Sabra Zoo (6 page)

‘I think Ivan is expecting a woman,' he said, seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment. (I'd secretly wished for an air strike.) The bastard was still teasing me an hour later as we bought coffee from an old man with an urn on his back.

‘Maybe it's that translator,' he said, flashing his inane grin at me. ‘Hey, Eli, do you think she and Ivan would be good together?'

‘They're well suited, I'm sure,' said Eli, who had kept quiet on arriving at the flat, although I thought I caught a fleeting expression of regret around her mouth, a slight pinking of her cheeks when she saw the food and the two wine glasses. Thinking about it again made me cringe. We were overtaken by a group of teenage boys wearing their best clothes and stinking of aftershave. They paraded past a group of made-up girls. Glances were exchanged as the two groups passed, and a person broke away from each group to chat briefly before running to catch up with their friends. We walked over to the waist-high railing that looked out to sea. The tide was out and three men were down on the rocky seashore, firing an automatic rifle at a distant floating barrel. We stopped to watch. One of them noticed that there were foreigners leaning over the railing.

‘Hello, you shoot?' one of them shouted in English, laughing with the others at the idea. John climbed over the railing and slid down the wall onto the rocky shore. Samir followed, shouting for him to wait. We watched as John took the weapon, expertly loading a round into the breech even as the man was asking whether John knew what to do. He rested on one knee and took aim through his glasses. He looked as if he was ignoring the advice of the men whose gun he was about to fire. Releasing the safety he single-fired at the barrel, a shot a second, creating a splash of sea water around it then successive clanking pops as he punctured the metal. There was a smattering of applause as he handed the weapon back. He made his way back to the railing, grinning, followed by Samir. Faris and I helped them scramble up the wall. We walked on.

‘Where does a doctor learn to shoot like that?' asked Faris, obviously impressed.

‘British army, Black Watch regiment, medical corps. The
SLR
they have down there is standard issue.'

‘Maybe they got it from an English peacekeeping soldier,' Faris said. ‘I hear you can buy weapons from some of the foreign soldiers.'

‘Wouldn't have got it from a Scottish one, that's for sure,' said John. He smiled but I could tell he meant it.

I wanted to ask him about being in the army, but two cars were approaching fast down the Corniche, Lebanese flags flying from windows plastered with pictures of Bashir Gemayel. Just as they passed us they were brought to a squealing halt by someone pulling out in front of them. The drivers pressed on their horns.

‘Who's the man on the poster?' asked Eli. ‘His face is everywhere.'

‘He's going to be the new president,' Liv answered. ‘He's a Phalange, a right-wing Christian. He hates the Palestinians, wants to expel them from Lebanon. He cooperated with the Israelis during the invasion of his own country.'

Faris raised his black eyebrows, looking down his long nose at Liv.

‘You have a good knowledge of Lebanese politics,' he said.

‘You're surprised because I am a woman,' she said, tilting her head at him.

He laughed, revealing a gold tooth. ‘No, because you are a foreigner,' he said.

I heard shouting behind us; the driver of the car that had pulled out was on the street, gesticulating at the two honking cars, whose occupants stayed put.

‘We're not all ignorant,' Liv said.

There was a pop. The shouting driver was silenced; he disappeared from view. There were screams from people on the pavement.

‘We need to move,' said Faris. He was herding us into a tight group, looking around him. The screams were replaced by rapid gunfire from the shore side of the promenade. We all crouched instinctively. People were running towards us. I turned to see the barrel shooters firing at the poster-covered cars through the railings. We were close enough to see the spent cartridges spinning on the pavement. Faris signalled for us to follow him as car doors started to open. He led us away from the crowd, running across the road hunched down. I looked round to see several men get out of the two cars and start to return fire into the railings. Faris led us up an alley where we slowed to a walk, too breathless to speak. Samir and I were bent over, trying to take in air. Samir took out a packet of Marlboro and offered me one. I waved it away in disgust.

‘Who were they, the men on the beach?' asked Eli. She was still finding her breath, leaning on Liv for support.

‘Cowboys,' said Faris. ‘The same guys who were driving around Hamra in jeeps during the siege but never saw the frontline. Stupid fucking cowboys.'

‘I need a drink,' said Liv.

Back at the flat we drank warm Stolichnaya and ate my salami and olives. John put on a Donovan record. Although we had electricity, the preference was for candles. To me, the orange light made everyone look haggard and ill. I felt a certain detachment, as if I was behind a screen of frosted glass. I became intrigued by a delay between people's mouths moving and the sound reaching my ears, like a badly dubbed film. Faris and Liv were arguing, something about the permanent revolution and the failings of the Arab bourgeoisie. Donovan was singing about someone being a Catholic as well as a Hindu, an atheist and a Jew. Someone was explaining the falling out of Trotsky and Lenin and the use of icepicks. Samir was telling Liv that women shouldn't be so serious. Liv was telling him that perhaps men should be more serious. My hands were clammy, I wanted to wipe them on my shirt but they wouldn't move, they were stuck to my thighs. I wanted to tell people this; it was interesting and they needed to know. Someone was asking me a question but I couldn't make out the words or who was saying them. Whoever it was got up slowly; perhaps I'd made them angry and they were coming over to confront me? John loomed into focus. I tried to tell him that he was in focus; he would be pleased at this news. Something was hovering just beyond my mental grasp, something important that I felt I must share once I got hold of it. I saw a flash of light, then everything went dark.

I opened my eyes to see Eli and John looking down at me. I felt the rug beneath my back, saw the shadows on the living-room ceiling. One of them was holding my wrist while the other was wiping my forehead.

‘Bach or Mozart?' asked John.

‘Er … Bach,' I said.

‘Good lad. How do you feel?'

‘Tired.'

‘You've had an epileptic fit, laddie.' He was smiling. ‘Too much vodka, too little food.' He wiped some saliva from my chin. I looked at Eli. I could now tell that it was her hand on my brow.

‘When you're ready,' John said, putting a hand under my shoulder. They walked me to the bedroom despite my protests. I lay on the bed.

‘You should rest,' John said.

‘I'll stay with him for a few minutes,' Eli told John.

‘The nurse will take over,' John said to me. He turned to Eli. ‘He needs to sleep though.'

She frowned at him, pointing to the door. He left and she knelt down and removed my trainers, jeans and shirt. This was the stuff of fantasies but I felt drained and, besides, she did it with such reassuring, professional movements that I was completely at ease. The fit had left me feeling mellow, floating. She pulled the sheet and blanket over me and sat on the side of the bed.

‘You should look after yourself better.' She said this matter-of-factly, putting a hand to my forehead. I closed my eyes as she stroked my brow. I could hear the others talking, their voices a soothing mumble in the background. The last thing I remembered was the door closing then some rustling, like someone getting undressed.

I woke to find Eli beside me in bed, her face towards mine, eyes closed. I didn't move, watching her breathe softly, her lips slightly parted, some dried saliva at the corner of her mouth. Her hand was on the pillow by her face: I saw the wedding ring she no longer needed but wore because she'd been told it was better, as a foreign woman, to appear married in a place like Beirut. It bit into her finger. Her bra strap, visible where the blanket had slipped, bit into her shoulder. It was the first time I'd spent the night with a woman, yet nothing had happened. My mouth was dry so I slipped out of bed and put on my jeans.

Liv was standing naked in front of the open fridge.

‘How are you this morning?' she asked, putting her hand to my cheek. She looked concerned. ‘We were worried. That was an impressive epileptic fit.'

I told her I was fine, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. I found a clean glass and tried the tap. Luck was on my side and I gulped voraciously, trying not to think of the rusting tank the water sat in on the roof. Liv headed back to her room with a plate of leftover salami; I watched her walk down the corridor. John was under a blanket on the sofa in the living room. Without waking him I opened the balcony door to release the stale smell of tobacco. I could hear Faris's muffled deep tones and Liv's laughter through their bedroom wall. Eli was dressing when I went back into my room.

‘Are you going?' I asked, not hiding the disappointment in my voice.

‘Don't look so sad,' she said. ‘I have to get my things from the hotel.'

‘Your things?' Surely she wasn't planning to bring her stuff back here?

‘Before I go to work of course.'

Of course, how stupid of me. My gaze went to her hips; dark hair had escaped from under the top of her white underwear. She pulled on her jeans and looked at me as she tied her hair into two pigtails, finishing them off with black ribbons. I could see her as a girl, with her hair done in the same way.

‘I'm sorry about yesterday, I couldn't stop the others coming too,' she said, stepping forward. She kissed me briefly on the lips, her hands cool on my bare shoulders. In the hallway she stopped with the front door open. ‘Have some breakfast. I'll come by and cook something tonight.'

I picked a spare key from a hook by the door and handed it to her.

‘In case you get back before me,' I said.

‘I guess this means things are serious between us,' she said, raising her eyebrows at me to show she was joking.

I had no time for breakfast. I was supposed to meet Najwa and I didn't want to be late. When I turned into Rue Descartes I was surprised to see her walking towards me, her limp less evident than usual. I knew I was early and wanted to say so but remembered the rule about not recognising each other in public. I glanced at her as we passed and she shook her head slightly, a warning in her eyes. Not wanting to abruptly stop and turn around behind her, I continued walking. As I approached the entrance to the apartment block I saw what had spooked Najwa: the black Mercedes parked outside, the smoking driver leaning against it, not bothering to hide the automatic protruding from his belt. He turned to look at me through sunglasses too big for his face. Without slowing down I passed the entrance, looking inside and taking in the two men talking to the old lady who had questioned my presence in the hall. Luckily she didn't see me and I resisted the urge to sprint round the corner.

Ten minutes later I found myself outside the Commodore Hotel and went in on a whim, thinking it was a safe place to be for a while. Reporters were sitting in the lobby, waiting for something to happen. The war was finished for them; just the us marines' departure in a few days and then home. I sat down and picked up an
International Herald Tribune
. The headline read ‘
ARAB LEADERS DISCUSS MIDEAST PEACE STRATEGY
'. I was wondering whether I should go back to Najwa's apartment when a finger appeared over my shoulder, jabbing at the headline.

‘A complete waste of time. It will amount to nothing,' Samir said. ‘Come on. Bob wants to go to the Green Line.'

The Green Line, demarcation between west and east, Christian and Muslim, Left and Right. It wasn't that simple (there were many Christians in west Beirut) and yet this shorthand served a purpose, making it easier to digest the unpalatable reality of the city. The old city centre was badly scarred, not from the invasion this summer but from the Civil War. Left-wing militias were handing over token weapons to the Lebanese army and giving up long-held positions. This was the ideal opportunity to illustrate Bob's story on the return to normality in what he called (off camera) the ‘asshole' of the world.

After filming pockmarked buildings and the burnt-out Holiday Inn, used as a vantage point for snipers, Bob wanted to go to the east.

‘I know a great fish restaurant there,' he said.

‘I don't know. I should really get back,' I said.

‘It's just across the line, ten minutes at most.'

I looked at Samir who shrugged and looked away. ‘He's the boss,' he said in Arabic.

The crossing was uneventful. We passed unchallenged through a Lebanese army checkpoint and drove through streets like the ones we'd left behind, although there was less evidence of bomb damage. The restaurant was full of people: families, couples and a group of loud young men. We attracted attention, as Bob didn't want to leave his huge Sony video camera in the car. A round-bellied man approached us, grinning, arms outstretched.

‘Hello, Mr Bob. Welcome. We have not seen you for some time.'

‘Small matter of a siege, Mr Khoury,' Bob said, which caused the fat man to guffaw. He showed us to a table overlooking the shore.

Bob wolfed his grilled fish, easing it down with cold Heineken. I picked at mine. My buttocks clenched as I noticed one of the young men get up from his table and approach ours. I had trouble swallowing. He stood at our table.

‘Television?' he asked in English, pointing at the camera, microphone and video pack.

Bob nodded, his mouth full of tomato salad.

‘And you guys, where are you from?' the man asked, this time in Arabic, looking at Samir and me.