What the fuck are you doing, George, hooking that girl?
That impotent is loaded. He has African diamonds up his ass, George said.
He went to the bathroom, poured water in a bucket, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and then he took off his socks, examined the blisters around his ankles, and poured the rest of the water on his feet. He borrowed some of my clothes and lay down on my sofa.
George and I ate together that day. I smoked a cigarette to help me digest the food I ate with him.
After the meal, I left the fighter asleep and drove his motorcycle to the port. I worked all night. At the dock, the sea breeze splashed against my sweat. I drove the loading machine in the salty wind, lifted its arm, and stocked merchandise inside warehouses.
In the morning, at the end of the shift, I walked to the office of Abou-Tariq, the foreman. Each morning, a few men gathered in front of Abou-Tariq’s container. His container was transformed into an office, and we all sat on plastic chairs and empty ammunition boxes in front of it, sipping coffee and talking. Abou-Tariq was an old combatant who had fought in the battle of Tal-Alzatar, and who prided himself on knowing the high commander, Al-Rayess, personally. He played with his moustache and informed us that a large ship was arriving next week.
We need more men to unload, Abou-Tariq said. He suggested that the security men should go to Dawra and pick up Egyptian or Ceylonese workers to help with the unloading.
Chahine, a young security man with a thin face and a dark complexion, chain-smoked with an air of boredom. Now he stood up, lit yet another cigarette, and said in a low, quiet voice, These poor workers stand in the sun all day waiting for an employer to hire them for construction work and other manual jobs. But now, when they see our militia jeeps coming their way, they start running. They do not want to work for free. Sometimes the forces even forget to feed them. The last time we needed workers, I had to run after an Egyptian from Dawra to Burj Hammoud. I tell you, this guy had plastic slippers, but he ran like a gazelle. Finally, I was out of breath, so I stopped, took my gun, and started to shoot in the air. He thought I was shooting at him, so he stopped. I dragged him to the jeep and we drove up to the mountains. We needed men to fill sandbags for a new military position we held. It was April, and was warm down here in the coast, but when we got high up into the mountains it was cold, especially at night. These workers were in short sleeves and without shoes or jackets. They huddled next to one another in the back of the jeep. We made them fill sandbags, then in the evening the temperature dropped even more. In the morning, we found one of them frozen to death. His friends were all crying. One of them was in tears next to his friend’s dead body. Chakir Ltaif, nicknamed Beretta, approached the fellow and asked him for a cigarette. The man stopped crying, and he looked Beretta in the eyes, and said, Danta, ya beh, mush ayiz iddik cravata harir kaman? (Your highness, do you want me to offer you a silk tie as well)? I tell you, since that day, I refuse to force these people, or run after them or capture them. They have a ruh (spirit) as well. I will not do it, khalas.
Said, another man who worked at the port — he was in charge of the merchandise inventory and accounting — looked at Chahine and said, Well, I want to see how they will treat you in Egypt if you go to work there. You are a Christian. Look at the Copts and other Christians. How are they treated in these Muslim countries?
I am not sure why I opened my mouth — me, who wanted only to finish my sip of coffee, crush my cigarette on the floor, and board a ship to nowhere. To my own surprise, I said, There are many Christians on the West Side of Beirut, still living there, and no Muslim ever bothered them.
They are all traitors, communists, and socialists, Said quickly replied. And maybe you two should join them, he said, and looked at me and Chahine with hateful eyes.
Who are you calling communist, you thief? We all know what you do, Chahine protested, and his gun tilted slightly up toward the edge of his chest. My brother is a shahid (martyr). My brother died fighting for the cause. My brother threw himself on a hand grenade to save his platoon.
Yeah, we have heard that story many times, Said replied. But we also all know that it was your brother’s fault. He opened that grenade and couldn’t throw it, so it fell at his feet. He was clumsy, that is all; everyone claims to be a hero in this war.
Ars (pimp), I am going to kill you, Chahine shouted. He cranked his AK-47, but before he had the chance to aim it at Said, Abou-Tariq grabbed the rifle, pushed it high toward the sky, and started to slap Chahine on the face, telling him to release his weapon.
When the young man obeyed, Abou-Tariq declared: No one raises a weapon toward anyone in my presence or here on my turf. Next time a gun is raised, no matter what direction it is aimed at, it is as if it is pointed at me personally, and I will deal with it. He shouted at all of us and told us to disperse.
As I walked toward the motorcycle, Said drove by me slowly in his beaten-up Mercedes. He stared at me, and I looked back at him.
What was your last name again? he asked me.
I did not answer him, and did not take my eyes off his car window. I remained calm because I could see that both his hands were on the steering wheel.
Said nodded his head slowly, then one of his hands moved and dangled out of the car widow. Yeah, Al-Abyad, I just remembered, he said with sarcasm. There are a few of those names still living on the other side, I bet. He drove away.
I HOPPED ON the motorcycle and drove home. As I reached my street, from the corner of my eye I saw Rana leaving my building. I saw George leaving behind her, heading in a different direction. She looked back at him and fixed her hair. Then she gave him a sign with her hand, and ducked her head into her shoulders, and slipped away fast, brushing against corners and the clandestine walls.
When I saw them, I made a sharp turn and took Saydaleh Street. I drove through Achrafieh; I drove fast, racing and cutting in front of cars. Four young men in a red Renault decided to race me. They jeered at me and honked behind me, and tried to block my way. One of them stretched his upper body from the back window of the car while his friend held him from the waist. He extended his hands and tried to catch me to bring me down. I accelerated, climbed on the sidewalk, stomped one foot on the ground, leaned the machine toward the curb, and gave it gas. It swung in the opposite direction, and I drove the wrong way up the street and lost them.
I went back to my house. The dishes were clean.
I SLEPT ALL MORNING. In the afternoon I walked toward Rana’s house. I waited across from her building, pacing, with a cigarette in my hand. I leaned against the wall of the fish store. I waited, and it rained and poured, and the water rushed down from the roof and peed its way through pipes and drains, splashing on sidewalks. Faces sunk beneath colourful umbrellas passed me by. Cars made their way through little pools and drove wedges through the water, splashing it into ephemeral, flying waves.
Then the old sun came out again, and the roofs, like wet dogs, shook the rain from their backs, and the fisherman’s fish had a last bounce, shedding its freshness, forgetting its home under the sea. I waited for Rana, but she never came down to dip her feet in the wet streets.
THE NEXT DAY I arranged to meet Rana at my house. I asked her why she never came by any more.
I have been busy, she said.
You never passed by?
Busy, I have been busy. She looked away, confused.
Should I thank you for doing the dishes? I asked, seizing Rana by the hair, pulling her head back, and kissing her neck violently, fumbling at her breasts.