By day we could observe virtually the entire city from the curved windows. Often two groups of soldiers, rebels and government troops, would be advancing blindly toward each other, separated by a block of houses, and would suddenly come face to face, dive into porches or onto the ground, and kill each other. Occasionally a lone man would be moving along, hugging the walls, his gun at the ready, and from our glassed-in refuge we would see his enemy proceeding with a stealthy tread, just around the corner of the house. Seen from above, war revealed its whole nature: that of a comic and ruthless game. Watching the two soldiers as they drew closer, not yet having seen each other, we knew what was going to happen and both our vantage point and this superhuman prescience distressed us, like a prerogative usurped. In the distance, several miles away from the burning city, we could make out the gray rectangles of the American camp. They were waiting for the fighting to end before they intervened.
Our thoughts and our words had a hard, decisive clarity during these days of confinement in our rooftop refuge. Perhaps because we were seeing the battle from a great height, as if on a model, and realizing that, in the end, all you need to do is to climb up ten floors for human folly to be laid bare. Or else it was because our own situation was only too clear and irrevocable: watching the Peeping Toms take off we could no longer hope that, as in the past, a heavyweight combat helicopter would come thundering down to land alongside the blazing houses and lift out the remnants of the forces still stubbornly serving the empire. The latest confused and improbable news that had reached us from Moscow spoke of shooting in the streets and civilian buildings being bombarded. Chaos that very clearly spelled out the end.
And to underline it all, the war appeared so transparent. Despite the smoke from the fires, despite the amount of blood spilled, despite the tangle of commentaries the newspapers wrapped it up in. Its logic was very simple. A change in the governing team had been decided on by the Americans a million miles away from this city. What they would gain from this was the halving of the price of a barrel of oil. The new team would sell oil to pay for the arms already delivered. These would need to be regularly renewed, in accordance with the advice of the decision makers. And, in order to get the right choices made, the advisers would project the videos filmed by the Peeping Toms, showing the weaponry in totally authentic combat conditions.
You began talking to me about this transparency a few minutes after a soldier's death. We had heard him running up the stairs, shooting at the men pursuing him. The door to the restaurant was not barricaded-we knew this would have infuriated any attackers and deprived us of a slim chance of survival. There had been the crackling of several bursts of gunfire, magnified by the echo from the various floors, then an explosion. It was impossible to know if the hand grenade had been thrown by the fugitive or his pursuers. In any event, they had not climbed any higher and the soldier lay dead on the landing outside the restaurant. I no longer recall which side he was fighting for. I was simply struck by his youth.
We had covered his body with a tablecloth and it was then that you talked about the people in their New York or London offices dressing up these wars with all the trappings of news stories, articles, broadcasts, in-depth surveys. They pretended to forget about the price of a barrel of oil. They spoke of ancestral enmities, humanitarian catastrophes, the shackling of the democratic process.
"Just you wait. They'll blame this carnage once again on the rivalry between Bantu and Nilotic peoples," you said. It was such a bitter gibe that I did not recognize you.
"But I thought they were all Bantu in this region."
"Some tame anthropologist will discover as many ethnic groupings as are needed. And they'll be taught that they've always been sworn enemies and all they have to do is kill each other. Or someone will remember that the president they don't want made a visit to Qaddafi or Fidel twenty years ago. And across all the screens in the world, on every radio station, he'll be portrayed as a bloodstained terrorist. And the firm that organizes this blitz will have its fee paid thanks to the reduction in the price of oil. What was it old Marx said? 'Offer a capitalist a three hundred percent profit and there's no crime he won't commit.' It's still topical."
In silence we contemplated this model of a city that looked, in the dusk, like the fires of a nomad camp. The two armies, entrenched in their positions, were waiting for morning. In the distance, above the American contingent, one could see the shafts of light beamed toward the ground by helicopters already swallowed up in the darkness. I believed I could guess your thoughts and, to distract you, I began to tell you about my meeting in Milan with one of these P.R. virtuosos. His tongue loosened by drink, he claimed that his firm could create a political personality, give him a profile, have him acclaimed, and then within ninety-six hours demolish him and present him as a total villain, without public opinion being aware of having been manipulated. "Yes, ninety-six hours, four days," he had boasted. "But on one condition. It must happen on the weekend. That's when critical faculties are at a low ebb. Besides, every break in routine makes it easier to reshape the collective memory. And as for the summer vacation, believe you me, there's enough time then to get public opinion used to the idea of Saddam Hussein being the next president of the United States."
Instead of smiling I saw your face grow tense, you closed your eyes and shook your head slightly, as if to suppress a sudden pain. You were already a long way away from this city, from this war, at once so real and such a sham. You were away in some past and I did not know if your pain was derived from an excess of sorrow or too great a joy. I drew you to me and it was at that moment, as if by some stupid and aggressive mockery, that the lights came on again. I rushed to the light switches-through the uncurtained windows our silhouettes would have been visible all over the city. But the tape deck hidden at the back of the bar remained connected and in the darkness we listened to the ebb and flow of a saxophone in a melody that, for its part, had nothing aggressive about it. It was a gust of weary notes that occasionally slid, as if along a razor blade, to the brink of a fall, a shout, a sob, then returned to a deep and rhythmic breathing, painting a picture in the darkness of the end of a long race, the end of a struggle, the weariness of a man on the night of a lost battle. The melody broke off but for a time in the darkness we went on hearing its silent rhythm.
That night I told you about my last meeting with Sasha, her solitude in the middle of an endless steppe, about that moment when her story had reached its conclusion, leaving me with a picture of a mother and father bowed over their child one night in the Caucasus.
Shortly before sunrise a shell hit the wall of the hotel; in the bar a row of glasses slid down one by one and smashed on the counter. The bursts of gunfire were already penetrating into the foyer on the ground floor, and moving toward the upper floors. I broke a window in the kitchen, then another on the landing, hoping to find a fire escape. But there was only an old, dry bird's nest that crumbled away from a cornice and fell among the soldiers milling around and shooting. We knew from experience that ropes, drainpipes, staircases leading onto roofs, and other lifesaving devices only existed in adventure films. The acrid smoke swirled around the banisters, gradually filling the dining room of the restaurant.
Time vibrated, taking its cue from the renewal of the attacks, the tumult of the explosions, and the deafening silence of the brief lulls. Our eyes fastened upon a table, the place settings, the little bouquet of artificial flowers, the sun and the sea outside the window- the tranquillity of breakfast in a hotel-and for a second it was difficult to imagine that a few stories below a soldier, his legs riddled with bullets, was crawling along the corridor to hide in a bedroom. During one of these pauses we tried to leave via the terraced garden and, just when we were close to the spiral staircase, encountered gunfire. It was the last of the old regime's troops. They thought it was an attack coming from the upper floors. We retreated up the staircase now reverberating with gunshots. I had an eyebrow nicked by a ricochet. You turned as you ran, saw my forehead all bloody, but I had time to intercept your look, to calm it with a wink. The bullets fired at us provoked a new round of gunfire. In the end the attackers had the building surrounded.