— We won’t forget you.
And he — he was stretched out on his stomach, his legs raised slightly off the ground, the ground wet with mud, sand and dust all around him.
“What is it you were doing in the ancient garden three hundred years ago.”
The mountain was full of holes but it edged along. The women were standing in two long lines waiting for the war. But the war wouldn’t come. We’ve been waiting for the war for three hundred years. But the war always comes with two large holes in it: one, above, out of which the woman’s neck rises, strangulated, and one in the middle before we are born. The advancing mountain was full of holes, like the war. The mountain’s just like the war, I told him, my voice rolling down between our feet which stumbled through the night-filled village with its strange silence and cold wind. We reached the forest. An old abandoned house, pine trees. Making a fire inside a pile of stones so that no one would see it.
— Do you see the trees? The people’s war has started. A people’s war needs trees. For Vietnam’s sake, at least.
Jungles and swamps. Trees and the embers of a fire that has begun to die out. For fifty years now we’ve known nothing but wars.
— That’s not important, Talal was saying. Look at the mountains. This is the first time we go up to the mountains. Nabeel was dreaming of sand. I don’t like mountains.
— Why did you come then?
— Duty. Then he smiled. War in Beirut is nicer.
— Swamps and mosquitoes. You like swamps.
— I like the city.
I like women, Talal said. Tonight, well move on from the glory of the revolution, to the glory of death. Death is a tranquil state. In the middle of the shooting, the explosions and the noise, leaping and bounding, you subside into stillness, complete stillness.
But the mountain was full of holes.
A woman standing, holding piles of food, surrounded by men and women. We saw the fire so we brought over some food. The woman put the food down and went. We ate. The food stuck in my throat. I must puncture my neck and then I’ll become a mountain.
The mountain was king. Sanneen was king. But who could climb such a barren mountain? Impossible to move such gear without mules. The mule was the real king. We went up. We carried the ammunition up on a mule, following behind it as it led us to the top. Snow. Fog. And the red shots piercing the night. Talal bent down, put on his glasses. Three hundred years ago the lithe young boy was a leaf lying on a shore. A passer-by picked it up and put it in his pocket. The Chinese seer bided his time. The man didn’t know that things lie in wait. The Chinese seer took the leaf and spoke. The man didn’t understand. And when he came back to ask, he found that the seer had died. That the rice which used to grow in the street had become a fiery alcohol. But the young African boy climbs my neck. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask me. He dreams that he won’t travel, but he will. Next to me slept a tall man with a thick beard. He put his hands behind his head and slept amid the drops of water dripping from the roof of the tent and the snow-covered snow.
— Come on, let’s go light a fire at the top. The top of the mountain must go up in flames. What’d happen? A few shells … no problem.
He lit a fire. Raised his arms. Took off his khaki shirt and waved it in the air.
Here, the quail sleeps. Here, the quail dies, said one of the fighters in his unerring village accent. They stake out the quail and then kill it. The mule was bleeding. It was hit by a piece of shrapnel in the midriff. Its eyes cast down, not moaning, just letting the blood run down its belly without stirring. The mule was king. Sanneen was grayish. Snow, gray patches and incalculable expanses. Were higher than the clouds, said the man with the thick beard, holding a piece of canned meat and chewing it as though it were chocolate. One must eat. Tomorrow, you’ll eat like me. I’m a married man. That means I’m a practical man. I understand things. I know a woman is never pleased. If you make love to her, she gets fed up with so much love-making. And if you don’t make love to her, she asks what the point of marriage is. My wife, whom I left a thousand years ago, doesn’t understand. She thinks I’m not serious. But the matter’s settled. I’m standing on the highest peak of the highest mountain and making up my mind, once and for all, that this wife who’s just like all wives isn’t fit for marriage. Don’t look at me like that. Eating is inevitable. You can’t withstand the cold without hormones and vitamins. There isn’t any bread. The bread has spoiled. It got soggy with snow and has become like a lump of mud. One can’t eat mud and one can’t mix meat and snow.
On the peak, where everything is just like everything else. There were thirty men, sleeping in the snow. Their rifles slung around their necks, gazing into each other’s faces. Asking questions. Nabeel jumping up and down. The football player jumping up and down to escape the cold. The shells flying about lighting up the snow. Planes piercing the clouds once in a while, but still remote. Because the mountain had become remote.
The man with the thick beard called Nazeeh propped himself up on his left elbow, stretched out on a woolen blanket placed on patches of snow and the gray earth. I’m tired, he said. No, the war is tiring, but its not like women. Why do people usually associate war with women? Movies are dumb. In films, there must always be wars and, alongside them, women. They even put in a woman with Che Guevara. And the hero always dies while the woman survives to mourn him. Of course, my wife will cry. She’s like all wives, so she will cry. But even death, which is the question of all questions, isn’t a problem. It’s a trivial question that comes up in times of illness. When a man is sick, his head fills up with problems and he begins asking questions. But when he’s as strong as a mule, he behaves with the simplicity of one.
Talal was standing beside me chewing cold tinned broad beans in an attempt to still his hunger.
— Why are you talking about death and women? You should be talking about victory.
Victory is a tattered robe, Nazeeh would say. Do you see those clouds close by? You can reach up and touch them, but you can’t hold onto them. That’s what we’re like. We can touch victory but we can’t hold onto it.
The gunfire sparked above our heads, then the shells began to sound that faint whining which is pulverized by the noise of their crashing to the ground. Debris was flying over our heads while Sameer, with his beard and his tenderness, leaped gaily, firing, tumbling down through the rocks. I can’t see a thing. This fog is thick, he screamed. But Nabeel didn’t answer. He was on his knees, firing tensely, the curses preceding the bursts of gunfire. For his part, Nazeeh was sprawled out on the snow, relaxed, firing calmly, looking to his right and seeing Talal, nerves taut, fighting like someone praying in a church. Suddenly, the shooting stopped. Sa’eed came running. They’ve run away and left this. He had an automatic rifle magazine in his hand. This kind of war isn’t enough, Sameer said.
— What would you suggest?
— We should stone them. A rifle’s a rifle, but a stone is part of my hand. I should feel that it’s my hand that does the fighting, and not this cold metal which doesn’t satisfy the need.
Talal smiled. This mountain has turned you into a savage.
Thirty men standing on the mountaintop, lighting a fire and dancing. Eating canned meat. Seeking refuge in their memories. We must stop talking about memories, Salem said. We are making the future, memories don’t make the future, memories fuse into ballads and songs. Ahmed’s voice rising, splitting through the rocks, floating into the cold winds. I’m king of the mountain, Ahmed was saying.