We sat on sandbags and barrels. Joseph took me to one side and showed me the enemy’s position. There, he said. You see that large container? They hide behind it. Listen! He shouted, Hassan, you son of a dog!
A man answered from the other side and exchanged curses. Did he just curse my sister? Joseph asked Kamil.
You do not have a sister.
Still, he insulted my honour.
Joseph cranked his gun. With a smirk on his face he pointed the rifle in Hassan’s direction and shot a few rounds. The whole area went aflame. Bullets flew left and right, back and forth. I dug behind the sandbags; empty, warm bullets flew from Joseph’s machine and landed at my feet. When everyone stopped shooting we heard Hassan’s voice from the other side. He shouted something about a prostitute, about Christian mothers. Everyone laughed.
George came out of a nearby building with a rifle in his hand. He had a big smile and was laughing with Khalil. Khalil put his arm around George’s shoulders and they walked away.
I waited and listened to Joseph telling me about the last two nights, how heavy the fighting had been, how the bombs had fallen like rain and how they had been forced to hold their ground. They could not move, the food truck did not show up, and they were hungry and out of cigarettes; ammunition was getting low and the Majalis (militia headquarters) did not care to send more men. He complained, puffed his cigarette, and said, We are not organized. Then he led me inside the building and offered me a cigarette.
Remember our teacher, Souad? he laughed. Her legs, he said. She had nice long legs.
She is in France, I said.
Yeah, I know, he said. Got married to that French teacher. They all want to get married to Frenchmen.
He pulled out his gun and gave it to me. Here, shoot a few rounds, maybe you will get lucky and hit Hassan in the ass. I scared the hell out of him the other day. He was taking a shit on the other side. I was on the second floor, and I saw him, so I rushed and took the sniper gun from Kamil and shot between his legs. He was running with his pants down.
You did not kill him?
No. No. We promised each other that when this war ends we will have a drink.
I refused to take the gun; Joseph shook his head and said, You were always quiet. You are a calm man. . though I remember you when you had a fight with the Baa’liny brothers at school. You were vicious. Not many boys wanted to mess with you. So what are you doing here?
I came with George to see Khalil.
Are you guys joining?
No. I shook my head.
The forces used to be all volunteers, but now you have to sign up and you are paid. We are turning into more of an army than a militia. Now we even have to wear uniforms. When the war started everyone was in jeans. The top commander, AlRayess, has a grand plan. Come back sometime and visit us.
ON THE DRIVE home to George’s place, I asked George what Khalil wanted.
Nothing, he said. Just to talk.
Just to talk?
Khalil knows.
About what?
About our game.
Abou-Nahra knows too?
No. Khalil wants a cut.
How did he find out?
He used to work at the poker place, so he suspected it. He tricked me; first he says that he has a message from Abou-Nahra, and that Abou-Nahra knows. He says there is a counter in the machine. Then he offers to talk on my behalf to Abou-Nahra. If I give the money back to the militia, he says, they will forgive and forget the whole thing. When I said that I do not have the money any more, he switched. He said that he is the only one who knows and that he needs a cut.
Where does Khalil live? I asked George.
Down by the lower bridge.
Where?
Above Appo. The lahm ba’ajin place.
He lives alone?
Yeah.
Tell him OK, we will give him a cut.
I WALKED DOWN to the lower bridge and watched Khalil’s house.
I entered the store below his house and ordered two lahm ba’ajin. I ate them, and drank iran. Then I walked up the stairs looking for Khalil’s name on a buzzer.
When I could not find his name anywhere, I left and went straight back to my house.
At twelve noon the next day, George came to my place. My mother, the Armenian, offered him food. She kissed his cheeks and told him about his mother: Your mother was a wonderful lady, God save her soul, a real lady. She would be so proud to see what a good and handsome man you turned out to be, George.
Then my mother asked George about his aunt Nabila, and his distant uncle and his family. She poured a lot of food onto George’s plate, asked him to eat well, and repeated familiar words: You people do not know how to use those spices, like us Armenians.
George called my mother tante, kissed her hand, and ate well.
After the meal we went to my room. George stretched out on my bed. I lay on the sofa.
How much does Khalil want?
Half. That leaves you and me with a quarter each.
Half? Does he know I am in on it?
He knows someone else must be in on it.
Tell him to meet you under the bridge, I said.
He won’t come. Khalil is a snake.
Okay. Then tell him that we will go to see him down on the front line.
LATE THAT NIGHT, a man named Samir Al-Afhameh was attacked by a chihuahua on his way home. Samir Al-Afhameh, a respectable man who had once owned a law office in the destroyed downtown Beirut, now unemployed and too proud to work at something else, lived on whatever little money his son sent him from Kentucky.
The pack of dogs growled at him when he passed next to the mountain of garbage. The chihuahua who attacked him had once belonged to Madame Kharazi, who fled to Paris in a hurry, taking a taxi to the checkpoint that divided East and West Beirut. From there, through some rich connection that she had in West Beirut, she was taken to the airport by an ex-army Muslim colonel who knew her husband from before the war. The little dog attacked Mr. Samir by order of his three-legged boss.
The next day Mr. Samir went to the right-wing militia centre and talked to the men there about the chihuahua attack and the pack of dogs that had invaded his street. He warned them of the dogs’ ambition to take over the Christian enclave using the power of their sharp teeth and a well-developed intimidation technique called growling, backed by a garbage mountain to feed them through and through until rabies made their eyes red and saliva dropped through their unbrushed gums.
Mr. Samir was dismissed by a local brute commander who walked with open feet like a duck, wore heavy boots in heat or cold weather, whose smell assaulted your nostrils, whose petty theft of vegetables and poultry was reminiscent of a medieval monk on the crusaders’ path.
Mr. Samir, the advocate schooled by Jesuit priests with long, black robes who recorded every detail meticulously, and who had taught him French and discipline, lifted his eyeglasses and walked straight to Nabila’s house. He climbed her stairs and knocked at her door.
Nabila opened the door and made an appearance barefoot and wearing diminutive shorts. This made her thighs look rounder and more luscious than ever. She amended her voice and her hair when she saw Mr. Samir’s large body, his legal status, his tail that wagged with fury and, at that moment, excitement. Mr. Samir dropped his head in reverence and uttered, solemnly, a long monologue worthy of a corrupt judge and a pack of hyenas sitting on jury benches, waiting for leftovers from a lioness with hungry cubs under an African tree.
Excuse me, Madame Nabila. But I must tell everyone what is happening in our neighbourhood. You see, I was attacked by the most beautiful pack of dogs last night. Yes, we might all die any minute from falling bombs and bullets, but if we get rabies from these expensive dogs we might have an epidemic here. I came specifically to you because I know that your nephew has a gun and that he has friends in the militia. Maybe he knows someone in the higher ranks who can do something about it. If I had a gun or knew how to use one, I would get rid of them all. There are kids and women who might be attacked, and there is a pile of garbage not too far from your house, and those dogs might attack even you or anyone. .