time, the city that began to liquefy beneath the bombs, to empty itself out slowly into the sea, the enemy at its ramparts, everywhere. Thinking is useless. Let come what may. She’ll go recover Marwan’s body, wash it and bury it, and then, then, according to what the Americans, the Israelis, the Russians, and other distant gods decide, they’ll do with her what they like.
Nightfall comes slowly. She remembers waiting for the end of the Ramadan fast, in spring or summer, endless. When she was little she cheated—she was too thirsty in the late afternoon, she went to drink in the bathroom, and then, ashamed, asked God for forgiveness. Helping prepare the iftar dishes and the countless pastries was a real torture. Her mother suspected that she cheated, of course, but she didn’t say anything. She smiled all the time. How did she manage to resist, her mother, with her hands in the food, preparing the soups, the dumplings, the cakes, the drinks—her father arrived a few minutes before the adhan and the breaking of the fast, the sky of Beirut was already tinged with pink and saffron, Intissar was seated at the dinner table, the dishes were served, she felt like a runner at the starting line. Her parents were not religious. They belonged to the Marxist left of the Fatah. Ramadan had nothing to do with religion. It was a victory over self, and a tradition. A victory for Palestine, almost. A tradition that linked you to a world, to the world of childhood and the orange qamar eddin imported from Syria, to lentil soup, to tamarind juice from India, to cinnamon, to cardamom, to the night falling gently over an entire people who were stuffing themselves, before singing, laughing, or watching Egyptian movies, old celebratory movies where Samya Gamal always bewitched Farid el Atrash. Intissar tried to dance like her, swaying her bony hips, moving the chest that she didn’t have yet, and late at night they slept a little, until the shouts of dawn and the beginning of the new day of fasting.
Now she is waiting to go recover Marwan’s corpse. Habib and the others have started up their card game again while they smoke. From time to time one of the fighters will take a look outside, a quick patrol. You’d think the Israelis won’t try anything as long as negotiations are in progress, but you never know. They won the battle of Beirut. No one can prevent the city from falling. Intissar admires the morale of the soldiers. For them, this defeat is only a stage. They survived the Catastrophe, the war of 1967, Black September; they will survive the fall. The Cause will survive. They will start over from zero somewhere, wherever it may be. Until they recover a piece of land to settle on. A homeland that is not just a name in the clouds. Not her. If the city falls she will fall with it. She will fall with Beirut and Marwan. She pictures her own body beneath the sun in a narrow street, pierced by Maronite knives or Israeli bayonets, in the midst of a pile of corpses.
However long the dusk may seem, night always ends up arriving.
Habib and his soldiers eat some halva with a little bread. Ahmad offers her some, but she shakes her head. Yesterday it was Marwan who would have handed it to her. Fighters are the same, they do exactly the same things they did yesterday, smoke, play cards, eat halva or sardines; Marwan died for nothing, nothing has changed in the world, absolutely nothing, someone plays in his place, someone eats in his place, someone offers Intissar halva in his place, the city will fall, the fighters will leave and Marwan will stay there. Intissar drowses for a bit, her arms crossed, her chin resting on her chest.
Habib awakens her, touching her gently on her shoulder.
“Get ready, we’re about to go.”
She gets up, stretches her legs, empties her bottle of water, isolates herself in the out-of-order bathroom piled with excrement, which she leaves almost immediately, on the verge of nausea.
It’s still just as hot. She takes off her jacket for a bit; her khaki T-shirt is soaked. She withdraws a little into the half-light and takes off her bra. So much for modesty, decency, or the comfort of running. She throws the sweat-drenched bra into a dark corner.
As always before an operation, her heart is beating faster, her mouth is dry. She has strange cramps in her jaw. She concentrates, checks her weapon, the ammunition, the grenades. She makes sure her laces are tied and her belt notched securely. She is ready. Habib and the others pass around a last joint and a bottle of water. Ahmad, Habib and Intissar will go out. The other three stay here in case. One of them has settled into the seat behind the machine gun to be able to cover their retreat if something goes wrong. The second gets the rocket-propelled grenades ready, and the third finishes the hashish as he looks at the ceiling.
Habib doesn’t need to explain the tactics or spell out the marching orders. They are trained and hardened, they understand each other in silence. The summer night is clear, there is some moonlight, they’ll have to cling to the walls. All three of them know that the Israelis will only attack if they feel threatened, if they think a commando is trying to infiltrate their lines. In theory, even though Marwan was shot down, a ceasefire is in effect. They go around the building to reach the main street by the other side and follow the sidewalk south. They pass a few meters away from the improvised gunhole where the muzzle of their machine gun sticks out, and turn right into a little street that penetrates the Israeli lines. Intissar feels a strange pressure in her ears. She can hear herself breathe. They have already covered a hundred meters. Just 200 left. They progress quickly, as quietly as possible, then freeze to scrutinize the night. A few noises, in the distance, cars, from time to time. They will have to carry Marwan. 300 meters. Ahmad guides them into a passageway between two buildings and freezes. By gestures he conveys that the crossroads with the twisted streetlight where Marwan fell is just in front. She should not have come. She realizes that now. She should not have come—Habib and Ahmad knew it. They also knew that it would have been impossible to make her change her mind. She feels herself trembling. The body is there, on the other side of the street, behind that collapsed building. She glances over, sees the charred metal pole twisted like a tree, its shape stretched out. Ahmad and Habib busy themselves around Marwan. She watches the end of the street where the shots came from. The bullets that tore through Marwan’s back. Over there. Total darkness. Silence. Habib and Ahmad cross the street quickly, they are carrying Marwan, Marwan’s head lolls back, his eyes are aimed upwards, to look at the sky, they hurry to get back to her, Habi
b stumbles, he falls forward, lets go of the body that falls heavily onto the ground, Intissar feels tears flowing down her cheeks, they are in the open in the middle of the street, she is afraid, on the left they hear an abrupt detonation, a tiny pop like a cork, followed by a high-pitched whistle, and suddenly the night is lit up in red, she sees as if in full daylight the terrified faces of Habib and Ahmad, the twisted neck of Marwan on the ground, his mouth open, his hands rigid, Ahmad lets go of Marwan’s legs and runs to take cover, Habib huddles down, gathers Marwan and begins to pull him all alone over to the street, she hears shouts in Hebrew, Ahmad reaches her out of breath and turns around, shouting: “What is that idiot doing? Run, Habib, run, let him go and run,” Habib does not let Marwan go, he drags him as fast as possible, just twenty meters to go, then ten, Intissar hurries to help him the instant a timid Israeli volley scatters the wall on their right with bullets, a big caliber plop plop plop plop chips the cement in the night that’s come back now, the flare fell on a building, she gets hold of Marwan’s hands without thinking, they are hard and cold, they are no longer hands, she lifts him from the ground carries him with Habib, he is heavy the street is again plunged into darkness, that’s it they’re under cover, her heart about to explode, Intissar’s eyes are drenched in tears and sweat, she collapses against the wall to catch her breath. Forty centimeters away from her, Marwan’s face. In the half-light she can make out his fixed stare, his open mouth, the trail of blood on his chin and cheeks, his shirt has ridden up to his neck from the traction, also black with blood. Habib murmurs: “Come on, quick.”
Ahmad picks up the corpse by the arms, Habib by the feet. One is missing a boot, which fell off in the middle of the street. The milky-white foot seems to gleam in the night.
She follows them as she surveys the rear, no more noise, no more anything, the Israelis have spared them, that’s for sure, they didn’t aim their fire. They were impossible to miss, in the line of sight, almost motionless, the machine gun could have cut them in half. They let them carry the body away. Little by little, as they walk, Intissar calms down. Ahmad and Habib are struggling. They stop regularly to catch their breath. She feels empty. Her tears have disappeared. The return trip is always shorter. They reach the post safely. The three fighters cheer them. They saw the light of the flare, heard the gunfire.
Habib and Ahmad set the body down in a corner and wrap it in a dirty blanket that had been lying there. Ahmad avoids Habib’s gaze. Contacted probably by radio, Abu Nasser and two other guys whose names Intissar has forgotten arrive. Abu Nasser lifts the blanket to look at the corpse. He gathers himself in silence, replaces the shroud, his eyes clouded with tears.
“Marwan was the best of us all. The bravest.”
She feels tears rising again. Marwan is so far away.
Ahmad’s wound has re-opened. A bloodstain is growing on his T-shirt.
Abu Nasser takes Intissar tenderly by the arm.
“What do you want to do, Intissar? We have a car. I’ll take you wherever you like.”
Habib and the other three have lit up another joint and have begun playing cards again. Habib the impenetrable fighter. Courageous and loyal. He waits. He hasn’t even mentioned the incident of the machine gun and Ahmad’s cowardliness. Noble. She walks over to the little group and holds out her hand to Habib.
“Thank you. See you soon.”
“It’s nothing. Marwan was my friend. Take care of yourself.”
It’s almost 1:00 in the morning. Intissar feels exhausted. She can’t even manage to think. Marwan is dead. His body is there. Abu Nasser has exchanged the dirty blanket for a dark-green plastic tarp found in the car. Intissar wants to be alone. Alone with Marwan. She asks Abu Nasser if he can drop her off at her place in Hamra.
“And Marwan? You want . . . You want us to leave him at the hospital?”
“No. At my place. At our place. Tomorrow morning I’ll bury him.”
“You . . . you’re sure?”
“Yes, Abu Nasser.”
“OK, it’s up to you. Tomorrow morning I’ll come back with a car. The day should be calm. Or, if you like, we can take care of it now.”
“No. Tomorrow morning. Thank you, Abu Nasser.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The soldiers who are escorting Abu Nasser carefully place Marwan in the back of the Jeep. Ahmad gets in too. Abu Nasser has Intissar get in in front. He likes to drive. Despite being a higher-ranking officer, he always drives his own vehicle. He sets off noisily. Drive fast, without stopping. Even at night, you have to be careful. Abu Nasser is an important link in the military command of the PLO. You never know. Behind, his two bodyguards are holding their weapons at the ready.
They pass the checkpoints without any problems; everyone knows Abu Nasser, even the Lebanese militia in the Murabitun, the PNSP, or the People’s Party. At night, when the danger of Israeli attacks is a little more remote, Beirut seems to have a tiny burst of energy. The flickering butane lights in the rare open shops, the fighters at the streetcorners—all the last spasms of a dying animal.
Having reached Hamra, the Jeep stops in front of the dark apartment building where Intissar lives. Abu Nasser cuts the engine.
“In back of the car there’s a crate of bottled water. Take it. Tomorrow morning I’ll be there.”
Her voice trembles a little.
“Thank you, Abu Nasser. Thank you very much.”
The soldiers get out of the Jeep, except for Ahmad. He nods to her, one hand clutched over his wound. She takes the carton of water. The bodyguards follow her with the heavy green tarp.
She climbs up to her floor, opens the door. The little apartment is plunged into darkness.
The soldiers set down the corpse; she lights the first candle she sees. She thanks them. She sits down next to the yellowish flame and immediately starts crying. She is exhausted. The strange smell of the body invades the room little by little. She thinks. She goes into the bedroom to get the gas lamp.
Marwan is a hero. A martyr for the cause. A great soldier. Respected of course by Abu Nasser, but also by Abu Jihad and the others. He refused to surrender. He wanted to fight until his last breath. He died shot in the back by a machine gun during a reconnaissance mission to plan an operation. To continue the resistance. Fortify the city. Not let it fall into the enemy’s hands. Now, in the middle of the night, in the silence, all that seems laughable. Even to her, the fights she has fought, the expeditions into the South, the battles against the Phalangists, the men she’s killed, all that is very far away. Useless, pointless. She realizes that she forgot her weapon at the post on the front. It’s a sign. That never could have happened during the last two years. Marwan has no more weapons, she will not have any either. The city is suspended in air. After seven years of battle. Tears of rage and sadness fill her eyes. She takes off her jacket. In her closet, everything is khaki, dark green, camouflage. She finds a grey nightgown. She’ll take care of the corpse. She sets the lamp up in the little bathroom. There is no shower stall, just a plug in the middle of the tiled, slightly sloping floor. She carries in the crate of bottled water. Abu Nasser is thoughtful. Without this gift she could never have washed the body. She will put it on the bed, in a white sheet, and she will watch over it until the car arrives tomorrow morning. Then they’ll come pick it up and bury it. Somewhere. If the Israelis leave us alone. She gathers her courage and drags the tarp into the bathroom. She pulls off the plastic, uncovers the stained outfit. The deformed face. The dark beard. She trembles, she has tears in her eyes. Kneeling next to Marwan, it really is him, all of a sudden. She sees him there despite the distance of death. He has returned into his body. She has trouble taking off the jacket and T-shirt, the arms are stiff, she cuts the clothes off with scissors. His torso. There are four black wounds on his torso. Where the bullets came out. Big, well-defined, fatal. Made to go through armored tanks and walls. They surely continued their trajectory without even slowing down. The smell of meat, of death. She cuts off the pants, ta
kes off the single boot. She takes all the bloody clothes, on the verge of nausea, throws them into the kitchen sink, pours a little lamp alcohol on them and sets them on fire. Who will worry about smoke in besieged Beirut? She has a brief bout of nausea. She makes sure nothing can catch fire around the sink and closes the door.
Marwan, naked in front of her on the bathroom tile. His eyes closed, his faced hardened by the contraction of the jaw. The surprise of death, the surprise of the 12.7 caliber projectiles that went through his chest, perforated his heart, his lungs, broke his ribs. She takes a sponge and pours a bottle of water onto Marwan. Intissar is no longer trembling. She is no longer crying. She caresses him gently. Little by little she erases the traces of coagulated blood on the torso, around the mouth, the nose, on the stomach, delicately. Marwan the warrior. The first time they fought together, along the boundary line, her training was scarcely over. She wasn’t afraid, she had confidence in herself, and confidence in Marwan to guide her. Marwan was one of the most respected officers. A brave man. The Palestinians had nothing to do with the amateurism and anarchy of the Lebanese militia. Once the artillery had fallen silent, they had prepared a perfect trap for the fascists, a pincer that had crushed them. She remembers the final assault perfectly: the taste of brass in her mouth, the noise, the running between buildings, she sees again the first volley she shot at a moving human target, and her surprise when she saw it killed, she remembers the excitement of combat, powerful, sexual, fierce, which was appeased, late at night, in Marwan’s arms. The pleasure of victory. Intissar is the only woman to have destroyed a vehicle and its occupants with an anti-tank rocket. She watched for a long time as the blackened corpses were consumed in the flames of the overturned car, full of a mixture of satisfaction, fascination and disgust. She knows that her cause is just. She didn’t start the war. It was the Zionists. Then the Lebanese allied with the Israelis. Then again the Israelis. And now, defeat, the heavy boots that no longer move forward. Marwan who could no longer run fast enough to avoid the bullets. Martyrs abandoned on a sidewalk corner. Bodies washed in apartment bathrooms. The city that’s falling and, on top of it all, exile.
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