His delight at the prospect of having my things with him annoys me; it seems as if they are a substitute for me, although at least remembering my suitcase has stirred me into action. His face brightens again at the thought of taking it with him, while I try to conceal my regret as I whip through its contents in my mind.
I let them go grudgingly, perhaps to be the silent link between us, their effect on us only becoming clear later. Our conversation seems suddenly to have died: I remember myself as a little girl in my grandmother’s room in the village. My grandmother put me in a new dress and shiny leather shoes and spent ages doing my hair. Then she tucked an artificial rose behind my ear: it was one I’d seen her wearing on many different dresses. To my amazement she passed a finger over her lips, taking a bit of lipstick off them, and dabbed it on my cheeks. Finally she sprinkled me with cologne from her vanity case, then clapped her hands: “Now, go out and show them how pretty you are.”
I went out and stood before the children who’d come from all over the village to see me. They stared at me from a distance, none of them daring to approach the porch. I knew what I thought of them, but not what they thought of me. When my grandmother appeared and smiled encouragingly at them, they scattered. She called them back, and warily they drifted closer, but we didn’t talk, just looked at one another for a while, although judging by their fixed expressions and unblinking eyes, they saw nothing. I stared at their bare feet, the spots and scabs on their legs, their unkempt hair.
I also remembered how Jawad came out of the village café with Munjid’s son and I was waiting for them by the door. He asked me what Ruhiyya wanted him for and I said, “She wants you to marry me.”
Everyone I love is leaving, and also those I don’t love; even the hostages will go one after the other. Jawad asks if he can kiss me on the lips. I refuse, but he gets up from his seat and kisses me fleetingly on the mouth and I reproach myself, wondering how I can let a man like that go.
When the flight was announced, I left him standing alone in line with his camera and hand luggage. Energy flowed back into my limbs and the blood surged through my body, and once more I went to confront the city which had made its war die of weariness.
About the Translator
Catherine Cobham teaches Arabic at St. Andrews University, Scotland, and has translated a number of contemporary Arab writers, including Yusuf Idris, Liana Badr, and Naguib Mahfouz.
Beirut Blues Page 32