De Niro's Game (6 page)

Then my mother asked George about his aunt Nabila, and his distant uncle and his family. She poured a lot of food onto George's plate, asked him to eat well, and repeated familiar words: You people do not know how to use those spices, like us Armenians.

George called my mother
tante
, kissed her hand, and ate well.

After the meal we went to my room. George stretched out on my bed. I lay on the sofa.

How much does Khalil want?

Half. That leaves you and me with a quarter each.

Half? Does he know I am in on it?

He knows someone else must be in on it.

Tell him to meet you under the bridge, I said.

He won't come. Khalil is a snake.

Okay. Then tell him that we will go to see him down on the front line.

LATE THAT NIGHT,
a man named Samir Al-Afhameh was attacked by a chihuahua on his way home. Samir Al-Afhameh, a respectable man who had once owned a law office in the destroyed downtown Beirut, now unemployed and too proud to work at something else, lived on whatever little money his son sent him from Kentucky.

The pack of dogs growled at him when he passed next to the mountain of garbage. The chihuahua who attacked him had once belonged to Madame Kharazi, who fled to Paris in a hurry, taking a taxi to the checkpoint that divided East and West Beirut. From there, through some rich connection that
she had in West Beirut, she was taken to the airport by an ex-army Muslim colonel who knew her husband from before the war. The little dog attacked Mr. Samir by order of his three-legged boss.

The next day Mr. Samir went to the right-wing militia centre and talked to the men there about the chihuahua attack and the pack of dogs that had invaded his street. He warned them of the dogs' ambition to take over the Christian enclave using the power of their sharp teeth and a well-developed intimidation technique called growling, backed by a garbage mountain to feed them through and through until rabies made their eyes red and saliva dropped through their unbrushed gums.

Mr. Samir was dismissed by a local brute commander who walked with open feet like a duck, wore heavy boots in heat or cold weather, whose smell assaulted your nostrils, whose petty theft of vegetables and poultry was reminiscent of a medieval monk on the crusaders' path.

Mr. Samir, the advocate schooled by Jesuit priests with long, black robes who recorded every detail meticulously, and who had taught him French and discipline, lifted his eyeglasses and walked straight to Nabila's house. He climbed her stairs and knocked at her door.

Nabila opened the door and made an appearance barefoot and wearing diminutive shorts. This made her thighs look rounder and more luscious than ever. She amended her voice and her hair when she saw Mr. Samir's large body, his legal status, his tail that wagged with fury and, at that moment, excitement. Mr. Samir dropped his head in reverence and
uttered, solemnly, a long monologue worthy of a corrupt judge and a pack of hyenas sitting on jury benches, waiting for leftovers from a lioness with hungry cubs under an African tree.

Excuse me, Madame Nabila. But I must tell everyone what is happening in our neighbourhood. You see, I was attacked by the most beautiful pack of dogs last night. Yes, we might all die any minute from falling bombs and bullets, but if we get rabies from these expensive dogs we might have an epidemic here. I came specifically to you because I know that your nephew has a gun and that he has friends in the militia. Maybe he knows someone in the higher ranks who can do something about it. If I had a gun or knew how to use one, I would get rid of them all. There are kids and women who might be attacked, and there is a pile of garbage not too far from your house, and those dogs might attack even you or anyone . . .

Oh my God, absolutely, Mr. Samir, we have to do something about it. I am terrified of dogs.

Yes.

Please come in.

Well . . . eh . . . okay.

Were do they come from? We never had dogs loose like that before.

Well, there is no government, no law, no order any more, and everyone throws garbage on the streets, some even throw it from the balcony. The other day . . . the people above us . . .

God help us . . . what a life we have now.

Things have changed, Madame Nabila. Everything has changed . . . There is no respect in this war . . .

Coffee, Professor Samir?

Well, no, thank you.

Oh yes . . . We have to have coffee. It will calm your nerves.

Okay, no sugar, please. . . We must get rid of them, Madame Nabila, absolutely.

I will tell Gargourty about it. How is your son?

He is well, thank you.

He is in America?

Yes, in Kentucky. The telephone is hard. You know, the lines . . . He tries to call. He is always worried . . . They see the news there . . . And we cannot call him, my wife tries for hours . . .

America, all our trouble comes from America, Mr. Samir.

Well, yes, that dog Kissinger's plan, Madame Nabila.

The oil, they want the oil in the region, Mr. Samir.

Yes, Madame Nabila. Yes, you are right. Your coffee is very good.

Sahtayn
. How is your wife?

Well, she sits all day complaining, Madame Nabila. You know, since Ziad left she cries all the time.

Your wife is a wonderful lady, Mr. Samir. The other day I saw her on the street. I did not stop and talk to her . . . You know, Mr. Samir, we do not know when the bombing will start any more. We are always rushing . . . I listen to the news all day . . .

I am sorry, but I have to leave, Madame Nabila. Yes, may God be with you.

The dogs have to go.

I will talk to Gargourty.

Au revoir
.

NABILA PICKED UP
the phone and called Abou-Nahra.

Dogs!? Abou-Nahra said. Is it the time for talk of dogs now? Is that what you called me for?

Do you know what rabies is, Abou? It makes you bark like a dog. They will put a piece of wood in your mouth for you to bite. Yeah, you will be driving your big Range Rover with a piece of wood in your mouth . . . Oh well, maybe it is not a good idea after all, Abou . . . Do something about it . . . Do something for the people besides shooting them and taking their money.

And Nabila hung up the phone, lit a cigarette, and noticed she was alone in an empty house, all alone in a war, and surrounded by dogs, human dogs, dogs in men's masks, dogs with guns, dogs in banker suits, dogs that pee on one's couch and pant their filthy breath on one's breast. They are all dogs, men; especially men. Nothing but unfaithful dogs.

LATE THE NEXT NIGHT
we heard close-range shots in our neighbourhood. The men went down in their pyjamas, with guns and long knives in their hands.

They are killing dogs! The words of the Christians flew from one balcony to another. Two jeeps carrying seven militiamen surrounded the dogs. Dog massacre! Dog slaughter! An Afghani hound bitch was executed for treason, while in Paris her beloved owner was on all fours on a silk bedsheet, backing up her secret lover, Pierre, a French painter, in his artistic endeavours. A cocker spaniel was pursued by a fat fighter, while his mommy was buying filet mignon in the Champs Élysées for an evening of wine and debauchery. A German shepherd was slaughtered like a sheep in a wolf
story, while his adoptive parents were drinking beer at a long table in a European bar filled with men singing Bavarian songs. The chihuahua was missed twice because of his small size, but was finally shot at close range, under a car, while his mother, in Venice, discussed the origin of silk in a chic salon over espresso. The three-legged leader died alone, an orphan, on top of a mountain of rubbish, propped up by a piece of metal, a few empty hummus cans, and a box of Belgian detergent.

During the massacre, Samir the lawyer stood beside the jeep, pointing his finger, reading aloud the execution orders and shutting the dogs' eyes. He tied their paws with long leather leashes to crucifixes carried by Roman soldiers with skirts and open sandals; he stuck last cigarettes between their loose canines; he swung his sword up and down with every shot, delirious, salivating dog food, and shouting, The small one, get the small one! It is under the car . . . He is dangerous. . . Give me the gun, I will do it . . .

Do not leave any . . . They should all go! he shouted in his pyjamas that night, a night known ever since as “The night of the big moon and the final howl.”

Dog blood filled our streets in rivers of drifting bones and urine.

The Christians won the battle, the battle of the hundred dogs.

GEORGE CAME THE
next day to pick me up. We drove down to the green line to meet Khalil. We both brought money. On the way there, in the middle of a deserted street, we stopped under a bridge, away from the snipers' sharp eyes.

We put the money in a bag.

I will show him the money, George said to me.

At the checkpoint, we were stopped by a few men surrounded by sandbags. A young man with a rifle asked me where I was going. I told him we were going to see Khalil the rooster. He made us wait while he phoned Abou-Haddid. We were cleared.

When you pass that main street with the burned van in the middle, drive as fast as you can. The sniper can see you from the tower there, the boy said to us.

Before we got to Danger Street, George stopped. Hold on tight, he said.

He lifted the bike on one wheel and we zoomed straight to the compound.

Joseph met us. I shook hands with him while George went looking for Khalil. He found him, and they both disappeared into a vacant building.

I talked to Joseph. He had a toothache, he said, pressing his hand against his left cheek. I have been sipping
araq
to calm the pain.

I told him about a dentist who would give him a good price. He said he knew one as well. But it is the electricity, he said. No electricity. . . The last time I went to the dentist the electricity was suddenly cut off and I sat in the chair waiting, in pain.

How is Hassan on the other side? I asked.

Let us see. Hassan, Joseph shouted.

Hassan answered with a series of affectionate, dirty curses.

He just insulted your sister again, I said playfully.

Yeah, here, shoot him and save my honour, brother. Joseph giggled. He handed me his rifle.

I held it with my right hand and cranked it with my left hand. I aimed it in the air and shot toward Hassan's side, while Joseph cursed the vagina that gave Hassan birth.

Hassan fired back at us from the other side. We dug in, and then I stuck the rifle in an opening in the sandbags and shot some more. Joseph stood up and called to Hassan, promising to turn him into ham. The whole front line went ablaze, and everyone started to shoot. Abou-Haddid came running with a ten millimetre in both hands. He sang profanities as he shot a long round from the bullet belt that covered his strong shoulders. Joseph was smiling the entire time. He grabbed the rifle from my hand, changed the magazines for me, and shouted in my ear, I see you're enjoying this!

At that moment, screams came from the building, screams for help. It was George's voice. As we ran toward him, I could hear him screaming, He is hit, he is hit. Khalil was flung over George's shoulders, bleeding, dripping blood along the tips of his fingers. Abou-Haddid ran to George, lifted Khalil's body, and laid it in the back of the jeep. George climbed in beside Khalil. I took the motorcycle, and Joseph hopped on behind me, and we drove like madmen, honking all the way to the hospital. I could see Khalil's wounded body bouncing inside the jeep. George cushioned his head and hung on to him, looking away. I sped in front of the jeep while, from behind me, Joseph shot in the air, clearing the way.

When we arrived at the emergency ward, Abou-Haddid lifted up Khalil and rushed inside. He laid Khalil's loose body on a rolling bed and screamed for a doctor. When no one showed up, he pulled out his gun and shot in the hallway; white paint and chips of dust fell from the ceiling onto his
red face. Two nurses ran over and rushed Khalil through the hallways of the hospital.

Khalil died.

ON THE HIGHWAY HOME,
George drove the motorcycle slowly. Behind George, I opened the bag with the money, split the cash, and hid it from the wind. I slipped George's share into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his gun.

GEORGE, I SAID THE
next day while we were sitting in a café, smoking and drinking coffee, Khalil's funeral is on Wednesday. Are you going?

No, he said, and looked at me with piercing eyes. I do not kill the bird and dance with its feathers.

ON WEDNESDAY I WENT
down to the street under the bridge. On the way I saw Khalil's photo pasted on a shoemaker's door and on concrete walls.
The hero Khalil Al-Deeq, martyred on the front line defending his beloved country
, the poster said. I walked on and went up to the roof of a building opposite Khalil's home. I perched like a hawk, watching men entering the building, hearing women in black wailing sacred chants in a room filled with fainting mothers, red-eyed, weeping sisters, pious grandmothers. Militiamen filled the streets.

I saw Abou-Nahra get out of his jeep and walk straight to the coffin. He shook hands with his sunglasses on. I wanted to see his eyes.

Funerals are all the same, I thought. Men and women were segregated. The house of the deceased accepted the women and the neighbour's house was open to men. And I was on
the roof, a vulture that watched from above and landed only to eat.

When the coffin came down the narrow stairs, held by mighty young men who fought over its gold-metal handles and lifted it on their shoulders to walk it back to earth, the women's wails intensified. Balconies throughout the neighbourhood were filled with people; the roofs were covered with curious and silent faces. Khalil's battalion stood in line, aimed their rifles toward a passing cloud, and shot in the air to the slow, migrating coffin.

Men walked behind the coffin, women waved to it. From above, I watched the Christians passing on the road to hell.