White Masks (29 page)

Anyhow, where was I . . . oh yes ... Sami al-Kurdi. I don't know where he gets stuff from . . . He must have some kind of inside information. Anyway, there he was sitting, whispering into Abu Saïd's ear, and then, all of a sudden, the chief jumped to his feet, fully alert, with this serious look on his face.

“I don't believe you! You're nothing but a liar, you son of a Kurd!”

“No, Chief. I'm not lying.”

“I swear I'll shoot you if you're lying!”

“You do as you wish, but I'm telling you, my info is one hundred percent correct.”

“Let's go, boys!”

“What's going on?”

“A quickie and we'll be back. The court will assemble here, in the shop. OK by you, Nadeem?”

“OK by me. What court?”

“You'll see. And I don't want any customers around here when we get back, do you hear? Come on, we're off. We'll be back soon.”

“The place is all yours, Abu Saïd.”

They grabbed their rifles and left.

“What about your drink, Abu Saïd? You haven't finished.”

“We'll be back I tell you. We'll be a few minutes, only. It'll wait. And you wait too.”

I waited. They were gone more than an hour, but you should've seen them when they got back! They were a sight for sore eyes! If it weren't for that . . . son of a bitch brother of yours! No, he wasn't with them, and he didn't interfere personally ... but his boys did. It may just as well have been him.

Anyhow, Abu Saïd came back with his boys, all puffed up like a peacock, and Sami al-Kurdi looking like a godfather for real, and they had these two guys with them: an old man, with a head of white hair, and a younger man, who seemed to be his son. The boys had blindfolded the two of them and were leading them along like little dogs. It was too funny for words . . . the old man in front, the young man behind, feeling the ground with every footstep, as if he were climbing some mountain or making his way through a thick forest, shaking like a leaf! Abu Saïd poked him with his rifle butt.

“You're nothing but a woman!” he mocked . . . “What's all the shaking
for? Where's the man in you, boy?” while the older man intoned
al-hamdulillah,
dear God, it is your will . . . And the younger man repeated
Oh Lord
after each of his invocations. That is how they came into the place.

Seated in his chair, with all the rifles pointed at the two prisoners, Abu Saïd says: “The court is now in session and I want nothing but the truth. First, let's have the evidence.”

So Sami al-Kurdi steps forward and places this rusty little semiautomatic Carlo, with forty rounds of ammunition and an empty magazine, on the table in front of Abu Saïd. The chief takes a sip from his glass and clears his throat.

“The truth, do you hear, I want nothing but the truth. The truth alone will save your lives. Come on, Grandpa . . . say something!”

“Yes, yes.”

“Look here, Grandpa, you're an old man, and I have nothing but respect for that white hair on your head. You live here, don't you, in our neighborhood? And none of us here is fanatical or sectarian in anyway, right? And all our religious teachings affirm the brotherhood of man and fraternal love, don't they? So tell me, Sir, what's this machine gun for? It seems that you are living in our midst and shooting at us.”

“I swear, son, it's nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? If it's a joke, it's not funny.”

“Honestly, it's nothing.”

“Who gave you this machine gun?”

“Really, it's nothing. I've had it ever since the '58 uprising. And I'd forgotten all about it. I'd forgotten I owned a machine gun.”

“Why buy one in the first place?”

“We're not involved in any fighting; we have nothing to do with this war. I told you it's a relic from '58!”

“You mean you were against the people's revolution in 1958?”

“My dear Sir, I wasn't against anything. I bought it for self-defense.”

“You mean to say we're harassing you? That can't be, we're not sectarian.”

“No, no, quite right. But in 1958 it was different. At that time, it was sectarian. But you're right, this time it's not like that!”

“You bought the gun to use against us.”

“No, honestly, I don't even know how to use it!”

“Oh, now I see. You bought it for your son, so he could use it against us.”

“But my son was only a child then, he was three years old in 1958. How could he carry a gun at that age?”

“Where do you work?”

“Right here-I work for the Stico Pharmaceutical Company.”

“Where's that?”

“Not far from here, off Hamra, on Maqhool Street.”

“Where?” al-Kurdi asks.

The younger man started to answer him. “It's close to here ... it's . . .”

“Maqhool Street, I know where that is. Right by Sandy's Bar,” says Abu Saïd.

“Sandy's?”

“Yeah, Sandy's . . . You know, where Warda works. Or have you forgotten Warda?”

“Anybody ever threaten you, Grandpa?”

“No. Never!”

“Well, then that means is that you're against us. You're fifth columnists, agents!”

Then Abu Saïd gets up, goes towards the younger man and slaps him right across the face. “And you?” The young man is shaking from head to foot. “I'm guessing you're the spy, the one who writes the reports.”

“No no, mister. I swear, it's nothing to do with me.”

“What about the machine gun then?”

“I didn't even know we had one.”

“I know your sort. You've been sniping at us with that machine gun, haven't you?”

“Me? No Sir. I swear. And anyway it's not good for sniping.”

“How do you know? . . . It seems you know something about guns after all . . .”

“Please, don't get me wrong! It's just that, well, I mean, everyone knows that kind of thing! All you have to do is read the papers!”

“The nerve of him!” al-Kurdi says. “You've got a nerve!”

Abu Saïd lights a cigarette and clears his throat one more time.

“I know your sort! You're all the same. Anyhow, the court has ruled . . . Oh, no no, before that . . . In the name of the revolution, in the name of the people, and after examining the incontrovertible evidence at our disposal, the court has ruled that the two gentlemen . . . er ... er . . . your name?”

“Munzer, Munzer Nahhas.”

“Munzer Nahhas and his son . . . er . . . your name, boy . . . !”

“Jean. Jean Nahhas.”

“. . . that the aforementioned gentlemen, Munzer Nahhas and his son, Jean Nahhas, have been found guilty of acting as agents on behalf of imperialism, Zionism, and the Isolationist Forces. Having heard the suspects' defense and reviewed the documentary evidence presented by the freedom fighter Sami al-Kurdi, the people's court, sitting at Mr. Nadeem Najjar's arcade on Independence Avenue, has handed down the following sentence: summary execution by firearms, with immediate effect.”

There was complete silence. “Applause, where's the applause?” thundered Abu Saïd.

So I started clapping, and then they all joined in. I've never been to a public execution, this was my chance! And it was going to be two-for-the-price-of one, like seeing two movies at one show! My, what a fine performance Abu Saïd and those boys put on!

Then, Abu Saïd takes the two men and locks them into the bathroom. And al-Kurdi asks him, isn't it a bit risky to kill them in cold blood, just like that.

“Well, how else would you have us do it?” Abu Saïd replied. “It's a death sentence, isn't it?”

“I tell you, Abu Saïd, it scares me.”

“Bah! You're just a chicken. And a thief to boot! You're the one who took all the jewelry from their house. You couldn't care less about the revolution!”

Sami al-Kurdi said nothing. Abu Saïd glanced over to the boys.

“Well,” he said, “who's going to carry out the sentence?” No one stirred. “Alright then, I'll do it, but I need an assistant,” and as he scans their faces, every one of the boys averts his eyes, dropping them to the ground.

“Not a man among you, eh?” Abu Saïd had hardly finished saying, when we heard all this commotion outside. The boys reached for their guns and
Abu Saïd peered out to see what was happening, when a tall young man strode into the arcade and placed his hand over the machine gun lying on the table.

“Where are they?” he asks Abu Saïd.

“I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Listen here, Abu Saïd. This isn't on. Our orders are clear: no abductions or kidnappings! We want them released. Now!”

“No, no, you've got it all wrong. You're mistaken. This isn't an abduction or a kidnapping. We are responsible people. They are agents, and by capturing them we are discharging our responsibilities to the revolution.”

“What responsibilities, what bullshit! Don't give me that crap! I want them, Abu Saïd, and I want them now!”

“But . . . brother, you don't understand. We're the ones in charge around here, and we know what's best. And anyhow, what do you mean ‘no abductions'? If you can do it, so can we!”

“Abu Saïd, you'd better stop your little game. This place is surrounded, and it'll be my pleasure to start the bonfire!”

So Abu Saïd gets up cursing and goes to the bathroom to fetch the two men. Then, as the tall young man picks up the machine gun from the table, Sami al-Kurdi steps forward.

“Sorry, brother, but that's ours. It's war booty.”

The tall young man pays no attention to him. He takes the machine gun and walks out of the arcade with the two captives. He leads the old man by the arm, with the son following behind, both of them still blindfolded.

“Get in the car, Sir.”

“They're going to kill us!” the young man cries, falling to his knees.

“Come on, get in, Sir.”

“It is the will of God,” the old man says, his voice breaking. Still on his knees, the son is pleading, I beg you, spare us!

“Don't worry, you're going to be alright,” the tall young man says, helping the son to his feet as the father gets in the car. “We're releasing you.”

“They're bluffing, Father. They're going to kill us and throw us in the sea.”

“Almighty God, spare me this ignominious end,” the old man exclaims. “May the Lord protect you and reward your mercy!”

Then, the engine started and the vehicle disappeared.

Inside the arcade, everyone was fuming.

“What business is it of theirs?”

“They said they weren't going to kill them, but I bet they will!”

We all thought they would. Sami al-Kurdi chuckled.

“Some chief you are, Abu Saïd!” he said. “In fact you're nothing of the sort, you're just fooling around! You didn't even try standing up to them. They did as they pleased. Where's all that muscle and might of yours, huh?”

“Shut up, you dog!”

“Me? A dog! . . . No Sir! More like you're the dog . . . and the son of one too ... and a coward, to boot!”

Abu Saïd drew his gun and fired, hitting Sami al-Kurdi in the belly. “Come on, Chief, can't you take a joke!” he cried, falling to the ground. “See what you've done? . . . Stop shooting, will you, you're killing me!”

And the boys picked him up and took him to the hospital.

Abu Saïd stayed in the arcade with me. He sat there, drinking, smoking, and cursing. He was furious. And me, I thought he was right. Yeah, what
was it to do with them? Why was it off limits only for him? Because his boys loot? Who doesn't? No, it's just because he's the neighborhood boss and he's a local. They're just thugs! But now he's done for, and so are we . . . I think the business is going to go down the drain . . . all because of this shitty war . . . if it weren't for this damned war, we wouldn't be where we are . . . I won't be able to carry on the same as before, I can't anymore ...

 

Nadeem rambled on like that, and I think I fell asleep while he was still talking. Anyway, there was nothing I could do - he was my husband after all. It was best to keep quiet and put up with him. And that's exactly what I did, until Ahmad died.

Oh, how could he, how could such a fine young man like Ahmad go and die, just like that! Why did he have to join up? The war has nothing to do with us but
we
're the ones who die! I told him, I told him he would die! At night, I would dream that he was dead. And he died! And then Nadeem expects me not to cry over my own brother . . . He's my brother, how could I not cry! How could he shout in front of all those people like that, how dare he!

Ahmad was my little brother, he and I used to sleep in the same bed. I would tell him stories and he loved listening to them. We'd lie in bed and pull the covers up over our heads, and he'd ask for the story about the Russian priest, and I would tell it, over and over again, until he fell asleep.

“Listen up, Ahmad,” I'd say. “There was once a Russian priest who had a cat he loved very, very much. One day the cat stole his piece of meat, so he beat her and killed her and then he buried her. And on the gravestone, he wrote: There was once a Russian priest who had a cat he loved very, very
much. One day the cat stole his piece of meat, so he beat her and killed her and then he buried her. And on the gravestone, he wrote: There was once a Russian priest . . .” And Ahmad would be asleep.

Why it seems like it was just yesterday . . . even though he'd become a boxing champion, and I was married ... he would come and sit beside me and ask me to tell him the story of the Russian priest.