Beirut, Beirut

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  “I have to go now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “Hmm?”

  I repeated what I’d said.

  “Stay for a little,” she said without enthusiasm. “I have an Egyptian movie starring Nadia El Guindy.”

  “And I have a movie that needs a voiceover commentary.”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  She walked me to the elevator door.

  “Will you be here tonight?” I asked as I walked into the elevator.

  She nodded.

  “Should I call you or will you call me?” I asked.

  “No. I’ll call you,” she replied.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 25

  It seemed to me that the commentary should be reportorial and terse, without a trace of stirring emotions or sorrow in the tone. What would be the value of an impassioned, eloquent speech in the face of indelible scenes of bloodletting, conflagration and destruction? I was troubled by doubt for a moment about the need for a voiceover at all. Then I remembered that film required many things to give it vitality, and it could be that one of them was a human voice.

  I had to get rid of most of the original title cards, or to be more precise, I had to incorporate them into my voiceover. Likewise, the length of this commentary had to progress in tandem with the amount of material in the film. In many places, the voiceover had to be synchronized with the scenes running through it.

  I resorted to Antoinette’s abbreviated list recording the time of each shot. I knew that twenty seconds on the screen takes up, on average, thirty words. So I calculated the required number of words for each scene, which was composed of various shots. That made it possible for me to determine the amount of material I was being asked to write.

  I decided to treat the voiceover as an integral text, with a beginning and an end, not as a collection of captions suited to each scene. I also had to take into account some scenes that needed explanation, and others that didn’t need a single word.

  I threw myself completely into the work, and it was midday Thursday by the time I finished a draft of the voiceover. I reviewed it carefully from different angles – the logical sequence of events; good writing and a smooth style; the political viewpoint; getting the facts right; and from first to last, being in sync with the film’s scenes and shots.

  The tight schedule gave me a sense of urgency, and I set myself to writing a final, clean copy, until the phone rang and pulled me out of my deep concentration.

  I picked up the receiver, and a female voice that I didn’t recognize came to me down the line: “Sir . . .”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I’m Jamila.”

  I said hello again.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she went on. “But I really need to talk to you.”

  “By all means.”

  “Maybe we can meet somewhere a half-hour from now?”

  “Where?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Would it be a problem for you to come to my place?”

  “A café on Hamra Street would be better. Like the Modka, for example.”

  “All right,” I said. “The Modka it is.”

  I pushed my papers aside. I put on my jacket and left the apartment. I walked slowly toward Hamra Street. Then I strolled over to the Modka, and chose a table in a prominent spot. Not long after, I saw her looking for me, so I stood up. She came over, walking quickly. She squeezed my hand forcefully and sat down.

  She was wearing a tweed jacket and skirt. She seemed a little thinner than I remembered. She had no makeup on, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes.

  I asked the waiter for two cups of coffee and two glasses of cognac. I lit her cigarette for her. She took a deep drag, and said, “I apologize for intruding on you like this. Are you flying out tomorrow?”

  “Yes. In the evening.”

  “I want you to break off your relationship with Lamia as soon as you leave.”

  I had raised the glass of cognac to my lips, but I put it back down and looked at her in astonishment.

  She nodded and repeated what she had said.

  “Strange,” I said. “First of all, you are assuming that there is a relationship between me and Lamia. Then, you are asking – ”

  She cut me off. “I know everything, so you don’t have to deny it.”

  “Even if we assume that that’s true,” I went on, “don’t you see that what you’re asking for is a little unusual?”

  “I have my reasons, and you’ll be persuaded by them once I explain them to you.”

  “There’s nothing between me and Lamia,” I said. “The relationship between us is only a professional one.”

  She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and held the glass of cognac between her hands.

  “Listen. I’ve known Lamia for many years now. She tells me everything.”

  “If she was the one who told you about this so-called relationship we have, then she was lying.”

  “I have two eyes, you know.”

  I looked at her two powerful, masculine hands, with their trimmed nails carefully painted a seashell color. I feigned the nonchalance and confidence of someone with nothing to hide.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand,” she went on.

  She looked intently at her glass, hesitating; then she looked up at me and said: “There is a special relationship – a very special relationship – between me and Lamia.”

  “Why does that concern me?”

  “Sir, you have your life in Cairo. I don’t have anyone except Lamia. She is a delicate creature who needs to be completely protected and given a high level of affection. No one understands her, values her and loves her like I do. But sometimes something happens that I don’t understand. Let’s say an attempt to prove her femininity or her ability to attract men. Or maybe boredom.”

  She laughed bitterly, adding, “Or a midlife crisis.”

  “Maybe she belongs to both sides,” I added.

  “Probably. But I haven’t lost hope that I can win her over completely to my side.”

  “If she is using me to thwart the relationship the two of you have, then what makes you think she won’t do it again with someone else?”

  “Leave that to me to worry about,” she said. “What I want from you is for you to end your relationship with her as soon as you leave. No promises of any kind.”

  “I haven’t conceded that there is anything between us. In any case, I’m not the kind of person who loves writing letters.”

  “I knew I could rely on you.”

  As she stood up, she stared at me with a revealing look, as though making certain I would do what she had asked. She shook hands with me to say goodbye, and then walked away.

  I watched her go, confidently standing tall and erect as she walked between the tables. Then I paid the bill and left.

  I found Wadia busy preparing a tray of potatoes in the oven, so I got down to work on the revised copy of the voiceover until I was done with it. Then I called Antoinette and offered to bring it to her after lunch.

  “I have two spare tickets to an Arab concert,” she said. “How would you and Wadia like to come? You could bring the voiceover and I would bring the check for your payment.”

  I called out to Wadia and told him what Antoinette had suggested. He agreed to go.

  “We’ll do it,” I told her. “Only, would it be possible to be paid in cash, rather than by check? I won’t have time to cash it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try,” she replied.

  The concert began at seven. That gave me enough time to eat and review the voiceover one last time. At six forty-five, Wadia and I took a taxi to the American University in Beirut.

  There was a large crowd in front of the concert hall and Antoinette was hard to find. She was wearing a light fake-fur coat over the usual pair of jeans and slender high-heel shoes.

  She squeezed my hand warmly, and I kissed her on the cheek. We went up to the entrance, but
a policeman came over to us and pointed to her purse. She opened it and pulled out a gun that she offered to him. The policeman put it in a side storage area, after giving her a receipt. A young man next to me pulled out his gun, getting ready to hand it over. Wadia and I walked through after declaring we had no weapons.

  We had a hard time finding a place to sit. I noticed the tense atmosphere that dominated the hall, as well as the excitement of the audience.

  “It’s the first time that people are out at night in Beirut since the killing of Bashir Ubayd,” Wadia observed.

  I handed the voiceover to Antoinette. She gave it a quick glance and put it in her bag. She handed me an envelope that contained my fee.

  “If you want to make any adjustment in the text,” I said, “or if there turns out to be any problem with it, write to me.”

  She nodded in agreement. I turned my attention to the printed program that Wadia handed me. The concert was made up of songs by Sayed Darwish, and some of Leila Mourad’s songs composed by Daoud Hosni, as well as some Umm Kulthoum numbers composed by Zakariyya Ahmad, in addition to the poem “They taught him how to be hard”, by Abd al-Wahhab.

  I leaned over Antoinette and whispered to Wadia, “Did you notice that the selections in the program are all Egyptian?”

  Finally, the curtain raised on a Lebanese ensemble, with the musicians sitting in a row in the front, and the male and female choristers behind them. The concert began with a well-known song by Sayed Darwish made famous by Fairuz, “Visit Me Once Each Year”, followed by two of his songs about various professions – “The Cart Drivers” and “The Pickpockets”.

  It was an excellent performance and the applause was thunderous. I was swept away by a feeling of elation. When the ensemble sang “That’s What Happened”, the pent-up dam burst.

  Written more than sixty years ago, the song, with lyrics by Badia Khairi, went:

  What happened, happened, so don’t blame me:

  You don’t have the right, for we are not free.

  How can you say I’m to blame, my brother,

  When the wealth of our land belongs to another?

  Talk to me first about the things we need,

  Then you can blame me for my misdeeds.

  Instead of them gloating over our plight,

  With your hand in mine, we’ll stand and fight.

  We are one people,

  Our hands are strong.

  Tears flowed from my eyes like a flood. I couldn’t stop them. I sobbed without restraint. I sensed that Wadia and Antoinette were exchanging glances.

  “What’s the matter?” Antoinette whispered in my ear.

  I didn’t answer her, but abandoned myself to weeping.

  A little later, it was intermission, and I dried my tears. We went out to the garden of the American University to smoke. Wadia reminded me of our student days, and the tears started up again, pouring from my eyes in spite of myself.

  He put his arm around me, and began patting my shoulder. Soon a sense of calm came over me, and I dried my tears. I was able to keep control of myself for the rest of the concert.

  The audience clapped for a long time when the program ended. The ensemble played an encore of some of its songs, and then we finally left our seats and moved slowly to the door. Everyone was dragging their feet, as though they hated to go back to their homes.

  Antoinette reclaimed her gun and we left the concert hall. We had barely stepped out onto the street when we heard the sound of gunfire nearby.

  Shouts went up from different places; some people ran, while others brandished their guns.

  “Run,” shouted Wadia.

  Antoinette took off her shoes and clutched them in her hand along with her purse. She carried the gun in her other hand. We set off running, while she led us through streets that took us away from the neighborhood.

  We heard no more gunshots, so we slowed down, and finally stopped, out of breath. We heard the sound of a speeding car coming up behind us, so we pinned ourselves against the wall for protection. A military jeep, enclosed on all sides, sped past us. We followed its blinding headlights as they danced on the walls of buildings and fell on an old poster that had the famous photo of Gamal Abdel Nasser where he seems to be sad and dejected, immediately following the 1967 defeat.

  Wadia offered to let Antoinette stay the night with us, but she refused and insisted on going back to her house in East Beirut. So we put her in a taxi and we took another to the apartment.

  Chapter 26

  My last day in Beirut began with overcast, cloudy weather. Wadia was still sleeping, so I had my breakfast while reading the papers, which carried news of a new Israeli attack on South Lebanon. There were several photos of houses destroyed as a result of this attack, and of the victims lying in hospital beds.

  I got my suitcase ready, cleaned the room and made the bed. I did the same thing in the kitchen and living room. Finally, I took a bath and put on my clothes. In the meantime, Wadia woke up and had his breakfast. When I went back to the living room, I found him getting ready to go out.

  “I’ll be back before tonight to go with you to the airport,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I responded. “I can order a taxi.”

  “I’ll order it for you. Is six o’clock all right?”

  “That’s fine.”

  He headed to the door, but I stopped him, saying, “If you’re coming back early, call me first. I might have a female visitor.”

  He promised he would, and left the house.

  There was a bottle of whiskey on the desk, so I poured a glass and sat down to drink it. A little before noon, the phone rang.

  Picking up the receiver, I said “hello” in a flat, mechanical tone.

  Lamia’s scolding voice reached me: “You’re in a bad mood.”

  “Hi,” I said, using the same tone.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you tell me not to? And you promised to call me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Did you get the contract and the advance?”

  She didn’t answer my question, but asked me in turn: “What time are you heading to the airport?”

  “I’m leaving here at six.”

  “Is Wadia there with you?”

  “No.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “Tonight. Why?”

  “I’ll come over in an hour.”

  “Will you have the contract with you?” I asked.

  “We’ll talk about that when I get there.”

  I drained my glass and poured another one. By the time she came, I had had three more glasses.

  She took off her coat, under which she had on a crimson skirt and an olive-green sweater with a low neck that revealed a blouse of the same color. She tossed her purse and the yellow envelope that contained my manuscript on the chair. She threw herself onto the couch.

  Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Coffee?” I asked, still standing.

  “I don’t want any,” she replied.

  I sat down in front of her and lit a cigarette.

  “Do you know what we realized about the gunman who attacked Abu Khalil? There was no trace of him. No one else saw him. It’s obvious he made up the whole story.”

  “Why?”

  “To convince us that we needed him, after he got the sense that I would be getting rid of him. You know, I’m afraid of him sometimes? I suspect he was a sniper during the early part of the war.”

  “What was his original job before the war?”

  “I think he worked in sales, or was a building security guard.”

  “Was he the one that planned the explosion?”

  “No. That’s another story. We know who did that, and we’ve come to an agreement with them.’’

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.

  “Adnan talked to me yesterday,” she said after a moment. “I read him several paragraphs from
your manuscript. The paragraphs that can cause problems and prevent it from being distributed in Arab countries. He told me he can’t assume the responsibility for publishing it in the current circumstances.”

  I lit another cigarette.

  “You could have told me that on the phone,” I pointed out.

  “You’re in a bad mood,” she said.

  “Your friend came to see me yesterday.”

  “Jamila? How?”

  “She called me and asked to meet me.”

  “What did she want?” she asked, perplexed.

  “She asked me to break off my relationship with you.”

  She became angry.

  “Sticking her nose in! I’ve had it with her. She’s always that way with my friends.”

  “Why?”

  She stared at me with her eyes wide and innocent-looking: “I don’t know.”

  “She told me everything. I mean about the relationship between the two of you.”

  Her face went pale. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You don’t have to play dumb. I’m not asking you to explain yourself.”

  “Why should I have to explain myself?” she shouted furiously at me. “I can do what I like.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is it my fault I can’t stand you men and your boorishness, your egos and your lies?” she went on in the same agitated state. “You don’t know what Lebanese men are like. Their whole lives revolve around paying in installments, joining the rat race, and producing a son to carry on the family name.”

  “They do that on account of you women.”

  “I know. That’s why I always go back to him. Generally I prefer men.”

  I laughed and her anger dissipated. She smiled.

  “You’re a free woman,” I said. “As long as you’re happy.”

  “I only knew happiness when my mother was by my side. She was strong. I wanted to be like her, so I took part in demonstrations.”

  “When you were in college?”

  She nodded. “Can you believe I used to shout out slogans for Palestine and Gamal Abdel Nasser, and against imperialism? Sometimes I shouted slogans for Mao Zedong.”

  “And then what happened?”