LATER, I WENT TO George’s place. Members of his platoon were stretched on his sofas, wearing cotton shirts, cowboy belts, and Levi’s jeans. I recognized Nicole, the woman from Broumana. Her husband, Laurent, was drunk and talking about Africa. Highways of cocaine were stretched on mirrors. Noses operated on glass like vacuum-cleaner hoses, driving white powder into the molecules of numb, wide eyes. The apartment buzzed with invincible fighters, with swelling laughs and shiny teeth. The fighters filled the kitchen with their straight, broad shoulders, they sang to the music with commanding voices, they landed their lips and heroic praises on one another’s cheeks, and their sharp-shooters’ eyes were aimed on serpentine asses. There was food and drink and talk and cigarettes.
I stood against the wall with a beer in my hand. I talked to a few people: to Fadi, to Adel, to Raymond, to Souha, Chantal, Christine, Maya, Souhail, and to George, who was smiling and high.
George said, Have a good time now, and we will talk later. There is a girl inside bleeding from her nose.
I will ask one of your soldier friends, Joseph Chaiben, to help me with the whisky job, I said.
We will talk tomorrow, he said, and kissed me on the cheek. You’re my brother, you’re my brother, he said, and walked toward Bébé and her husband, Monsieur Laurent.
YOU CAME FOR the tea, the manufacturer said to me when he opened the door. Listen. It is simple. I make the contact. It is business; everyone drinks. Did you eat?
Yes, I said.
You have to try my wife’s bamia. Come, sit down and eat.
No, I ate. Next time, thank you.
You like whisky? he asked me.
Only the good kind, I said.
The manufacturer laughed. I won’t offer you any of mine, then. By the way, I knew your uncle. He was always involved in politics. I would tell him, Stop wasting your time with all these activities. But he was a socialist, he liked demonstrations! At the warehouse tomorrow, my son Hakim will load the truck for you. You just give them the merchandise; no money exchange is involved. The contact’s name is Ali. George gave you directions?
Yes, I said.
Will you be alone?
No.
It’s just business, he said again. No religion, no war; this is only business. Muslim, Christian — it does not matter.
JOSEPH AND I DROVE down to Al-Aswaq. The streets were vacant. Little plants sprang from beneath the sidewalk’s cracks, lived underneath broken arches, shone in front of looted stores, sprang from the bellies of decaying sandbags, and dwelt in deserted governmental buildings that longed for the old days when lazy bureaucrats strolled in long hallways, snoozed on metal desks, dipped their moustaches in thick coffee, paraded their thin ties on hairy, conceited chests, waved their hands to expel flies and welcome bribes and seal endless deals with forged wills, illegal roofs, rebirth certificates, religious divorces, contaminated water pipes, underage driver licences, expired bank notes, stumbling constructions, derelict sewers, stained travel documents, and clandestine harvests of hallucinogenic plants that grew in the Bekaa Valley on the steps of Heliopolis, where Fairuz, that whining singer, sang at night under twinkling stars that had guided the three Babylonians from the east and down south into that stable with ruminating cows and the child who extracted milk from the virgin’s round, black nipples.
I drove, and Joseph navigated. I know this place like my own fingers, he said to me. Turn right, there, next to the barrel. Stop.
I pulled out my gun, and got out of the van, and stood beside it. Joseph pulled out his AK-47 and took his position behind the vehicle.
Chai, come and get it. Chai, Joseph shouted.
A man whistled from the first floor of an empty building.
Ali? I asked.
Bassam?
Yes.
At Ali’s signal, two young boys appeared from behind the sandbags. They were dressed in worn clothes and plastic flip-flops, and had dirt-smudged faces.
I got into the van and turned its rear toward the West Side of the city. The boys’ tiny arms pulled cases from the van and carried them inside the building.
Forty cases, I said.
Mahmoud, did you count the number of cases?
Forty, the little kid shouted from inside the building. Arba’in. Twakkalala Allah.
Kassak, and watch out for the land mine on your way back, Joseph shouted to them.
TEN THOUSAND NEEDLES had penetrated Nicole’s arms, but still I brought her a little bag to open. Monsieur Laurent stood above the stove with a spoon in his hand, breaking powder and heating liquid.
Tiens, Bébé, mon amour. Tiens.
When the band around her arm was released, Nicole smiled at me. Should I give the money to George or to you?
Give it to George, I said.
I strolled down the stairs into the city, and over to the church walls, and under the church stairs I sat and smoked. A few cats with striped fur passed by, a few rifles meowed, a few heels licked the earth, and a few bells tolled on the roofs above me.
Eventually, George showed up with Abou-Haddid at his side.
How is the junkie? he asked me. Did the old man shoot as well?
No.
Did he pay you?
No, I told him to give you the money. You should have told me what was in the. . I paused. Do you have the whisky cut for me?
The man did not pay me yet. When he pays I will take care of you, do not worry.
Next time, tell me what to expect. I am not your private pusher, I said. And I left.
George called out after me, but I did not answer him.
ALL THE NEXT DAY I lay in my bed and floated. Cigarette smoke hung about me, rose to the ceiling, and formed a grey cloud. Bombs fell in the distance. The plate under my bed was filled with ashes and yellow Marlboro butts with smashed faces and hunchback postures. The candle beside me shone its light on the comic book in my hand. My slippers waited for me under the bed like Milou, Tintin’s dog. When I heard a knock at my door, I pulled my gun from under my pillow and killed the candle flame swiftly. I walked to the door in my slippers and glued my eye to the peephole. I saw a dark shadow.
I moved away from the door. Who is it? I asked.
It is me, Nabila. Bassam, open the door.
I obeyed.
Why are you hiding in the dark? Steal a candle from the priest, set the house on fire, but don’t hide like a stray ghost.
Nabila followed me into my room. I swept the table with my hand, searching for the box of matches. When I found it, I shook it like a Brazilian musical instrument. I struck one stick against the box’s rough edge, and Nabila’s face shone.
You are still skinny, still yellow and skinny. Let me come tomorrow to cook for you and fix the house.
No, I said.
Have you seen Gargourty?
Yesterday.
I have not seen him in a week. I called his workplace and they said he no longer works there. I went many times to his place, but he is never home. No one has seen him. Um-Adel, his neighbour, said he is hardly ever home.
He must be busy.
Doing what?
Working.
At what?
I don’t know. Whatever comes along.
Like what? What is he becoming? Is he working with Abou-Nahra?
Yes.
But at what?