De Niro's Game (14 page)

George was very hostile, Monsieur Bassam, pleaded Laurent. I even think he was a little high. He is asking for a lot of money now. He threatened me.
Il faut qu'on quitte cet endroit. C'est devenu vraiment dangereux ici.
I guess this is my destiny to be an exile, always an exile. Could you please look for George and Bébé? I just want to see
mon Bébé
.

Did you check George's house, Monsieur Laurent?

No. I am afraid your friend might get angry.
C'est un fou. S'il te plaît
, go look for them.

I asked Monsieur Laurent to have a seat while I went inside to change. I brushed my teeth and splashed my face with a handful of water. I walked to the bedroom and put my pants
and shirt on. On my way out to the living room I held my jacket with my finger and slipped my hand in the jacket's sleeve. Monsieur Laurent held the second shoulder and helped with the other sleeve.

I walked out of the apartment and down the street, and Monsieur Laurent followed me. Then he rushed to walk beside me. Abou-Dolly, the grocer, passed us. He ignored me, but turned his face to Monsieur Laurent, and they both nodded politely to each other.

At George's place, I knocked on the door. Laurent stayed down by the entrance, pacing with his cigarette, coughing an old man's cough.

I banged on the door again. Finally Bébé opened it, half-naked, half-asleep.

Is George here?

Non, il n'est pas là.

Where is he?

He left.

Your husband is downstairs looking for you.

Ah, oui! Loulou est là?
Barefoot, she rushed down the stairs.

When Laurent saw his wife, he coughed some more, threw the cigarette on the pavement, and walked toward her.

Bébé, Bébé.

Mais, ça va, mon amour,
ç
a va,
Nicole said, and she caressed Laurent's blond hair.

J'ai pas dormi.

Oui, mais ça va
. Nicole held his hand and kissed his cheeks.

While the two of them were downstairs talking, I entered George's home and went to his room. Beside the bed, there was a thin needle and a burnt spoon; his rifle was lying in the
corner. The place smelled of fumes and medicine. A lace bra was on the floor. I walked to the kitchen; the dishes were dirty and filling the sink. I glued my lips to the faucet; the water was weak, about to die and become extinct. I ran the last drops down my throat. They tasted of the air in the pipes.

I went back down the stairs. Bébé was rushing up, into George's house.

Je viens, papa, je serai là dans cinq minutes, j'apporte mes affaires.

Downstairs, Laurent held my hand and tried to kiss it. I pulled it away fast.

Merci, merci
, he repeated like a servant as I walked past him. When I reached the sidewalk, I stepped on Monsieur Laurent's cigarette and put out its fire.

On my way home, I passed by Romanoce, the magazine store owner, and picked up a newspaper. The headlines:
Israel moving on the southern borders. Fighting in the mountains between the Christians forces, the Muslims, and the socialist forces. Long, empty speeches by ministers and clergymen. A model or Hollywood actress marries a Saudi millionaire. Woody Allen plays the clarinet. Saheeb Hamemeh declares his love to an Egyptian actress
. Meanwhile, Romanoce wondered if I would ever buy the newspaper, or would read it and put it back on the rack like I usually did.

Back on the street, Abou-Youssef stopped me and gave his condolences for the death of my mother. Salah, the plumber, saw us, paused apologetically, and said to me: May God rest her soul, two days before she died I fixed the pipes in your kitchen. My wrench and a few tools are still lying under your sink, and there is a small bill that maybe you can settle. I know it is not the time to ask, but the kids are without clothes, the
wife is cursing the day she married me and her tyrant father who forced me on her, and my thick hands that are covered with calluses, and my chopped-up index finger that will never touch her saggy breasts again. She curses her fate. So this is me asking you for the rest . . . And may God rest your mother's soul. Such a lady.

I walked back home with Salah, and opened the door to him, and he went straight to his tools. I ducked behind the dining-room table and took my bundle of money from my pocket. I pulled out a few bills, straightened up, and gave Salah what my mother owed him.

When I returned to the street, it was calm. For the last few days, bombs had not flown our way. Taxi drivers fought over gas, women cursed the saints of cascades and water, and the men looked defeated in their unshaven beards. A few of the men showed off old guns that hung around their waists. People buzzed between stores, and card players disappeared like Houdini inside cafés obscured by a thick haze of
argilahs
smoke. The tobacco-apple aroma covered the garbage smells, and shielded the gamblers from the wrath of their hysterical wives.

As I walked, I passed my old school. Children in grey smocks walked in groups, books in their hands and in their brown satchels. They shuffled their feet in the direction of the long refectory, toward the priest in long robes, toward Napoleonic battles, toward ninety-degree triangles, toward
Jahiliyyah
poems of drunken Bedouins who praised many gods, and mourned the dead who dwelt under soft sand, over the shifting dunes, swaying with the dancing palms under a little bowl of half-lit moons.

ISRAELI SOLDIERS ENTERED OUR LAND, SPLITTING RIVERS
and olive trees.

Vartan and I were reading the newspaper on the edge of the sidewalk. The headlines blared:
The Jews are in the south! The Syrians have pulled back! The Muqawamah is getting ready! The Christian forces are allying themselves with the invaders!

Abou-Fouad passed by, and stuck his head into our open paper, and whispered, They are here. I heard the radio. We will get rid of those Palestinians, and be stuck with the Israelis.

Al-Chami, the street-corner musician, played with his
beats
and passed his hand over his moustache. Whoever comes, let him come. We are tired of this war, he chanted. We need to work, and the grey partridge on the roof will coo in my head when are we departing, when are we departing. Let's catch the southern wind. I can glide! I can glide across the nearby sea.

On my way back home, I met Monsieur Laurent. He held my arm, nodded, and said,
Les Juifs sont là, ils sont là
.

I SAW RANA ONCE
in the market; she ignored me and slipped away through the merchants' calls. I followed her. When I approached her, she pretended not to see me and continued picking vegetables.

I took her hand and said, Come, let's talk.

She softly answered, We have nothing to say to each other. Please, take your hand off me. Go. Leave. You always wanted to be alone; all you wanted is to leave. You do not need me; you do not need anyone. Besides, I am getting engaged. And do not ask, I will never tell you to whom.

I will find out and kill your fiancé, I said.

You can try. My fiancé has killed many before you, and will kill many more.

I let her go.

THE LOUD RADIO
next door announced to me that the Israelis had moved north and laid siege on West Beirut.

From my balcony I watched the Christian forces, euphoric, driving their jeeps in haste. They had flamboyant orange flags pasted on their roofs, attached to their windows, on their hoods. When I asked Joseph about the orange flags, he told me, It is a sign for the Israelis to know that we are their allies. No whisky delivery for a while, hey,
Majnun?
He giggled.

Israeli jets flew over Beirut and bombed houses, hospitals, and schools. The radios trumpeted from every window on our street. On the West Side, people were fleeing for their lives, and on our East Side, in the night, we could see flashes of resistance aiming at the skies. I went to the roof and looked at the west. The landscape was lit up under lightning bolts that fell from Israeli
airplanes. There was one consistent line of red that reached to the sky. It never ceased, and I wondered if my uncle was shooting at the gods. And I wondered if cheap whisky bottles would turn into Molotov cocktails in Ali's hands.

I CALLED JALLIL
Al-Tahouneh about my uncle's letter. He was brief on the phone, and rude. We decided to meet in front of Café Sassine. He said that he would pass with his car if I would wait for him outside. Then he asked me if I would be alone. I assured him that I would be.

Do not forget the envelope, he said.

I slammed the phone in his ear.

I WAITED OUTSIDE
the café. It was sunny, and I watched a group of girls exiting the nuns' school in short skirts, holding books wrapped in thick elastic bands against their young breasts. They giggled in chorus, swung their fertile hips and their freshly shaved legs in a shared rhythm. Their wide brown eyes shifted and stole glances.

A car stopped in front of me, and a man with glasses and wearing a wool jacket leaned to the driver's side, opened the door, and called me by my last name. I got in. The man did not greet me. He seemed nervous, or upset. I thought how he must be boiling with heat under the thick wool jacket. He was oblivious to my presence, but he stared at the envelope.

Is that it? he asked.

What? I asked back, knowing full well what he was looking for.

The envelope.

Yes.

He made
a sudden turn and took the downhill road back to the Syriac neighbourhood.

He stopped the car, fixed his glasses, and snatched the envelope. Let me see.

He was boorish, and I felt annoyed by his eccentric ill manners.

He looked at me with his narrow eyes. Was this opened? he shouted.

No.

You opened it?

Yes.

Why? he shouted.

Because I felt like it.

You shouldn't have opened it.

All the money is there. Count it.

He started to count the money. Then he shoved the envelope in his pocket and said, Okay, leave now.

I pulled out my gun and replied, No, you leave.

He froze.

Listen, I am just doing this as a favour, I said. You haven't even said thank you. I am not walking all the way back on my feet, do you understand? I do not give a fuck about anything but respect. Respect is very important to me. I love respect, and I kill disrespect. You say one more word and I will shoot you and keep the money. Do you understand?

All of a sudden the man burst into a big smile. In a quick magic act of metamorphosis he turned from a cockroach into an apologetic hunchback, bowing his head, and calling me
‘ustadh
(teacher
)
.

Your uncle is a dear friend, he said, a very dear friend, indeed. Here. He pulled out two hundred liras and smiled. This is for your trouble.

Drive back, I said, and make it fast.

EARLY ONE MORNING
a few days and many more dead civilians on the West Side later, two militiamen knocked at my door.

Al-Amn A-Dakhili
(internal security). Open up! they shouted from the other side. When I did, they stormed my house and pushed me against the wall. A man put a gun to my head. Two more searched the house.

What is it? I asked

Shut up,
Hashash
(drug user)! The man with the gun to my head slapped my face. You are coming with us. Abou-Nahra wants to see you.

Let me get dressed, I said.

The man with the gun pushed me.

I am coming! I said. Do you want me to meet the commander in my underwear?

He grabbed me by my shirt. Do it fast, he said.

I led him to my room, found my pants, and while he was shoving me, I slipped my finger inside the bundle of money in my pants pocket. I waited until he pushed me again, then pretended to fall and stashed the bundle under the old, heavy couch. Then he and the other men led me to the jeep. On the way down, Abou-Dolly, the grocer, was standing at the entrance shaking his head.
Zu'ran
(thugs), he said, and looked me in the eyes.

Why are you taking me? I asked my captors.

The man with the gun bounced around in his seat and grabbed my hair. One more word and I will make you spit blood from your mouth. Do you understand?

Eventually, we arrived at the
Majalis.
I got out of the jeep, and two militiamen led me down some stairs and underground. They shoved me into a room containing a table and couple of chairs. I sat on one of the chairs and waited.

Two hours passed, and still I waited. All I heard was the slam of a metal door, a few guard's steps, some moaning. I felt the dampness of the moist underground, the cold walls, the vague urine smells, and the unpainted concrete floors. I paced, and fidgeted, and changed chairs. Maybe they had found out about the poker deal. I should have killed Najib, that idiot; or had George stabbed me in the back again?

Soon I became vindictive. Was it the poker deals, or the envelope from my uncle to Jallil Al-Tahouneh? I prepared myself for the coming slaps, the repetitive questioning.
Tell the same story, Bassam, tell the same story
. I craved a cigarette. Finally, I heard keys twisting inside the door lock, and Abou-Nahra came inside, smiling. He was accompanied by a guard.

Ah! You are Bassam. I thought it was you, he said from behind his glasses. I wondered if he could still see me by the room's dim lightbulb that almost touched his head under the low ceiling.

Stand up! his man shouted and slapped the back of my head. Stand up for the commander,
Hashash
.

I stood up slowly, looking Abou-Nahra straight in the eyes.

Kalb
, stand up fast! The guard slapped me again on the head, pushed me, and kicked my shin. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. When I touched the grainy surface of the
concrete I felt its coldness and dampness, and my clothes rubbed against it and picked up its grey colour, the soft grey grains that covered the rough, uneven surface. I wondered about the sloppy job they'd done of pouring concrete in that place. The floor was not even; maybe that is why all the chairs wobbled when I was sitting down, I thought, as feet landed on my face and battered my morning eyes.