White Masks (16 page)

She gets up and washes her face, rinses out her nostrils and goes back to bed. But the smell won't go away, it is stuck to her. And so she has come to loathe the man - that's all she needed now, this man!

“I swear to God I don't know him,” she told them, “I don't know anything.”

Even though they didn't believe her, they let her go.

Professor Nabeel told her it was a bad idea to get mixed up in that sort of thing. She tried to tell him she had nothing to do with it. He said he believed her, but that other people didn't, and that there was talk of a relationship.

“God forbid, Sir! Not me! God is my witness.”

Professor Nabeel told her not to cry, and tried to comfort her.

As for this man, have any of you seen a frail man, with a navy coat glued to his body and his scrawny salt and pepper beard, shuffling up and down the streets like a sleepwalker, with a little bucket in his hand? Turning this way and that, tearing down what he's pasted up on the walls, chewing the shreds of paper, then bursting out laughing? Standing all alone and chuckling
loudly, he appears unseeing, as if he were the only person around . . . people going and coming around him - children throwing stones at him, old men indifferent, young people tossing a few coins into the bucket, assuming he's a beggar - and him, chewing away, his jaw moving up and down, up and down, then spitting something to the ground, and walking on . . . He jumps across the garbage piles, throwing scraps at the cats, and leans against the wall, not speaking to anyone . . . he doesn't respond when spoken to and darts between the cars halted in traffic, not looking at the drivers or their passengers, just hurrying on, oblivious to the mocking comments directed at the pith helmet on his head.

He walks on and on, tirelessly. And when he halts before the wall, he looks right and then left, and, after making sure no one's watching him, he starts tearing at the paper, slipping the shreds into his mouth and chewing. Every so often, he dips a tiny paintbrush into the bucket he carries around with him and tries to paint the wall white, leaving nothing but barely visible white squiggles. He stands back and looks at the wall, as though admiring his handiwork, and then goes on his way.

This is Khalil Ahmad Jaber. Has anyone seen him?

Fatimah says she has, but that she didn't believe what he was saying.

Ali Kalakesh saw him, and so did Musa Kanj. Mahmud Fakhro didn't see him, and neither did Sitt Huda, Khawaja Mitri, or Khawaja Fadee.

But he was here. Before he died, that is. Fatimah told them it could have been suicide.

“Maybe he killed himself,” she said.

The one in the dark shades slapped her, and then asked about the bracelets.

“Where are you hiding the bracelets?”

“I swear, I'm not hiding them, Sir. God is my witness! I don't know where they are. I swear Mahmud didn't steal them, that woman's lying . . . she killed him because he divorced her,
Effendi.
”
²

He told her he wasn't an
effendi.

“As you wish, Sir . . . But she's the criminal.”

“And this Khalil Ahmad Jaber, what were you doing with him?”

“Nothing, I swear, we didn't do anything. He didn't even eat the food I made. I cooked him some
warak 'inab
- Mahmud, may he rest in peace, loved stuffed grape leaves, and so did this man - he said he wanted them with
laban.
So I made him some, but he never ate them.”

And although he wandered around looking petrified, as though he'd been terror-struck, he laughed at the same time-a frightened, laughing, wandering man, with bits of paper dropping out of his pockets! Not speaking to anyone, answering no one, and little pieces of colored paper cascading from his coat . . . that was Khalil Ahmad Jaber! Everyone saw him, lying on the yellow paving stones, propped up against the wall, dreaming. No one knew for sure whether he dreamed, but he was there alright, lying back, asleep, with his head buried in his coat.

Except that when they found him, there was no coat. He was naked from the waist up and riddled with bullets - his face torn up, his mouth open, his teeth smashed, and the coat gone. No one asked about the coat.

And Fatimah remained alone, with her seven children, the eldest always gone, going up to Mr. Basheer al-Harati's apartment every morning and
coming back down in the evening, sweeping the lobby, cooking for the children, and saying very little.

Sitt Elham asked her once why she said nothing. Fatimah didn't know what to answer, she just shook her head, which made her hair fall across her face. “And why haven't you got your white wrap on?”

So Fatimah smoothed her hair back and went downstairs to get her white headwrap.

“But you never say anything.” Fatimah just smiled, baring her glistening white teeth.

No one notices anymore that she hardly ever speaks - even Sitt Elham has stopped mentioning it.

Her work done, and the children asleep, Fatimah stands in the doorway of her little room - having repaired both the door and the lobby - and gazes into the distance. Gazing out in silence, she sees a white man, holding a white stick, coming toward her.

CHAPTER IV

The Dog

The clatter of the ancient truck lumbering through the hazy Beirut morning. The sea, the mingled smells of saltwater and fish . . . Sky, gray clouds, waves ... Engine clacking, wheels pitching the ruts, the truck rumbles along. Zayn 'Alloul is sitting next to the driver up front. Mohammad al-Kharoobi and Saleh Ahmad are crouched on two small fenders at the back-end of the vehicle. The aroma of Virginia blend suffuses the front cabin: the driver, known as Nabeel al-Hallaq - Nabeel-the-barber, is smoking. Finding this unpleasant, Zayn fans his face with his hand to try and disperse the smoke, but it still penetrates his nostrils. When he coughs and opens his window, the chill air is like a slap on the face. Rolling the window shut, he turns to the driver:

“Now, really, tell me, is this normal - to be smoking at four in the morning?”

The driver looks at him unperturbed, inhales deeply, and carries on driving. Zayn 'Alloul opens the window once more and breathes in the sea air while the vehicle rumbles on its way.

Thank goodness, things are back to normal: a big city like Beirut with no garbage collection and rats practically eating people alive doesn't bear thinking about! Zayn's neighbor, in Hamra, reported seeing a rat as large as a cat once. Zayn told him it was because of the garbage everywhere. The neighbor, an old Beiruti who runs a juice shop on Hamra Street, claimed that he'd seen rats crawling out of the sea!

“I tell you, I saw them with my own eyes! Can you believe it, rats actually swimming in the sea and then coming ashore? No way to eat fish these days, it's out of the question! No wonder people get sick after eating fish . . . The fish are being bitten by disease-infested rats!” Zayn himself doesn't believe that matters have come to quite such a critical pass; at any rate, he's not all that bothered about it. Grumbling comes naturally to most people but, as he likes to say, the poor too have to live, and dirt is like a vaccine.

The thought brings to mind the pediatrician at the American University Hospital who found it difficult to believe that Zayn hadn't had his son vaccinated against polio - though he found it easy enough to pocket his fifty-lira note! Holding the baby in his arms, Zayn tried to explain to the doctor that he had seven children - and none of them was immunized. The doctor, appalled, spoke to Zayn curtly.

“But dirt is a natural vaccine, doctor,” the nurse butted in. “It strengthens one's immune system.”

“We are not dirty, ma'am,” Zayn told her. “We're cleaner than you are.”

It's true though, and the nurse was right, dirt acts like a vaccine. His mother was always telling him to let the children play in the sand. “But they'll put it in their mouth, Mother . . . Think of it, all that dirt!”

“It's pure penicillin, son. Let them be. Penicillin is a kind of mold, and dirt is pretty moldy. Leave them alone.”

“Mother, that makes no sense.”

“It's true though. The nurse told me all about penicillin.”

So he lets the children be, and his mother prattles on about the olives up in the village. Zayn does his best to comfort her. He tells her it's very dangerous to go up there at the moment, because of the shelling everywhere.

“You can't possibly tend the olive trees under these circumstances.”

But she simply doesn't understand.

“I'm going anyway, my dear,” she tells him, reclining in bed.

A partial stroke has left her bedridden, with a strangely lopsided face, a twisted mouth and a semi-paralyzed arm. And then there's Husniyyah, his wife, constantly complaining that it's becoming intolerable to live like this, and him trying to calm things down.

Honestly, all this talk about life being intolerable! Zayn thanks the good Lord that they all managed to escape Naba'a
³
alive during the fighting - before it was overrun, and all those atrocities took place. Initially, they fled to the village, and when they returned to Beirut, they found a place to stay in Hamra. Now, honestly speaking, how could Naba'a possibly be better than Hamra? True, there they had their own house, even though it was a rental, and here they're only refugees ... But at least now there's no rent to pay, and what's more, here it's a building, a high-rise - even though there
is
the landlord, damn him and his petty ways, . . . always coming around to “inspect” the building, casting sideways glances at everybody, as if we had the plague, and disapproving of the laundry hanging from the balconies! What does he expect, that the clothes should remain unwashed? He says it mars the beauty of the building! I suppose he thinks we should be dirty so the view can remain unspoiled! Still, when all's said and done, Hamra's better than Naba'a: there the house was small, just one room and a poky kitchen; here it's large and airy. There are three rooms - two bedrooms and a living room - plus it's furnished . . . fridge, stove, armchairs, all the modern conveniences you could want . . . All of that, and still Husniyyah says that life in Naba'a was better!

“There, people were human beings at least!”

Well, what to do? They can't return to Naba'a, and living in the village is out of the question.

The only thing that bothers Zayn 'Alloul about their new home is the movie theater on the first floor of the building: its lurid posters of naked women, and the laughter and raucousness into the early hours, they're truly a thorn in his side. “We're decent people, we are with young daughters!”

The smoke from the American cigarettes envelops the front cabin, as the truck plods along the blue-gray and seemingly endless shore. Joggers, in navy track suits or shorts, gradually emerge, some running, others walking briskly, with their heads held high and their arms swinging vigorously back and forth. The early-morning stillness is broken only by the noise of the passing truck and the rolling sea.

“What do they do out here every morning?” the driver asks.

“Exercise, man, exercise,” Zayn tells him. “I'm no expert, but doctors
say people should jog so they won't get fat . . . It's just another fad of these cursed times!”

“You know Jameel? The son of Imm Mohammad as-Saqa - he was big as a bull, they thought it was his glands, but the doctor told him the only solution was jogging ... So out he went out and bought one of those navy track suits . . . What a wimp he turned out to be: he did it a few times then stopped, because he couldn't face getting up that early - at any rate, that's what people said!”

The truck comes to a halt beside a mound of garbage. Mohammad al-Kharroubi and Saleh Ahmad jump down and start shoveling the trash into the back of the truck. Zayn remains seated next to the driver - he doesn't like working this strip of the Manara Corniche: it's littered with empty beer cans that make him feel nauseous so early in the morning; and anyway, he's the most senior man among them, he's been a garbage collector for twenty years, and he's entitled to a rest. Glancing out the window, he sees al-Kharroubi ogling a young girl wearing blue jogging pants. She's blonde and fair-skinned, clearly a foreigner. Strange creatures they are, these foreigners . . . Fancy getting up at the crack of dawn to jog!

The girl is alone. There's no one else around. Mohammad al-Kharroubi goes up to her.

“Mmmm . . . hot stuff!” Then he wolf-whistles, and intones “
Allah-u-akbar!
God is great who bestowed this morning on us!”

The girl steps back as al-Kharroubi draws closer and leans nonchalantly against the front of the truck, baring all his teeth. Then he edges closer and makes an obscene gesture. All of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, a young man appears and grabs the girl by the wrist. He glances menacingly
at al-Kharroubi, who continues his approach undeterred until the young man releases the girl's wrist and comes right up to him.

“Looks like we're in for a bit of trouble,” the driver says, watching the scene impassively and puffing on his cigarette.

Zayn hops out of the vehicle and tries to pull al-Kharroubi back.

“Leave them alone, man.” And looking at the young man, he adds: “Really sorry about this, my apologies, brother.”

The young man turns toward the sea and goes on his way with the girl.

The truck rumbles on. Zayn 'Alloul doesn't like trouble, he's sure the young man escorting the foreign girl must be in some position of responsibility or else he wouldn't dare to be out with her so early in the morning; what's more, he was armed. If this Mohammad al-Kharroubi had persisted, the man would surely have fired the gun and al-Kharroubi would have died like a dog, without anyone even bothering to ask after him!