Qissat (11 page)

Who did they expect? The police … I could barely believe it. I should have realised there and then that they were a dangerous organisation directly involved in the war … and not had to wait for Amin to be absent for two days without notice for me to open the chest, looking for one of his friends’ telephone numbers to ask after him, and discover the naked truth …

Yet I missed him terribly. Why can emotion not speak the language of reason? He deserved to be banished from my house, to take all his filth and walk away. I had made my attitude to politics, life and the war clear to him several times and treated him as if he owned the house. I did not even let him contribute to the rent! I allowed his friends to visit whenever they wanted and sometimes made them coffee. I liked them because of Amin. They resembled him in their modest outward appearances, the fire that burned in their eyes and their enthusiasm, which appeared to go no further than debating politics. All of them, then, were involved in the killing and the burning of Beirut. I should have realised this before opening the chest. Once, one of Amin’s friends summoned me. His name was Fu’ad and he was the friendliest to me of the group. I had often read him my poems. ‘Come sit with us,’ he said. ‘We’d love to listen to you talk. You’re the peace-lover, the denier, the dreamer.’

‘What’s your view on revolutionaries?’ Amin went on.

I addressed my reply to him directly: ‘Dreamers and revolutionaries are one of a kind. They both know about change.’

‘But a revolutionary initiates change while a dreamer simply goes on dreaming,’ responded Fu’ad. ‘A revolutionary pursues action and reaps the fruit of his efforts but a dreamer, if he is educated …’

‘Most of them are educated,’ cut in Amin, ‘he observes, analyses and passes judgment on the failings of revolutionaries from the comfort of his armchair.’

This was the debate they loved. I could not see how I could carry on the game with them. Once I tried to use my knowledge of films and quoted the Italian film director, Rosi, the one who was thrown out of the Italian Communist Party. I told them he used his film
Revolution is Not Always Right
to vindicate his and others’ expulsion from the Party.

Before I could finish my sentence they went for me, scornfully dismissing Rosi. They were like my colleagues at the magazine – quick to jump to conclusions and apportion blame. As I stood up to leave I made a remark that struck Amin: ‘My grandfather once told me that when you are young you blame everything. When you mature you blame yourself. And when you get old, you forgive yourself and others.’

‘Old man. The amount of filth in this city leaves no room for the vessel of forgiveness,’ Amin replied pensively.

Had the vessel overflowed so much that Amin should now carry weapons and kill?

I could not believe it. If Huda was still there I could have consulted her about what to do. I had forgotten women within the walls of that house. The only woman left was the owner of the apartment who undressed at the end of the evening with the light on. I had once contemplated her with Amin and felt my body fill with a pleasure I had almost forgotten, as though ants were crawling through my veins. That day, Amin and I discussed his love life. He seemed to know a lot about women. I remember him saying: ‘If I use a woman as a plaything I’m happy but she gets upset. But if I make her my girlfriend I’m prisoner to her world and her rules … Women are stronger in the end. They are the only inspiration, truth and relief amidst this nightmare.’ Then, as though he sensed my hidden jealousy, he said:

‘It’s difficult to let your veil drop in front of a man. Women listen but their ears are not as good as yours …’

How I missed him. But when he came back I would tell him our friendship was no excuse for the way he had used me. He must find somewhere else to pursue his criminal activities. There was nothing to stop him taking his chest and disappearing. Then the taste of our friendship would not be spoiled by the sense of his using me.

I sat all day preparing the calm, measured speech I would deliver to him when he returned. Night had hardly arrived bringing with it the roar of explosions when I heard the sound of keys in the door. Despite efforts to calm myself I still looked furious. Amin looked into my face:

‘You have discovered what is in the chest, haven’t you?’ he said.

Before I could answer he began: ‘I know what you’re thinking. I know what you suspect … But trust me, I didn’t want to use you or drag you into a war you refuse to be a part of … The war is out of anyone’s control. It has become as complicated as a ball of tangled, coloured thread and we cannot but get involved and join the fight. It has entered a new phase and you will not be able to watch and mull it over from the sidelines anymore. You may deny it but the fact is you belong to a place, the region in which you live, to the party line of the newspaper where you work, your particular culture and education, your religious identity, and your friends.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Armed men from the Second Division may invade your life and, whether you acknowledge or deny it, they will see you as an opponent even if you aren’t. How will you protect yourself? How will you sustain the noble-mindedness I know in you so well? Can this building hold weapons levelled at women and children?’

‘If you don’t uphold your politics and refuse, as you do, to acknowledge them, do you not also betray your people? What remains of you then? A man who watches life in dismay from the window of his house. Time passes, the civil war drags on. He grows old along with it and becomes as sick and disfigured as it does. Your inner soul would be its mirror image …’

Amin stood up sharply. He opened his chest, took out a machine gun and loaded it with bullets. He approached me and said quietly, trying hard to be compassionate:

‘I owe you a lot. Before I leave with my chest I must ensure your safety. Keep this machine gun. I want to give you my personal revolver too. You can’t say when you will need it. You don’t know how they will force you into this war … He who refuses to acknowledge, take notice and engage in practical reality is not a “dreamer” but a fool …’

Amin left the machine gun and revolver on the table and sat back down.

‘The organisation has arranged somewhere for me to live,’ he mumbled. ‘There is a car waiting to take me and the chest. I’ll come back this evening – we can drink araq together. I have left some papers. I will collect them this evening and we can talk. If you still want to be friends …’

He came up and hugged me tightly. He squeezed my hand and I knew I wanted nothing more than for him to remain there with me … But he quickly disappeared.

I returned to the spot where he left his machine gun, revolver and cigarette ends and where the smell of his breath and echo of his resounding laughter lingered …

The sight of the machine gun stirred disgust in me. What is the use of an instrument I cannot work properly – you may as well give a car to someone who cannot drive … I would never get involved. If armed men came here I would flee to my family in the mountains, even though I had lost touch with them … Once, when Amin was trying to convince me to join his organisation, my only defence was my hatred of politics and its perils … and my desire to be free and independent in my convictions and allegiances. That day, possibly for the first time, he flew into a rage at me.

‘Escapism may be enough for you,’ he shouted. ‘We were born into oppression. Our salvation lies in getting rid of it. Your escapism is a delusive means of keeping yourself happy. You use it to reduce your problems – exploitation at the hands of the newspaper editor who soaks up your talents daily in return for a measly salary, confusion between the principles of your relatives who have got rich in Africa and your more progressive ideas, inability to complete your film-directing studies even though when I saw the one documentary film you’ve made I thought it was exceptional. These problems are not poetic – they are political … The newspaper editor would not squeeze you so hard if you didn’t work in his corrupt organisation. Your relatives would not have emigrated to Africa if their native country could provide their daily bread. You could be the next Visconti if the city offered its children the same opportunities.’

When he had calmed down he looked at me. I went and got a glass of araq and began gulping it down. My tongue let loose all the wrongs I had suffered, my gifts, my rotten opportunities. I cast off the veils protecting ‘my illusory happiness’ and fell asleep, repeating to myself, ‘Why does man analyse himself? To arrive at one conviction? How wretched this life is.’

Amin, Amin. His words, opinions, presence, absence had come to populate me. He was in my bloodstream, circulating round and round my heart and arteries. Connections with people are like snares laid to hurt you and leave you torn in two. His departure from the house was better than his staying. I had to break free of his ghost. He was stronger than me. His convictions were more fixed. But he knew nothing of real struggle, and this meant I could not but follow him …

I hid the machine gun and revolver. I saw the revolver was loaded too. The sound of bombs going off all over the place suddenly made me aware night had come. The doorbell rang. It was Amin, wrecked with exhaustion. He came in and threw himself down on the chair. ‘Fetch us a glass of araq,’ he faltered.

Amin began gulping down the araq in a manner quite unlike him. I heard him sigh deeply from time to time. He remained silent for a long while, so I did too. I concentrated on the roar of explosions. The bombs grew louder. I interrupted his silence, ‘It is really flaring up tonight. Do you have news about what is happening?’

With enormous difficulty, in a deep voice that seemed to belong to someone else he said: ‘They are bombing al-Naba’a. My family is there. My mother, father, sister and little brother.’

I knew nothing of his family. ‘They left their village in the south after enemies from the village and from outside started bombing it.’

‘Are you sure they are in al-Naba’a?’

‘Yes. I visited them the day before yesterday, and arranged a place for them there two weeks ago.’

‘Is the battle going on in their neighbourhood?’

‘Yes.’

He fell silent. He went on swigging araq, his lips moving as though he was counting. His silence weighed heavily on me so I spoke up again: ‘Can’t you do anything?’

‘The battle came as a surprise to our allies. Our organisation is not involved.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I’m forced, by military command, to wait until the fighting has died down. Then I can go and search for them.’

‘Let’s both go.’

‘I don’t want to force my problems on you.’

The explosions got louder. Every bomb that dropped was a stab in the heart.

After a little while Amin took off his shoes, stretched himself out on the sofa and closed his eyes. I did the same on the other sofa and soon fell asleep … I woke up a little later to a nightmare. I looked in Amin’s direction but he had disappeared. His shoes were where he had left them, as was his packet of cigarettes. I called his name but he did not answer. I understood. I looked at the clock. It was four-fifteen in the morning. The explosions were still rumbling outside. I realised where he had gone … I had to reach Fu’ad! I went out and headed for his house nearby. I climbed the stairs panting with thirst … Amin could not wait. The araq had clouded his judgment and he had raced off without his shoes. But how …? I looked at the clock and saw it was almost five … I pricked up my ears to hear the paperboy. His yelling voice arrived with the break of dawn and I hurried to him and bought a copy of the day’s paper. The headlines read: ‘Fierce battle in al-Naba’a. Dozens killed and injured.’ I devoured the words on the page. His name was not there. Only the houses that had collapsed on their owners were mentioned … After a few minutes I heard footsteps on the stairs. Fu’ad’s weary face came into view.

‘Where were you?’

‘At the organisation’s headquarters.’

‘Where’s Amin?’

He did not answer. Instead, he got his keys out of his pocket and entered in a trance. I followed him in …

‘Where’s Amin?’

‘He dived into the battle in al-Naba’a to look for his family. The allies thought he was from the other side and killed him …’

‘He was killed by one of his own comrades’ bullets?’

‘Yes.’

I screamed and burst into floods of tears. Fu’ad stroked my shoulders as I wailed like a woman. My sobs grew louder and louder. He tried to calm me down: ‘He died a martyr … He is not the first and won’t be the last. The path of martyrdom is long … You love him don’t you? We all loved him … he died a martyr … There is still a long way to go …’

I left Fu’ad mourning his friend and himself … words … words … I raced to my house: the chairs and tables were in the same place; his shoes, cigarette box, cigarette ends, the echo of his resounding laughter were all still there! But … he… wasn’t!

I went to the drawer of the desk where he kept his important papers. It was locked. I broke it open and took out a list of collaborators wanted by Amin’s organisation. I read the list and memorised the names of two people whose addresses I knew from working at the newspaper…

I took the revolver Amin had given me, recalling his words: ‘You can’t isolate yourself from this war.’ I hurried out. I felt an oppressive need to kill. Anger shook me like a bird in pursuit of its prey. My heart was beating like a drum. I arrived at the house of the first man in question, tidied my messy hair and rang the bell. A young woman opened the door. I asked her politely:

‘Is Mr … at home? Can you inform him I have come on an important matter …’

I had not finished my sentence before his shadow appeared in the hall. I pointed the revolver at him. The shadow fell to the ground covered in blood. I rushed off trying to get ahead of the young woman’s shrieks. I started raving like a lunatic … I stopped at the entrance to a building and entered it to gather my breath … After a few minutes I had recovered. The second man’s house was miles away. I would have to take a taxi …

I walked back out, glancing around frightened … The pedestrians were frightened too … A city gripped with fear. I stopped a taxi. The driver said the house was far and lay in the line of fire but he would take me there for twenty-five lira … I accepted and the car sped off to its destination …