by Rawi Hage
Back on the street, Abou-Youssef stopped me and gave his condolences for the death of my mother. Salah, the plumber, saw us, paused apologetically, and said to me: May God rest her soul, two days before she died I fixed the pipes in your kitchen. My wrench and a few tools are still lying under your sink, and there is a small bill that maybe you can settle. I know it is not the time to ask, but the kids are without clothes, the wife is cursing the day she married me and her tyrant father who forced me on her, and my thick hands that are covered with calluses, and my chopped-up index finger that will never touch her saggy breasts again. She curses her fate. So this is me asking you for the rest . . . And may God rest your mother’s soul. Such a lady.
I walked back home with Salah, and opened the door to him, and he went straight to his tools. I ducked behind the dining-room table and took my bundle of money from my pocket. I pulled out a few bills, straightened up, and gave Salah what my mother owed him.
When I returned to the street, it was calm. For the last few days, bombs had not flown our way. Taxi drivers fought over gas, women cursed the saints of cascades and water, and the men looked defeated in their unshaven beards. A few of the men showed off old guns that hung around their waists. People buzzed between stores, and card players disappeared like Houdini inside cafés obscured by a thick haze of argilahs smoke. The tobacco-apple aroma covered the garbage smells, and shielded the gamblers from the wrath of their hysterical wives.
As I walked, I passed my old school. Children in grey smocks walked in groups, books in their hands and in their brown satchels. They shuffled their feet in the direction of the long refectory, toward the priest in long robes, toward Napoleonic battles, toward ninety-degree triangles, toward Jahiliyyah poems of drunken Bedouins who praised many gods, and mourned the dead who dwelt under soft sand, over the shifting dunes, swaying with the dancing palms under a little bowl of half-lit moons.
12
ISRAELI SOLDIERS ENTERED OUR LAND, SPLITTING RIVERS and olive trees.
Vartan and I were reading the newspaper on the edge of the sidewalk. The headlines blared: The Jews are in the south! The Syrians have pulled back! The Muqawamah is getting ready! The Christian forces are allying themselves with the invaders!
Abou-Fouad passed by, and stuck his head into our open paper, and whispered, They are here. I heard the radio. We will get rid of those Palestinians, and be stuck with the Israelis.
Al-Chami, the street-corner musician, played with his beats and passed his hand over his moustache. Whoever comes, let him come. We are tired of this war, he chanted. We need to work, and the grey partridge on the roof will coo in my head when are we departing, when are we departing. Let’s catch the southern wind. I can glide! I can glide across the nearby sea.
On my way back home, I met Monsieur Laurent. He held my arm, nodded, and said, Les Juifs sont là, ils sont là.
I SAW RANA ONCE in the market; she ignored me and slipped away through the merchants’ calls. I followed her. When I approached her, she pretended not to see me and continued picking vegetables.
I took her hand and said, Come, let’s talk.
She softly answered, We have nothing to say to each other. Please, take your hand off me. Go. Leave. You always wanted to be alone; all you wanted is to leave. You do not need me; you do not need anyone. Besides, I am getting engaged. And do not ask, I will never tell you to whom.
I will find out and kill your fiancé, I said.
You can try. My fiancé has killed many before you, and will kill many more.
I let her go.
THE LOUD RADIO next door announced to me that the Israelis had moved north and laid siege on West Beirut.
From my balcony I watched the Christian forces, euphoric, driving their jeeps in haste. They had flamboyant orange flags pasted on their roofs, attached to their windows, on their hoods. When I asked Joseph about the orange flags, he told me, It is a sign for the Israelis to know that we are their allies. No whisky delivery for a while, hey, Majnun? He giggled.
Israeli jets flew over Beirut and bombed houses, hospitals, and schools. The radios trumpeted from every window on our street. On the West Side, people were fleeing for their lives, and on our East Side, in the night, we could see flashes of resistance aiming at the skies. I went to the roof and looked at the west. The landscape was lit up under lightning bolts that fell from Israeli airplanes. There was one consistent line of red that reached to the sky. It never ceased, and I wondered if my uncle was shooting at the gods. And I wondered if cheap whisky bottles would turn into Molotov cocktails in Ali’s hands.
I CALLED JALLIL Al-Tahouneh about my uncle’s letter. He was brief on the phone, and rude. We decided to meet in front of Café Sassine. He said that he would pass with his car if I would wait for him outside. Then he asked me if I would be alone. I assured him that I would be.
Do not forget the envelope, he said.
I slammed the phone in his ear.
I WAITED OUTSIDE the café. It was sunny, and I watched a group of girls exiting the nuns’ school in short skirts, holding books wrapped in thick elastic bands against their young breasts. They giggled in chorus, swung their fertile hips and their freshly shaved legs in a shared rhythm. Their wide brown eyes shifted and stole glances.
A car stopped in front of me, and a man with glasses and wearing a wool jacket leaned to the driver’s side, opened the door, and called me by my last name. I got in. The man did not greet me. He seemed nervous, or upset. I thought how he must be boiling with heat under the thick wool jacket. He was oblivious to my presence, but he stared at the envelope.
Is that it? he asked.
What? I asked back, knowing full well what he was looking for.
The envelope.
Yes.
He made a sudden turn and took the downhill road back to the Syriac neighbourhood.
He stopped the car, fixed his glasses, and snatched the envelope. Let me see.
He was boorish, and I felt annoyed by his eccentric ill manners.
He looked at me with his narrow eyes. Was this opened? he shouted.
No.
You opened it?
Yes.
Why? he shouted.
Because I felt like it.
You shouldn’t have opened it.
All the money is there. Count it.
He started to count the money. Then he shoved the envelope in his pocket and said, Okay, leave now.
I pulled out my gun and replied, No, you leave.
He froze.
Listen, I am just doing this as a favour, I said. You haven’t even said thank you. I am not walking all the way back on my feet, do you understand? I do not give a fuck about anything but respect. Respect is very important to me. I love respect, and I kill disrespect. You say one more word and I will shoot you and keep the money. Do you understand?
All of a sudden the man burst into a big smile. In a quick magic act of metamorphosis he turned from a cockroach into an apologetic hunchback, bowing his head, and calling me ‘ustadh (teacher).
Your uncle is a dear friend, he said, a very dear friend, indeed. Here. He pulled out two hundred liras and smiled. This is for your trouble.
Drive back, I said, and make it fast.
EARLY ONE MORNING a few days and many more dead civilians on the West Side later, two militiamen knocked at my door.
Al-Amn A-Dakhili (internal security). Open up! they shouted from the other side. When I did, they stormed my house and pushed me against the wall. A man put a gun to my head. Two more searched the house.
What is it? I asked
Shut up, Hashash (drug user)! The man with the gun to my head slapped my face. You are coming with us. Abou-Nahra wants to see you.
Let me get dressed, I said.
The man with the gun pushed me.
I am coming! I said. Do you want me to meet the commander in my underwear?
He grabbed me by my shirt. Do it fast, he said.
I led him to my room, found my pants, and while
he was shoving me, I slipped my finger inside the bundle of money in my pants pocket. I waited until he pushed me again, then pretended to fall and stashed the bundle under the old, heavy couch. Then he and the other men led me to the jeep. On the way down, Abou-Dolly, the grocer, was standing at the entrance shaking his head. Zu’ran (thugs), he said, and looked me in the eyes.
Why are you taking me? I asked my captors.
The man with the gun bounced around in his seat and grabbed my hair. One more word and I will make you spit blood from your mouth. Do you understand?
Eventually, we arrived at the Majalis. I got out of the jeep, and two militiamen led me down some stairs and underground. They shoved me into a room containing a table and couple of chairs. I sat on one of the chairs and waited.
Two hours passed, and still I waited. All I heard was the slam of a metal door, a few guard’s steps, some moaning. I felt the dampness of the moist underground, the cold walls, the vague urine smells, and the unpainted concrete floors. I paced, and fidgeted, and changed chairs. Maybe they had found out about the poker deal. I should have killed Najib, that idiot; or had George stabbed me in the back again?
Soon I became vindictive. Was it the poker deals, or the envelope from my uncle to Jallil Al-Tahouneh? I prepared myself for the coming slaps, the repetitive questioning. Tell the same story, Bassam, tell the same story. I craved a cigarette. Finally, I heard keys twisting inside the door lock, and Abou-Nahra came inside, smiling. He was accompanied by a guard.
Ah! You are Bassam. I thought it was you, he said from behind his glasses. I wondered if he could still see me by the room’s dim lightbulb that almost touched his head under the low ceiling.
Stand up! his man shouted and slapped the back of my head. Stand up for the commander, Hashash.
I stood up slowly, looking Abou-Nahra straight in the eyes.
Kalb, stand up fast! The guard slapped me again on the head, pushed me, and kicked my shin. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. When I touched the grainy surface of the concrete I felt its coldness and dampness, and my clothes rubbed against it and picked up its grey colour, the soft grey grains that covered the rough, uneven surface. I wondered about the sloppy job they’d done of pouring concrete in that place. The floor was not even; maybe that is why all the chairs wobbled when I was sitting down, I thought, as feet landed on my face and battered my morning eyes.
I stood up, bleeding. Abou-Nahra waved his hand, and the monster stopped his Dabkah dancing on me.
Do you know what you did?
No.
Listen, I am a very busy man, and your uncle the yassareh (the leftist) was a friend of mine. You speak, or I will keep you here with Rambo.
I have no idea what I did.
Why did you kill the old man?
What old man?
His wife said there were things stolen.
Who? I have no idea what you are talking about.
Rambo came back and grabbed my hair, put his mouth in my ear and whispered, Talk now, or you will not be happy at all.
Okay, here is the story, little boy. Abou-Nahra leaned his glasses toward my face, and in a low, calm voice, he told me, Last night, Laurent Aoudeh was killed in his apartment. A burglary also took place. We interrogated his wife. She was at her friend’s place in the mountains. Some African diamonds were stolen from the house.
Maybe she killed him! Maybe she stole them! I said.
Do not interrupt the commander! Rambo barked and hit me on the head.
When we pressed her, Abou-Nahra continued, she said that she suspected you. You pushed drugs on her. And you were hanging around with the old man lately. Do you like old, rich men?
No.
Yes, you do. Maybe you give him massat (blowjobs). People in the neighbourhood have seen you with him lately.
People like who? I asked in defiance.
The grocery man, Abou-Dolly, told us that you took a walk every day with him. We heard a great deal about you. Everyone knows that you are a hashash. Where were you last night?
Home. I did not do it.
We found a gun in your place. Listen, you little communist . . . You are a communist, aren’t you, just like your uncle? You tell me where you hid the diamonds or Rambo here is going to show you the midday stars from inside the womb of your mother.
My mother is dead.
Rambo went berserk: Are you answering back to the commander, ya kalb! He beat me with the butt of his gun.
I fell on that cool floor again, and his boots came and retreated like waves that splash on misty shores, like black veils that eclipse the sun from your eyes, like the sound of blasting drums in your ears, like lollypop drips on your chin, like the smell of plastic erasers in your classroom. The dust from the floor rose again, like the powder chuck that was swept from the blackboard by that brown-nose Habib, oh, and like the slaps from the French Jesuit priest that landed on your palm as if they were the ruler’s blessing, and like your bent knees on those narrow logs under the chapel benches, and like the smell of incense that came back and gave you a celestial high, and forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, I jerked that tree until it ejaculated fruits, I broke that glass with St. Peter’s rock, I stole candies, and I fumbled that little girl under the falling bombs in the shelter, while her mother was snoring in sync with the news on the radio. You see, Father, I confess, I am the one who waited until the candle was dead, and then I slipped my hand under her nightgown, to her newly acquired pubic hair, and she never said a word, and she followed me when I played, when I went up to the roof, she followed me like a puppy dog, like a female bird. Ever since then, Father, she dressed louder, played with her hair, chewed gum with an open mouth, danced flamboyantly to every jingle. She became jealous of my mother, of my young friends, and then, Father, suddenly one day she was repulsed by my husky voice, my puberty nose, my red pimples, and my swollen nipples. You see, Father, she grew up to hang out only with militiamen who came in stolen Italian cars, who honked under her father’s window. And I, resentful of my age, of my poverty, resentful that she left me for older boys, would watch her rushing to their cars, to their golden rings, their dangling Christmas cedars that hung on their open chests, and their Drakkar Noir cologne, and their loud music tapes that offended the neighbourhood. Her hair, Father, flew from their topless cars, cars that drove them to their summer cottages on polluted beaches, and their mountain’s garçonnière. And when she saw me, Father, she smiled at me like the little man in her dollhouse. So you see, Father, ever since I have refused to go down into the shelter, even if Rambo here hammers me into a meat pie. No, I won’t go down to that dark place because I have always hated the underground and the little devils who dwell there, who made me lust for her skinny thighs and her newly acquired pubic hair.
BEFORE ABOU-NAHRA left the room, he walked toward me and leaned over to the floor. I could barely see his face; everything was hazy. His glasses danced as if he were in a diabolic 1970s James Bond movie, and I heard his gangster voice: We will shake you and stir you . . . and all I need from you are the diamonds. Then we will let you go. Now, be a good comrade and share with Rambo your hiding place. I heard that communists like to share things, so here is your chance to be part of an egalitarian society. Do the right thing and make your communist uncle proud.
Abou-Nahra smiled, the door slammed, and I passed out.
When I came to, the brute guard led me to a small room that contained nothing but a blanket and a filthy toilet.
I could see from only one eye. I sat on the floor, swept the dust with my left hand, and let my right palm rest on the cool ground, channelling the temperature from my hand to my eye. My body ached; my lips bled.
I tried to sleep, but Rambo was determined to deprive me of sleep. He opened the door every few minutes to ask me to stand up.
If I see you sitting or sleeping I will stick your face in the toilet, he said. Do you understand, Hashash?
Walk! he shouted; and I walked back and forth.
For mos
t of the night, the monster deprived me of sleep. I held the wall and tried to keep my body upright. When I fell on my knees, I tried to listen for the door latch. Before Rambo entered, I would pull my body up. When I fell asleep, he was furious and dragged me out of the cell to a bathroom. He filled the sink with water and pushed my head in it repeatedly. Once, when I was under water, I thought, Fuck him. When he pulls me back up I will not breathe. Fuck him, I thought, I will hold my breath and dive under the sea with the poisonous fish. I will stay there and watch the tourists passing in that cruise ship again. This time I will wear my best tuxedo and show those foreigners how I can swing, and wave my dancing stick in the air to those mambo tunes with a belly dancer on each side of my hips, with sexless angels who watch me with envy, with mocking nymphs, with whisky connoisseurs serving Saudis with trimmed goatees, with a few underground Playboy Bunnies with soft, white cotton tails. Fuck him. I will sleep in a cabin with two beds and room service. Fuck that brute. I just have to save a few bubbles from the effervescent water in the sink, and I will just swallow them for air, and wait underwater for the mambo tune to come back. That is what I will do.
But the monster would watch me, and slap me as I turned navy, the colour of the deep sea, the colour of my left eye, the colour of the uniform of the captain of the ship.
The diamonds, he kept on repeating. Ya habbub (beloved), why are you doing this to yourself? I cannot understand why people like to go through so much pain. Is it worth it? They are only stones . . . Listen, I hate to kill another Christian. We are all from the same bone here. Now, tell me where the diamonds are, and I will let you out, I will even send you back to your place in a taxi. Here, I brought you some soup. I will even let you sleep tonight, and I know in the morning you will wake up fresh, and tell me exactly where you hid them.
I did not steal them, I whispered through my broken teeth.
What did you say? I can’t hear you, you are talking like a woman. Are you a woman who sucks old men’s dicks! Then the monster grabbed my neck and glued his ear to my lips. Talk to me, Chéri, and we all can go home tonight.