De Niro's Game (22 page)

Her eyes looked straight at me again, but this time it was a new look that I had never seen before, a kind of a squint like that of a marksman shooting against the sun, the squint of a lost sailor, the squint of a person looking through smoke from a cigarette or burning hay.

Why, why? Now, tell me why you followed me. Why? she shouted.

To protect you, I mumbled.

What? To protect me? From what, from whom? Who asked you to? Who? You have no claim on me, do you understand? I took pity on you, and just because I felt sorry for you and slept with you, you do not own me. Understood? Now, do not ever follow me again! She raised her finger to my face and said, And do not bother Roland, because he is not as soft and fragile as you think.

She turned and slammed the door (yes, it sounded like a prison door). From my window, I watched her crossing the street, stepping over the white interrupted traffic line, and disappearing behind white stone walls.

I PACED MY ROOM
between the window and the bathroom, looking for something new, something to examine. I was missing soap and needed a new towel. I went downstairs to the lobby.

The receptionist, an Algerian man with thick glasses and curly hair, was reading a book. Slowly, he lifted his head. When I asked for a new towel and soap, he told me that I would have to wait until the next cleaning. I asked him if he had a book I could borrow.

He leaned under the desk and pulled out a few books. Here, he said. People forget books in their rooms and we keep them. Like a juggler, he held a wobbling pile of books in his hand and put them all in front of me. Choose. We expect you to bring them back when you finish them or before you leave.

I picked
L'Étranger
by Camus.

Ah
oui. On est tous ça ici, mon frère
, he said and laughed.

I went up to the room and lay in bed.
Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.
This was the first sentence in the book. I got up and sat at the window and flipped through the pages in the book. When I glanced down at the street, I saw a man and his dog walking. The man cursed his dog. The sun shone strong and low, which made Paris slide into Mediterranean heat. The smell of thyme filled the cafés, and the stronger the sun poured down its heat, the more Paris slid toward the North African shores. Between the covers of my book, I saw the protagonist walking on the seashore with a gun in his hand . . .
This man who is morally guilty of his mother's death
, the prosecutor said and pointed at the accused. I quickly left the courtroom and dropped the book on the bed to watch Paris continue its path downward and south under glittering red waves of light. Reflections of desert sand joined to waves of water from the Mediterranean Sea. The heat was so great it made me dizzy, and I felt myself perspiring through my back in a cascade of sweat that rushed down my pants and crossed my buttocks. I felt its dampness on the joints behind my knees.

I rushed to my bed and fell onto it, feeling sick and deeply anxious. I reached for the phone and lifted the receiver. The Arab downstairs answered me.

Do you have vinegar? I asked him. I wanted to wet a piece of cloth with vinegar and lay it on my forehead, just as my grandmother had done when I was young and had a deadly fever.

Vinegar? he repeated. This is a hotel. We do not have vinegar.

Khall
, I said.

The receptionist hung up. I threw the phone on the floor and walked toward the bathroom. There, I peeked out the window: outside, the sand was blowing spray like crashing sea waves at docks and ports. Far away in the desert I saw Rommel and his men moving toward the east. I held my gun and dug under the window, and waited for their passage.

The partridge flew down and landed on the windowsill.
I will tell you when they pass
, it told me.

I WOKE UP A
while later, not knowing what time it was. My shirt was soaked. A desert thirst made me rush to the bathroom. I filled a glass from the well and drank. I looked in the mirror: my hair was wet and my body was skinny; my round eyes were red and sunk beneath the yellow skin of my high cheekbones. My clothes were covered in dust. I must have crawled in the boiling sand, I thought, under the enemy's eyes. I must have escaped from beneath my enemy's long leather boots.

I took a shower, and under the water I felt my forehead. The fever had gone. When I got out of the shower, I looked for my watch. It was four in the afternoon, but that did not help me much because I could not remember when, exactly, Paris had started to move south, or when it had finally deserted its colonies and slid back north.

I called the Algerian downstairs and asked him if he remembered what day it had been when I asked for vinegar. He laughed and did not answer the question. Instead, he asked me if I had finished my book.

No, I said.

MOTHER DIED TODAY
. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure
.

The first sentence of the book played in my head again and again until I started to laugh at its absurdity. I laughed at the memory of my mother's distant cousin, who had come from the north dressed all in black, and in a melodramatic act of lamentation had thrown herself on my mother's open coffin and had a conversation with her. She had told my mother that her son, Bassam, was still here, but was alone now, and she had reminded my mother how young she was for death, which made all the women in black shriek and shed tears in their handkerchiefs. The image of women surrounding my moth-er's corpse, dressed all in black, all in tears, all sipping coffee, all kissing me on the forehead, all chanting and beating their chests, made me want to laugh even more. And I remembered Father Semaan, the bearded, short, fat priest who came to my room swinging his incense on my teenager's posters of halfnaked girls and football players, and also on the pigeons outside my window, who, when they saw his fire and smoke, flew up in flocks and perched on the opposite roof, ogling him cockeyed. All I had wanted was for the crowd to leave the house. I had not been certain about when my mother had died — whether it was today or yesterday or even the day before. And here they were, these women, talking to her as if she were still there and listening. They helped themselves to
the kitchen coffee and the cigarettes, and opened the fridge, hoping for cold water, reviving one another with rosewater, fainting like Italian opera singers, wailing. And all I saw that day of my mother's funeral was a black drape stretched over many tearful heads, all bound under one black sheet, moving in agony like a swaying, injured beast. Then the men came and made their way through the women's black robes, lifting the coffin with twelve arms, and my mother floated her way to the cemetery along streets filled with cars and nosy neigh-bours perched on balconies like half-vulture, half-human beings with curved claws. I had walked in the procession and looked at the wreaths with white ribbons across their middles, with their dedications and mourners' names. I had walked, and when I realized that someone was holding my arm for fear that I might faint, slip, or crawl behind the coffin, I had looked that person in the eye and asked for a cigarette.

IN PARIS, THE SOFT
evening light crawled along the surface of the sidewalks, and a breeze rose outside, and up wafted the smell of the freshly wet streets. I opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and counted my money. I might have enough for another week, maybe more, I thought. The room was rented for a few more days, but I did not expect Rhea to renew it.

I took my money and went downstairs. The Algerian had left, and another man, a Senegalese, was sitting in his place. I asked him to extend my stay for another week, under the same name.

Who is Rhea? he asked. The room is under Rhea Mani's name.

My girlfriend, I said.

He nodded, asked nothing more, and filled out some papers. I paid him and left. Outside, I went searching for food. The shadows of lamp poles were reflected on the wet streets in obscure shapes; they looked like serpentine ghosts in trench coats, with burning hair.

I bought a baguette with a
saucisse
inside. Then I walked to the river, leaned on the rail, and buried the baguette in my stomach.

The palaces across the river were lit with green and red lights. Above, foggy weather brought the sky lower and made the city look confined and humble.

I took the steps down to the river's edge and sat on a bench and waited for the fog to descend and touch the water.

Now, I thought, all is invisible; all is hidden from laws, eyes, perception. This must be death, where nothing is seen.

I wore the fog as a garment and walked with it into the night.

THE NEXT DAY
, the phone rang. The Algerian said,
Une nana t'attend en bas. Elle veut que tu descendes
.

I knew it was Rhea. I put her father's pants on and ran barefoot down the stairs. She was in the lobby, talking to the man I had mugged a couple of nights before. They both looked at me in silence, then looked at each other.

Do you have time to come for a coffee with us? Rhea asked in a brisk, businesslike tone.

Yes, I will be right back, I replied.

I put on my socks and shoes, and her father's shirt, which I had washed but had not ironed. Outside the hotel, the man
stared at me in silence, with an expressionless face. We walked together to a café and sat down.

Rhea gave me a reproving look, and with a tight jaw, she said, Do you have Roland's lighter?

I pulled it from my pocket and gave it back to him.

And the gun? Where did you get the gun? she asked.

Beirut.

You entered the country with a gun? Roland asked with a smirk on his face.

Yes, I did.

Carrying a gun in this country is a serious matter, Roland said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Rhea squeezed my arm from across the table and said forcefully, You listen to him, Bassam. Roland knows what he is talking about! Listen to him.

Roland looked around, as if informers were surrounding us. He said, You have to get rid of it. Do you have it now in your bag?

Yes, I do.

C'est pas vrai!
Rhea shouted. She pulled her upper body back and slammed her hand on the little round table.
Mais, c'est ridicule, non?

Go tonight and throw it in the river, Roland whispered to me.

Listen to him, Rhea said again. Listen to him. He knows.

Go throw it in the river and all is forgiven, Roland said. He went to the counter and paid the bill.

Rhea looked down at her fingernails. She avoided my eyes, and her soft hair veiled her face. All around us mutters,
whispers, and murmurs blended with the clatter of utensils, cigarette smoke that escaped lovers' sighs, and soft, sad, singing accordions that accompanied our uneasiness and silence.

When Roland came back, Rhea stood up and grabbed her large bag. On his way out, Roland pushed a box of cigarettes toward me. Here, keep this; it might make you refrain from future heroic acts.

I pushed it back toward him. When I need something, I will take it myself, I said.

I STAYED IN
the café for a while and drank the mineral water that Rhea had ordered and never touched.

When I left, I walked through the streets of Paris, and the weight of the gun in my bag was heavier than before. I wondered if I would walk the same way with no weight on my back. I wondered if I would feel naked. What would the emperor think if I laid down my arms in the river? It must be a conspiracy, I thought; Roland is a rich aristocrat, and if I lose my gun it will only serve the purpose of vanity, heredity, and oppression.

I WENT BACK
to my room and waited for the sun to sink into the water, and for the water to rise and fill the earth, and swallow all the rivers and streams. I was horizontal, in bed, flowing perfectly parallel to the low ceiling. I held my gun and extended my arm. I aimed at the painting on the wall of deer hunters and dogs sniffing the ground.

Then I aimed the gun at myself and looked the barrel in the face. If I possessed the baccarat kind of gun instead of an automatic, would I play with my fate? Would I leave myself
only one bullet and roll the barrel, like so many young men had in Beirut during the war, after watching the movie
The Deer Hunter
? Many had died playing De Niro's game. A few of us knew that Roger, the son of Miriam the widow, had pulled the trigger one night, and the blood from his brain had stained the cocaine on the table, and George's shirt, and Issam's face, and my chest. We had carried him down the stairs, Issam and I, and laid him in the back seat of his car. It is no use blocking the flow of blood, George said to me. He is gone. When we arrived at the hospital, we waited in the hallway and smoked, without remorse. We smoked until the paramedic came out and asked us for the dead man's name and the story of what had happened. George told him that Roger was shot while fighting at the
jabhah
. The paramedic did not buy the story. He smelled the lies in our silk shirts and in our cologne that overwhelmed the smell of blood. He looked at us with suspicious eyes and mumbled hesitantly,
It is a very close-range bullet
. George pulled the paramedic to one side, put his hand on the man's shoulder, talked in his ear, slipped his hand higher to his neck, and talked to him some more. He released the paramedic with a push. The man walked back in anger, taking off his medical coat and throwing it in protest on a rolling stretcher, cursing the war, his job, the gods, and his land of madness.

At the funeral, Zaghlloul had sung
Zajal,
and the men had danced with the coffin. Roger's mother walked the streets shouting to the balconies, He is a hero, my son is a hero, I gave birth to a
batal, batal
.

WHEN NIGHT CAME
to Paris again, I went to face the river. I cursed all the rivers from Jordan to the Mississippi. I stood at
the water's edge, and held my bag, and opened its zipper. Treacherous rivers that wash you and leave you naked and cold, I shouted. I pulled out the gun, but did not throw it.