“What about your writing?” I asked him.
“What writing, man? I haven’t got what it takes to write! Would I be able to write about my episode with Najma? Of course not! So why write if I can’t write about my own life? Writing doesn’t make any sense otherwise.”
I told him I thought he should get married and stay in Beirut.
“Expatriation is hard. We’re used to Beirut in wartime… Once you’ve gotten used to Beirut you can’t live in another city. It’s hard to imagine cities without war — because you know that all their civilities and niceties would fly right out of the window at the drop of the first bomb.”
Still, the real problem is not Dr. Ajjaj Abu Suleyman — by the way, he never did leave; he stayed on in the archives department, he never became a writer either, and it looks like he’s planning to get married.
No, I think the problem — the real problem — is exemplified by Imm Mohammad. She’s the sort of woman you can’t set eyes on without cursing your very existence! Honestly, death seems preferable to that woman’s life! A widow with ten children: the eldest, only eleven, and she the sole bread-winner. She’s always on the move, working as a maid, a cook, a laundress, and all the while her children are constantly hungry.
“The problem, Sir,” she tells me, “is us, not the refugees. They’ll all go home as soon as the war is over. But us, where will we go?. . It’s my fault, I wouldn’t let him do what he wanted, and that’s why he died. I killed him. Like everyone else, he could no longer go to work because of the fighting. But he wasn’t an employee either, so there was no salary coming in at the end of every month. He was a longshoreman down at the port, and they’re dailies, they don’t get a monthly wage. And with the port becoming a war zone, who would dare go down there and work?”
He wanted to do what everyone was doing: we’d see people going down there — we saw them with our very own eyes — loading up TVs and fridges, selling them and making a living. Not him though… It was all my fault, I tell you. . I was afraid, and he listened to me. May you rest in peace, dear Abu Mohammad why, oh why, did you listen to me?
Whenever the shelling started, I wouldn’t let him leave the house — no way! So he stayed home. And whenever it was quiet, he’d work as a day laborer on one of the few remaining construction sites close by. And I helped out. . I cleaned people’s houses, and we managed. We barely had enough to eat, but hamdulillah, we were able to have another four children, praise the Lord!
He was a man though, and like all men, he wanted to go with the others. . He tried to convince me, but I wouldn’t be convinced. “No, it’s ill-begotten wealth,” I told him. And he agreed with me. Dear man, he always agreed with me! May the good Lord rest his soul!
Then everything calmed down. People said the war was over, the “Deterrent” intervened, the shelling stopped, the streets were crowded once again, there were tanks and soldiers everywhere, it was over. I told him it was time to go back to the port. “You should go back to work now,” I said.
He said that he didn’t like his job anymore… that it wasn’t for a man of his age. I told him that was ridiculous, it was the only job he knew and surely he wasn’t going to learn a new trade now.
“Or are you going to stay home, then, and let me do all the earning?” I asked him.
So, because I insisted, he went back to the port.
I felt sure it was safe and I looked forward to working a little less and spending more time with the children. And so he went back to being a longshoreman. Gradually he regained his strength. . he was like a young man all over again! I thanked the good Lord he was happy with his job! And everything went back to the way it was.
Not a month went by, I swear, maybe less than a month, and he was dead. He wasn’t hit by a bullet or a shell, no one abducted him, so that we could say he died in the Lord’s service, no, he just dropped dead. How could he. . and me with all these children! I can hardly manage, I swear to God, I simply can’t manage any longer. . I’m exhausted, weary to the bone and worn to a thread, look at my hands… And the shame!. . And no help from anywhere. .
God will provide. . He’s dead, they said. Just like that, dead. He was helping to unload a fridge, they told me, you know one of those enormous refrigerators. . he was bent forward, with his back braced against the truck, his arms extended behind him to steady the load. And he slipped, or the fridge slipped, honestly, I don’t know, anyway, something slipped, and the fridge fell on top of him, and he was crushed to death. It landed on him with an almighty thud, they said. They all heard it.
He went without a peep, they said, and when they brought him home he was dead as the dead. What was I supposed to do? Yes, of course, I wept, but I had to carry on working. I’ve a family to keep. People said I should go and have him registered as a martyr, a war hero, you know. They said go to one of those militia offices and register his name, and get the stipend. Nothing to it, they said.
So I went. But the men at the militia office wouldn’t do it. They said he wasn’t a martyr because he wasn’t a combatant.
“Consider him one!” I told them. “Did he not die in the line of duty, that we might live, that the port may prosper, that this country may be glorious, that the devil knows what. . for crying out loud, consider him something, anything!”
But they wouldn’t, and we got nothing, not a piaster.
Then they told me to go and see Nazeeh al-Tabesh, the owner of that café on the street corner. People said that with his “connections in high places” he would be able to “obtain something” for me. So I went to see him.
He was very polite, he gave me 1,000 lira and told me to come back in a week and that he’d have “something arranged.” Well, of course, the 1,000 lira just evaporated — it was as if I’d never had it. You know what it’s like, Sir, with all the expenses when someone dies. . the funeral, and then food and coffee and cigarettes for everybody.
When I went back to the coffee shop a week later, Mr. Nazeeh wasn’t there. They said he’d be back soon. I had just made it home when he arrived. He greeted me and sat down. Then he started explaining how difficult everything was.
“Things are difficult, my dear, and the monthly stipend is an extremely complicated matter. But listen, sister, yes, you’re like a sister to me, and I would like to be able to help you. . you’re still young, and you’re pretty, you know that. . and making a living could be the simplest of matters. If you did just three hours a day, you’d get one hundred lira, that’s more than a doctor makes in a day. What do you think?”
I didn’t understand what he meant. So I asked him to tell me more.
“There, take this 500 now, get yourself some new clothes, fix yourself up a bit-a little powder, some rouge, a touch of kohl, you know what I mean.”
“What for, Mr. Nazeeh, Sir?”
“They’re the tools of the trade, my dear. If you get yourself ready, you can get started in a couple of days. I’ll go with you to the client’s house, he’ll hand the money to me and I’ll give you your share — you are not to take direct payment.”
Now I understood! Shame! Shame on him for even thinking that I could do such a thing!
I threw him out, and tossed the 500 lira in his face! Imagine, suggesting that I should do such a disgusting thing! The nerve! Doesn’t he fear the good Lord? Does the Day of Judgement mean nothing to him?
He was armed, but arms don’t make a man. Honor, and honor only, makes a man and that Tabesh fellow has no honor! And he threatened me. “Where’s that thousand lira, then?” he said.
I told him I’d give it back to him but that he’d have to wait. The bastard tried to slap me, and when I began screaming, he ran off. . May he burn in hell!