De Niro's Game

by Rawi Hage

  What is the colour and size of the suit? she asked.

  It is blue, and the size is seven.

  Good. Where can we meet? she said.

  Metro Montparnasse. I will be wearing a white shirt with long sleeves that cover my hands.

  Tomorrow morning at eight-thirty, she said. I will find you.

  After I hung up, I strolled to a nearby café and ordered a cup of coffee. The waiter was polite and called me Monsieur. I opened a newspaper and went through it slowly.

  There was news about a car bomb that had exploded in East Beirut, killing five people and injuring thirty. The photograph showed a woman covered with blood being rushed to an ambulance.

  I moved closer to the café window and stared at the photograph. I tried to see if I could recognize the woman or anyone else in the photo. The caption read “Achrafieh,” which was where I had lived. The ground was covered with glass and rubble, and in the background a man pointed to the balcony above him. The story in the paper was disconcertingly factual, without story or investigation.

  Try as I might, I could not recognize anyone in the photo. So I sipped my coffee, and when the waiter was looking away, I carefully ripped out the page, folded it with my hands under the table, and put it in my pocket.

  I made my way back to my hotel and up to my room. There, I pulled the page from my pocket and laid it on the desk. Then I lay in bed and looked at the walls. After a while, I picked up my book. I was on the last few pages. I read, I informed him that I’d been staring at the walls for months, there was nobody, nothing in the world . . . A life which I can remember, this life on earth. That is all I want from it.

  I closed the book and looked at the sun, which had come into the room like melancholy consolation.

  THAT AFTERNOON, I walked to Rhea’s place and waited near her building. I did not ring the bell, but I did make myself conspicuous. I stood in the light. I fretted like the leaves. I smoked, and puffed Native Indian signals, sending her a warning of my coming.

  Soon I saw Rhea’s long coat and umbrella sliding above the sidewalks, slowly approaching me, slowly becoming bigger. She saw me, passed me, avoided my look, and went straight to her door.

  I approached her and slipped under her umbrella. I talked to Roland, I said to her from under the rain.

  Good. Now you can leave.

  You want me to leave?

  Look, what you did was unforgivable and, to tell you the truth, a little scary. Roland did not want to help at first. I asked him to.

  Why are you helping me?

  I am doing it for George.

  She opened the door to her building, and before she could close it, I held on to the side of it and asked her if I could come in.

  She did not answer, so I followed her inside. In the elevator she did not say a word; instead, she looked at her shoes the whole time. Her shoes were shiny black, flat and round, with a little heel, and the rain had beaded on them. I followed her shoes down the long hallway. I followed her black leather shoes like a wet puppy — one of those poodles that fill Paris’s streets with their leashes that expand like spider strings from their owners’ hands.

  Rhea opened the apartment door and threw her keys in a bowl. She went to her room and closed the door behind her. Then she came back out and asked me if I was hungry.

  No, I said.

  Did you call the people?

  Yes.

  Good, so you decided.

  No, but I did call them.

  You have no future here; you have to leave.

  I held her hand and drew her close to me. She tried to pull away, but I held her firm. She hid her face from me, veiling it with her soft hair. I lifted her hair slowly, and I caressed her face. She stood there, motionless, hesitant. I kissed her on the cheek, then on the neck. When I reached her lips, she kept them closed.

  You are wet, she said. You’d better go home and change your clothes. She gently pushed me away. Call me when you get the visa. I will book the ticket.

  I left her apartment and retraced my poodle-wet tracks along the hallway. When I looked back, I saw she was watching me from a small opening in her doorway.

  THE NEXT DAY, I stood at the Montparnasse metro entrance. A woman in her forties pulled at my long sleeves and smiled. She walked ahead of me, and I followed her. We ended up in a small park with a few benches. She sat down and looked me in the face.

  When did you get here?

  A few weeks ago.

  She nodded. From where?

  Lebanon.

  The situation is bad there, she said in an accent I could not recognize. Why did you leave?

  I am not welcome there any more.

  Not welcomed by whom?

  By the people in power.

  Could you be less vague, please?

  You need the story? I asked. I was accused of killing someone, but I did not do it. I was tortured.

  Did you go through a trial?

  No.

  Who tortured you?

  The militia.

  Why?

  Like I said, because they accused me of stealing, and of killing someone!

  You said killing first. You did not say stealing.

  Well, that too.

  Tell me more about the torture. Were you tortured alone, or with a friend, or someone from your family?

  Alone.

  How?

  I told the woman about Rambo. About the water bath, and how he dipped my head in it, and how he would pull it back just before I suffocated. I told her about the sleep deprivation, the car trips, and the long interrogations.

  And why do you think they chose you?

  I was singled out because I smoke drugs, and I believe also because the leader knew my uncle was a communist.

  The woman asked me many questions. She wanted details, like my full name, my age, and when exactly I had left.

  The reason I asked to meet, she said, is first because I need your passport, and second just so that you know we do not do this for profit. We do it only for people who are refugees. We are an underground humanitarian organization. Do you understand that?

  Yes, I said.

  Good. Do you have your passport on you?

  Yes.

  Good.

  You see the taxi there?

  The small white car? I asked.

  Yes.

  After I leave, you take that car and let the driver take you home. Leave him your passport. We will let you know when the visa is done. And please do not try to make conversation with the driver, and do not call the number again. Avoid policemen and crowded public places. Do not get arrested. We will reach you when everything is done.

  I took the taxi. On the way, I threw the passport on the passenger seat. When we arrived at my hotel, I said, This is where I am staying.

  The driver asked me for the fare.

  TWO DAYS PASSED, and I did not attempt to see Rhea. I had finished reading my book. I slipped it in my bag, hoping to regain some of the weight I had lost in the absence of my gun.

  One clear night, I walked back to the spot where I knew my gun lay. I hoped that the gun might have resurfaced and was floating against the current. Or maybe it was in the possession of a dead, underwater French soldier. Maybe it was using its own speed, accuracy, and semi-automatic capacity to shoot all the passing mouche boats from underneath, and sink the American agents on the boats posing as tourists and wine connoisseurs.

  I stood for a minute, watching for bubbles, and hoping again for the gun to bounce up from under the water like fish that jump to chase hovering, narcissistic flies, gazing at their own reflection above the mirrored river surface. But the water was still. Then I heard gunshots muffled by the current of the river, and I knew that someone had unwrapped my gun. I approached the bank carefully, leaned over its edge, and saw the shifting shapes of the castles above me, and my own reflection. And my eyes beamed battle scenes from Beirut: I saw myself as a kid, running behind Al-Woutwat, who was using his AK-47 to shoot from behind sandbags
; and I saw my little hands running after warm, empty bullets and collecting them in my shirt, in a kangaroo-pouch shape. And I saw the joy in my face while hopping (like a kangaroo) back home, and later exchanging my treasure with the neighbourhood kids.

  FOR TWO MORE DAYS, I did not hear from Rhea or the visa lady. The first morning, I took the metro and walked to the Eiffel Tower. Tourists like little ants strolled under the monster’s metal feet. They looked up at it, protecting their eyes with small plastic cameras, posing underneath it like smiling statues, pressing their index fingers on tiny buttons to suck the light from their smiling faces, and to record the passing of time in latent images that were proof of their existence and the impermanence of their lives.

  I sat and watched the pigeons feeding on sugary crumbs that fell from the children’s lips. I saw tourists landing in their buses, bouncing like astronauts, with bags filled with maps and guidebooks that might give them clues to the mystery of the moon. Those books talked about the importance of choosing the right restaurants and gave directions to the right museums, where the residues of history and the theft of empires were boxed in glass menageries suitable for their visits in the morning after tiny French breakfasts, which they ate while feeling nostalgic for lines at the buffet, and long stainless-steel containers, and wrinkled eggs, and over-easy eggs, and tasteless potato chunks, and neon-coloured jams, and chewy Wonderbread, and diluted coffee, which they sipped in sync with the big band music that filtered through from the kitchen, spiced by the humming of the black cook behind the swinging doors with the round boat windows that also swing on the Mississippi in ships that carry the tourists’ flour, corn, and greasy bacon.

  THE SECOND MORNING, I stayed in bed, and Paris stood still and did not move or shift. I waited for the scenery to change outside my window, but it remained the same.

  Down the street, a trail of soldiers returning from battle called me to march. So eventually I got up and marched to the Arc de Triomphe. I crossed the wide street swamped by impatient cars, running in circles. I passed under the arc and declared my triumph over my enemies. When I crossed to the other side, I decided to eat. I roamed the city looking for food. I sat at a café table and watched all the people rushing along the sidewalks. I ate what I was offered, paid, and walked back to my hotel.

  Hakim at the front desk had a message for me: My suit was ready, and I was to come and pick it up tomorrow at the same hour, the same place.

  That night, I had the urge to see Rhea. I walked to her place, and from far across the street I watched her bedroom. Her light was on, and every time her shadow brushed the window I would hide behind the wall, erasing my shape.

  I watched her room until I ran out of smokes.

  THE THIRD MORNING, I met the visa lady. We walked to the park where we’d talked before. We sat on the same bench.

  We have it, she said. Here is what you should do. In the plane, before you arrive in Montreal, you go to the bathroom. You tear up your passport and dump it in the toilet. Do not leave a trace of it. Then, when you get off the plane, you tell the officer that you want to ask for refugee status. Make sure you tear up the passport. Do you have any other identification on you?

  Yes, a Lebanese birth certificate.

  That you can keep. Now tonight, go to this address. It is a restaurant. Someone will come and give the passport to you there. Be there around eight in the evening. Good luck.

  I watched the woman leaving. I watched her rushing through the crowd, melting with the coats and suitcases, never to be seen again.

  IN THE EVENING, I went to the restaurant. I ordered a beer, and smoked, and contemplated the night, like the Parisians do.

  The place had small, round tables, crowded one next to the other, and everyone inhaled everyone else’s smoke. The round tables in such close proximity to one another formed a series of overlapping circles. Occasionally the formation was cut by the waiter’s white apron, crossing through and between tables like scissors. I waited, and after an hour I started to get nervous. No one had approached me, nor had I talked to anyone except the waiter. Finally, the waiter came to give me the bill, leaned against me, and said, C’est déjà dans ta poche.

  I walked outside and frisked my pockets. I felt the passport in one of them.

  Now I am allowed to fly, I thought. So I flew over Paris, watching the citizens’ hats bobbing like moving targets, the dogs sniffing one another’s wet tails, headlights going in circles and chasing one another like the dogs. And the higher I flew, the smaller the people became, smaller and smaller, minuscule and insignificant, and the more the streets and houses were arranged in circles, cut and shaped like tables around which brooding artists puffed their cigarettes and contributed to the evolution of the thick Parisian fog that concealed their deep thoughts from flying humans and sniffing dogs.

  When I landed, I passed the Senegalese concierge at the hotel desk, forgot to greet him, and ran straight up to my room. I opened my passport: A Canadian visa was stamped in it.

  20

  THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE UP EARLY, RUSHED TO RHEA’S apartment building, and rang her bell. Her sleepy voice came through the intercom.

  I have the visa, I said.

  Tu veux du café? she asked.

  Oui, I answered.

  She buzzed me up, and I found her walking slowly around her kitchen. Her nightgown was thin, white, transparent. She must have felt my eyes penetrating her short robe because she looked back at me and caught me staring. She quietly went to her room, changed into regular clothes, then came back and sat facing me. What are you doing these days? she asked.

  I am reading and walking, I said.

  She nodded. What are you reading?

  A story about someone who kills an Arab in Algeria.

  L’Étranger ? she asked.

  Oui, c’est ça.

  She smiled. Come, let’s sit on the balcony, she said. It will be a few days before we get the air ticket. I will check today with Monique, the travel agent. Are you going to keep out of trouble until then? I do not appreciate being stalked.

  I finished my cigarette.

  I would like to sleep with you again, I said.

  Maybe, just before you leave, Rhea said. Not today or tomorrow, but maybe the night before your departure. There is a party tonight over at the house of some of my friends. You can come if you promise to behave and ask for what you need politely.

  THAT EVENING, I went again to Rhea’s place. Together we took a taxi and went to a party in a long loft containing a few red hallway lights and fuzzy purple sofas. The entranceway was filled with a blasé crowd, the kind that intently ignores your passage, like houseplants in permanent poses. Painted-hair owners and tight-leather-pant fillers danced in a corner, using moonwalk moves. Rhea disappeared, and I stood against a wall holding a bottle of beer in my hand. I watched the purses, the high, thin heels, the black lace stockings, and the flamboyant hairstyles of the women.

  After a while, I spotted Rhea talking to a man, and then he followed her up a set of stairs. She led, and the man walked behind her, swaying to the loud music.

  A man with black lipstick on his lips and wild hair approached me. Hey, t’es l’ami de Rhea?

  Yes, I answered.

  I am her coiffeur, he said.

  And her mother’s, I presume?

  Bien oui, je connais la connasse, he laughed, rocking his thin, silky body back and forth.

  What is upstairs? I asked.

  Ah, this is the place to go up, up, he answered and looked at the ceiling.

  I finished my beer and walked farther inside the loft. Everyone here affected a nonchalant air of importance, a kind of modern pseudo-aristocratic persona. If only I had my gun, I thought sadly, I would shoot them on the steps of their palaces.

  Half an hour later, I was bored with the collective act of coolness, the languid conversations, the statuesque poses. I grabbed hold of the coiffeur and said to him, Listen, could you go up and tell Rhea that I am leaving?

  A
nd what do I get if I do this? he smiled and put his hands on his hips.

  Nothing, absolutely nothing. You get to do me a favour only, I said, and I might not spear your head when the revolution arrives.

  I will do it for your accent, and your wide eyes, and long, long lashes, the coiffeur replied and swiftly turned and climbed the stairs gracefully, like a lama.

  I could not find her, he said when he returned. Jinni said that she must have left.

  I went downstairs and into the street, and there I saw Rhea talking to the same man she had been with inside. There was tension between them; Rhea looked agitated, and the man looked angry. I waited and observed from afar. Suddenly, the man grabbed Rhea’s arm and dragged her toward a car.

  I ran over and pushed him away from her.

  Rhea started to cry. The man pulled a knife from his pocket and brandished it at me. Rhea ran to him and begged, Non, Moshe. Arrête! C’est un ami à moi.

  Go away, Bassam! she shouted at me. Why are you following me?

  I stood still.

  Rhea held the man’s arm. Va t’en! she kept screaming at me. Then she opened the car door and said to the man, Bien voilà, I will come with you.

  The man shoved her in the car and walked to the driver’s side. I will take care of you later, he said, pointing his finger at me. He drove away.

  I memorized the car’s plate number and went back to the party, reciting the number like a mantra. I sought out the coiffeur, snatched his bag, pulled out his kohl pencil, and quickly wrote the number on the wall. Then I asked him if he would find me some paper. He disappeared and came back with an empty box of cigarettes. I tore it up and wrote the number on it.

  As I left for good, the coiffeur asked me if I would not write down his number as well.

  Putain de macho! he shouted after me, and his words echoed down the spiral stairs.

  On the way back to my hotel, the idea of calling Roland came to me. Perhaps he could help Rhea. I called him from my room and woke him up. I told him the story.

  It is better not to interfere, Roland said and hung up on me.

  BY NOON THE NEXT DAY, I was still in bed. I had called Rhea in the morning, but no one had answered.