Maryam said, “Oh come on, dear. We’ve already solved Palestine so surely we can we work this out too? Right, Madam?”
Lilla seemed to soften a little. Under the table I saw Maryam nudge Amira’s leg. And that’s when Lilla said, “The world will fix it. But only sometimes.” Amira and Maryam went to the loo. Clearly they were up to something – and it had to do with Lilla.
Meanwhile Lilla commented, “Now I’m going to have to send word to my friends in Beirut, to let them know I’m coming early. I suppose the captain can manage that.”
Then Lilla and I talked about Turkish coffee. But I couldn’t be sure. Was she now asking me for an end to her story? I said what I had to say, “It’s easy to write the end for the girls but writing your finale … yours will be too grand, Madam. I don’t think I’d be able to manage it.”
She was taking such quick drags off her cigarette the tip was dangerously bright, “No, mademoiselle,” she said, “mine is only a little longer. In fact all of our stories are the same.”
“Then would you like a happy ending?” I asked. “I can write it along those lines.”
She looked beyond me “Do you know how many bodies lie at the body of this sea?” Looking out over the waters, she went on, “Strange that it’s still so blue. All the people who have drowned just trying to get from one shore to the other, no one knows their stories. Mademoiselle, if you ask me, any old ending will do. In any case mine has gone on far longer than is necessary.”
“In that case I’d write something like this Madam … would you like to hear?”
The ash from her cigarette fell into her lap, burning a black-rimmed hole in her long silk dress.
“No,” she said.
31
“Beirut is a city where the endings of stories are nothing like the ones you write,” said Madam Lilla, “isn’t that true?”
In the Café Orient, which was built directly over the sea, high society customers sat in big armchairs behind ice buckets holding bottles of white and rosé wine, puffing on water pipes and watching our arrival. Like a small and unsavoury royal family we stood on the deck as we approached the dock in the mild afternoon sun. It was a magnificent arrival into Beirut that quickly turned into a comedy because an old man was waiting for us on the shore, his arms spread wide and his belly shaking with laughter. We might have looked like showroom girls who had just stepped out of a giant oyster if the fatso on the shore hadn’t been jumping up and down and shouting, “Stop Solidere! Stop Solidere!”
Lilla didn’t expect me to answer her. With her back to me she was facing Beirut. So I addressed her back and Beirut, “Yes, it always looks more ridiculous than I imagined.”
As the man on the shore called out to Lilla his belly bounced so vigorously it seemed like laughter was alive and wriggling out of him.
“Welcome, Samira! Welcome and glory be upon us! Stop Solidere!”
Waiting for the gangplank to be lowered, Madam Lilla smiled indulgently at the man and said to me, “And always more enchanting than you imagined!”
Considering everything I had scribbled down on toilet seat covers while locked away in my cabin, she had a point.
*
I went to the toilet and collected all the covers. I went into the cabin and sat down at a little desk made of rosewood. I thought about whose finale I should write first. Amira’s. Of course. The whole trip started because of her. She was the one who got us up and moving and who started the escape. So all our endings should be connected to hers. And her ending certainly had to have something to do with Muhammed. So…
The door swung open. Outside stood the cabin boy, but he wasn’t quite at the door. I gave him a dull, ‘hello?’ A question. He nodded. Blankly we looked at each other. I stood up and shut the door.
So should Muhammed come back or not? He shouldn’t. He should take Amira with him. Somewhere in Europe. Yes, that’s the best option. But then what would they do there? Of course, of course…
The door swung open again. Now I was staring straight at the cabin boy’s ass. He was bent over fiddling with something. He looked at me through his legs.
“What’s happening?” I said. He shook his head to say, I didn’t open the door. I stood up and shut the door again.
In that case Muhammed has to write another letter. Considering all the ones I’ve already read it could go something like this…
“Hey, sweetie, I felt I should tell you that we have crossed the Mediterranean and made it to Italy. We made it. The moment we got up on Italy’s southern shore I gave a speech that began, ‘Hey, Romans!’ But the old flavour of this place is gone and no one paid any attention. But it was still good fun. This place is like something right out of those Sicilian scenes from The Godfather. The only difference is that the foreign language makes my own film seem more about my relationship within the Arab mafia. Now I am working with this Lebanese hot shot. Let’s just say I have my place in the mafia’s social responsibility wing. We are trying to bring new standards to the business of human trafficking. I am focused on widening the narrow channel that runs from black Africa to Europe. The Undocumented People of Europe, Leave it to Us. That’s our slogan. Do you like it, sweetheart? We provide work and transportation for the undocumented, bodies but no head count. The undocumented! Let’s just say I am keeping the documents for the undocumented. In Europe there are libraries that keep track of everything and I keep the tabs on the people who aren’t officially on the list. Sweetheart, my life is terrible here. So I can’t say come and join me. But I’ve put together a little money. Maybe I could meet you somewhere on the Spanish coast? Or in Cordoba. Only a place like Andalusia could handle a woman like you. What do you say? Maybe you would let me serve you my heart with a platter of fresh seafood? Maybe it still has some flavour, what do you think, sweetie?
Bang! The door swung open. This time it wasn’t just the cabin boy’s ass, but the captain’s, too. They were either inspecting something on the floor or searching for something. They both looked at me through their legs.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, annoyed.
With expressions on their faces that said there definitely was, they both said: “No…”
“I gather the door’s broken?”
“No…” they chimed.
Doing my best to make it clear that I wouldn’t tolerate the door swinging open like that again, I slammed it shut. Then I started writing again.
This wasn’t happening. Muhammed’s letter couldn’t be like that. So I gave up on it. So I boldly had a go at writing the end of Maryam’s story.
… Suad Massi is playing in her house in Cairo. The windows are open to the early morning air. At her desk she is writing the ending to Dido’s story. Her baby is sleeping in another room. The house smells of her. Is there a man there? No. As she writes the final section she smiles, she is content. Her hair is longer, curly. When the call to prayer echoes through the air she thinks of us: me and Amira. She sits down at her computer to write an email. She turns on her laptop. Her hands hovering in the blue light of the screen … she rolls a joint. Smiling as she twists. “Ladies,” she begins. “You are about to embark on the most important journey of your lives.” The same words Lilla had told us at the start of our trip. She is sad that we aren’t there. That there is no longer a journey. For a moment it seems silly to write to us and she gets up and goes to the window. She listens to the birds filling in the gaps in the muezzin’s morning prayer. Her baby wakes and Maryam lets the joint to go out in the ashtray. She lets out a deep sigh. There is a knock on the door…
This time the door has quietly swung open and I only notice when it begins to bang to the rhythm of the rocking boat. Now I am really fed up and I rise to my feet. The captain and the cabin boy are still there.
“For the love of God what in the world are you doing there?” I bellow, not realizing that I am shouting now.
The captain makes a face, “It doesn’t concern you!”
“But then why is this door always
opening?”
The captain gives me a ridiculous answer, “Doors are made to be opened!”
“No sir,” I say, “they are made to be closed.”
And bang, I slam it shut. I am sure they are cursing me on the other side.
There is a knock on the door but who can it be? With the door always opening and closing Maryam’s story goes stale. So I give up on it and turn to Madam Lilla.
…First of all Jezim Anwar has got to die, that’s for sure. But how should Madam Lilla kill him? Strange how it seems perfectly normal to think about murdering someone. A day or two from now she is probably going to kill a man and this isn’t just a part of a film script, it is really going to happen. But now the most important thing is how I am going to bring this to life in my story. It was impossible. Did someone once liken novelists to serial killers? If so, she was absolutely right…
Madam Lilla is climbing the steps of a vast mansion nestled in a garden. She has taken her gun out of her burgundy velvet pouch. It’s mid-afternoon, when the heat grinds everything to a standstill. This is Jezim Anwar’s house. Not a soul is around. (Why? Like one of those scenes from The Godfather shot in Sicily.) Jezim Anwar is having his afternoon nap alone on the balcony, and because he wants peace and quiet all the staff have left. Her hands trembling, Lilla takes out her gun, puts her finger on the trigger…
Bang! The door opened again and I turned and fired as Maryam hurried in and quickly shut the door behind her. She didn’t realize she had just taken a bullet.
“Azizi, we’re in hot water.”
Closing the safety on my gun, I stuffed it under my belt. “Really?” I said wretchedly.
“There’s cocaine on this boat.”
“What do you mean cocaine?”
“The Columbian kind! The real stuff! Cocaine, cocaine!”
“Aha!” I said and stopped. I must have looked lost in a daze. But Maryam had already decided to take the matter into her own hands – you could see it in her face.
“Amira knows. But I haven’t told Lilla. Now this is what we are going to do…”
She stopped, her gaze fixed.
“What are we going to do?” I said.
“We’re going to jump off this boat and swim. How should I know? Pray or something. I mean we should all pray. What’s more the captain and cabin boy couldn’t find the stash. They’ve been looking for some time. I overheard them talking about it.”
“So they’re looking for cocaine outside my door…”
“The moment this boat docks in Beirut we need to disappear. Do you know a safe place in Beirut, a place you can trust?”
I thought for a moment. A safe place in Beirut? I felt like laughing. Maryam wasn’t in the mood. “I know,” I said. I couldn’t quite believe what was running through my head but I didn’t have a choice. Off to Beirut and the rest is up to a gracious God. It was always like that.
Maryam continued, “Now, in this situation … hmmm … you go and pack up Lilla’s things. She’s too slow, she’d never jump to it. Amira should stay with her until we get to the shore. I’ll pack what I can of our things into one bag. Once the boat comes to a stop… Let’s just pray that no one’s waiting for us in Beirut.”
She stopped and shook her head in despair, “May God help us.”
“Amen!” I said and silently I prayed that the only person who could help us in Beirut was actually in town. It was the sort of city where if God didn’t come to the rescue, friends did. Of course it would have helped if I really did have a gun with me. But what was I going to do with it? This was the difference between writing a story and being a hero in one. You know what to do with a gun.
There was no sign of the captain or the cabin boy. I hurried into Lilla’s cabin. I opened the cupboard and started choosing what I thought were the most precious items in her silk collection. Who knows what sort of celebration she had in mind but she certainly had a real hoard of dresses. Among the piles of cloth, I found her burgundy velvet pouch. But there was something else inside. A bottle. “No way!” I said. The word cyanide was printed on the side of the bottle. Was Madam Lilla planning to kill herself at the end of her mission, while we were busy celebrating? A grand drama for the grand finale? This was cheap melodrama no novelist would stoop to. But considering Madam Lilla…. yes, an exit that would look chic only in real life. If it were me I wouldn’t write it that way, no way. I stood there with the bottle in my hand. What was I going to do with this now? What would I make of this scene if I were to write it? If I were the hero in a book? The door opened. Quickly I stuffed the bottle in my pocket. I looked at the door; no one was there. It had opened on its own. I kept the bottle in my pocket. I figured it might come in handy at the end of the story.
I shut the door and I gathered up two sets of clothing for Lilla and a few other powdery scented items and put them in a bag. I noticed that she didn’t have any medicine. But then again why would a woman carrying poison also keep vitamins and osteoporosis pills? I saw her brush covered with hair. It looked like years of hair. She must have spent so much time combing her hair alone. I left it in the room. The memory of her hair could stay there. I was deciding what part of her from her previous life would be taken or left behind. I remembered the cocaine, and I was convinced that for now the story needed a crude action sequence. I ran my hand through the closet one more time. And yes. A lighter. That lighter. The name Jezim Anwar written in Arabic. I tried clicking open the flame like you would with any other lighter. Like someone unsure of the future, I made a wish. If the flame came out on the first go everything would turn out alright. It didn’t light. I put the thing in my pocket. I was pillaging Lilla’s memories to write a story. Like any other writer I was under the impression that this was acceptable. For people like me every holy relic that belongs to someone else is a talisman that can help you write. What horrible people we are. When we aren’t chosen to play in the games other people make up we go and steal their toys and make up stories. In fact people like me…
“Are you ready?” said Amira, coming inside. I started. Caught red handed. I stuffed both hands in my pockets. Poison in the right and the lighter in the left.
“Are you done? Did you pack up her things? Beirut’s on the horizon.”
I don’t know why but I pulled out the lighter and I handed it to her. By writing the ends of their stories I felt that I was betraying them all and so I suppose I was seeking some kind of forgiveness. Something like that. Amira took the lighter and turned it over in her hand, “The famous Jezim Anwar lighter.” Whispering to herself. “May God help us!”
I picked up the bag and went up onto the deck. Beirut lay before us with her dark yellow buildings and steeped in her strange sweet smell. I had missed this place. We were approaching in a boat that was packed with cocaine and I had a bottle of cyanide in my pocket and a gun destined to kill a man. I didn’t even know if my friend who was supposed to help us was even there… it was still a beautiful sight to behold. We were all up on deck as the boat sped towards the city. We were heading for the dock at the luxury Café Orient on the point of the esplanade. There was no sign of the captain or the cabin boy. There was no unusual activity on the shore. Slowly we came together on the deck. Like a statue of a woman, Lilla stood at the very end. She was so accustomed to other people handling her affairs, she wasn’t even thinking about who might have packed her bags or who was carrying them. Amira stood beside her. Maryam beside me. With a sigh I said to Maryam, “Oh, how I love this city, azizi!”
That’s when Lilla said, without turning around, “Beirut is a city where the endings of stories are nothing like the ones you write.”
The man on the shore was flailing his arms and shouting, “Stop Solidere! Stop Solidere!”
Maryam whispered in my ear, “Well there you have it. A new man. In any event it doesn’t look like anyone else is waiting for us… azizi, if we can just dodge this bullet I promise we will end the story just the way you want to.”
I checked the bottle in
my pocket. Smiling, I only nodded. In Beirut Arabic I said, “I’m right on it.”
The man shaking his belly on the dock of the Café Orient cried, “Welcome, Samira! Samira! Welcome!”
Out of the Café stepped four enormous blond men. They walked straight to the dock. Behind them came a man shaped like a Turkish wrestler dressed in a suit – you didn’t need be a gangster film buff to know this was the guy in charge. They stopped behind the bouncing fat man who had raced over to greet us. The captain’s face turned as blue as the Mediterranean.
Lebanon
“Beirut is a city where endings of stories are not like the ones you ever write.”
Madam Lilla was right when she said those words. This story wasn’t going to end the way I wrote it. More to the point, I wasn’t going to write it the way it would unfold. You’ll see what I mean when you get there…
32
One: An Israeli attack on Lebanon is possible. Indeed Iran’s nuclear program is pushing Israel to the limits. On her southern border, Hezbollah, diehard supporters of Iran, maintain control; a single rocket suddenly launched over the border and war would break out.
Two: With a strong political presence in Lebanon and support for the Assad Regime, along with Iran, Hezbollah is ready to pull the trigger. A regime collapse in Syria would mean a brutal civil war in Lebanon. Every day in Beirut supporters of the Assad regime are protesting in front of the Syrian Embassy on Makdisi Avenue in Hamra.
Three: As in previous states of emergency, the city is packed with secret service agents. Now this might not apply to tourists but for those who know the city the tension on the streets of Beirut is palpable – you can feel it on the back of your neck.
Four: When old and middle-aged men in the coffeehouses shout at the top of their lungs about the coming of war there’s no real problem but when people are talking of war in hushed tones … it’s a serious matter. These days in Beirut the situation is serious.
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 40