Al-Chami, the street-corner musician, played with his beats and passed his hand over his moustache. Whoever comes, let him come. We are tired of this war, he chanted. We need to work, and the grey partridge on the roof will coo in my head when are we departing, when are we departing. Let’s catch the southern wind. I can glide! I can glide across the nearby sea.
On my way back home, I met Monsieur Laurent. He held my arm, nodded, and said, Les Juifs sont là, ils sont là.
I SAW RANA ONCE in the market; she ignored me and slipped away through the merchants’ calls. I followed her. When I approached her, she pretended not to see me and continued picking vegetables.
I took her hand and said, Come, let’s talk.
She softly answered, We have nothing to say to each other. Please, take your hand off me. Go. Leave. You always wanted to be alone; all you wanted is to leave. You do not need me; you do not need anyone. Besides, I am getting engaged. And do not ask, I will never tell you to whom.
I will find out and kill your fiancé, I said.
You can try. My fiancé has killed many before you, and will kill many more.
I let her go.
THE LOUD RADIO next door announced to me that the Israelis had moved north and laid siege on West Beirut.
From my balcony I watched the Christian forces, euphoric, driving their jeeps in haste. They had flamboyant orange flags pasted on their roofs, attached to their windows, on their hoods. When I asked Joseph about the orange flags, he told me, It is a sign for the Israelis to know that we are their allies. No whisky delivery for a while, hey, Majnun? He giggled.
Israeli jets flew over Beirut and bombed houses, hospitals, and schools. The radios trumpeted from every window on our street. On the West Side, people were fleeing for their lives, and on our East Side, in the night, we could see flashes of resistance aiming at the skies. I went to the roof and looked at the west. The landscape was lit up under lightning bolts that fell from Israeli airplanes. There was one consistent line of red that reached to the sky. It never ceased, and I wondered if my uncle was shooting at the gods. And I wondered if cheap whisky bottles would turn into Molotov cocktails in Ali’s hands.
I CALLED JALLIL Al-Tahouneh about my uncle’s letter. He was brief on the phone, and rude. We decided to meet in front of Café Sassine. He said that he would pass with his car if I would wait for him outside. Then he asked me if I would be alone. I assured him that I would be.
Do not forget the envelope, he said.
I slammed the phone in his ear.
I WAITED OUTSIDE the café. It was sunny, and I watched a group of girls exiting the nuns’ school in short skirts, holding books wrapped in thick elastic bands against their young breasts. They giggled in chorus, swung their fertile hips and their freshly shaved legs in a shared rhythm. Their wide brown eyes shifted and stole glances.
A car stopped in front of me, and a man with glasses and wearing a wool jacket leaned to the driver’s side, opened the door, and called me by my last name. I got in. The man did not greet me. He seemed nervous, or upset. I thought how he must be boiling with heat under the thick wool jacket. He was oblivious to my presence, but he stared at the envelope.
Is that it? he asked.
What? I asked back, knowing full well what he was looking for.
The envelope.
Yes.
He made a sudden turn and took the downhill road back to the Syriac neighbourhood.
He stopped the car, fixed his glasses, and snatched the envelope. Let me see.
He was boorish, and I felt annoyed by his eccentric ill manners.
He looked at me with his narrow eyes. Was this opened? he shouted.
No.
You opened it?
Yes.
Why? he shouted.
Because I felt like it.
You shouldn’t have opened it.
All the money is there. Count it.
He started to count the money. Then he shoved the envelope in his pocket and said, Okay, leave now.
I pulled out my gun and replied, No, you leave.
He froze.
Listen, I am just doing this as a favour, I said. You haven’t even said thank you. I am not walking all the way back on my feet, do you understand? I do not give a fuck about anything but respect. Respect is very important to me. I love respect, and I kill disrespect. You say one more word and I will shoot you and keep the money. Do you understand?
All of a sudden the man burst into a big smile. In a quick magic act of metamorphosis he turned from a cockroach into an apologetic hunchback, bowing his head, and calling me ‘ustadh (teacher).
Your uncle is a dear friend, he said, a very dear friend, indeed. Here. He pulled out two hundred liras and smiled. This is for your trouble.
Drive back, I said, and make it fast.
EARLY ONE MORNING a few days and many more dead civilians on the West Side later, two militiamen knocked at my door.
Al-Amn A-Dakhili (internal security). Open up! they shouted from the other side. When I did, they stormed my house and pushed me against the wall. A man put a gun to my head. Two more searched the house.
What is it? I asked
Shut up, Hashash (drug user)! The man with the gun to my head slapped my face. You are coming with us. Abou-Nahra wants to see you.
Let me get dressed, I said.
The man with the gun pushed me.
I am coming! I said. Do you want me to meet the commander in my underwear?
He grabbed me by my shirt. Do it fast, he said.
I led him to my room, found my pants, and while he was shoving me, I slipped my finger inside the bundle of money in my pants pocket. I waited until he pushed me again, then pretended to fall and stashed the bundle under the old, heavy couch. Then he and the other men led me to the jeep. On the way down, Abou-Dolly, the grocer, was standing at the entrance shaking his head. Zu’ran (thugs), he said, and looked me in the eyes.
Why are you taking me? I asked my captors.
The man with the gun bounced around in his seat and grabbed my hair. One more word and I will make you spit blood from your mouth. Do you understand?
Eventually, we arrived at the Majalis. I got out of the jeep, and two militiamen led me down some stairs and underground. They shoved me into a room containing a table and couple of chairs. I sat on one of the chairs and waited.
Two hours passed, and still I waited. All I heard was the slam of a metal door, a few guard’s steps, some moaning. I felt the dampness of the moist underground, the cold walls, the vague urine smells, and the unpainted concrete floors. I paced, and fidgeted, and changed chairs. Maybe they had found out about the poker deal. I should have killed Najib, that idiot; or had George stabbed me in the back again?
Soon I became vindictive. Was it the poker deals, or the envelope from my uncle to Jallil Al-Tahouneh? I prepared myself for the coming slaps, the repetitive questioning. Tell the same story, Bassam, tell the same story. I craved a cigarette. Finally, I heard keys twisting inside the door lock, and Abou-Nahra came inside, smiling. He was accompanied by a guard.
Ah! You are Bassam. I thought it was you, he said from behind his glasses. I wondered if he could still see me by the room’s dim lightbulb that almost touched his head under the low ceiling.
Stand up! his man shouted and slapped the back of my head. Stand up for the commander, Hashash.
I stood up slowly, looking Abou-Nahra straight in the eyes.
Kalb, stand up fast! The guard slapped me again on the head, pushed me, and kicked my shin. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. When I touched the grainy surface of the concrete I felt its coldness and dampness, and my clothes rubbed against it and picked up its grey colour, the soft grey grains that covered the rough, uneven surface. I wondered about the sloppy job they’d done of pouring concrete in that place. The floor was not even; maybe that is why all the chairs wobbled when I was sitting down, I thought, as feet landed on my face and battered my morning eyes.