Some said the stench was foul, but it wasn’t: yes, it smelled bad, but it wasn’t foul. It was quite bearable, and the children could play. I’d watch them sometimes playing house, perched on the top of the garbage hills; they’d visit and take presents to each other, eyeglasses, combs, any little thing, all valuable things the rich threw out because they’re godless and ungrateful for their lot. For our part, we counted our blessings. . we’d kiss the ground in gratitude for the bounty we enjoyed. But the only thing people ever talked about was the smell. The men in Naba’a were always wondering how I put up with it. As if their jobs were any better, what did they think they were doing down at the docks as longshoremen? They were mere beasts of burden — yapping on about the smell! I don’t think the smell was foul then, but it is now, it’s disgusting. We dump the garbage in Shuwayfat, right by the seashore, and people come and burn it. Then they douse the fires with water and that’s what stinks and causes all manner of disease — not to mention rats!
I don’t like to work on the Corniche by the sea. The sea’s gone, there’s no more sea. . they’ve blocked it off with all those roadside stalls. A scourge on those shopkeepers! And what’s worse, they parade themselves on TV as refugees. Some refugees! Their downtown shops were burnt to cinders? They’ve opened new ones, where the prices are sky high, which means that they’re making profits many times over what they were used to in old Souq Sursock — and then they go on TV, and bemoan their fate, and claim to be poor. They’re the rich, not the poor, and they’re the ones complaining about poverty, while we keep our mouths shut and our heads down and thank the Good Lord for what we’ve got. What kind of people are they? Nothing but unscrupulous mercenaries, shamelessly money-grubbing and greedy — and living in filth too! It’s unbelievable! Imagine this high and mighty fabric merchant who’s not even capable of sweeping up in front of his shop: he wants us to do it! He doesn’t even ask himself how it’s possible to live in such filth! It’s disgusting, I told them it was filthy, and that I refused to work on the Manara strip of the Corniche. Oh, they replied sarcastically, you expect us to do your bidding, who do you think you are, the president of the republic? Even the president doesn’t talk to us like that! So I kept quiet. But these new guys, they know nothing about this job, that’s why they agreed to do it. Not me. The boss said we had to sweep the litter off the Corniche and take it to the truck. No way, I told him, we’re not street sweepers. Sweepers are one thing and we’re another.
I flatly refused-I take pride in my work. But those two at the back, they agreed. Of course things won’t be like this forever; everything comes to an end. The war will end and, in the fullness of time, good will prevail over evil. And when our occupation recovers the respect it deserves, they will appreciate my integrity, and they might even promote me to supervisor. And I’ll sit behind a desk without lifting a finger all day, answering the telephone, registering people’s complaints and settling their problems. Still, we must bide our time and wait: everything in its own good time.
But these new fellows, especially that devil Mohammad al-Kharroubi. Who does he think he is?. . Just yesterday, he asked to sit beside the driver, leaving me to hang off the back of the truck! What complete disregard for age or seniority! Me, a garbage collector of twenty years’ standing, and him scarcely out of his teens. . if I’d married a little earlier, he’d be the age of my children!
I regret not having listened to my mother’s advice now. She always told me to marry early, but I wouldn’t. I wanted to have some security before getting married. How could I marry with nothing more to my name than fifty lira? I said no, my mother said I’d get too old, but I still said no.
Then, may he rest in peace, my uncle Hajj Mahmud ’Alloul came to visit. After we all sat down, he spoke to me and my mother and then put his arm around my shoulder.
“Zayn, you’re not married, and Husniyyah is your cousin. I kept her for you. (I never asked him to!) Your late father, before he died, made his wish known to me. ‘Mahmud, Husniyyah is for Zayn,’ that’s what he said.”
“When shall we sign the contract, my dear?” he asked, turning to my mother.
“Tomorrow, with the blessing of the Almighty,” she replied.
So they signed the contract, and I married Husniyyah. She’s a good woman, Husniyyah. Cooks and cleans and looks after the children. But she’s come to hate my mother. “Don’t you fear the Lord, woman?” I ask her. “Were it not for her, I wouldn’t have married you!” But Husniyyah just grumbles on. And what can I do? Throw my mother out on the street? I can’t do that, a woman of her age, and paralyzed — from her stroke. The doctor said there was no hope, so we brought her back home. But she can’t walk, and every time she has to urinate, Husniyyah complains. No, bless her, she doesn’t complain, she’s tired though. An invalid is a burden. My mother doesn’t complain either, she spends all her time reading the Qur’an and praying. . And now this al-Kharroubi fellow here wants to take my place in the truck, he does, as if there were no levels or seniority! I’m the boss around here; Mr. Kabbani said so, he said it in so many words: “You’re like the captain of a ship,” he said. I’m responsible for the entire area’s garbage collection, and he expects me to stand on the fender at the back of the truck! He insisted, you know, and if it weren’t for the driver’s intervention, we would have come to blows. A fine man that driver is, and he’s fond of me too, he knows I’m conscientious and that I always look out for them so they don’t work too hard. Anyhow, the driver stepped in and al-Kharroubi went back to his place, behind. I sit beside the driver and ask him to stop whenever there’s a proper pile of garbage to collect, then the two at the back hop off and shovel it onto the truck. I don’t always get down… I used to before, but I’m tired now and I’m entitled to a rest. When the pile is really huge, then I get down and help: I take the shovel and let one of them rest while I work in his place.
“What are all these people doing here, sitting in front of their cars sipping coffee?” the driver asks, puffing on his cigarette in the front cabin.
Yes, thinks Zayn’Alloul, what are they doing there? People have become so. . Oh, well. . may the Lord preserve us from people!
As the truck rumbles on its way in the early morning haze, it passes a group of fishermen and fishmongers. Zayn asks the driver to stop and gets down to ask about the price of a kilo of fish.
“Forty lira,” the fishmonger replies, as he lifts up the large wooden crates and pushes the ice aside for Zayn to see.
Zayn doesn’t buy any fish. How is he supposed to come up with forty lira just like that? So he walks away. He sees a child crouched next to a crate full of fish, selecting a piece and dipping it in a bucket of water.
“What’s this?” he asks.