by Rawi Hage
Dogs!? Abou-Nahra said. Is it the time for talk of dogs now? Is that what you called me for?
Do you know what rabies is, Abou? It makes you bark like a dog. They will put a piece of wood in your mouth for you to bite. Yeah, you will be driving your big Range Rover with a piece of wood in your mouth . . . Oh well, maybe it is not a good idea after all, Abou . . . Do something about it . . . Do something for the people besides shooting them and taking their money.
And Nabila hung up the phone, lit a cigarette, and noticed she was alone in an empty house, all alone in a war, and surrounded by dogs, human dogs, dogs in men’s masks, dogs with guns, dogs in banker suits, dogs that pee on one’s couch and pant their filthy breath on one’s breast. They are all dogs, men; especially men. Nothing but unfaithful dogs.
LATE THE NEXT NIGHT we heard close-range shots in our neighbourhood. The men went down in their pyjamas, with guns and long knives in their hands.
They are killing dogs! The words of the Christians flew from one balcony to another. Two jeeps carrying seven militiamen surrounded the dogs. Dog massacre! Dog slaughter! An Afghani hound bitch was executed for treason, while in Paris her beloved owner was on all fours on a silk bedsheet, backing up her secret lover, Pierre, a French painter, in his artistic endeavours. A cocker spaniel was pursued by a fat fighter, while his mommy was buying filet mignon in the Champs Élysées for an evening of wine and debauchery. A German shepherd was slaughtered like a sheep in a wolf story, while his adoptive parents were drinking beer at a long table in a European bar filled with men singing Bavarian songs. The chihuahua was missed twice because of his small size, but was finally shot at close range, under a car, while his mother, in Venice, discussed the origin of silk in a chic salon over espresso. The three-legged leader died alone, an orphan, on top of a mountain of rubbish, propped up by a piece of metal, a few empty hummus cans, and a box of Belgian detergent.
During the massacre, Samir the lawyer stood beside the jeep, pointing his finger, reading aloud the execution orders and shutting the dogs’ eyes. He tied their paws with long leather leashes to crucifixes carried by Roman soldiers with skirts and open sandals; he stuck last cigarettes between their loose canines; he swung his sword up and down with every shot, delirious, salivating dog food, and shouting, The small one, get the small one! It is under the car . . . He is dangerous. . . Give me the gun, I will do it . . .
Do not leave any . . . They should all go! he shouted in his pyjamas that night, a night known ever since as “The night of the big moon and the final howl.”
Dog blood filled our streets in rivers of drifting bones and urine.
The Christians won the battle, the battle of the hundred dogs.
GEORGE CAME THE next day to pick me up. We drove down to the green line to meet Khalil. We both brought money. On the way there, in the middle of a deserted street, we stopped under a bridge, away from the snipers’ sharp eyes.
We put the money in a bag.
I will show him the money, George said to me.
At the checkpoint, we were stopped by a few men surrounded by sandbags. A young man with a rifle asked me where I was going. I told him we were going to see Khalil the rooster. He made us wait while he phoned Abou-Haddid. We were cleared.
When you pass that main street with the burned van in the middle, drive as fast as you can. The sniper can see you from the tower there, the boy said to us.
Before we got to Danger Street, George stopped. Hold on tight, he said.
He lifted the bike on one wheel and we zoomed straight to the compound.
Joseph met us. I shook hands with him while George went looking for Khalil. He found him, and they both disappeared into a vacant building.
I talked to Joseph. He had a toothache, he said, pressing his hand against his left cheek. I have been sipping araq to calm the pain.
I told him about a dentist who would give him a good price. He said he knew one as well. But it is the electricity, he said. No electricity. . . The last time I went to the dentist the electricity was suddenly cut off and I sat in the chair waiting, in pain.
How is Hassan on the other side? I asked.
Let us see. Hassan, Joseph shouted.
Hassan answered with a series of affectionate, dirty curses.
He just insulted your sister again, I said playfully.
Yeah, here, shoot him and save my honour, brother. Joseph giggled. He handed me his rifle.
I held it with my right hand and cranked it with my left hand. I aimed it in the air and shot toward Hassan’s side, while Joseph cursed the vagina that gave Hassan birth.
Hassan fired back at us from the other side. We dug in, and then I stuck the rifle in an opening in the sandbags and shot some more. Joseph stood up and called to Hassan, promising to turn him into ham. The whole front line went ablaze, and everyone started to shoot. Abou-Haddid came running with a ten millimetre in both hands. He sang profanities as he shot a long round from the bullet belt that covered his strong shoulders. Joseph was smiling the entire time. He grabbed the rifle from my hand, changed the magazines for me, and shouted in my ear, I see you’re enjoying this!
At that moment, screams came from the building, screams for help. It was George’s voice. As we ran toward him, I could hear him screaming, He is hit, he is hit. Khalil was flung over George’s shoulders, bleeding, dripping blood along the tips of his fingers. Abou-Haddid ran to George, lifted Khalil’s body, and laid it in the back of the jeep. George climbed in beside Khalil. I took the motorcycle, and Joseph hopped on behind me, and we drove like madmen, honking all the way to the hospital. I could see Khalil’s wounded body bouncing inside the jeep. George cushioned his head and hung on to him, looking away. I sped in front of the jeep while, from behind me, Joseph shot in the air, clearing the way.
When we arrived at the emergency ward, Abou-Haddid lifted up Khalil and rushed inside. He laid Khalil’s loose body on a rolling bed and screamed for a doctor. When no one showed up, he pulled out his gun and shot in the hallway; white paint and chips of dust fell from the ceiling onto his red face. Two nurses ran over and rushed Khalil through the hallways of the hospital.
Khalil died.
ON THE HIGHWAY HOME, George drove the motorcycle slowly. Behind George, I opened the bag with the money, split the cash, and hid it from the wind. I slipped George’s share into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his gun.
GEORGE, I SAID THE next day while we were sitting in a café, smoking and drinking coffee, Khalil’s funeral is on Wednesday. Are you going?
No, he said, and looked at me with piercing eyes. I do not kill the bird and dance with its feathers.
ON WEDNESDAY I WENT down to the street under the bridge. On the way I saw Khalil’s photo pasted on a shoemaker’s door and on concrete walls. The hero Khalil Al-Deeq, martyred on the front line defending his beloved country, the poster said. I walked on and went up to the roof of a building opposite Khalil’s home. I perched like a hawk, watching men entering the building, hearing women in black wailing sacred chants in a room filled with fainting mothers, red-eyed, weeping sisters, pious grandmothers. Militiamen filled the streets.
I saw Abou-Nahra get out of his jeep and walk straight to the coffin. He shook hands with his sunglasses on. I wanted to see his eyes.
Funerals are all the same, I thought. Men and women were segregated. The house of the deceased accepted the women and the neighbour’s house was open to men. And I was on the roof, a vulture that watched from above and landed only to eat.
When the coffin came down the narrow stairs, held by mighty young men who fought over its gold-metal handles and lifted it on their shoulders to walk it back to earth, the women’s wails intensified. Balconies throughout the neighbourhood were filled with people; the roofs were covered with curious and silent faces. Khalil’s battalion stood in line, aimed their rifles toward a passing cloud, and shot in the air to the slow, migrating coffin.
Men walked behind the coffin, women waved to it. From above, I watched the Christians pa
ssing on the road to hell.
6
THE HEAT MADE MY THROAT DRY; I WAS LYING IN MY underwear thinking of Rana.
I put on my jeans and I went down the street toward her house. As my foot touched the melting earth, church bells rang. Miracle! Miracle! shouted Wafa and rushed toward the sounds. Issam scratched his head; Boutros looked at the sky. I walked toward the church and saw a crowd gathered around its door, old ladies in black beating their saggy chests. I grabbed Salah, the plumber, by the hand, and in a low voice I asked what was happening. He answered, There is a young girl who saw the Virgin Mary hovering in the sky. She opened her robe and shielded us all from the Muslims’ falling bombs. The girl’s hands are secreting holy oil.
The church was packed. Mumbles fused with prayers, prayers combusted with the holy waters and burned in candles. Collective chants slid toward the skies.
Like a reptile with moist skin, I slipped into the mob. I made my way toward the front of the church, separating the crippled from their mothers, the blind from their canes, the faces in tears from their sweeping palms. Above the kneeling heads I moved forward, toward the golden icons, then stood to the side and watched: she was there, standing like a statue, a young girl I had never seen before. She was looking up to the ceiling; her hands were open and shiny. She was young, in her teens, and her eyes shone with madness and evasion. A small smirk was on her lips, and she looked hazy and eerie.
The priest puffed incense around the girl. People crossed themselves, and an old lady rushed forward and touched the girl’s hand. The priest pulled the old lady back and drove her away, but then the crowd moved forward and reached for the girl. A few men moved in and pushed the crowd back, forming a shield to protect the young woman. The girl was taken back behind the altar. The low hums and hysterical cries, the reaching hands and beating of chests, the fog of incense, the superstitious shrieks, the sight of pious bodies on crushed knees, the unbearable heat, all these made me seek the open doors. On my way out I grabbed the woman who had touched the girl’s hands, held her fingers to my nose to smell, but the old woman liberated her hand, pushed me back, and shouted at me: Faith! Faith! I made my way out of the crowd like the spear of a warrior in retreat.
For days, people flocked to the church from all over the city. The tolling of the bell muffled the bangs of bombs. My mother’s radio and the ring of bells deafened me.
IN THE EVENING, the sun departed. A bright, round moon arrived and occupied its place. It hovered above the Virgin Mary, made her blue dress glow white, and formed a halo above her head. Down below, a crowd rushed toward the church, bounced, splashed, and retreated from its walls like the tide.
Rana and I were naked in George’s room at his apartment. Rana’s hands were dry and warm, her thighs wet as silk sheets dipped in holy oil. She covered herself and listened as I dreamed about the pigeons in Roma.
You want to go to Roma?
I am thinking about it.
And what, you’ll leave me here?
No, you can come with me.
And what would I do in Roma?
Study, walk the streets, and come back to me.
And how would we do this?
I am working on it, I said.
Rana got up and went to the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink. She squeezed soap onto a sponge, poured water into the sink from a bucket, and rinsed the dishes.
I cannot stand dirty dishes, she said. It drives me crazy. Go outside and see if there are any nosy neighbours on the stairs; I have to go home.
I opened the door and looked outside. There is no one, I told her.
Rana covered herself and ran down the stairs.
Close the door, she whispered fiercely on her way down. Go inside! Close the door, someone will see me.
I kept the door open, smiling and looking at her.
LATER THAT EVENING George joined me at his place.
From the balcony I saw him drive up in a jeep. He was wearing a militia uniform and holding an M-16. When he got out of the jeep he switched his rifle from one hand to the other. He knocked at his own door. Is Rana still there? he asked me.
She left. New clothes? I asked.
He did not answer. He laid his rifle on the sofa, took off his boots, and said, Abou-Nahra called me in.
And?
He asked me what was happening down at the casino. I think he smells something.
I doubt it.
Well, he asked me to join. He looked me straight in the eyes and said it’s better for everyone. You know what he meant, don’t you?
So you got alarmed and joined? Maybe he meant that you might lose your job.
No, I know what he meant. I was there.
Where does Abou-Nahra live? I asked George.
He is always surrounded by bodyguards, Bassam. Forget about it. Listen, we better cool it with the poker machines for now. He held his rifle closer to his chest, against his khaki shirt, under his chin. Then he pointed it at me and smiled.
Hold it. See? It’s light as a feather. He took off his clothes, went to the bathroom. Fucking water, I heard him cursing.
He pulled on his shirt and pants, went up to the roof, and came back with a bucket. While I poured water on his head, he washed under his armpits. When he was finished washing, he dabbed cologne under his chin.
I am going to meet the Broumana woman, he told me.
She called?
He nodded and combed his straight black hair. Are you coming?
No, I am staying. But leave me the handgun.
He tossed it on the sofa and asked no questions.
I TUCKED THE GUN under my belt and walked over to Joseph Chaiben’s house. I climbed up the open stairs, smearing the dirty marble with my footprints. Joseph lived in one of those old Lebanese houses, a mixture of Florentine and Arabic architecture, that are overwhelmed by larger, modern buildings with mechanical elevators and large balconies.
I knocked at Joseph’s door. His mother opened. I greeted her and asked after her health. She invited me in and called to her son. Joseph had been asleep. He entered in his shorts, a sleeveless white cotton shirt, and plastic slippers that complemented his mother’s cheap tablecloth. As he greeted me, his mother brought me a drink, apologizing for not having ice, complaining about the water shortage, the war. . . life . . . Her words echoed my mother’s.
When Joseph and I went up to the roof, Joseph’s mother shouted from below, The roofs are dangerous; there are snipers everywhere! Come down here; talk in the room. I will leave; come back down.
But the roof had no walls and we wanted no echoes, so we ignored her. I showed Joseph the gun and asked him if he knew of someone selling a gun like it. He held it, took off the magazine, put it back on, cranked the gun, aimed it toward West Beirut and fired.
Beretta, I said. Nine millimetre, ten shots. Clean, never used in combat.
I will look into it.
How are Khalil’s parents doing? I said.
His sister saw me on the street the other day. I was coming back from the front line in my uniform, gear and all, and when she saw me she started to shout, You people killed my brother. You are all thugs and criminals to take young men to war. He was seventeen, she said. A baby, seventeen!
Joseph shook his head and inspected the gun again.
Do you still go down to the front line? I asked.
Yeah, he said. Abou-Nahra won’t let me leave. You know, once you’re in, you’re in.
And what does Abou-Nahra think about Khalil’s death?
He asked a lot of questions but never said anything to me.
I promised Joseph some oily, shiny hash; he smiled and said he would do his best to find a good gun for me.
When we went down, his mother was gone; Joseph went back inside the house.
That day, as I remember, there was a ceasefire and few clouds.
THE NEXT DAY I borrowed George’s motorcycle. I met Rana on the outskirts of the neighbourhood, at the corner of a building filled with people who h
ad never seen our faces before. She mounted the motorcycle behind me and we drove straight to the mountains. She clasped both her arms around my waist. I drove on gravel roads and into the belly of the hills. When we stopped, I handed her the gun, wrapped my arms around her shoulders, put my hands over hers, and we both extended our arms and took aim at rusty cans. She fired, and laughed. Then she liberated herself from my arms, pushed me back and took the gun by herself, aimed and shot. She smiled and walked toward me, swinging her hips, waving the gun in the air. She pointed it at my chest. Flipping her long lashes playfully, she said: Now that I have a gun, I will follow you to Roma and shoot you down if you leave without me.
From afar Beirut looked like a stretch of little cement hills, crowded buildings with no roads, no lampposts, no humans.
There, that is the Muslim side, she pointed. I have never met a Muslim. No, wait, there were a couple of Muslim girls in school, but they fled when the war started. Faten, one of their names was, Faten; the other, I can’t remember . . . Can’t remember.
I held Rana and kissed her neck. The soft, cool breeze made her nipples erect under her thin white cotton shirt. I slipped my hand onto her chest, molested her breasts, and sucked her round, red nipples.
She was anxious, looking around, watching for stray visitors, nature lovers and bird hunters, and when I pushed my hand inside her tight jeans, she said: Bassam, stop. Not here. Bassam, stop!
I did not stop. I was breathing like a hound and I forced myself on her; Rana froze, then gripped my hand and pushed me away. She pointed the gun at me.
When I say stop, you stop! You stop, she shouted in anger.
I walked toward her. I grabbed her wrist, pointed the gun again at my chest, and said, Pull it!
You are hurting my wrist, she said.
I took the gun back, and we both kept our silence, breathing heavily.
Then we drove farther up into the hills. We stopped and looked at the city again. A long, mushroom-shaped cloud sprang from the earth in West Beirut.
A bomb, Rana said to me. Look, a bomb just landed.
More like an explosion, I said.