Now she is waiting to go recover Marwan’s corpse. Habib and the others have started up their card game again while they smoke. From time to time one of the fighters will take a look outside, a quick patrol. You’d think the Israelis won’t try anything as long as negotiations are in progress, but you never know. They won the battle of Beirut. No one can prevent the city from falling. Intissar admires the morale of the soldiers. For them, this defeat is only a stage. They survived the Catastrophe, the war of 1967, Black September; they will survive the fall. The Cause will survive. They will start over from zero somewhere, wherever it may be. Until they recover a piece of land to settle on. A homeland that is not just a name in the clouds. Not her. If the city falls she will fall with it. She will fall with Beirut and Marwan. She pictures her own body beneath the sun in a narrow street, pierced by Maronite knives or Israeli bayonets, in the midst of a pile of corpses.
However long the dusk may seem, night always ends up arriving.
Habib and his soldiers eat some halva with a little bread. Ahmad offers her some, but she shakes her head. Yesterday it was Marwan who would have handed it to her. Fighters are the same, they do exactly the same things they did yesterday, smoke, play cards, eat halva or sardines; Marwan died for nothing, nothing has changed in the world, absolutely nothing, someone plays in his place, someone eats in his place, someone offers Intissar halva in his place, the city will fall, the fighters will leave and Marwan will stay there. Intissar drowses for a bit, her arms crossed, her chin resting on her chest.
Habib awakens her, touching her gently on her shoulder.
“Get ready, we’re about to go.”
She gets up, stretches her legs, empties her bottle of water, isolates herself in the out-of-order bathroom piled with excrement, which she leaves almost immediately, on the verge of nausea.
It’s still just as hot. She takes off her jacket for a bit; her khaki T-shirt is soaked. She withdraws a little into the half-light and takes off her bra. So much for modesty, decency, or the comfort of running. She throws the sweat-drenched bra into a dark corner.
As always before an operation, her heart is beating faster, her mouth is dry. She has strange cramps in her jaw. She concentrates, checks her weapon, the ammunition, the grenades. She makes sure her laces are tied and her belt notched securely. She is ready. Habib and the others pass around a last joint and a bottle of water. Ahmad, Habib and Intissar will go out. The other three stay here in case. One of them has settled into the seat behind the machine gun to be able to cover their retreat if something goes wrong. The second gets the rocket-propelled grenades ready, and the third finishes the hashish as he looks at the ceiling.
Habib doesn’t need to explain the tactics or spell out the marching orders. They are trained and hardened, they understand each other in silence. The summer night is clear, there is some moonlight, they’ll have to cling to the walls. All three of them know that the Israelis will only attack if they feel threatened, if they think a commando is trying to infiltrate their lines. In theory, even though Marwan was shot down, a ceasefire is in effect. They go around the building to reach the main street by the other side and follow the sidewalk south. They pass a few meters away from the improvised gunhole where the muzzle of their machine gun sticks out, and turn right into a little street that penetrates the Israeli lines. Intissar feels a strange pressure in her ears. She can hear herself breathe. They have already covered a hundred meters. Just 200 left. They progress quickly, as quietly as possible, then freeze to scrutinize the night. A few noises, in the distance, cars, from time to time. They will have to carry Marwan. 300 meters. Ahmad guides them into a passageway between two buildings and freezes. By gestures he conveys that the crossroads with the twisted streetlight where Marwan fell is just in front. She should not have come. She realizes that now. She should not have come — Habib and Ahmad knew it. They also knew that it would have been impossible to make her change her mind. She feels herself trembling. The body is there, on the other side of the street, behind that collapsed building. She glances over, sees the charred metal pole twisted like a tree, its shape stretched out. Ahmad and Habib busy themselves around Marwan. She watches the end of the street where the shots came from. The bullets that tore through Marwan’s back. Over there. Total darkness. Silence. Habib and Ahmad cross the street quickly, they are carrying Marwan, Marwan’s head lolls back, his eyes are aimed upwards, to look at the sky, they hurry to get back to her, Habib stumbles, he falls forward, lets go of the body that falls heavily onto the ground, Intissar feels tears flowing down her cheeks, they are in the open in the middle of the street, she is afraid, on the left they hear an abrupt detonation, a tiny pop like a cork, followed by a high-pitched whistle, and suddenly the night is lit up in red, she sees as if in full daylight the terrified faces of Habib and Ahmad, the twisted neck of Marwan on the ground, his mouth open, his hands rigid, Ahmad lets go of Marwan’s legs and runs to take cover, Habib huddles down, gathers Marwan and begins to pull him all alone over to the street, she hears shouts in Hebrew, Ahmad reaches her out of breath and turns around, shouting: “What is that idiot doing? Run, Habib, run, let him go and run,” Habib does not let Marwan go, he drags him as fast as possible, just twenty meters to go, then ten, Intissar hurries to help him the instant a timid Israeli volley scatters the wall on their right with bullets, a big caliber plop plop plop plop chips the cement in the night that’s come back now, the flare fell on a building, she gets hold of Marwan’s hands without thinking, they are hard and cold, they are no longer hands, she lifts him from the ground carries him with Habib, he is heavy the street is again plunged into darkness, that’s it they’re under cover, her heart about to explode, Intissar’s eyes are drenched in tears and sweat, she collapses against the wall to catch her breath. Forty centimeters away from her, Marwan’s face. In the half-light she can make out his fixed stare, his open mouth, the trail of blood on his chin and cheeks, his shirt has ridden up to his neck from the traction, also black with blood. Habib murmurs: “Come on, quick.”
Ahmad picks up the corpse by the arms, Habib by the feet. One is missing a boot, which fell off in the middle of the street. The milky-white foot seems to gleam in the night.
She follows them as she surveys the rear, no more noise, no more anything, the Israelis have spared them, that’s for sure, they didn’t aim their fire. They were impossible to miss, in the line of sight, almost motionless, the machine gun could have cut them in half. They let them carry the body away. Little by little, as they walk, Intissar calms down. Ahmad and Habib are struggling. They stop regularly to catch their breath. She feels empty. Her tears have disappeared. The return trip is always shorter. They reach the post safely. The three fighters cheer them. They saw the light of the flare, heard the gunfire.
Habib and Ahmad set the body down in a corner and wrap it in a dirty blanket that had been lying there. Ahmad avoids Habib’s gaze. Contacted probably by radio, Abu Nasser and two other guys whose names Intissar has forgotten arrive. Abu Nasser lifts the blanket to look at the corpse. He gathers himself in silence, replaces the shroud, his eyes clouded with tears.