Johnny Walker is the best whisky, George said to me. Ice or no ice, this is the life, my friend. He lifted his glass and kissed it.
I WAITED FOR RANA downstairs, but she didn’t show up. I called to Danny, our neighbour Nahla’s son, who was riding on his VelAmos bicycle. I said, Come here. Go to the Damouny family, enter their house when no one is looking, and give Rana this letter. No one should see it, you understand? No. . come here! You understand? No one should see it.
Yes, the little boy nodded.
You will get something good later. Go now, do not be late.
Danny smiled and darted down the stairs and flew like a pigeon toward Rana’s house.
Rana and I met down at the French stairs. It was dark, and I saw her coming down the slope, walking between the cars, concealing herself in the walls’ shadows.
When she saw me she waved discreetly, from afar.
I held her hand and took her round the back of a building. I leaned against a wall and pulled her toward me.
You have to stop holding my hand like that, Rana protested.
No one is looking.
You have to ask for permission, she said playfully.
From whom?
From me.
Since when?
Since I won that fight and wrestled you to the ground and made you eat dirt. She laughed.
I kissed her on the cheek; I put my arm around her waist.
She gave me back my hand, pushed me away slowly, and said, Not here.
Come, I said.
I held her wrist and led her up the stairs, and in total darkness I found George’s door. I searched for the lock, feeling it with my fingers like a blind man on his wedding night, like a lion in the fox’s den. I drove the key in and turned my wrist in a smooth, slow twist. I held Rana’s hand and pulled her inside George’s house. She resisted, but I kissed her neck. I locked the door, searched for a candle to light. When I struck a match and the fire started to dance on the tips of my fingers, she blew on it and said to me, No. No light.
I laid ten thousand kisses on her body, under a cascade of sweet falling bombs. Our clothes were on the floor like carpets for prayers, our bodies on the bed like dancing corpses. I laid another thousand kisses on her and the bombs fell louder and closer. I slipped my hand under her skirt. She held it and resisted me. I snuck my other hand toward her breast. She let me do this, so I pulled down her bra, feeling her nipples: dark, soft, pointy, and motherly. I followed my tongue as it led me to her belly button. She pushed me away then, and said, Stop it. Stop, please, Bassam, stop. My mother must be looking for me. I told her I am going to see Nada. I have to leave.
I will walk with you.
Walk with me? Or run with me?
We ran through the falling bombs. When we arrived at her home, Rana went down the stairs to the shelter, and I walked back above ground.
ABOU-NAHRA WAS in his fifties. He had grey hair and a golden tooth. An Arabic-language teacher by trade, he had left teaching to become a high commander in the Christian militia. He was bald and round, always carried a gun on his waist, and the long, thick chain around his neck had a collection of icons and crosses that pressed against his bulky chest hair. He was in charge of the south district of East Beirut, and was credited with setting up a tax system to collect money from houses, gas stations, and stores to support the war. He had also established mini-casinos and poker machines that collected a great deal of money. Abou-Nahra drove a large Range Rover, and two cars always followed his vehicle as protection. In traffic jams, his bodyguards stuck their weapons out of their windows and shot in the air to make way for his highness. Everyone knew Abou-Nahra. Abou-Nahra was into Christianity, money, and power.
George had met him through Aunt Nabila, whom Abou-Nahra was “courting” at the time. Nabila asked Abou-Nahra to give her beloved nephew a job, and he did. After Nabila left Abou-Nahra, George’s job was in jeopardy.
There is always a price, George said to me. He wants me to join his militia. He sent Khalil the other day to ask me if I want to go with Khalil down to the green line.
What did you say?
I said that I couldn’t leave the casino.
Khalil said he would pass by after we closed and we could go for a while, shoot a few bullets, empty a few magazines, see the men, and come back; it wouldn’t be long. I waited for him, but he never showed up. He will pass by tomorrow, I am sure of it.
I will come with you, I said. Give him a rendezvous point. Do not go alone; I will come with you. And keep your gun loaded.
Do you think they know about our scheme at the casino?
No, but just in case, keep your gun loaded. If they do know, Abou-Nahra would have given an order for a hit. I will come with you. Just give Khalil a meeting place.
I SAW THE KID, Danny, playing with marbles on a patch of sand. I called him over and he ran up to me.
Did you give Rana the letter the other day?
Yes, he said.
What did she do?
She read it and smiled.
Here. I pulled some change from my pocket. Go buy some more candy for you and your friends. He raced over to his friends and they all ran, jumping up and down, toward Abou-Fouad’s store.
RANA WAS ON George’s bed. She lay on her belly, lifted her ankles in the air, straightened her toes, and put her hand on my chest.
Do you love me? she asked.
I kissed her on the mouth.
Do you love me? she repeated louder.
Yes, of course, I said and puffed smoke that hushed my words.
She held my chin between her fingers and looked me in the eye. Look at me here, in my eyes, she said. Do you love me?
Yes, I do, I said. I tried to kiss her breast, but she pushed my face back on the pillow and said: I will smash your face if you’re lying to me, Bassam Al-Abyad! I know you. You can never fool me. It is me, Rana, remember? I will shoot you, you hear me. My hand on the cross, I will shoot you.
I laughed and held her waist. She remained silent and looked up at the high ceiling. Then she kissed me and fixed her dress, pulled up her bra, and asked me to zip up her dress. I kissed her shoulders, and she left.
GEORGE AND I MET Khalil down near the electric-company building. Khalil was in a jeep in the driver’s seat. Another militiaman, nicknamed Abou-Haddid, was sitting in the back seat with a Czech Kalashnikov in his left hand.
George kissed Khalil and introduced me. We chatted a little, found common acquaintances that we knew, talked about cars and guns. Abou-Haddid said that he knew a man called Charbel who worked at the port with me.
George sat next to Khalil in the jeep. I followed them on the motorbike. We crossed empty streets and bomb-shattered buildings and went through a few checkpoints smoothly. Everyone knew Khalil.
When we arrived at the headquarters, I recognized a couple of guys that I had gone to school with: Joseph Chaiben and Kamil Alasfar. They had both grown beards, and both looked tired and dirty. Joseph’s Kalashnikov had the Virgin Mary on its wooden butt; Kamil was holding a sniper machine gun. When Joseph saw me, he aimed at me and said, Trouble students are not allowed here. He smiled and we shook hands.