I stood in the middle of the street and rolled a cigarette. I inhaled, exhaled, and the fumes from my mouth grew like a shield. The bombs that came my way ricocheted off it, and bounded and skipped along the sky to faraway planets.
NIGHT CAME, as it always does. George and I decided to go to the mountains. We drove up to Broumana, a high village that had been turned into an expensive refuge for the wealthy. Bars and cafés were everywhere, with round tables and fast waiters. Half-naked, painted women walked the narrow village streets, and militiamen drove past them in their Mercedes with crosses hanging off the mirrors. Loud dancing music flowed out of restaurants. We entered a club, sat at a table, and watched couples dancing, people drinking and not talking. No one has anything to say; don’t you know that war spreads silence, cuts tongues, and flattens stones? the drink said to me. George and I both smelled of deodorant, silk shirts, fake watches, and foam shaving cream. George pointed at a woman in a blue dress. That one I want, he said. I ordered two glasses of whisky while he smiled at the woman. She turned her face to her girlfriend, then they both looked back our way and giggled. Let’s go, George said to me. He stood up and walked toward the women. While he talked to the woman in the blue dress, I stayed at the table. I paid for the drinks and sipped my whisky and watched everyone. George was moving his hands, and leaning his chest against the woman’s shoulders. On the dance floor, women were shaking their hips to Arabic songs. A man with a thick moustache put his hand on my shoulder and said, There is nothing in this world, my friend. Nothing is worth it; enjoy yourself. Tomorrow we might all die. Here, yallah, cheers. We banged our glasses, and he entered the dance floor waving his arms in the air, an empty glass in his hand, a cigarette on his lower lip.
George came back to our table, leaned on me, and whispered, Why didn’t you follow me? Her friend is alone, and they asked about you, in French, my love, in French! I got her number. Is that my drink? You should have come. They are rich and they are leaving now. If only we had a car we could have driven them back to my place.
I drank, and George went onto the floor and danced alone. He drank a great deal while he danced.
Eventually he came back and called the waiter. He pulled bills from his pocket, paid, and drank some more.
Fuck them all. I will fuck them all.
Who? I asked.
God and all the angels and his kingdom, George said.
He was very drunk by then, delirious and violent. He pulled out his gun and shouted, I will fuck them all. I grabbed his hand, pulled it under the table, aimed the gun to the floor, and whispered to him softly, On your mother’s grave, I am asking you. . me, your brother, me, your brother, who will spill blood for you. Give me the gun.
I kissed his cheek, wrapped my arm around his shoulder, and calmed him down. Then I pulled the gun slowly from his hand and hid it against my belly under my most expensive silk shirt. I tried to make him leave, but he resisted. I begged him again. I showered him with sweet talk, praises, and kisses.
We will fuck them all later, I said. Tomorrow, not to worry, we will fuck their cars, their mirrors, and their round tires. By Allah, Jesus, and his angels, come, let us leave.
We walked outside. George was cursing, pushing people, and shouting on the streets. I have no father, and no mother, and no God, you ya wlad al-sharmuta (sons of bitches). I have money, you whores, to pay you all off! He pulled more bills from his pocket and threw them in the air.
I dragged George off the main street and walked to the side street, where little village shacks had turned into cafés and fancy whorehouses with velvet sofas and pink neon signs. I stopped a young man, who was trotting his way toward the music, and asked him to recommend a place for us to stay. The man pointed me to an inn, and we walked in that direction. I left George outside, leaning on the curb, and walked inside the place. I got a room, took George upstairs, and laid him on the bed. He slept.
It was still dark outside, still noisy. Still the neon lights in that village flickered and called the young. I ignored all that temptation and took George’s motorcycle and drove toward the city.
The wind kept me awake. I drove like the wind that kept me awake. I drove faster than the wind that kept me awake. I was escaping time and space, like flying bullets. Death does not come to you when you face it; death is full of treachery, a coward who only notices the feeble and strikes the blind. I was flying on the curved road, sliding down rugged mountains, brushing against car lights, forgotten trees, and wildflowers that closed at night. I was a bow with a silver arrow, a god’s spear, a travelling merchant, a night thief. I was flying on a mighty machine that shattered winds and rattled the earth underneath me. I was a king.
A YOUNG KID at a checkpoint pointed an AK-47 at me. Your papers, he said. I gave him my birth certificate, with my age and the place of my birth and my ancestors’ births, and the colour of my eyes, and my religion, and a photo of me smiling to the Armenian photographer, looking at his beloved 4 x 5 camera that his father had brought from Russia and carried through the Syrian Desert while the young Turks slaughtered his cousins on doorsteps, and aimed their rifles on high crosses, killed all the goats, and sang glorious modernity chants.
Who does the bike belong to? asked the kid.
My friend, I said.
Lift your arms.
I did. The kid searched me, and when he touched my gun he put his hand on my throat and grabbed the gun fast. He stepped back and pointed his rifle at me.
Come down off the bike slowly and lie on the floor, he said.
I obeyed.
Who is your friend?
George, nicknamed De Niro, I said.
You have a release paper for the gun?
No.
Wait here, the kid said. Stay on the floor and do not move. I will shoot you if you move a toe. He called his superior. A man in his thirties in a black T-shirt, army shoes, moustache, and a beard walked toward me. He held George’s gun in his hand like it was his own.
Is this gun stolen? he asked me, waving his flashlight in my face.
No, I said.
What is your name?
Bassam.
Where do you live?
Achrafieh.
What do you do?
I work at the port.
So you are a thief.
No, I said.
Yeah, you work at the port and steal things, don’t you? You are a thief.
We are all thieves in this war, I said.
You are answering back! The man slapped me, then dragged me and pushed me inside his green jeep. He puffed like a hyena as he left, swinging the gun toward the sand on the ground.
THREE HOURS PASSED, and I was still waiting in the back of the jeep. At dawn, when the night was painted with brightness and slowly erased by the early sun, the little militia boy drove the motorcycle away and disappeared into the hills. The checkpoint was dismantled and I was in the back of a moving jeep, feeling the mountain air and my hunger.
The militiaman in front drove like a madman, as if he was rushing a wounded person to a hospital. The jeep jerked and flew in the air, and my body tossed and bumped against the seats. I clung to the metal bar like a monkey clings to a branch. I swung off the bar, and my feet flew like those of a dancing horse. The militiaman drove the wrong way through narrow one-way streets, forcing cars to retreat in fear. He broke off and the wheels shrieked against the asphalt. My hands slipped off the bar and I flew across the back of the jeep. I moaned in pain. The militiaman got out the jeep, pulled out his gun, aimed high, and shot in the air. The cars in his way started to retreat, honking in panic. He stood in the middle of the street, his legs apart, his gun in the air, his shoulders lowered, his head like a row of bricks fixed in one direction. He lowered his arm, waited, lifted his arm again and shot a few more rounds. When the way was clear, he climbed back in the jeep. He cursed all the Christian saints in one concise sentence and drove us up the hill to a military base.