De Niro's Game

by Rawi Hage

  We drank. From his balcony we could see the roofs of houses covered with white laundry, TV antennas, and empty water barrels. The houses were all connected by loose electrical wires tied on wooden poles, filling the concrete city that has no trees for Judas to hang from, no meadows for invaders to roam, only flat roofs and mortals waiting their turn for water and bread. On the pavement there were kids’ bicycles, and the clay marks of kids’ drawings. Inside our houses, there were women stranded in kitchens, cooking. From below a radio was playing, a mother was calling her kid, a few passing cars rolled slowly through our narrow street. There was that silence, that quietness before bombs fall and teeth shatter and kids piss in their older brothers’ shorts, and young girls menstruate before their time, and windows shatter, and glass slices our dark flesh wide open.

  Johnny Walker is the best whisky, George said to me. Ice or no ice, this is the life, my friend. He lifted his glass and kissed it.

  I WAITED FOR RANA downstairs, but she didn’t show up. I called to Danny, our neighbour Nahla’s son, who was riding on his VelAmos bicycle. I said, Come here. Go to the Damouny family, enter their house when no one is looking, and give Rana this letter. No one should see it, you understand? No . . . come here! You understand? No one should see it.

  Yes, the little boy nodded.

  You will get something good later. Go now, do not be late.

  Danny smiled and darted down the stairs and flew like a pigeon toward Rana’s house.

  Rana and I met down at the French stairs. It was dark, and I saw her coming down the slope, walking between the cars, concealing herself in the walls’ shadows.

  When she saw me she waved discreetly, from afar.

  I held her hand and took her round the back of a building. I leaned against a wall and pulled her toward me.

  You have to stop holding my hand like that, Rana protested.

  No one is looking.

  You have to ask for permission, she said playfully.

  From whom?

  From me.

  Since when?

  Since I won that fight and wrestled you to the ground and made you eat dirt. She laughed.

  I kissed her on the cheek; I put my arm around her waist.

  She gave me back my hand, pushed me away slowly, and said, Not here.

  Come, I said.

  I held her wrist and led her up the stairs, and in total darkness I found George’s door. I searched for the lock, feeling it with my fingers like a blind man on his wedding night, like a lion in the fox’s den. I drove the key in and turned my wrist in a smooth, slow twist. I held Rana’s hand and pulled her inside George’s house. She resisted, but I kissed her neck. I locked the door, searched for a candle to light. When I struck a match and the fire started to dance on the tips of my fingers, she blew on it and said to me, No. No light.

  I laid ten thousand kisses on her body, under a cascade of sweet falling bombs. Our clothes were on the floor like carpets for prayers, our bodies on the bed like dancing corpses. I laid another thousand kisses on her and the bombs fell louder and closer. I slipped my hand under her skirt. She held it and resisted me. I snuck my other hand toward her breast. She let me do this, so I pulled down her bra, feeling her nipples: dark, soft, pointy, and motherly. I followed my tongue as it led me to her belly button. She pushed me away then, and said, Stop it. Stop, please, Bassam, stop. My mother must be looking for me. I told her I am going to see Nada. I have to leave.

  I will walk with you.

  Walk with me? Or run with me?

  We ran through the falling bombs. When we arrived at her home, Rana went down the stairs to the shelter, and I walked back above ground.

  ABOU-NAHRA WAS in his fifties. He had grey hair and a golden tooth. An Arabic-language teacher by trade, he had left teaching to become a high commander in the Christian militia. He was bald and round, always carried a gun on his waist, and the long, thick chain around his neck had a collection of icons and crosses that pressed against his bulky chest hair. He was in charge of the south district of East Beirut, and was credited with setting up a tax system to collect money from houses, gas stations, and stores to support the war. He had also established mini-casinos and poker machines that collected a great deal of money. Abou-Nahra drove a large Range Rover, and two cars always followed his vehicle as protection. In traffic jams, his bodyguards stuck their weapons out of their windows and shot in the air to make way for his highness. Everyone knew Abou-Nahra. Abou-Nahra was into Christianity, money, and power.

  George had met him through Aunt Nabila, whom Abou-Nahra was “courting” at the time. Nabila asked Abou-Nahra to give her beloved nephew a job, and he did. After Nabila left Abou-Nahra, George’s job was in jeopardy.

  There is always a price, George said to me. He wants me to join his militia. He sent Khalil the other day to ask me if I want to go with Khalil down to the green line.

  What did you say?

  I said that I couldn’t leave the casino.

  Khalil said he would pass by after we closed and we could go for a while, shoot a few bullets, empty a few magazines, see the men, and come back; it wouldn’t be long. I waited for him, but he never showed up. He will pass by tomorrow, I am sure of it.

  I will come with you, I said. Give him a rendezvous point. Do not go alone; I will come with you. And keep your gun loaded.

  Do you think they know about our scheme at the casino?

  No, but just in case, keep your gun loaded. If they do know, Abou-Nahra would have given an order for a hit. I will come with you. Just give Khalil a meeting place.

  I SAW THE KID, Danny, playing with marbles on a patch of sand. I called him over and he ran up to me.

  Did you give Rana the letter the other day?

  Yes, he said.

  What did she do?

  She read it and smiled.

  Here. I pulled some change from my pocket. Go buy some more candy for you and your friends. He raced over to his friends and they all ran, jumping up and down, toward Abou-Fouad’s store.

  RANA WAS ON George’s bed. She lay on her belly, lifted her ankles in the air, straightened her toes, and put her hand on my chest.

  Do you love me? she asked.

  I kissed her on the mouth.

  Do you love me? she repeated louder.

  Yes, of course, I said and puffed smoke that hushed my words.

  She held my chin between her fingers and looked me in the eye. Look at me here, in my eyes, she said. Do you love me?

  Yes, I do, I said. I tried to kiss her breast, but she pushed my face back on the pillow and said: I will smash your face if you’re lying to me, Bassam Al-Abyad! I know you. You can never fool me. It is me, Rana, remember? I will shoot you, you hear me. My hand on the cross, I will shoot you.

  I laughed and held her waist. She remained silent and looked up at the high ceiling. Then she kissed me and fixed her dress, pulled up her bra, and asked me to zip up her dress. I kissed her shoulders, and she left.

  GEORGE AND I MET Khalil down near the electric-company building. Khalil was in a jeep in the driver’s seat. Another militiaman, nicknamed Abou-Haddid, was sitting in the back seat with a Czech Kalashnikov in his left hand.

  George kissed Khalil and introduced me. We chatted a little, found common acquaintances that we knew, talked about cars and guns. Abou-Haddid said that he knew a man called Charbel who worked at the port with me.

  George sat next to Khalil in the jeep. I followed them on the motorbike. We crossed empty streets and bomb-shattered buildings and went through a few checkpoints smoothly. Everyone knew Khalil.

  When we arrived at the headquarters, I recognized a couple of guys that I had gone to school with: Joseph Chaiben and Kamil Alasfar. They had both grown beards, and both looked tired and dirty. Joseph’s Kalashnikov had the Virgin Mary on its wooden butt; Kamil was holding a sniper machine gun. When Joseph saw me, he aimed at me and said, Trouble students are not allowed here. He smiled and we shook hands.

  We sat on sandbags and
barrels. Joseph took me to one side and showed me the enemy’s position. There, he said. You see that large container? They hide behind it. Listen! He shouted, Hassan, you son of a dog!

  A man answered from the other side and exchanged curses. Did he just curse my sister? Joseph asked Kamil.

  You do not have a sister.

  Still, he insulted my honour.

  Joseph cranked his gun. With a smirk on his face he pointed the rifle in Hassan’s direction and shot a few rounds. The whole area went aflame. Bullets flew left and right, back and forth. I dug behind the sandbags; empty, warm bullets flew from Joseph’s machine and landed at my feet. When everyone stopped shooting we heard Hassan’s voice from the other side. He shouted something about a prostitute, about Christian mothers. Everyone laughed.

  George came out of a nearby building with a rifle in his hand. He had a big smile and was laughing with Khalil. Khalil put his arm around George’s shoulders and they walked away.

  I waited and listened to Joseph telling me about the last two nights, how heavy the fighting had been, how the bombs had fallen like rain and how they had been forced to hold their ground. They could not move, the food truck did not show up, and they were hungry and out of cigarettes; ammunition was getting low and the Majalis (militia headquarters) did not care to send more men. He complained, puffed his cigarette, and said, We are not organized. Then he led me inside the building and offered me a cigarette.

  Remember our teacher, Souad? he laughed. Her legs, he said. She had nice long legs.

  She is in France, I said.

  Yeah, I know, he said. Got married to that French teacher. They all want to get married to Frenchmen.

  He pulled out his gun and gave it to me. Here, shoot a few rounds, maybe you will get lucky and hit Hassan in the ass. I scared the hell out of him the other day. He was taking a shit on the other side. I was on the second floor, and I saw him, so I rushed and took the sniper gun from Kamil and shot between his legs. He was running with his pants down.

  You did not kill him?

  No. No. We promised each other that when this war ends we will have a drink.

  I refused to take the gun; Joseph shook his head and said, You were always quiet. You are a calm man . . . though I remember you when you had a fight with the Baa’liny brothers at school. You were vicious. Not many boys wanted to mess with you. So what are you doing here?

  I came with George to see Khalil.

  Are you guys joining?

  No. I shook my head.

  The forces used to be all volunteers, but now you have to sign up and you are paid. We are turning into more of an army than a militia. Now we even have to wear uniforms. When the war started everyone was in jeans. The top commander, AlRayess, has a grand plan. Come back sometime and visit us.

  ON THE DRIVE home to George’s place, I asked George what Khalil wanted.

  Nothing, he said. Just to talk.

  Just to talk?

  Khalil knows.

  About what?

  About our game.

  Abou-Nahra knows too?

  No. Khalil wants a cut.

  How did he find out?

  He used to work at the poker place, so he suspected it. He tricked me; first he says that he has a message from Abou-Nahra, and that Abou-Nahra knows. He says there is a counter in the machine. Then he offers to talk on my behalf to Abou-Nahra. If I give the money back to the militia, he says, they will forgive and forget the whole thing. When I said that I do not have the money any more, he switched. He said that he is the only one who knows and that he needs a cut.

  Where does Khalil live? I asked George.

  Down by the lower bridge.

  Where?

  Above Appo. The lahm ba’ajin place.

  He lives alone?

  Yeah.

  Tell him OK, we will give him a cut.

  I WALKED DOWN to the lower bridge and watched Khalil’s house.

  I entered the store below his house and ordered two lahm ba’ajin. I ate them, and drank iran. Then I walked up the stairs looking for Khalil’s name on a buzzer.

  When I could not find his name anywhere, I left and went straight back to my house.

  At twelve noon the next day, George came to my place. My mother, the Armenian, offered him food. She kissed his cheeks and told him about his mother: Your mother was a wonderful lady, God save her soul, a real lady. She would be so proud to see what a good and handsome man you turned out to be, George.

  Then my mother asked George about his aunt Nabila, and his distant uncle and his family. She poured a lot of food onto George’s plate, asked him to eat well, and repeated familiar words: You people do not know how to use those spices, like us Armenians.

  George called my mother tante, kissed her hand, and ate well.

  After the meal we went to my room. George stretched out on my bed. I lay on the sofa.

  How much does Khalil want?

  Half. That leaves you and me with a quarter each.

  Half? Does he know I am in on it?

  He knows someone else must be in on it.

  Tell him to meet you under the bridge, I said.

  He won’t come. Khalil is a snake.

  Okay. Then tell him that we will go to see him down on the front line.

  LATE THAT NIGHT, a man named Samir Al-Afhameh was attacked by a chihuahua on his way home. Samir Al-Afhameh, a respectable man who had once owned a law office in the destroyed downtown Beirut, now unemployed and too proud to work at something else, lived on whatever little money his son sent him from Kentucky.

  The pack of dogs growled at him when he passed next to the mountain of garbage. The chihuahua who attacked him had once belonged to Madame Kharazi, who fled to Paris in a hurry, taking a taxi to the checkpoint that divided East and West Beirut. From there, through some rich connection that she had in West Beirut, she was taken to the airport by an ex-army Muslim colonel who knew her husband from before the war. The little dog attacked Mr. Samir by order of his three-legged boss.

  The next day Mr. Samir went to the right-wing militia centre and talked to the men there about the chihuahua attack and the pack of dogs that had invaded his street. He warned them of the dogs’ ambition to take over the Christian enclave using the power of their sharp teeth and a well-developed intimidation technique called growling, backed by a garbage mountain to feed them through and through until rabies made their eyes red and saliva dropped through their unbrushed gums.

  Mr. Samir was dismissed by a local brute commander who walked with open feet like a duck, wore heavy boots in heat or cold weather, whose smell assaulted your nostrils, whose petty theft of vegetables and poultry was reminiscent of a medieval monk on the crusaders’ path.

  Mr. Samir, the advocate schooled by Jesuit priests with long, black robes who recorded every detail meticulously, and who had taught him French and discipline, lifted his eyeglasses and walked straight to Nabila’s house. He climbed her stairs and knocked at her door.

  Nabila opened the door and made an appearance barefoot and wearing diminutive shorts. This made her thighs look rounder and more luscious than ever. She amended her voice and her hair when she saw Mr. Samir’s large body, his legal status, his tail that wagged with fury and, at that moment, excitement. Mr. Samir dropped his head in reverence and uttered, solemnly, a long monologue worthy of a corrupt judge and a pack of hyenas sitting on jury benches, waiting for leftovers from a lioness with hungry cubs under an African tree.

  Excuse me, Madame Nabila. But I must tell everyone what is happening in our neighbourhood. You see, I was attacked by the most beautiful pack of dogs last night. Yes, we might all die any minute from falling bombs and bullets, but if we get rabies from these expensive dogs we might have an epidemic here. I came specifically to you because I know that your nephew has a gun and that he has friends in the militia. Maybe he knows someone in the higher ranks who can do something about it. If I had a gun or knew how to use one, I would get rid of them all. There are kids and women who might
be attacked, and there is a pile of garbage not too far from your house, and those dogs might attack even you or anyone . . .

  Oh my God, absolutely, Mr. Samir, we have to do something about it. I am terrified of dogs.

  Yes.

  Please come in.

  Well . . . eh . . . okay.

  Were do they come from? We never had dogs loose like that before.

  Well, there is no government, no law, no order any more, and everyone throws garbage on the streets, some even throw it from the balcony. The other day . . . the people above us . . .

  God help us . . . what a life we have now.

  Things have changed, Madame Nabila. Everything has changed . . . There is no respect in this war . . .

  Coffee, Professor Samir?

  Well, no, thank you.

  Oh yes . . . We have to have coffee. It will calm your nerves.

  Okay, no sugar, please. . . We must get rid of them, Madame Nabila, absolutely.

  I will tell Gargourty about it. How is your son?

  He is well, thank you.

  He is in America?

  Yes, in Kentucky. The telephone is hard. You know, the lines . . . He tries to call. He is always worried . . . They see the news there . . . And we cannot call him, my wife tries for hours . . .

  America, all our trouble comes from America, Mr. Samir.

  Well, yes, that dog Kissinger’s plan, Madame Nabila.

  The oil, they want the oil in the region, Mr. Samir.

  Yes, Madame Nabila. Yes, you are right. Your coffee is very good.

  Sahtayn. How is your wife?

  Well, she sits all day complaining, Madame Nabila. You know, since Ziad left she cries all the time.

  Your wife is a wonderful lady, Mr. Samir. The other day I saw her on the street. I did not stop and talk to her . . . You know, Mr. Samir, we do not know when the bombing will start any more. We are always rushing . . . I listen to the news all day . . .

  I am sorry, but I have to leave, Madame Nabila. Yes, may God be with you.

  The dogs have to go.

  I will talk to Gargourty.

  Au revoir.

  NABILA PICKED UP the phone and called Abou-Nahra.