I said, Let the little kid Najib do whatever he has to do.
He will. Najib spat on the floor and walked away with his peacock walk.
A COUPLE OF DAYS later, I went to King Falafel for a sandwich and a Pepsi. I saw George and Abou-Nahra eating. I should have known they were there by the strip of power cars stretched on the sidewalk, but I was hungry and not thinking. I tried to dodge them, but it was too late; George saw me and called me over. I walked straight to him and we kissed. Abou-Nahra had on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, so you couldn’t tell whether he was looking at you. George introduced me; the commander smiled, asked me to sit, and invited me for a sandwich. I declined, but he insisted, shouting to the boy behind the counter. So I ate.
Abou-Nahra was surrounded by men I recognized: Kamil, Joseph, and Abou-Haddid, Khalil’s friend, who waved from a table behind us and asked me if I still worked at the port.
It is slow these days, I said.
George told Abou-Nahra that my father had been the founder of a radio station in the 1950s. Abou-Nahra said he had known my late father and my uncle Naeem. The communist, he said and smiled. He left us for the other side. How is he doing?
We never hear from him, I said.
We were on the same volleyball team. Did you know that?
No. I must have been a kid at the time.
You are still a kid now. He laughed.
When Abou-Nahra was ready to leave, his men stood up. Some crushed the paper wraps in their hands and shoved their sandwiches into their mouths. Abou-Nahra put his arm around my neck. He tapped one finger in his palm slowly and said in his deep voice, George, bring this fighter to the centre one day to join. We don’t want him to join the other side like his uncle. We always need good young men.
George was evasive; he muttered something in a low voice. I watched Abou-Nahra. I still wanted to see his eyes. George winked at me, went out with the men, and then came back inside and sat across from me. When I finished eating, we walked down the street to a jeep parked on the sidewalk.
That’s Khalil’s jeep, I said.
Yeah, he won’t need it any more.
We drove down to the stretch of road under the bridge. We parked. George kept his M-16 by his side. I moved back in my seat, just enough to feel my own gun pressing against my back. We could hear the sound of rushing cars from above.
When are you leaving? George asked, looking straight at me.
Not yet.
Najib visited me last night. He said that you owe him money.
Your cousin is a liar, I said. He has another person in the deal.
I’ll talk to him. How is Rana?
She’s fine.
Listen, I’m leaving next week for Israel. We are going by ship. I will leave you the keys to the apartment. If Nabila asks, tell her that I went camping in the mountains with some friends.
George slipped his hand onto his rifle. He pulled it out slowly and placed it on the back seat. Then he turned on the jeep’s engine and we drove back to the neighbourhood.
When I stepped out of his jeep, George looked at me and said, I will talk to my cousin.
I WAITED FOR NAJIB at the top of the hill outside the city, as we had arranged earlier that day.
He came in a car with two other guys. From far away I could hear their loud music. Dust flew up and smothered the scent of the idiot’s perfumed aftershave and hair gel. He got out of the car. I watched from behind a tree as he walked uphill in his flat Italian shoes, slipping on the rocks, carrying his shiny leather jacket on his arm. I let him pass me by; when I saw his back, I walked slowly toward him. I grabbed his jacket and threw it on the ground, and I pushed him against a tree.
Najib jerked in fear. I looked at his hands; they were empty. I ran my hand along his waist; he was clean.
Who is in the car? I asked.
My friends, he said, startled. He smelled of alcohol.
Why did you bring your friends?
We are on our way to Broumana.
No one should have come with you.
They do not know about our deal.
I slipped his share of money into his pocket and said to him, You are reckless and acting like an idiot. One day Abou-Nahra will find out and he will put a bullet in your head. Not your cousin or your mother will stop him from doing it. Now, go and say that you went for a piss. That’s what you told them, right?
He did not answer.
I walked up the hill and looked down into the valley. Then I looked at the sea in front of me, the sea I’d have to plunge into and slip beneath and swim through one day, to reach other shores and leave this place.
8
GEORGE CAME BACK FROM ISRAEL.
He called me, and I went to see him at his place. AbouHaddid opened the door. He kissed me, held my neck, and made me sit next to him, tapping his hand on my shoulder. George had a deep desert tan. They were both sniffing cocaine from a flat glass surface.
Do you want a line of dried milk? George pointed at the coffee table.
No, I will pass.
George wore a T-shirt with three Hebrew letters on it. He looked muscular, quieter, and his hair was shaved. He moved slower and seemed more intense. He poured whisky and talked of the camp in the desert and the training.
When you sneak up on an enemy from behind to slash his throat, you should hold him by the chin and not his mouth, because he will bite your hand, right? So we had to practise it. Paul Jeouriege — you know, the one who lives in Karm Al- Zeitoun? You know him, Bassam, he drives the white Fiat with the high spoiler — anyway, he put his hand on Beebo’s mouth, not his chin, right? So what does Beebo do? He bit his hand and he wouldn’t let go, and Paul was screaming in pain, Wou yallah shid ya, Beebo, shid mitl ma shad bayak awwal laylah (Push, push, Beebo, in the same way your father pushed on his first night).
George and Abou-Haddid both laughed.
Listen to George’s story, Abou-Haddid said to me. Listen. On your sister’s honour, listen. This guy is a big fannas (liar).
George was high and smiling. He looked at me and said, By your father’s lost soul, Bassam, tell Abou-Haddid about Nicole, that young woman who gave me her number in Broumana. You were with me then. Tell this guy.
Yeah, I was there. She is hamshah, shalkhah, I said.
Shalkhah, right? said George. Well, I gave her a call. An older man answered the phone, right? I thought it was her father, but when I asked her, Nicole said no, he is her husband.
Should I call you later? I asked her.
No, she said, not to worry, and she kept on talking, natural, like no one is there, right?
So I kept on calling her every day, and sometimes I asked her what she was wearing, and she would tell me she had nothing on, or some lace underwear, or sometimes just a T-shirt.
So we started to talk dirty, while her husband is still at home, right? When I asked if her husband was there once, she said that he was listening on the other line. So I am thinking, What the fuck? You know, maybe he is not a real man, right?
The next time I called he recognized my voice and said, How are you, George? Come and visit us sometime. Then Nicole took the phone and we started to talk, natural.
George approached the tray, kneeled, and took a snort of cocaine. He inhaled through one nostril while blocking the other with his index finger. Then he continued:
So I went to their home in Surssock. You know, one of those fancy houses. A maid opened the door. The man, who maybe is in his sixties, maybe older, he looked like her father. He had white hair and was dressed in his robe de chambre and slippers, and he was smoking a big cigar. He invited me in and started to talk to me in French, right? Bonjour, George, comment ça va? He showed me around the house. Then Nicole came and kissed me on the mouth right in front of him. Then she turned, kissed him on the cheeks, and called him Loulou. He called her Bébé.