Hold it. See? It’s light as a feather. He took off his clothes, went to the bathroom. Fucking water, I heard him cursing.
He pulled on his shirt and pants, went up to the roof, and came back with a bucket. While I poured water on his head, he washed under his armpits. When he was finished washing, he dabbed cologne under his chin.
I am going to meet the Broumana woman, he told me.
She called?
He nodded and combed his straight black hair. Are you coming?
No, I am staying. But leave me the handgun.
He tossed it on the sofa and asked no questions.
I TUCKED THE GUN under my belt and walked over to Joseph Chaiben’s house. I climbed up the open stairs, smearing the dirty marble with my footprints. Joseph lived in one of those old Lebanese houses, a mixture of Florentine and Arabic architecture, that are overwhelmed by larger, modern buildings with mechanical elevators and large balconies.
I knocked at Joseph’s door. His mother opened. I greeted her and asked after her health. She invited me in and called to her son. Joseph had been asleep. He entered in his shorts, a sleeveless white cotton shirt, and plastic slippers that complemented his mother’s cheap tablecloth. As he greeted me, his mother brought me a drink, apologizing for not having ice, complaining about the water shortage, the war. . life. . Her words echoed my mother’s.
When Joseph and I went up to the roof, Joseph’s mother shouted from below, The roofs are dangerous; there are snipers everywhere! Come down here; talk in the room. I will leave; come back down.
But the roof had no walls and we wanted no echoes, so we ignored her. I showed Joseph the gun and asked him if he knew of someone selling a gun like it. He held it, took off the magazine, put it back on, cranked the gun, aimed it toward West Beirut and fired.
Beretta, I said. Nine millimetre, ten shots. Clean, never used in combat.
I will look into it.
How are Khalil’s parents doing? I said.
His sister saw me on the street the other day. I was coming back from the front line in my uniform, gear and all, and when she saw me she started to shout, You people killed my brother. You are all thugs and criminals to take young men to war. He was seventeen, she said. A baby, seventeen!
Joseph shook his head and inspected the gun again.
Do you still go down to the front line? I asked.
Yeah, he said. Abou-Nahra won’t let me leave. You know, once you’re in, you’re in.
And what does Abou-Nahra think about Khalil’s death?
He asked a lot of questions but never said anything to me.
I promised Joseph some oily, shiny hash; he smiled and said he would do his best to find a good gun for me.
When we went down, his mother was gone; Joseph went back inside the house.
That day, as I remember, there was a ceasefire and few clouds.
THE NEXT DAY I borrowed George’s motorcycle. I met Rana on the outskirts of the neighbourhood, at the corner of a building filled with people who had never seen our faces before. She mounted the motorcycle behind me and we drove straight to the mountains. She clasped both her arms around my waist. I drove on gravel roads and into the belly of the hills. When we stopped, I handed her the gun, wrapped my arms around her shoulders, put my hands over hers, and we both extended our arms and took aim at rusty cans. She fired, and laughed. Then she liberated herself from my arms, pushed me back and took the gun by herself, aimed and shot. She smiled and walked toward me, swinging her hips, waving the gun in the air. She pointed it at my chest. Flipping her long lashes playfully, she said: Now that I have a gun, I will follow you to Roma and shoot you down if you leave without me.
From afar Beirut looked like a stretch of little cement hills, crowded buildings with no roads, no lampposts, no humans.
There, that is the Muslim side, she pointed. I have never met a Muslim. No, wait, there were a couple of Muslim girls in school, but they fled when the war started. Faten, one of their names was, Faten; the other, I can’t remember. . Can’t remember.
I held Rana and kissed her neck. The soft, cool breeze made her nipples erect under her thin white cotton shirt. I slipped my hand onto her chest, molested her breasts, and sucked her round, red nipples.
She was anxious, looking around, watching for stray visitors, nature lovers and bird hunters, and when I pushed my hand inside her tight jeans, she said: Bassam, stop. Not here. Bassam, stop!
I did not stop. I was breathing like a hound and I forced myself on her; Rana froze, then gripped my hand and pushed me away. She pointed the gun at me.
When I say stop, you stop! You stop, she shouted in anger.
I walked toward her. I grabbed her wrist, pointed the gun again at my chest, and said, Pull it!
You are hurting my wrist, she said.
I took the gun back, and we both kept our silence, breathing heavily.
Then we drove farther up into the hills. We stopped and looked at the city again. A long, mushroom-shaped cloud sprang from the earth in West Beirut.
A bomb, Rana said to me. Look, a bomb just landed.
More like an explosion, I said.
As we drove back down the hill, Rana’s hands caressed my chest. She drove her nail into my flesh and said, I could have shot you here.
MY MOTHER CAME shuffling up the stairs with bags in her hand: vegetables, meat, bread.
She called me into the kitchen. What is going on between you and Rana? This morning over coffee her mother asked me about you two.
What did she ask?
About your job, and if you are interested in visiting their house with me. She said Rana is at the age to be engaged.
We are just friends, I said.
Don’t lie to me, Bassam. Rana is like a daughter to me, and she is not that kind of girl. If you are not serious, do not ruin her future. People talk here. People talk.
I walked away. She shouted at my back, Yeah, just like your father. He always left, and he kept on leaving. A good-for-nothing, he was a good-for-nothing.
I heard the kitchen door slam behind me.
MORE THAN TEN thousand bombs had landed, and I was stranded between two walls facing my trembling mother. She had refused to go down to the shelter unless I came with her. And I refused to hide underground. I, descended from a long line of mighty warriors, would die only in the open air above an earth of muddy soils and whistling winds!
My mother jumped at every explosion. She called upon one female saint after another but none of them, busy virgins, ever answered her back.
Petra, the little neighbour girl, crawled up the dirty marble stairs and knocked on our door; she looked suspiciously at my glittering sword and warrior face, then covered her lips and whispered a secret in my mother’s ear. My mother stood up and walked straight to the bathroom. She came back with a box of Kotex and said, It is empty, habibti, but do not worry; come with me.
The little menstruating body stood up, her face a deep, bashful red. She dashed inside, to my mother’s bedroom.
I walked down the stairs, out of the building, and across the deserted street toward Abou-Dolly, the grocer. The store was closed, but Abou-Dolly lived with his family in the back. I knocked. The grocer opened the door a crack. He saw me and frowned and asked me what I needed. Kotex, I said. We are closed now, he answered in a dry tone.
It is urgent! I said.
Come in.
I entered the house. It smelled of villagers’ soap, ground coffee, and rotting vegetables that had fallen under the loud fridge, and two cats that fed on brown mice, and the grocer’s daughter, Dolly, who was breastfeeding her newborn from her round white breast that made me thirsty. When I stepped in, Dolly covered her baby and her breast in a pink wool quilt. Um-Dolly, the grocer’s wife, was there knitting in the corner; his son-in-law, Elias, was wearing suspenders and gazing at the wall and smoking. They were all gathered around two pitiful candles that flickered in a wild, diabolic motion, projecting everyone’s shadow on Hades and its burning walls.