I walked and walked, and after three hours without a moment’s rest, I finally reached our positions. I could see my comrades in the distance and could hear their voices.
“Fahd is here,” one of them said.
First Lieutenant Omar led me to his tent. There, I drank my fill, then tea was brought and he started questioning me about the numbers involved in the attack, the weaponry they had used, and the ensuing skirmish. I told him they’d attacked in waves, that the skirmish was over quickly, but that the shelling had continued and I withdrew under fire.
“That shelling was from our side,” he said. “We assumed the position had fallen to them, so we shelled it.”
Then I told him about Sameeh.
“Poor bastard,” he answered.
I told him we had to go back for him. “Where did you leave him?”
“Three hours from here.”
“That’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible?”
“We can’t go back.”
“What do you mean we can’t? We’re just going to leave him there to die!”
“Yes. I can’t jeopardize the lives of ten men for the sake of one. The hollow where you left him is now in enemy hands.”
“But I promised.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean, you’re sorry?”
“He’ll be a martyr to our cause.”
I began to scream.
“Listen Fahd,” he said, “this is a war, we’re not playing cops and robbers here. Fighting a real war means sacrifices have to be made.”
I was almost in tears, desperate to get back to him. “But I promised, Comrade Omar! I left him in the hollow, covered with my jacket, and I promised I’d be back.”
“Take it easy, Fahd. He’ll become a war hero and live forever in the glory of martyrdom.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“OK, enough now. It’s over.”
And that was that.
I would not have gone back had I been asked to do so, but I was screaming because I knew that no one would make such a request.
It was all over.
It had been a long day.
Samar was still talking with that strange excitement of hers. “Listen,” she said, “you’re not listening! We have to publicize the justice of our cause and expose their fascistic practices; the killing, the rape, the looting, the house demolitions and dispossessions. That is the role of progressive cinema! It’s our job to document such atrocities!”
“But we do the same,” I told her. “We too are guilty of crimes, of killing, of. .”
“That’s not true! What you’re saying isn’t true!”
“It’s true. I swear to God! Remember Damoor? When we were in Damoor. .”
“Don’t you start up about Damoor! Why don’t you tell me about Maslakh and Qarantina, about Naba’a and Tall al-Zaatar instead!”
“Please. There’s no need to use that tone of voice. I’m only speaking the truth.”
“What truth! That’s not the truth. The truth must serve the revolution. That kind of talk just undermines our cause.”
“The truth must serve the truth. Period.”
“And war is war. Period.”
“Don’t I know it! As God is my witness, you think I don’t know that ‘mistakes’ are made in all wars, and that it’s all about ‘strategic momentum and political gain’? All I’m saying is, that we too are guilty of ‘mistakes.’”
“No, you’re overstating the case. How can you be a freedom fighter and speak like that?”
“Well, Comrade, I can, and I will continue to be a freedom fighter. But that has nothing to do with what I know to be the truth.”
So that’s it, and I’m still here. What else could I do, where was I to go? Samar’s advice was that I should go back to the university. What for? How could I study with my useless so-called good eye? It becomes inflamed and painful as soon as I start reading. There’s no way I can resume my studies, and I don’t know any other trade or occupation. And anyhow, why should I? Half my friends have been killed in combat, should I simply forget about them, let them rot in their graves and run away, like I did with Sameeh? No, I wouldn’t do that.
I stood up to go and the waiter brought the bill. She insisted on paying.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
“So do I.”
“But I invited you.”
“No, no, really, it’s OK.”
She paid and we walked to her car.
“Where shall I drop you?”
“At the party office.”
We drove in silence, with foreign music playing on the radio; when we arrived, I invited her in.
“Thanks, but not today.”
“Shall we meet again?”
“What for?”
“To continue the discussion.”
“Alright,” she said, and we set a date.
We met like that several times. We always went to the same café, and said almost the same things, but I was never bored. She was pretty and lively, and I wanted to tell her I loved her, but I didn’t dare.
Then, one day, we went to her place. It was in a secluded building, somewhere off Bliss Street, close to the American University of Beirut. We went there because she wanted to read me the draft of a screenplay she was working on with the filmmaker Jalal Abul Huda — the same guy who had tried to “direct” me.
The apartment was nice, with a large living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. .
“You live alone, how odd,” I said. “Rents are so high.”
“This apartment’s been requisitioned,” she said. “Comrade Abu Habib worked his connections and I don’t pay any rent.”
She got the screenplay and began to read aloud. But I wasn’t listening. She was sitting so close to me on the sofa, smoking as she read, I was trying to think of a way to take her hand. Then she stopped to comment on a sequence.
“Isn’t it just lovely here? The scene of the woman toasting the lentils and reminiscing about Palestine. .”
“It’s great. .,” I said, and grabbed her hand, which was lying on a cushion next to me.
She didn’t say anything; she didn’t pull her hand away or object, and just carried on reading. She took her hand from mine to turn the page and did not put it back on the cushion.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
As she went to the kitchen, it occurred to me that I should follow her… I remembered that in all the Arabic novels I had read, the woman goes to make the coffee and the young man follows her, then he catches her from behind and swings her around to face him, and instead of describing what happens between them, the writer gives a detailed description of the coffee boiling over. I got up and followed her into the kitchen. She was standing facing the stove and the coffee was already boiling over. When she turned to face me, instead of doing what they do in novels, I told her about novelists and their descriptions of coffee boiling over.
Shaking her head, she blew on the coffee froth and said: “That’s what comes of a poor imagination and a reactionary attitude to sex.” Then she put the coffee pot down on a tray and we went back to the living room.
We drank our coffee and made small talk. She’d gone to buy a new pair of slacks, she said, but found that everything was made in Hong Kong, and there weren’t any originals on the market anymore.
I got up to leave. She stood and followed me to the front door. I gave her my hand and she shook it. Then I took a step towards her, bent down slightly and kissed her on the cheek, then edged a little closer. “No,” she said, “please don’t.” I kissed her on the lips, she kissed me back, and this time she didn’t say, “No, don’t.” I wrapped my arms around her, but she pushed me away gently.