“God forbid, Sir! Not me! God is my witness.”
Professor Nabeel told her not to cry, and tried to comfort her.
As for this man, have any of you seen a frail man, with a navy coat glued to his body and his scrawny salt and pepper beard, shuffling up and down the streets like a sleepwalker, with a little bucket in his hand? Turning this way and that, tearing down what he’s pasted up on the walls, chewing the shreds of paper, then bursting out laughing? Standing all alone and chuckling loudly, he appears unseeing, as if he were the only person around. . people going and coming around him — children throwing stones at him, old men indifferent, young people tossing a few coins into the bucket, assuming he’s a beggar — and him, chewing away, his jaw moving up and down, up and down, then spitting something to the ground, and walking on. . He jumps across the garbage piles, throwing scraps at the cats, and leans against the wall, not speaking to anyone. . he doesn’t respond when spoken to and darts between the cars halted in traffic, not looking at the drivers or their passengers, just hurrying on, oblivious to the mocking comments directed at the pith helmet on his head.
He walks on and on, tirelessly. And when he halts before the wall, he looks right and then left, and, after making sure no one’s watching him, he starts tearing at the paper, slipping the shreds into his mouth and chewing. Every so often, he dips a tiny paintbrush into the bucket he carries around with him and tries to paint the wall white, leaving nothing but barely visible white squiggles. He stands back and looks at the wall, as though admiring his handiwork, and then goes on his way.
This is Khalil Ahmad Jaber. Has anyone seen him?
Fatimah says she has, but that she didn’t believe what he was saying.
Ali Kalakesh saw him, and so did Musa Kanj. Mahmud Fakhro didn’t see him, and neither did Sitt Huda, Khawaja Mitri, or Khawaja Fadee.
But he was here. Before he died, that is. Fatimah told them it could have been suicide.
“Maybe he killed himself,” she said.
The one in the dark shades slapped her, and then asked about the bracelets.
“Where are you hiding the bracelets?”
“I swear, I’m not hiding them, Sir. God is my witness! I don’t know where they are. I swear Mahmud didn’t steal them, that woman’s lying. . she killed him because he divorced her, Effendi.”2
He told her he wasn’t an effendi.
“As you wish, Sir. . But she’s the criminal.”
“And this Khalil Ahmad Jaber, what were you doing with him?”
“Nothing, I swear, we didn’t do anything. He didn’t even eat the food I made. I cooked him some warak ’inab — Mahmud, may he rest in peace, loved stuffed grape leaves, and so did this man — he said he wanted them with laban. So I made him some, but he never ate them.”
And although he wandered around looking petrified, as though he’d been terror-struck, he laughed at the same time-a frightened, laughing, wandering man, with bits of paper dropping out of his pockets! Not speaking to anyone, answering no one, and little pieces of colored paper cascading from his coat. . that was Khalil Ahmad Jaber! Everyone saw him, lying on the yellow paving stones, propped up against the wall, dreaming. No one knew for sure whether he dreamed, but he was there alright, lying back, asleep, with his head buried in his coat.
Except that when they found him, there was no coat. He was naked from the waist up and riddled with bullets — his face torn up, his mouth open, his teeth smashed, and the coat gone. No one asked about the coat.
And Fatimah remained alone, with her seven children, the eldest always gone, going up to Mr. Basheer al-Harati’s apartment every morning and coming back down in the evening, sweeping the lobby, cooking for the children, and saying very little.
Sitt Elham asked her once why she said nothing. Fatimah didn’t know what to answer, she just shook her head, which made her hair fall across her face. “And why haven’t you got your white wrap on?”
So Fatimah smoothed her hair back and went downstairs to get her white headwrap.
“But you never say anything.” Fatimah just smiled, baring her glistening white teeth.
No one notices anymore that she hardly ever speaks — even Sitt Elham has stopped mentioning it.
Her work done, and the children asleep, Fatimah stands in the doorway of her little room — having repaired both the door and the lobby — and gazes into the distance. Gazing out in silence, she sees a white man, holding a white stick, coming toward her.
CHAPTER IV. The Dog
The clatter of the ancient truck lumbering through the hazy Beirut morning. The sea, the mingled smells of saltwater and fish. . Sky, gray clouds, waves… Engine clacking, wheels pitching the ruts, the truck rumbles along. Zayn ’Alloul is sitting next to the driver up front. Mohammad al-Kharoobi and Saleh Ahmad are crouched on two small fenders at the back-end of the vehicle. The aroma of Virginia blend suffuses the front cabin: the driver, known as Nabeel al-Hallaq — Nabeel-the-barber, is smoking. Finding this unpleasant, Zayn fans his face with his hand to try and disperse the smoke, but it still penetrates his nostrils. When he coughs and opens his window, the chill air is like a slap on the face. Rolling the window shut, he turns to the driver:
“Now, really, tell me, is this normal — to be smoking at four in the morning?”
The driver looks at him unperturbed, inhales deeply, and carries on driving. Zayn ’Alloul opens the window once more and breathes in the sea air while the vehicle rumbles on its way.
Thank goodness, things are back to normaclass="underline" a big city like Beirut with no garbage collection and rats practically eating people alive doesn’t bear thinking about! Zayn’s neighbor, in Hamra, reported seeing a rat as large as a cat once. Zayn told him it was because of the garbage everywhere. The neighbor, an old Beiruti who runs a juice shop on Hamra Street, claimed that he’d seen rats crawling out of the sea!
“I tell you, I saw them with my own eyes! Can you believe it, rats actually swimming in the sea and then coming ashore? No way to eat fish these days, it’s out of the question! No wonder people get sick after eating fish. . The fish are being bitten by disease-infested rats!” Zayn himself doesn’t believe that matters have come to quite such a critical pass; at any rate, he’s not all that bothered about it. Grumbling comes naturally to most people but, as he likes to say, the poor too have to live, and dirt is like a vaccine.
The thought brings to mind the pediatrician at the American University Hospital who found it difficult to believe that Zayn hadn’t had his son vaccinated against polio — though he found it easy enough to pocket his fifty-lira note! Holding the baby in his arms, Zayn tried to explain to the doctor that he had seven children — and none of them was immunized. The doctor, appalled, spoke to Zayn curtly.
“But dirt is a natural vaccine, doctor,” the nurse butted in. “It strengthens one’s immune system.”
“We are not dirty, ma’am,” Zayn told her. “We’re cleaner than you are.”
It’s true though, and the nurse was right, dirt acts like a vaccine. His mother was always telling him to let the children play in the sand. “But they’ll put it in their mouth, Mother. . Think of it, all that dirt!”
“It’s pure penicillin, son. Let them be. Penicillin is a kind of mold, and dirt is pretty moldy. Leave them alone.”
“Mother, that makes no sense.”
“It’s true though. The nurse told me all about penicillin.”
So he lets the children be, and his mother prattles on about the olives up in the village. Zayn does his best to comfort her. He tells her it’s very dangerous to go up there at the moment, because of the shelling everywhere.