They opened French wine, and all the time Nicole is looking at me and smiling.
I would fuck them both, yelled Abou-Haddid. And the maid too.
Wait, listen. George stood up, filled with energy. Listen. Nicole takes off her shoes and plays footsie with me under the table. After dinner, the maid left the house.
I would fuck the maid, Abou-Haddid interrupted again. I would fuck the maid!
And we sat in the salon, George continued. She sat next to me and held my hand, right?
In front of her husband? Abou-Haddid asked.
Yeah, in front of him.
What did you do? I asked.
Well, I said, Excusez-moi, but are you really husband and wife?
Bien oui, said Laurent — that was the name of her husband. Bien oui, George, absolument. Nicole likes you. C’est quoi le problème, alors?
Nicole started to kiss me. Then she took my gun and she said, I love strong men. Regarde, Laurent. Regarde, mon chéri, and she handed him my gun, right? Laurent looked at it and said, C’est un vrai guerrier, lui. Now her hand was on my dick, right? She was breathing heavily, all excited. She went down on her knees, pulled my zipper down, and moved her head up and down.
In front of him? Abou-Haddid shouted. Do you believe this story, Bassam?
Wait, George interrupted. There is more. Now she is sucking me and the guy starts to cheer her on. He claps his hand and sings, Vas-y, Nicole, vas-y, bébé, vas-y, bébé. When I came, he ran to the kitchen, got her a towel, and held her face and cleaned around her mouth. All the time saying, Bébé, mon petit bébé. .
Then Laurent asked me to leave. C’est tard, George, he said. Nicole est fatiguée maintenant. He walked me to the door, thanked me, and said, Nicole likes you and we will call you again.
Did she call you? Abou-Haddid asked.
Yeah, she did.
Can I come with you? Abou-Haddid laughed. He bent toward the tray, his nose diving forward.
George walked me down the stairs on my way out and said, Listen, it seems tension is growing between you and Najib. You better work things out, or maybe both of you should stop the deal. I do not want Abou-Nahra to find out. If he does, he might ask me to put a bullet in both of your heads. If you need the money, you can always join the forces.
You talk to your cousin, I replied.
THAT NIGHT, THROUGH the flames of a million candles that brawled inside the neighbourhood houses, I walked. Under those lights, hazy behind nylon sheets that covered our broken windows, I walked the streets with no dogs. I walked, and the candles danced inside a city with injured walls, a city void of light, a broken city wrapped in plastic, and plastered with bullet holes.
On my way, I met Um-Dolly. She was going to the church for evening prayer; her head was covered in a black lace scarf.
I will pray for your lost soul, my son. God’s wrath is great and it’s upon us all.
God is dead, I said.
Um-Dolly shrieked and crossed herself, as if she had just encountered the devil himself. I walked in the absence of the sun and I thought I saw the devil stalking me, sniffing like a nocturnal dog above barrels filled with bits of candles, fragments of journals, offal from slain goats, body refuse, rubble, ruins, shit, trash, human waste, house dreck, ship wreckage, broken glass.
I heard the engine of a car slowly ticking behind me. I looked back and saw the outline of three heads behind the windshield. In the dark I heard a man telling me to move onto the sidewalk. I looked back again and recognized Najib in the company of two men I had never seen before. Suddenly, they climbed out of the car, slammed the doors shut, and started to push me. I felt an elbow below my chin and a lock on my throat. One man held my hand and twisted it behind my back, and his companion pushed me onto the sidewalk. They cornered me against a metal door. Najib came up beside me and whispered in my ear, Don’t show up at the machines anymore, do you understand? Don’t even think about showing up. We will break your ugly face.
I tried to reach for my gun, but I was fighting for breath and my right hand was twisted up toward my shoulders.
You bring back what you stole from us, or my friends from the forces here will pay you a visit at your home, Najib whispered with an authority that clashed with his boyish voice. The two guys pulled back my arm and brought me down to the ground. I covered my head and curled like a worm under garden soil and waited for giants’ soles to fall on me like gigantic leaves from high trees in titanic forests. I felt the men pounding on my ribs and on my face. Their feet followed their fists, raining down on my body like a winning jackpot. Najib spat on me and walked away.
I watched the three of them slamming their car doors and driving down toward Hospital Street. Then I bounced back like a demon: I ran with the drive of a thousand vengeful gods, salivating sweet blood and poisonous promises like a mad hyena, like metal piercing a beast’s throat. I jumped over a fence and ran toward the alley that led me to Hospital Street (I, a lightning bolt of wrath, a Trojan horse’s belly on fire, an erect cobra in an Indian valley). I jumped over another fence, landed on Hospital Street, and watched the car lights slowly moving toward me. I pulled out my gun, cranked it, and stood in the middle of the road. The car stopped and started to move backward in the narrow street. It smashed into parked cars left and right. I heard Najib squeaking, like a mouse in a lion’s paw. I fired straight at the car and hit the right light. I moved to the side of the street near the wall, where it was darker. With both my hands extended, my finger on the trigger, I strolled slowly toward the car. Najib was howling, Rja’ ya Allah-rja! (Go back, for God’s sake, go back!). I fired another two shots at the car’s left light. I saw the men’s confused heads in silhouette, like trapped birds in a glass cage. I bled from my left hand, bit my swollen lip, ignored my tender ribs, and asked them to get out slowly. I said, Slowly. And, slowly. I said: Slowly.
Najib got out first. The other two put their arms up and moved toward me. I laid them all on the ground, on their bellies, in front of the car’s fender, under a raging moon, parallel to my shoes and beneath my heavy breath, my dripping blood, and my shining devil’s eyes. Najib croaked and cried like a hungry infant.
I frisked them; they had no weapons. I released Najib’s two friends and ordered Najib to stay.
We took the car. I sat in the front seat. Najib drove. He cried all the way. He smelled of piss and his pants had a long patch of wetness that went down to his knees. He was crying and babbling and begging me as he followed my driving directions.
When we arrived under the bridge I asked him to get out. He clung to the steering wheel and started to move back and forth, sobbing, begging me not to kill him.
Get out, I said. I wouldn’t hurt you. Just get out.
I am wet, he said. Tell me what you want.
Get out.
He opened the door slowly. Before he had a chance to run, I grabbed him and pushed his waist over the warm hood and put the gun above his ear.
Who were the two guys with you?
I do not know them, he cried.
I know they are from the forces. Little Najib must know something. Who sent them?