Bone Ash Sky (62 page)

I feel the familiar throb of a headache return. Am I getting in too far? I have no stomach for politics. It’s the personal I seek. My father. Only him. Not these cold-blooded killers, men who can care for their loved ones with such tenderness yet blithely end the lives of other people’s children with the flick of a switch. Yet he was a cold-blooded killer too, and he didn’t even care for his loved ones: not his mother and father, his wife, not even me.

I go over my notes one more time. The estimated cost of the bomb that caused half a billion dollar’s worth of damage to the World Trade Center was all of three thousand dollars. Why am I doing this at all? This is way beyond my scope. I’ve been drawn in to the combined plea of the old woman and the glorious, indifferent child. I don’t know how to explain why I feel the need to help Sayed. Atonement? Maybe. Wiping out my father’s sins with one grand gesture? I reason that it’s for the child’s sake, at least.

From the bus stop, I walk to the Israeli detention centre.
Prison.
I wonder why Sayed is being kept in occupied territory, why the Americans haven’t extradited him to be tried on the very soil he supposedly helped destroy. Maybe it’s easier to keep him here, where anything is permissible. Interrogation, intimidation, torture. ‘Torture lite’ I’ve heard it called, or ‘enhanced interrogation’: exhaustion exercises, choking in water, violent shaking, forced standing, noise bombardment. I almost begin to run. What if they do it to me? ‘Stress and duress’ techniques: coffin cells, tear gas pumped straight into the eyes, inmates shackled and forced to squat or crawl, the devastating cumulative effect of all those tiny humiliations.

I stumble through the centre of Sidon, past orchards of oranges and banana palms and unkempt verges of grass and wildflowers, stinging gravel roads. There aren’t many locals about except for the shopkeepers, stirring themselves from their noonday lethargy when they see me, hoping for a sale. I try not to make eye contact with the Israeli soldiers and their Christian–Lebanese South Lebanon Army auxiliaries. They loiter in groups of two or three, baby-faced, impeccable in their stiff uniforms and polished-mirror guns.

I wave my press card at the guards manning the prison gate: young Israeli boys, good-humoured and in the mood for some talk. I smile tight, walk on down the drive, my sandals slapping against my feet as I hurry away from their stares. Run my hand over my cropped hair, my bare neck. Salt flecks on my fingers.

As soon as I sit across from Sayed at the pockmarked formica table, the headache I’ve nursed all the way from Beirut settles on my left eye. I’m surprised to see he’s clean-shaven, full-mouthed. Young, maybe younger than me, with a sensual crease to his eyes and in the deep lines running from cheeks to chin – not the bearded fundamentalist I was expecting. I like the way he looks and distrust myself for it. Then I force myself to take in the grainy texture of his skin, the heaviness of his eyelids, the open pores on his chin. His square shoulders strain against his prison uniform, yet his shirtsleeves are floppy and too long for his arms, an oversized collar stained by what looks like the remains of a breakfast egg.

I put out my hand and decide to speak English. It might appease my headache, requiring less thought.

‘Sayed?
Sa’ laam
. Pleased to meet you finally. Is English okay?’

He nods, glancing in small bursts at my cleavage, arms, throat. Each time he drags his eyes away they seem drawn back by some irresistible force against his will. I follow his gaze and he blushes.

‘Sorry. Haven’t seen a decent woman for a long time.’

I swallow something. My pleasure at his words? I make my voice steely and impersonal.

‘Well, let’s get started, shall we?’ I place my tape recorder in the middle of the table and turn it on. ‘Do you mind?’

He shakes his head. I speak quietly but with force into the recorder. ‘First interview with Sayed Ali. Khiam Detention Center, Sidon, 25 August 1995.’

Sayed coughs; it could be nerves.

‘Can you tell me what you’re in here for?’

‘Supposedly instrumental in the bombing of the World Trade Center in ninety-three.’

‘Right. And what do you say to this claim?’

‘I didn’t go near the building. I was working that day. Some jihadis say it was one of the CIA’s dirty jobs.’

‘Let’s not get into the conspiracy theories – yet. If you didn’t participate, why are you a suspect?’

‘I’m Palestinian. I’m educated. I own a computer.’

‘That can’t be it, surely.’

‘Okay – turn off the tape. This is off the record. I once pledged an oath of allegiance to bin Laden.’

I turn it off. Then I decide to play dumb, interested in what Sayed has to say about the shadowy figure.

‘Who?’

‘A jihadi in the Afghan war, a financier of pan-Islamic movements. I was young, stupid. He paid me a good wage for training at one of his camps, more than I could get anywhere else. I needed to help my mother, and I had no work. I looked up to him, though I never met him in person. He was my
emir
, my leader.’

I speak quietly. ‘I’ve spoken to some of your relatives.’

‘All liars. Except for the women.’

I stare at him, forcing myself not to look down. He resumes speaking in a gentler tone. ‘Okay – one thing is true. When I was a teenager I was trained in guerrilla warfare here in Lebanon, by Ali Mohamed.’

‘What for, if you didn’t do it, or didn’t have any intention of doing anything like it?’

‘I was angry. Disaffected, isn’t that what they call it? That’s all. No way would I bomb a building. I won’t risk my life for anyone or anything.’

‘Then why all this evidence?’

‘I’m a likely suspect, that’s all.’

As he continues talking, he rolls up both sleeves to his elbows and calls out to the guard.

‘Hey, it’s getting hotter in here. Any chance of a fan?’

The guard shakes his head without any change of expression on his face. I watch Sayed’s muscular arms waving about, admiring them in the back of my mind, catch the glint of a silver bracelet on his wrist. Heavy links, elaborately masculine. Multiple crosses. Armenian ones. As he continues to speak I’m not listening any longer. I can feel myself flushing to my temples. Sayed notices my colour.

‘You hot too?’

He turns to the guard again.

‘Look, man, the lady’s about to faint. Can’t you do something about it?’

The guard grimaces as if to indicate his helplessness, and Sayed resumes his story.

‘My cousin was the suicide bomber who blew up the US embassy in eighty-three. Issa Ali. History matters around here. Just my name is enough to incriminate me. Didn’t you do your homework?’

‘I’m sorry, I—didn’t realise.’

I reach across the table to Sayed’s wrist.

‘Do you mind if I get a closer look at your bracelet? It’s a woman’s, isn’t it? Antique?’

‘Could be. My aunt gave it to me when she knew I was going to prison. It used to be Issa’s. There’s something written on it in a language I can’t understand. Could be Greek, or Russian.’

Sayed unclasps the bracelet and hands it over. I take it in both hands, feel its weight on my palms. I study the large silver links fashioned in the shape of Armenian crosses. Delicate, but strong. I read the Armenian engraving, murmuring now, hoping to appear normal to Sayed, losing my train of thought, the bracelet growing hot in my hands.

‘From what your aunt and mother have said this is a simple case of …’ I trail off as he begins speaking again. I’m reading and rereading the engraving on the bracelet as if the next time I sound out the vowels in my head it will change to something else. Please God, a miracle. As if the next time it will not read
Pakradounian
anymore. How did Bilqis get it? I remember Lilit saying Selim ran off with Anahit’s bracelet as soon as she was born. I squeeze my eyes shut. Sayed is oblivious.

‘It’s okay. You’re not expected to know everything. My cousin was a pretty committed guy. He kidnapped key members of the Christian militias, had them executed. Here’s a story for you – Issa ordered one of those Phalange guys to be killed at the exact same moment as he drove his suicide truck through the embassy building. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but he was high up. Some personal vendetta.’

I turn on the tape recorder. Sayed looks startled. I make an effort to keep my voice steady.

‘What was your cousin’s name again?’

‘Issa Ali.’

I have images of taking Sayed’s head and breaking it open on the table. Calm and efficient. Then walking away. I want to say it in Armenian:
That man he had killed was my father
. I lean forward, staring at him. It’s then I decide not to say anything, and hand the bracelet back.

After leaving Sayed I feel the headache squeeze tighter, a rubber band around my eyes. The bus journey back to Beirut passes in a blur. The last moments of my interview with him swirl, recede, then press forward and clamour for attention. He didn’t want me to leave so soon. He sat behind that flimsy table, holding the bracelet in both hands, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. I told him I’d come back, just needed some fresh air, but I knew he didn’t believe me even as I said it.

I read the report again now in the bus, unable to progress past the typed name in the heading. Sayed Ali. His cousin Issa. The name of the man who ordered the death of my father. Issa. A name meaning Jesus in Arabic. A Christ-like figure who surrendered everything: love, a child, life itself, for a twisted ideal. Was there any redemption in his death? Or only the resurrection of hatred? I sigh again at the implausibility of the situation. How did I stumble into this? Was it a trap? Did Bilqis lure me into the camp – and for what? Surely Ali is a common enough name, as Bilqis told me, like Brown or Smith in the West. But had Bilqis known who I am, who my father was, all along? And why hadn’t she told Sayed?

Once I arrive in Rue Hamra I call Chaim from a phone box, leaning over and dislodging a pebble from my shoe. Again, I can’t shake the disconcerting feeling that I’m aping someone else’s movements, mundane gestures refined for generations. I think of Lilit in Van, gasping with the reality of her new, cruel world. Think of Sayed Ali, his solemnity and quiet deference. Suddenly I’m afraid, with a deathly chill. Sayed and I are connected, by blood, history, ancestral guilt, and nothing can change that now.

Chaim picks up the phone at work.

‘Anoush, are you okay?’

‘Yes, I just—I just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘You sound upset.’

‘No, I’m okay. Come home early tonight, yes?’

I hang up on his voice, take a bus to Municipality Square. I want to be somewhere that feels like home, a place I feel safe. I berate myself – for coming back to Beirut, for caring about the past at all, for knowing too much and too little about the truth of my origins. My God, why did Lilit and Minas decide to stay in this place? Why didn’t they go back to Armenia and begin a life free of all these lies? They never felt like Arabs, never fit in. I could be in Yerevan now among fellow Armenians, lulled by familiar songs and food. My father may not have left us then, my mother may not have died. Lilit most certainly would not have been killed by a sniper. I could be anywhere, could just go now, forget about all these deaths, these secrets.

The bus stops. I’ve reached the end of the line and the heat of the day is mellowing. There’s a slight breeze, the sound of water. The plane trees on the square are decked out now in their summer finery, beneath them the fountain with only one spout working: a pert Cupid with big belly and trickling penis. There are many people, not like the last time I was here. People sitting on park benches, strolling, children playing and splashing in the water, little dogs with round eyes. A cherry seller. Strawberries in huge peaks. The late sun westering behind stone buildings, rendering them ripe gold and rose and orange.

I squeeze onto a bench, close my eyes. Next to me, I can hear a man and woman arguing in an undertone. She’s telling him he doesn’t understand, he’s asking why she has to over-analyse everything. I open my eyes and he leads her away.

Now an old man is shuffling toward the bench cradling his walking stick, with a fedora pulled low over his forehead. He sits heavily beside me, breathing a sigh of relief and comfort. I close my eyes again, let the children’s shouts and the sounds of fruit sellers and traffic in the distance wash over me.

I feel a hand on my arm. Jerk upward.

‘Tell me, daughter, are you a Pakradounian or am I much mistaken?’

I turn to look into the face of the old man, close enough to see the lines etched so deep they’re white against the tanned face, the insignificant eyes circled by pouches of skin.

‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’

‘It’s Uncle Bedros. Don’t you recognise me? You look exactly like your father. I knew you would come back, I knew it.’

I look into the milky eyes again, and press his old man’s body to me, kissing him formally on both cheeks. He’s twig-thin, with a bent back and huge-knuckled hands.

‘It’s been so long – I don’t know what to say. You look so well, Uncle.’

‘I’m ninety-two this year. And my wife – bless her soul – is convinced I’ll not make it to my next birthday.’