There were cookies, grilled corn, boiled fava beans, sandwiches, sweets.
Mothers spread blankets on the ground and took out their breasts to suckle their babies in plain sight.
Old folks were carried from their homes and set on low folding chairs.
Soldiers and police officers gathered here and there. They spoke in low voices as they smoked and watched the crowd out of the corners of their eyes.
There were photographers, reporters, tape recorders, cameras, telephoto lenses.
There were Boy Scout troops, civil defense squads, and other groups. Placards on sticks bore illustrations and slogans supporting one thing or another.
A pack of teenagers carried a drum and a small tambourine, improvising the cheering section that would have been seen at a soccer game or a wedding.
Girls wore their Sunday dresses and adorned themselves with their prettiest bracelets and necklaces. Perhaps they would turn some heads or catch the long-awaited husband.
And the men! Such manly men! Fathers and sons. They played backgammon, twirled their mustaches, or scratched their heads with a satisfied air, all the while guarding their women from stray glances and wayward thoughts.
“How did they know?” Luqman asked the vendor while dissolving an extra spoonful of sugar in his plastic cup.
“How did they know?” the vendor repeated. “From every television and radio! They’ve been announcing the news, day and night for a week.”
Luqman said, “Sure, but they didn’t specify the date, only the place.”
The vendor said, “That’s the way they are. They always think they are smarter than the people. All the same, the news leaked out. Don’t ask me how, but it leaked. Of course, if they had announced the date, you would have seen the entire country on the march, and—”
The vendor had not finished his sentence when he noticed movement in the front rows surrounding the platform. He dropped whatever he was holding and ran. Luqman followed.
A convoy arrived, composed of a truck, together with some cars and motorcycles, their sirens blaring. They stopped. A number of police officers got out and formed a solid perimeter between the public and the area near the platform on all sides. As Luqman watched them, a smile came over his face. “They think they’re in a movie, and—God!—they are acting it up!”
The crowd applauded. The teenagers’ drum resounded with vigorous pounding. The graceful torsos of girls who were born to dance swayed back and forth.
The vendor grumbled, “Man, come on! We’re tired! What are they waiting for?”
Luqman shrugged his shoulders. He turned away, having decided to move out of the vicinity so the vendor wouldn’t spoil the spectacle for him with his chattering questions and stupid comments.
“God! It’s an awesome sight!” he heard one person say as he forced his way with effort through the compact throng.
A woman shouted, still chewing her food, “Where are these heroes? Let’s go! Bring them out so we can see them!”
If it were up to Luqman, he would have rained down blows upon her and kicked her fat belly. He would have yanked her hair back and spat in her dirty mouth, full of food. If only...Ah, rest in peace, Albino! Everything you said about them is true. Scum! I swear to God, they are even worse than scum. A herd. Animals deserving slaughter at the guillotine!
Luqman stopped in despair. An immense desire to go back home to bed would have overpowered him had he not noticed that elegant, pretty blond standing nearby, apart from all the rest. She carried a radio transmitter in one hand, and she was fixing her hair with the other.
A huge man mounted the platform and said in the loudest imaginable voice, “If it isn’t completely silent this very instant, I’m going to clear the place out!”
Complete and total silence reigned.
The rear door of the truck opened. The two “heroes” got out and stood holding onto each other. The crowd went wild. Women trilled, children whistled. The two men lowered their eyes in shame. No, not shame. Something like a daze. Just like what happens to amateur performers when they go up on stage for the first time and are surprised by the size of the audience.
Luqman looked at the broadcaster. He saw her lifting the transmitter to her mouth and pouring into it a veritable flood of words mixed with saliva. What could she be saying?
He turned back to the “heroes” of the festival. They were clinging to each other even more than before. Oh, well. He’d leave them for a while and then return. Strictly speaking, these were only the preliminary preparations. The decisive moment, the essential moment he ought not to miss, was when they mounted the platform. Everything else was just details.
Luqman drew away from the throng in order to approach the broadcaster and come into her line of sight. She turned towards him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back flirtatiously. Then she returned to her transmitter, spitting out her stream of words.
A radio broadcaster! Luqman felt a stab of disappointment, and he pursed his lips. He would have preferred the smile to come from a television broadcaster.
He stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree, his back turned to the stage where the festivities were unfolding. He began to stare at the broadcaster, not taking his eyes off her. He observed her closely this time, he did more than observe her. His ravenous gaze took her captive and began to grope her firm, luscious body. He knew she felt it from the beads of sweat gathering on her upper lip, which quivered slightly, and from the tone of her voice, which shook and jumped all over the place.
“...and after pronouncing the death sentence passed against them by the criminal court, the sole civilian judge approached the condemned and asked them whether they had any last wishes, or anything they wanted to say, before the sentence was carried out. The first man was shaking. Tears ran from his eyes, and his face had gone white. He said, ‘My last wish is that my mother won’t fall dead from sorrow on account of me.’ The other said, ‘I don’t have any last wishes.’ His strength failed him, and he wept.”
Luqman put his hand to his crotch. Come on! Get up, Partner! Stand up and enjoy the view of this splendid blond festival.
The broadcaster lifted a hand to scratch her breast with long, shiny red fingernails until a hard nipple protruded distinctly through her thin, white shirt. She produced the same effect on Luqman, only double.
The bitch! Luqman thought to himself. She was aroused but not at all distracted. Indeed, she went on smoothly without losing her train of thought.
“...They became even more terrified when they saw the scaffold and the nooses. They were unable to walk and visibly wilted after four steps. The first collapsed entirely and fell to the ground; the other stumbled. This prevented them from being dressed in the customary white execution gowns. So the guards carried them onto the platform.”
Luqman looked around. No one was watching him...watching them. Everyone was fixed upon the platform and what was taking place there. What if his partner gave the broadcaster a “good morning”? After being constricted, it could get some relief and a breath of fresh air...
“...The executioner swiftly put the head of the first man through the noose. Then he moved to the other and wrapped his neck with the rope. The wooden platform beneath their feet fell away, and the two men dangled in the air and began to jerk around until, after a few moments, they gave up the ghost. When the sentence was carried out, all the people cheered jubilantly and applauded. The number of those witnessing the execution is estimated to be in the thousands, from all different regions. The packed balconies and rooftops of the buildings surrounding the square testify to the size of the assembly.”
--
Luqman lifted his head and said, “Why don’t we go to your place?”
“Because I live with my parents,” she answered, grabbing his ears and bringing his mouth back down to her crotch.
Luqman lifted his head again and said, “No problem. What do you say we go to my place then?”
The broadcaster, both irritable
and mean-spirited, responded, “My shift isn’t over yet! But in any case, it’s fine. You can leave right now, if you want to.”
Luqman laughed. “Are you serious? Where would I go? There’s no need to get angry, Miss...I’m at the lady’s command!”
The young lady dug her fingernails into Luqman’s back when she came, then her face relaxed all at once. She pushed herself back up in her seat and opened her eyes to stare at Luqman.
When Luqman moved to get on top of her, she pushed him away. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I’m still a virgin.”
Luqman smiled and nodded. He pulled away a hair that was stuck to his tongue and said, “No problem!”
But when he asked her to repay him in kind, she shook back her hair and fanned a hand in front of her face to show how uncomfortable she was from the heat. Luqman repeated his question in another way, grabbing her hand to...She jerked it away and fumbled with her key as she put it in the ignition and started the car. She folded her arms and began staring straight in front of her at the road. She was shaking.
Luqman kept watching her silently. Then he said, “Can I see you again?”
She turned and slapped his cheek. “Hell, no! Forget you ever saw me today. The best thing for you to do is forget about it. If you don’t, I’ll send someone who’ll make you forget your own name, got it?” She leaned across him to open the door. Then she pushed him out with her bare foot.
Luqman stood with his hands in his pockets. He lifted his eyes to the sky, laden with clouds. “That’s life, Partner! You win some, you lose some.”
He walked off.
CHAPTER 4
The neighborhood was still asleep.
Luqman would have thought he was in a rich neighborhood, were it not for the plastic bags, their bellies torn open and spilling out their garbage entrails. Masked ghosts, showing nothing but their eyes, sifted through the piles.
This was a new species, thought Luqman. The “unseen families,” as they had come to be called. It was the species of those who only went out under the cover of night, when they were turned out from the places to which they repaired during the daylight hours. First the war, and later the peace, had stripped them of their teeth, their fingernails, and their ability to buy. This species was distinct from the species of beggars in that its members maintained some dignity and pride, some fear and shame, such that they were not willing to be seen in used clothing, even if that meant they would consume half-eaten food.
Luqman saw these unseen ones scattered around the edges of the neighborhood like deformed insects or shattered trees with charred fruit. He turned his eyes away so as not to disturb the pleasure he felt upon entering the intimacy of this humble neighborhood, which resembled a blue bedroom sunk in a deep slumber.
Whenever Luqman entered the neighborhood, he felt he was going down instead of up, even though it stood atop a small hill.
Maybe it was the flowerpots that decorated the doorways abutting the small street. The entrances only went up two or three steps, as though to stay close and extend an invitation, welcoming the passerby to have a seat and make himself comfortable for a few moments. Or a few hours.
Or maybe it was the low buildings, not more than two or three stories tall, with their wan and faded colors and their windows, protected by airy, delicate curtains decorated with borders of lace.
“Thank God,” Luqman murmured to himself. There were still neighborhoods that preserved their modesty in this debauched city, crowded as it was with buildings that looked like mythical animals reminiscent of a bygone era or one still to come. Fanciful buildings, built for fanciful princes, shooting up every day, everywhere, insolent and disdainful. The buildings had strange, seductive names, enticing designs, and specifications that beggared the imagination. They rose up and remained half finished, hanging in the air. Like ghosts. Like freaks of nature, growing taller and more absurd. Like powerful men when they go mad and suffer delusions of grandeur, afflicted by hallucinations, amnesia, and nervous breakdowns.
Perhaps it was for all those reasons that Luqman loved Salaam’s neighborhood and felt a sense of ease and security there.
--
Salaam was a few years older than him and had never been beautiful. Maybe that was why the Albino, who hated women and didn’t feel safe around them, loved her.
She had been his neighbor and used to bring trays of coffee, juice, sandwiches, and other food down to “the gang,” when, at the beginning of the war, they took it upon themselves to stay up late, guarding the residential neighborhoods from expected raids. That was after the people of the city had been divided into thieves and heroes, good and evil.
The Albino never touched her. Whenever Luqman would tease him by alluding to her big butt, which jiggled at every step, he would say, “She has more honor than all other women combined!” And when Luqman would respond, “What makes you so sure?” the Albino would become furious, sputtering and struggling to speak, his face turning red. Luqman would fall silent and apologize. He was never afraid for himself during the Albino’s bouts of rage, though he did fear for the Albino.
Salaam was Luqman’s inheritance from the Albino.
If only the Albino’s taste had been a little better! Why did you choose precisely her, Albino? What drew you to her? “A fine metal thread, too hard and solid for your bombs to destroy, Luqman,” he used to answer.
And when a shell mowed down Salaam’s parents, hiding from a bombardment in the shelter, the Albino exulted joyously. Luqman had never seen him so worked up.
“She didn’t cry, Luqman!” the Albino was saying. “And when I went to comfort her, she looked at me for a long time and said with a touch of reproach, ‘You offer me your condolances for two old people, Albino, while the gang are dying by the dozens, no, the hundreds?’”
On that day, the Albino was certain that he loved her, that he had loved her for a long time, from the very first instant. He kissed her on the hand and the head and fired off twenty rounds in her honor.
--
Luqman knocked on the door. This was another point in Salaam’s favor: a wooden door with opaque glass; no doorbell or buzzer.
She woke up.
He heard the bedroom door creak. He heard her heavy feet in their slippers shuffling over the old, yellow floor tiles. If only she would lose a little weight, then maybe...Even if she lost weight, what would he do about her age? She was over forty. What about her hairy chin? What about her face? Whenever he saw it, he felt that the skin was sagging and melting away. What would he do with her cracked lips? And what about her small, dry breasts? Her ass! Of course, if he focused on her ass, then maybe...The thought had crossed his mind. But if he set aside the rest of the details and kept the ass like it was, wouldn’t it, too, appear with surprises of its own?
The door opened.
He hadn’t been wrong. He had surprised her by coming this morning. And she surprised him with her puffy eyes and the way her short hair stood up on the side of her head like a cat that had been electrocuted.
She smiled and embraced him. The odor of her breath shocked him, and her oily sweat stuck to his cheek. He pushed her away. “Someone might see us,” he said.
She looked at him kindly and showed him in.
“Be careful not to step on the traps! The rats are killing me,” she said. She disappeared into the bathroom.
Luqman heard the splashing of the shower as he took a turn around the sitting room. Old furniture, without a speck of dust. He touched things. Cold and clean. He pushed open the bedroom door and saw the bed. White sheets, clean and white like snow. Like the amazing body of Marina. No! He should put Marina out of his mind for now. Out of respect for Salaam, for all she did on his behalf without any payment, or for the sake of some recompense that he kept putting off.
At the beginning, when he began visiting her after the Albino’s death, she had maintained a definite reticence. Then, towards the end of the war, when the comrades began to be hunted down and thrown in prison, she came to hi
m one evening and said, “Don’t stay here a single moment longer! You’ll be safe at my place.” She had gathered his things for him and brought him to her house, saying, “Stay here. No one will see you or turn you in.”
No one saw him again for weeks.
She would come home to him from her work at the telephone exchange—“the Central,” as it was called—bringing news about strangers and relatives, about allies and enemies. She would make dinner in the evening and talk to him about the Albino and about her life, which had been shattered by the Albino’s death. She would talk about her terrible luck, which had robbed her of a friend, a brother, a husband, and a father for the children she would never have. She would fall silent for a while and then conclude her speech by swearing she would never again think about men.
A few more weeks.
Here was Salaam, enjoying his presence and no longer talking about the Albino when she made dinner. Deep down, she had begun to cherish the dream of marrying Luqman. He figured that out from the news of raids and detentions, which she started inventing sometimes, exaggerating the details in order to make him afraid and keep him there. Later, he had no doubt about it when she began to shower him with gifts and embarrass him with effusive gestures of respect.
Another few weeks.
Here was Luqman, enjoying in turn his free stay at this luxurious hotel. But Salaam surprised him. She didn’t limit herself to that kind of persuasion alone. She began resorting to an endless litany of laudatory ethical descriptions, which she began hanging on her breast as badges, or jabbing into his chest like safety pins.
“Isn’t a true woman the housewife rather than the fashion model? Aren’t honor and morals the two essential pillars for the success of the institution of marriage? Doesn’t one hand need its sister in order to clap?”
And so on, with other enigmatic and loaded sentences that aimed at leading him into a marriage trap.
At first, Luqman let himself get caught up in Salaam’s game because he believed he was the one calling the shots. He would respond to her questions by advocating the counterarguments to her face, feeding that game of incursions and increasing her zealous efforts to persuade him. But as she became more aggressive and no longer stopped at the border, he realized his danger and the need to escape with his skin intact before losing his chance.
Oh, Salaam! Page 2