THE NEXT EVENING, I went back to the port and worked. On my break, I went up to the deck and looked for the captain. Captain Ashraf, an Egyptian, was eating in the kitchen.
I sat down and said to him, I work here at the dock.
He looked at me. Yes?
I need to leave this place, soon.
Do you have a visa? he asked.
Where is your ship going? I asked in turn.
Marseilles. You have a visa to France?
No, I admitted.
I cannot let you come on board.
How can we work it out? I asked.
He kept his silence, ate some more. Eventually, he asked. They pay you well here?
I have money, I said.
Eight hundred, he said.
I have six hundred.
The captain did not answer. He stood up slowly to leave.
I can give you seven hundred, I said, and I would be left with two hundred for when I got there, to face my destiny.
We leave on Sunday. Twakkal ala Allah, and bring a warm jacket. It gets cold on the deck at night.
14
I WAS LYING ON MY BED AT HOME, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night, when someone knocked at my door. It was my neighbour from next door. She was in tears. They killed him, she said. They killed Al-Rayess.
The highest commander of the Christian Lebanese forces had been assassinated on a visit to one of his political-party compounds. While he was inside meeting with his supporters, a bomb exploded and brought the whole building down. Meanwhile, in West Beirut, the Palestinians and the leftist forces had surrendered to the Israeli forces.
I listened on the radio to the burial of Al-Rayess, and the withdrawal of Palestinian forces from Lebanon to Tunisia. Women in East Beirut wore black, and they all wept.
Nabila phoned me to assure me that she had dreamed it all the night before. She was taking Valium because the news of the assassination made her sick and depressed. She told me that she had talked to George, and that George told her that they had caught a suspect. His name is Al-Tahouneh, she said. Or something like that. A member of the communist Syrian party. They also found in his house architectural drawings of the foundation of the fallen building.
JOSEPH FINALLY AGREED to the money-making plan I had proposed to him. So I watched the casino for a couple of days. The militia money-collectors came every other evening — two of them, in a civilian car and wearing civilian clothes. When they went inside the poker place I crossed the street and took a look at their car to see if they carried weapons other than the ones stuck in their waistbands. When they came out, I followed their car from afar and memorized their route. They stopped at one other poker place, and then went straight to the Majalis. They took a long, unpaved side road that led to the headquarters.
The day after I traced the route, Joseph and I waited for Najib’s poker-playing friend to come home.
Joseph went up to the roof of the apartment building; I waited across the street.
Soon we saw the guy park his car and go up the stairs. I whistled with my two fingers in my mouth, and Joseph came down the stairs from the roof, coughing, and with a handkerchief on his face. When he passed Najib’s friend, Joseph pretended to cough and then hit him in the face.
I flew up the stairs with thick tape in my hand.
Before Najib’s accomplice could make a sound, Joseph stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth. I tied his hands and ankles, and we dumped him up on the roof of his building. I took his car keys. We got in the car and drove fast toward Joseph’s place. Joseph went up to his apartment and brought down his kalash and guns.
As I drove, Joseph filled the gun magazines with bullets. He checked my gun and his. We stopped at the poker place and watched the two collectors go in. Then we drove ahead, onto the unpaved road that led to the Majalis.
I opened the hood of the car and blocked the street. I stood behind the open hood, and when I saw the collectors’ car coming, I pulled a stocking over my head. Joseph hid in the ditch.
The collectors stopped their car and came toward our car, cursing. Joseph ran up behind them with his Kalashnikov.
Ala alaard ya ikhwat al-sharmuta (on the floor, you brothers of bitches), I shouted as I appeared from behind the hood with two guns in my hands, pointed at their faces. Ala alaard, I repeated.
Ala alaard, before I empty my guns on you, Joseph echoed from behind me.
The men lifted their arms in the air and then went down on their bellies. I put my foot on the first one’s neck and pulled out his gun while Joseph frisked the other.
We tied their hands with tape and left them beside the car with the open hood. Then I drove their car, with the money inside, in reverse. I swung it around and drove it back the way it had come, stopping at an empty factory on the way. We left the car at the factory after pulling out the moneybags. We emptied everything in a delivery van that we had parked there during the day and drove the van away into the mountains.
Finally, we stopped. I counted the money and split it in half on the spot.
There is a ship leaving for France tomorrow. I am taking it, I told Joseph. Here, you go see Nabila. You know Nabila, right? De Niro’s aunt?
Yes.
Give her my house keys. Tell her to take care of the house. Tell her I will look for the person whose name she gave me. I will keep my promise; tell her that. Now, leave me at the intersection down the hill. I will take a cab; it is better that we go our own ways.
Joseph and I kissed, and we separated.
Majnun, I will never forget you. Majnun! he shouted and drove away.
I took a taxi up the mountain to Fakhra. I stopped in the centre of the village, filled a can with water from the little stream that sang at night under the villagers’ huts, and slipped into the bush and yet farther up the hills. Finally I stopped, poured water on the earth, made a pool of mud, and smeared my face and hands with it. I walked all night through the houses in the village looking for a black BMW with tinted glass. I slipped behind the houses when the dogs barked. Then I passed through the dark alleys between the chalets. I covered the whole village, but I couldn’t find the car. Early in the morning, I sat on top of the hill and watched the passing cars.
I saw a BMW speeding up the hill. It was driven as if by a drunk, in zigzags, like a donkey climbing uphill.
I ran after the BMW, through the pine trees, through the moist hills, through the morning dew, pushing away the loose branches. I crossed the stone stairs and waited until the car stopped. A man opened the door and slowly stepped out of it. It was Rambo.
I walked toward him, and when he heard my steps he looked back and pulled out his gun in slow motion. I stopped. I saw his face, and my heart started to beat with sounds of death and drums. I felt as if I should walk all night again, and crush every mattress that would call me to sleep, and the sweat fell from my forehead and soaked my face in a bucket of cool liquid, and the morning breeze swept past me with jasmine scent. Rushing butterflies flapped their gigantic wings, raising the mountain’s fog from the valleys, and my eyelids fluttered. My hands stretched forward, both of my index fingers squeezed the trigger, and I shot at him. He smiled as I emptied my magazine, and the bullets flew and plunged into his cologne-scented flesh, his whisky’s final sighs, and his nails that gripped the door handle of his car. My gunshots rang through the deep valley with the sound of mourning bells, with the crack of hunters’ rifles in the morning sun. I shot him until he fell to the ground, and the thickening fog passed us by and carried his last breath.