Little Mountain (12 page)

The nicest thing in the restaurant is the men’s room. It’s nicer than the table all laid out with food. Its undoubtedly part of modern civilization. We went to the men’s room, Ahmed and I. We stood side by side in front of the urinals. Ahmed was on the point of vomiting. But he said he could control himself. Then, after we’d finished, Ahmed took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the plate. In modern men’s rooms, there’s always a plate, a bottle of cheap cologne, an old woman, and a chair. Most of the time, the old woman leaves the chair empty and goes off. Its up to the customers to understand and put money in the plate. That night, the woman was there. She was staring at the ceiling, holding a handkerchief. Ahmed put the quarter in the plate then put his arm round my shoulder. He thought he was whispering and I was sure he was. But the old woman stood up, her eyes filled with terror. Her face was strange. Full of wrinkles with long hair straggling from her chin. But Ahmed insisted she was pretty. Maybe so, I said. But she’s old and she won’t accept.

-—They all accept. You don’t understand a thing. I’m an expert on women. You’re married and sexually hung up.

— Let’s try.

— Let’s.

He approached her. The woman turned on her heels. The floor was orange and the woman was orange. Ahmed advanced slowly, lurching. The woman raised her hand as if to stop something.

— Sons of bitches. At my age, they want to turn me into a whore for 25 piastres.

The woman’s hair was long and it hung matted about her shoulders, very fuzzy and reddish. Ahmed stepped forward. I stepped forward. The woman stepped back, she was against the wall. A sound like a lament welled up. Then she disappeared. I don’t know how she disappeared, as if the earth’d split open and swallowed her up. She disappeared with the plate of money and the bottle of cologne and the chair. Ahmed cursed, I cursed. Then we went back to our seats to find that everyone wanted to go.

The car was pulling to one side. They were all afraid, I wasn’t. The car isn’t frightening. They stopped me. They sat on the pavement; I sat beside them, then they threw up. I tried but I couldn’t. I stuck my finger down my throat, but I couldn’t. Then they all left. They said I was drunk and that they were afraid and the best thing was to take a taxi. Naturally, I refused. How could I leave the car. When they’d gone, I felt really frightened. I’m drunk. I must not drive. I got off the pavement and started to push it, holding it by the door with my hand on the steering wheel. Half of me was outside the car and half of me inside. And the wheel kept slipping from my grip as though it had turned into soap. Then I got home, I don’t know how. I don’t know what my wife said but I remember she made sure the car was there on the street in front of the building.

Kamel Abu Mahdi was sitting by himself on a wicker chair on the balcony of the fourth floor. He jumped when he heard the voice. He grabbed the empty
’araq
bottles and ran. The lift was out of order, so he took to the stairs four by four. Then fell. The bottles shattered into shards and blood started trickling down his hand. Kamel Abu Mahdi went back, washed and bandaged his hands, then sat down again on the balcony. The old man had aged, he was more stooped and the cart in front of him was practically a wreck. The voice was faint: scrap metal for sale, glass bottles for sale. Next to him was a small boy all proud of himself. Holding the bottles up, knocking them against each other musically. People buying and selling.

It was pouring rain. I came home from work exhausted and stopped the car on the street below the balcony. But I didn’t find a place. I tried to park the car in its usual place and finally succeeded. I went up to the house, I was hungry. The four children were leaping about the house, screeching. I washed my face, told my wife I was hungry. But eating has its own rites. The children must go to bed first. I sat and waited for the children in the living-room. The radio was making ugly noises. I think I fell asleep. Then when I opened my eyes, Ahmed Ayyash and Hani and Zuheir were standing there, towering above me. I was hungry. My wife told me there was rice and
fasoolia.
^*
Ahmed Ayyash sucked in his breath as if you were inviting him to make love to a woman. But
fasoolia
doesn’t mean a thing with
’araq.
He darted out and came back a second later with a bottle of
’araq
in his hand. We sat at the table and drank, taking our time. We mustn’t get drunk, said Mr. Zuheir, humorless as a shoe. We drank and talked shop. The same dumb talk, of the boss, of this and that. Naturally, we didn’t talk about women out of due respect for my wife; then they began to talk about things that reminded me of university and of the honorable sheikh —may he rest in peace—who’d put his turban down and lecture on the greatness of Omar Bin Khattab.
^**

Everything’s changing. We’re a nation without civilization. And Ahmed Ayyash went off into his religious trance. The conversation got sticky, like the beans between our teeth. Our lips and the rims of our
’araq
glasses were smudged red. The plates in front of us and next to the plates, the forks that no one used. Hands reaching out to pieces of bread. You mix the white beans swimming in the red with the white rice then put them in your mouth after swilling it with a bit of
’araq.
Everything in this conversation was becoming repetitive like cooking. Mr. Zuheir was clearing his throat, he wanted to speak.

— Cheers.

We drank to our health.

Everything’s changed, Mr. Zuheir said.

Everything’s changed, we answered him.

— No, its true. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed or been replaced.
Yakhneh.
^*
Yakhneh
is the essence of civilization. The Turks are a civilized people. Forget language and the rest. They subjugated us with their cooking. Stuffed courgettes is a good dish. You bet it’s good. But it needs a Turkhead to make it.

Our civilization is alive and well. Long live our civilization. We drank to our undying civilization. Then the food and the conversation finished and we started to yawn.

The rain was torrential. Naturally, they said to Kamel there’s no need and, naturally, he insisted. They went down together. He drove them home and came back alone in his car. He drove slowly through the rain. He felt slightly cold. But driving was a pleasure. And Kamel loves his pleasures.

When I got home, I was in a fix. Someone had taken my parking place … so I had to park the car far from the house. I bolted down the street, getting soaked, and went in. My wife was in bed. I took off my clothes, put on my pajamas and slipped in next to her. I was cold. This central heating of ours doesn’t work properly. Landlords are all meaner than dogs. They bleed us white in the name of modern buildings, then switch off the central heating before the pipes have even heated up. I was sure she was faking sleep. I stretched my hand out to her. Her body was hot. I moved closer, her smell filled the air. She wasn’t my wife, she was a woman.
’Araq
can do anything. I kissed her and climbed on to her body like a young man seeing a woman for the first time. And she moved closer, then away a little, holding me. I plunged into her. The nicest thing in the world is a woman who laughs as you make love to her. I was hard and leaned over her as she swayed in my arms, swooning.

— We don’t want any children, she whispered, laughing.

—You’re nicer than children.

She bowed her head. You’re making fun of me. I wasn’t making fun of her. I was taking her into my arms and swaying. Children are born and cry. Their faces are grubby and their feet muddy. She was beautiful.

I don’t know how I fell asleep but she woke me up. I’m scared, she said. That’s her old trick. A woman’s a woman. Whenever I sleep with her and fall asleep, she wakes me up because she wants more. And I always submit to her desire. But not today. I’m tired, I’ve drunk a lot, no way. I pretended to be fast asleep. I turned my back to her and snored my usual way. But she insisted. I felt her hand on my back, trembling.

— I’m scared.

I sat up and pretended to be startled like any man waking up from sleep.

—The noise, don’t you hear the noise.

— It’s the rain. I want to sleep. Understood?

I got up. She followed me. No doubt an open window in the living-room. The window was open and the rain all over the carpet. I closed the window. My wife rolled up the carpet and swept the living-room. I felt her seducing me. She swept in a bizarre way. No. It was the see-through nightie. We went to bed. I want to sleep, I told her. She took my hand. I lit a cigarette. She fell asleep as the cigarette glowed in the room.

I wept. The corpse was in front of me, with people all around it, but the corpse was before me alone. Kamel Abu Mahdi stood dazed. His bald head trembled, his hand tried to brush something off his forehead. I don’t know where the women came from. Women on the pavements, holding handkerchiefs, laughing.

I told my wife that the car.

I told the woman standing in front of me that the car. But she pointed to a little girl running in the street and laughed.

I told her that …

She said that the shells.

Kamel Abu Mahdi stood alone. It was all alone in front of me. The street was full of shrapnel shards; the street was full of glass; the street was full of cars. But it had died. He went toward it. The front tire blew out. The rubber resembled chewing-gun. The street was full of black rubber that looked like soldiers’ boots. I told them we should move the car. The black rubber was spreading. I gripped the tires. Kamel Abu Mahdi kneeled. Everyone watached. He was gripping the rubber, trying to move it. He stood up, wiped his face. It was black. He knew he shouldn’t cry. It can’t be true, he said to his wife. The tears fell nevertheless. Tears are like nothing else. He sat down on the pavement, his head in his hands, and it rained.

They said to him: shame on you, really, Mr. Kamel.

He said to them: shame, but she died.

They said to him that the shell.

He said, never mind.

He stood up. There was glass on his lips. The steering wheel was broken in two. He went over to the engine: metal devouring metal. It looked like what you saw in pictures. He touched it. Her skin was dry and blisters covered his hands. He held her, he told her. She didn’t answer. He told his wife, his wife didn’t answer.

The wife said that the war.

I said to her. The war.

But the war. Fish are prettier. The shell wouldn’t fall anywhere but on my head.

Sameer stepped forward, rifle in hand, never mind, Sameer said.

Never mind, Mr. Kamel said. Everything’s never mind.

Never mind death, the wife said.

They were laughing. Imm Jameel stood there, holding her new baby girl. Never mind, neighbor. God be praised, you’re safe. No one was injured. Money comes and money goes.

But it goes. Ever since I’ve known it, it’s been going. It’s never once come. It only ever goes.

Imm Jameel was making fun of us. Her husband owns a car. Honestly, you’re an idiot, my wife said. Why did you park the car there?

I told my wife I was an idiot. But the shell, that’s what the shell wanted. I told her the car had died. This woman abhors me. She despises me. I’m sure of it.

— Why did you park the care there?

— I parked it in its place.

— But the shelling.

I sat on the chair, all by myself. Picked up the newspaper and tried to read. My wife was standing in front of me, crying. I didn’t say anything. The city was shaking. Even the street was no longer tenable. The small cars standing in a long line, one behind the other, as though awaiting execution.

They told Kamel, it won’t do. The smell. The smell of rubber and the disgusting sight of it. He wouldn’t listen. No way. I’m going to try to repair it. He told his wife the insurance company had to pay. She laughed. Sameer told Kamel the car had to be towed away. The smell, the children, you know. Kamel was desperate. I beg you. He wouldn’t hear of it. He told them all right. The tow-truck came. They slung the cables down and tied them to the car. They dragged it through the streets, the sound of the metal grating against the asphalt was painful … they were flaying it. He followed behind. The tow-truck proceeded slowly, young men shouting, children watching, the wife on the balcony. And Kamel walked behind his car. He told them. But it went.

I’m the only one who hasn’t stopped going to work. I now go to the office on foot. I sit by myself. I answer the boss’s phone calls. I listen to his opinions and to his advice. Everything’s changed. Even the boss’s voice has greatly changed. It’s become gentle. He tells jokes and asks after the family. And at the end of the month everyone turns up to get his pay. Why don’t I do the same? I’m the only civil servant left in the Lebanese Republic. But I can’t. What would I do at home? There’s no one there but the neighborhood youths, with their weapons, laughing and dying. Even my wife has changed —she says it’s because of the war. She can’t take the war anymore. I’m sure she’s changed since the car died. She despises me. My father always said women were fearsome: one lapse and they lord it over you. You have to keep your ground before her. Everything lapses: the car, the job and … And me, on my own, with the newspapers, the
’araq
and my black thoughts.

Then the office came to a standstill. It would open only at the end of each month, pay-day. … There were shells now everywhere, everyone slept in shelters. And Kamel argued with his wife and the children bawled. He would go down to the street, mingling with the lads, getting to know them. He’d feel their rifles, was impressed with such courage that doesn’t fear death. He’d ask for news of the fighting. They’d tell him. Of course, they’d lie a little. But the sound of the explosions proved to him that there was a real war going on. And that these lads were fighting a war just like the ones we read about in books. The sight of the confiscated loot dazzled him —the colored shirts, the new clothes. He refused a shirt offered him as a gift but then accepted it the following day.

His wife wailed: unlawful wealth. Everything’s unlawful, he answered her, and went back down to the street. But best of all were the cars. Every day a newly requisitioned car. Kamel toyed with the idea of driving the new car.