When we arrived at the emergency ward, Abou-Haddid lifted up Khalil and rushed inside. He laid Khalil’s loose body on a rolling bed and screamed for a doctor. When no one showed up, he pulled out his gun and shot in the hallway; white paint and chips of dust fell from the ceiling onto his red face. Two nurses ran over and rushed Khalil through the hallways of the hospital.
Khalil died.
ON THE HIGHWAY HOME, George drove the motorcycle slowly. Behind George, I opened the bag with the money, split the cash, and hid it from the wind. I slipped George’s share into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his gun.
GEORGE, I SAID THE next day while we were sitting in a café, smoking and drinking coffee, Khalil’s funeral is on Wednesday. Are you going?
No, he said, and looked at me with piercing eyes. I do not kill the bird and dance with its feathers.
ON WEDNESDAY I WENT down to the street under the bridge. On the way I saw Khalil’s photo pasted on a shoemaker’s door and on concrete walls. The hero Khalil Al-Deeq, martyred on the front line defending his beloved country, the poster said. I walked on and went up to the roof of a building opposite Khalil’s home. I perched like a hawk, watching men entering the building, hearing women in black wailing sacred chants in a room filled with fainting mothers, red-eyed, weeping sisters, pious grandmothers. Militiamen filled the streets.
I saw Abou-Nahra get out of his jeep and walk straight to the coffin. He shook hands with his sunglasses on. I wanted to see his eyes.
Funerals are all the same, I thought. Men and women were segregated. The house of the deceased accepted the women and the neighbour’s house was open to men. And I was on the roof, a vulture that watched from above and landed only to eat.
When the coffin came down the narrow stairs, held by mighty young men who fought over its gold-metal handles and lifted it on their shoulders to walk it back to earth, the women’s wails intensified. Balconies throughout the neighbourhood were filled with people; the roofs were covered with curious and silent faces. Khalil’s battalion stood in line, aimed their rifles toward a passing cloud, and shot in the air to the slow, migrating coffin.
Men walked behind the coffin, women waved to it. From above, I watched the Christians passing on the road to hell.
6
THE HEAT MADE MY THROAT DRY; I WAS LYING IN MY underwear thinking of Rana.
I put on my jeans and I went down the street toward her house. As my foot touched the melting earth, church bells rang. Miracle! Miracle! shouted Wafa and rushed toward the sounds. Issam scratched his head; Boutros looked at the sky. I walked toward the church and saw a crowd gathered around its door, old ladies in black beating their saggy chests. I grabbed Salah, the plumber, by the hand, and in a low voice I asked what was happening. He answered, There is a young girl who saw the Virgin Mary hovering in the sky. She opened her robe and shielded us all from the Muslims’ falling bombs. The girl’s hands are secreting holy oil.
The church was packed. Mumbles fused with prayers, prayers combusted with the holy waters and burned in candles. Collective chants slid toward the skies.
Like a reptile with moist skin, I slipped into the mob. I made my way toward the front of the church, separating the crippled from their mothers, the blind from their canes, the faces in tears from their sweeping palms. Above the kneeling heads I moved forward, toward the golden icons, then stood to the side and watched: she was there, standing like a statue, a young girl I had never seen before. She was looking up to the ceiling; her hands were open and shiny. She was young, in her teens, and her eyes shone with madness and evasion. A small smirk was on her lips, and she looked hazy and eerie.
The priest puffed incense around the girl. People crossed themselves, and an old lady rushed forward and touched the girl’s hand. The priest pulled the old lady back and drove her away, but then the crowd moved forward and reached for the girl. A few men moved in and pushed the crowd back, forming a shield to protect the young woman. The girl was taken back behind the altar. The low hums and hysterical cries, the reaching hands and beating of chests, the fog of incense, the superstitious shrieks, the sight of pious bodies on crushed knees, the unbearable heat, all these made me seek the open doors. On my way out I grabbed the woman who had touched the girl’s hands, held her fingers to my nose to smell, but the old woman liberated her hand, pushed me back, and shouted at me: Faith! Faith! I made my way out of the crowd like the spear of a warrior in retreat.
For days, people flocked to the church from all over the city. The tolling of the bell muffled the bangs of bombs. My mother’s radio and the ring of bells deafened me.
IN THE EVENING, the sun departed. A bright, round moon arrived and occupied its place. It hovered above the Virgin Mary, made her blue dress glow white, and formed a halo above her head. Down below, a crowd rushed toward the church, bounced, splashed, and retreated from its walls like the tide.
Rana and I were naked in George’s room at his apartment. Rana’s hands were dry and warm, her thighs wet as silk sheets dipped in holy oil. She covered herself and listened as I dreamed about the pigeons in Roma.
You want to go to Roma?
I am thinking about it.
And what, you’ll leave me here?
No, you can come with me.
And what would I do in Roma?
Study, walk the streets, and come back to me.
And how would we do this?
I am working on it, I said.
Rana got up and went to the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink. She squeezed soap onto a sponge, poured water into the sink from a bucket, and rinsed the dishes.
I cannot stand dirty dishes, she said. It drives me crazy. Go outside and see if there are any nosy neighbours on the stairs; I have to go home.
I opened the door and looked outside. There is no one, I told her.
Rana covered herself and ran down the stairs.
Close the door, she whispered fiercely on her way down. Go inside! Close the door, someone will see me.
I kept the door open, smiling and looking at her.
LATER THAT EVENING George joined me at his place.
From the balcony I saw him drive up in a jeep. He was wearing a militia uniform and holding an M-16. When he got out of the jeep he switched his rifle from one hand to the other. He knocked at his own door. Is Rana still there? he asked me.
She left. New clothes? I asked.
He did not answer. He laid his rifle on the sofa, took off his boots, and said, Abou-Nahra called me in.
And?
He asked me what was happening down at the casino. I think he smells something.
I doubt it.
Well, he asked me to join. He looked me straight in the eyes and said it’s better for everyone. You know what he meant, don’t you?
So you got alarmed and joined? Maybe he meant that you might lose your job.
No, I know what he meant. I was there.
Where does Abou-Nahra live? I asked George.
He is always surrounded by bodyguards, Bassam. Forget about it. Listen, we better cool it with the poker machines for now. He held his rifle closer to his chest, against his khaki shirt, under his chin. Then he pointed it at me and smiled.