Beirut Hellfire Society

by Rawi Hage

  A long, thick rope lay in the centre of the salon beneath a pulley fixed to the ceiling.

  In the bathroom, El-Marquis was resting, surrounded by ice, in a baroque-looking bathtub with four feet shaped like lion’s paws. The paws were cast in gold. The scent of lavender perfumed everything from the marble floor to the French bidet that lay at the far end of the bathing space.

  Hanneh and Manneh wept, and kissed El-Marquis’ forehead.

  Together they lifted El-Marquis, dried his body with thick towels, dressed him in a bathrobe and carried him into the study. They laid him on a long table. The room was filled with lilacs—El-Marquis’ favourite flower, they told Pavlov. In the background, against the wall, was El-Marquis’ imported Italian casket—a vibrant fuchsia with silver and gold handles. The edges of the coffin were covered with seashells. The long pole that passed through three handles on each side was shaped like a penis. The front of the casket was dotted with pink mosaic stones—a loud, colourful mosaic that from a distance revealed the shape of a vagina. The casket was to make an entrance during the evening, and it was the Marquis’ wish to be transported in its beauty, then burned, at the end of the celebration.

  Hanneh and Manneh gave Pavlov a purse filled with makeup. A black silk gown, men’s soft Italian leather boots and a blond wig were laid out on a leather sofa. Pavlov requested cigarettes, a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a transistor radio with Rayovac batteries. Then he told Hanneh and Manneh to rest and come back in three hours.

  I learned all this by watching my father, he said to El-Marquis once they were alone. It’s stunning what we learn just by observing, isn’t it? A different approach from your hands-on pedagogical style.

  El-Marquis smiled sadly and agreed.

  Now close your eyes, Pavlov said to El-Marquis. He washed the face, then dried it with a towel and began to apply eyeliner. Open your mouth, and take a sip of wine before I add the red to your lips, he told El-Marquis. He turned the radio on. A French tune by the Armenian singer Aznavour was playing, and they both hummed along.

  Now, Pavlov said, this is where everything ends. There is nothing beyond these obsequies and these disguises. Are you ready to present yourself to the warmth of the flames and the omnipresence of ash and dust?

  El-Marquis smiled, and Pavlov swayed and danced for a while.

  Pavlov slipped the black silk gown on El-Marquis’ body, pinning and tucking. The soft Italian leather boots came next. He combed the long blond hair of the wig and fitted it on the dead man’s head.

  When Pavlov was done, he nodded. He brought one of the bathroom’s seven mirrors into the study for El-Marquis, and saw he was pleased.

  Cigarettes burned in the ashtray. The music on the radio had turned to conversation.

  El-Marquis faced the gold-framed mirror, then moved to the bathroom and faced another mirror and spoke. Pretentious mirror, fabulous mirror, narcissistic mirror, do tell, El-Marquis asked, who is the prettiest of them all? Who is leaving this pigsty behind with no regrets? Who made the best of it, and who is now looking his best?

  A voice rose out of the abyss of the bathroom’s drain and screamed back: Hideous boner, flat ass, crooked toenail, yellow-fever carrier, syphilitic mentor, bad singer, pretentious cunt, fag, lubricated asshole, saggy pouch of testicles, promiscuous orifice, fucker of students, monk’s fart, menopausal hog, degenerate, colonial subject, prostitute’s rag, cheap mercenary, four-legged anilingus, cock devourer, bald, moist, aged cheese, dried hummus, suffocating scarf, golden shower on your face, silkworm, hairy gorilla, freak, bear, bottom, capitalist, smudged feces, swallower of cum, fish-smelling cunt, nihilist, bad dancer, drunk, needle junkie, failed poet, assassin, filthy Bedouin, fascist mutt, existentialist je ne sais quoi, shit, bastard, Stoic imposter, afterbirth from a stinky whore, fascist, slavedriver, camel toe, fascist, fascist, fascist chimp, dog, pig, goat fucker, mother fucker, daughter fucker, slave fucker, sailor bugger, Bible papyrus to whip a donkey’s ass, camel jockey, one-eyed buccaneer, piss Zionist, soldier of fortune, anti-intellectual ruler, vain bitch, meek, Christian slave, hunchback’s offbeat bell toll, orgasmic anus, impotent ball juggler, pierced dick, dry well of lubricated old virgin, wife-beater, Communist, masturbator, masturbator, masturbator, nun squirt on your face, pussy moustache, nymphomaniac royal, shit eater, pussy licker, killer of anything and everything, everything…Human, ugly human, perish and rot!

  The door swung open and let a burst of air in, and Hanneh and Manneh entered. They began to weep again, marvelling at Pavlov’s talent for dressing the dead. And they complimented their friend, El-Marquis, one last time.

  At the appointed hour, Hanneh, Manneh and Pavlov carried the body to the middle of the salon and laid it beneath a large Christmas tree decorated with plastic penises and porcelain vaginas. A rope was knotted around El-Marquis’ chest and neck, then passed up through the pulley. Hanneh and Manneh worked calmly, and as usual executed their duties in silence betrayed only by the clicks of their high heels. Hanneh supported El-Marquis, and Pavlov and Manneh held the rope. On the count of three, El-Marquis lifted into the air. In his silk gown, he appeared wrapped like an insect, suspended in the woven threads of a spider, swinging back and forth then spinning with the slow dizziness of an astronaut rotating in zero gravity or Jesus ascending at high velocity to the heavens. El-Marquis’ polished leather boots projected, like a disco ball, random sparks of light on the marble floors and the surfaces of the walls. He had the hypnotized eyes of Russian royalty under the spell of a mystic. His blond hair cascaded past his shoulders, his fingers pointed downwards, his nose lifted upwards, his arms fell heavily, spellbound by gravity and hell. In time, the rope settled and the body hung calmly. El-Marquis was anchored, and he floated like a shipwrecked Moor in a dancing ocean.

  There, Manneh said. He’s risen.

  Truly risen, Hanneh said with tears in her eyes, hakan qam.

  * * *

  Cars arrived, many cars, rich cars and poor cars. They filled the narrow driveway that led to the house. Men and women and every gender in between, in their finest attire, entered the house. Some wore disguises while others were nearly naked. Admiring words for the beautiful casket on display were voiced, and a jubilant atmosphere was immediately established. Loud music played, and drinks were passed around beneath the dangling body of El-Marquis. Two nuns in austere grey robes slow-danced in a corner, kissing and caressing each other’s thighs, and four drag queens talked and drank champagne and waved their arms with flamboyant gestures. A middle-aged, bald crime writer immediately stuffed himself at the buffet, filling his plate with meat and seafood before rushing away to the dessert table.

  When the dancing started in earnest, guests swayed around El-Marquis in a circle. A tall woman wearing a long black gown with a cut-out around her buttocks, exposing her anus, reached high and touched the hem of his dress, kissed it and wept.

  In the opulent bathroom, people waited in line for the white cocaine provided by a dealer in a large cowboy hat and pointy boots.

  Pavlov watched this timidly from the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. The mood intensified and an orgy began. He sat above and watched, with equanimity, the debauchery under El-Marquis’ vertical body. He saw three men attached to each other, fucking like dogs in heat, screaming and moaning, their hips rocking with a tidal rhythm, releasing foul sounds from their orifices. He saw a woman lie back on a fuchsia sofa and spread her lace stockings as one guest after another ate her vagina and kissed her lips. On the other side of the sofa, a woman drank champagne, smoking and looking blasé, not judgmental but indifferent. Her exaggerated makeup, her fake hair, the high colour that covered her wrinkled neck, the extravagance of her dress and wild red shoes oozed wealth and an heiress’s ennui with her massive inheritance and her life. A servant stood beside her, attentive to her every move, and at the slightest gesture from the woman this young man would lean his ear to her mouth and then rush off to give messages to a couple—a man and a woman—and another man, a
dwarf, engaged in a threesome nearby. Following the heiress’s latest directive, the woman lifted the dwarf and the man knelt on the ground and opened his mouth. The dwarf pissed in the mouth of the man while the woman screamed: Rome, statue, fountain, a child, a pawn and a fish.

  Pavlov went outside and gave fire to his cigarette. He carried a bottle of champagne and slipped between the cars, away from the lights of the house, towards the road and down the hill. From a distance the house emanated warmth and the sound of singing echoed over the empty valleys.

  The half-full moon combined with the light from the house led him away from the road until he found himself at the edge of a cliff. He stood there, and contemplated the possibility of flight. When should a body comply with the order to step forward and jump? How can the body subordinate itself with such helplessness to the mind? he wondered. Fear of existence, he answered himself. Perhaps the knowledge that everything in this world is to be feared is the only truthful state of being. But still, the question is: Do those who jump believe they are about to experience another consciousness, another self, or do they hope for absolute annihilation? The act of suicide must be, ultimately, the only path to emancipation, he argued.

  He drank champagne and sat on the cliff’s edge. He smoked and drank some more, and hoped for sparks of brilliance in the sky, but the closer light of the house dominated and abolished the possibility of all brighter visions. Ha! Man and his enlightenments! Pavlov said, and sighed. Too bright, too bright!

  He slept on the edge of the cliff. He didn’t feel the cold; he was too drunk to feel the mountain’s frigid breeze or fear the certain presence of wolves and wild dogs. The noise, the lights, the fucking in the house must be repulsive, he thought, to the packs of animals howling in the valleys. Towards morning, he was woken by little bells, feeble and wandering, confusing in their arbitrary rhythms. To his ears, they sounded like competing chapels in the distance, sending conflicting messages through the tolling of their bells. He opened his eyes and saw goats passing by. Behind the animals was an old shepherd who frowned at him, his wrinkled face burned red by the sun. He wore a long coat, a wool turban on his head, and carried a large stick in his hand and an old rifle on his back.

  The shepherd pointed up at the house and said, The devil lives in that house. Did you escape?

  Pavlov didn’t answer.

  You must be too drunk to remember. That house is full of devils. I am on my way to the village and I’ll be back with righteous men. Such men still exist. What took place in that house is evil. This land is holy and not for your kind.

  When the shepherd and his goats departed, Pavlov walked back to the house. He grasped the handle of the front door and pushed to open it, but it didn’t budge. He pushed again, but a corpulent, intoxicated body was obstructing it. He pushed again, harder, and the body moaned and finally rolled away from the door. Pavlov stepped inside. He imagined the shepherd peeking through the window, horrified by the sight. Nakedness was everywhere; bundles and clusters of flesh covered the floor, the chairs, the tables. No doubt the villager must have seen El-Marquis dangling from the ceiling, too.

  A bearded man slept balanced on the edge of the bar, snoring loudly. Ties, shoes and shirts mingled on couches, drinks and bottles stretched across the floor, broken plates and broken glass were everywhere. One man’s nose was bleeding profusely, but he was too unconscious or too drunk to notice. Another man lay face down, traces of blood on his bare buttocks. Pavlov looked around for Hanneh and Manneh. He walked through the salon, turning over bodies in his search. Finally, he found them in El-Marquis’ bed. He woke them, and informed them of the old shepherd’s threat.

  Everyone should leave, Pavlov said.

  The three of them cut down El-Marquis and put him in his casket. Then Hanneh and Manneh proceeded to bang on pots, waking everyone up and shooing them away.

  Bit by bit, the party dispersed. Only the two nuns remained behind, begging to stay a little longer to fuck and pray, and enjoy the serenity of nature and God.

  In the early afternoon, Pavlov heard vehicles on the road. He looked out the window and saw a tractor and three cars approaching quickly. Two men were perched on the sides of the tractor, hunting guns in hand. The cars were full of villagers with rifles. Their guns bristled through the windows, pointing at the sky. They came to a stop outside El-Marquis’ house and poured out of their vehicles. The shepherd banged at the door.

  The two ladies dressed as nuns opened the door, their large crosses gleaming on their chests. The men at the door stood stupefied, not knowing what to say.

  The nuns addressed the men peaceably. Son, what can we do for you? said one.

  How can I help you, my children? said the other.

  The driver of the tractor stepped forward. We have been informed of sinful activities, he said, and of a murdered woman hanging in the middle of the main room.

  The nuns cried out in surprise, and assured the villagers that they had been misinformed. The sisters had held a vigil all night. Whatever anyone had heard and seen would have been prayers and songs for the dead.

  When the shepherd began to protest, one of the nuns stepped through the doorway onto the front step and said, My good Christian, whatever you saw was a vision from the devil in your soul. We will pray for you. Only God can forgive you for these evil thoughts. We will pray for you.

  Who owns this house? asked the driver of the tractor.

  A man who spent his life in America, one of the nuns replied. And now his wife has passed away. Let the family mourn in peace. The priest is on his way and we need to prepare for the funeral. May God bless you, my sons. Go in peace.

  Bewildered, the villagers turned and left. But the shepherd lingered. He stood at the door, trying to peek behind the nuns into the grand house. Finally, he too turned and left, climbing into the last car and slowly driving away.

  * * *

  When night fell, Hanneh and Manneh helped Pavlov usher El-Marquis into the deathmobile. They drove back down to the outskirts of Beirut, the two motorcycles in the wake of the hearse, and then took the road towards the other side of the mountains.

  At a checkpoint on the coast, a militiaman asked Pavlov if he had a body inside the coffin.

  Yes, Pavlov said. The militiaman asked for the name of the deceased and the location of the cemetery. Pavlov gave him a random name—Kfartaba—and a village his father had once taken him to see.

  The militiaman looked into Pavlov’s eyes for a long time. My own family came from that village, he said. But I have never heard that surname.

  Pavlov replied that he was taking the deceased to be buried in his wife’s cemetery, which was in that village, because he was a Chaldean Iraqi without any other family in the country.

  When the militiaman asked the wife’s name, Pavlov took a risk and gave him a generic name, one that was bound to be in every Christian village. Khoury, he said.

  The militiaman crossed himself and muttered, Allah yerhamo. He waved the deathmobile through.

  Pavlov looked back and saw that Hanneh and Manneh had also been stopped by the militia. He pulled over. In the rear-view mirror, he saw the two taking off their helmets and letting their long hair fall loose. It seemed the militiaman had asked them to dismount. He and the two ladies exchanged words, then another fighter approached slowly. The second militiaman raised his M-16 rifle and aimed it at Manneh. What came next happened swiftly, faster than the fall of Achilles’ sword: Manneh pivoted and grabbed the rifle, Hanneh dealt the other man a blow to the face with his helmet. In seconds, both militiamen were on the ground, and the two motorcycles roared past the hearse at thunderous speed. Shots were fired towards the hearse and Pavlov dove under the seat. A jeep full of militiamen passed by Pavlov in the hunt for the two motorcycles.

  Pavlov waited a beat, then drove towards the mountain. Half an hour later, two motorcycles appeared in his mirror and accompanied him along the serpentine road to the cremation house.

  El-Marquis entered the furnace, a
nd Hanneh and Manneh wept for three hours. When Pavlov gathered the ashes, he reassured them that the Society would carry out El-Marquis’ last wishes. And with that, Hanneh and Manneh left Pavlov the money he was due, and kissed him farewell.

  FLIGHT

  Pavlov visited Florence, El-Marquis’ old student, to give her the libertine’s ashes as he had requested.

  When Pavlov arrived at Florence’s lavish apartment in Saifeh, the doorman swept him in and accompanied him up in the elevator, and then a maid in a blue apron and little crescent-shaped cap opened the door, her eyes downcast. Florence stood at the far end of a spacious salon, and waited for her maid to show Pavlov the way. Pavlov walked calmly towards her and extended his hand, but she turned away towards a large window with a view and asked him why he had come. Pavlov tried to reconcile the image in his head of her youthful self, as described to him by El-Marquis, with the woman who stood before him now. Florence fully looked the part of the bourgeoise, with her dyed hair, its streaks of blond breaking the homogeneity of brown, and her once-thick eyebrows that had been carefully thinned. The red paint on her nails, the heavy makeup, the French attire and pointy shoes—all of these reminded him of his father’s mortician skills. She was surrounded by the platitudes of wealth: Persian carpets, ornaments, valuable objects and large paintings in thick gold frames.

  Pavlov silently handed her the ashes in a plastic bag. She took it with the tips of her fingers, distancing its contents from her clothing with an outstretched arm. She carefully opened the bag, took a quick look and closed it immediately. She tossed the bag carelessly on a table and brushed her clothing, as if fearful some particle might have escaped and carried itself into her pockets or beneath her butterfly collar.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and took a sip, eyeing the remains of El-Marquis with disdain. Then, brusquely, she grabbed the bag, turned and marched to the bathroom. She shut the door and before Pavlov understood what she was about to do, locked it with a click. When she reopened the door, the toilet’s water tank was already refilling, and the bag in her hand was empty.