White Masks (18 page)

Zayn took a step toward the officer, who held his hand extended. He felt so grateful that he bent down to kiss it, but the officer withdrew his hand.

“Go on, man. Beat it.”

Zayn stepped out of the large hall into the street, in filthy blue striped pajamas and a pair of old, holey slippers. He felt like dancing for joy at the thought of his home, his job, even the truck. He stood waiting for a cab to pass, but then realized he wasn't carrying any money. So he walked, past the Museum, past Sinn al-Feel, finally reaching Naba'a. He was exhausted, walking all the way home in his pajamas, in the dead of night, like a beggar. Ignominy, that's what it was. And then when he arrived, instead of being happy, she started to wail - she didn't know how to be happy, that was her trouble, he always told her so. After having a wash, a proper one with soap and water, he had something to eat and went to bed. He ate without appetite though, as if he hadn't felt hungry during those three long, dark
days. He went to bed, but instead of waking early as was his habit, he slept until seven.

“Why didn't you wake me up?” he asked her, irate.

She said she wanted to let him rest. But he wanted to go to work, he was afraid they'd fire him because he'd been absent for three days without a valid excuse. But when he went down to the to municipality building, everything was quickly settled. His boss said they would just deduct the three days from his leave and then advised him not to get mixed up in politics.

Zayn wasn't upset about losing the days. He was happy just being back at work; actually, he was glad about the deduction, as it meant that the whole nightmarish episode was over. So there he was now, back at work, making the rounds with the truck, as usual.

Except that things had changed, they were different now. You needed special favors from friends in high places just to stay out of trouble. The biggest problem nowadays was that they fired at you if you so much as blinked. They neither heard you nor understood when you spoke to them. Where had these goons come from, it's as if the earth had suddenly spawned them out of nowhere! There were bullies everywhere, nothing but bullies in this city. Zayn 'Alloul certainly was no bully, he hated that kind of stuff, which led to all kinds of atrocities . . .

As he told his friend the juice-seller, the best thing to do was to steer clear of trouble. Even the question of Ali Shuayb didn't mean much to him, anymore - true, Ali Shuayb had been different from the others, and ever since his release from jail, Zayn had realized how important Ali must have been. He obviously knew political players well enough to compromise
them. But nowadays, everything was up for grabs, daylight robbery was the order of the day, and it was all done “in the name of the people” and “for the just cause of the nation.” What cause, what bullshit!

 

The thing is, why isn't the city buying them those handsome red trucks anymore? The ones where you pile the garbage in at the back; then, when the driver switches on the engine, great big rolling blades churn all the trash into the belly of the truck? With those trucks, the vehicle stays pretty clean and there is no smell - or at least it's bearable. They've set them back a couple of decades with the open dump trucks they have now, and it makes the job so much harder, there's no pleasure in it anymore. And then there are the new workers, who take no pride in the job whatsoever! They assume, like everyone else, that a garbage collector is just someone who doesn't know how to do anything else. That's not at all the case! It's an occupation like any other, requiring both skill and experience. The Lord alone knows where they got these new recruits from: ignoramuses who mix everything up together - tin cans with tomatoes, bottles with shoes. That's no way to work!

And then, when you get this old, battered truck to the actual dump, in Shuwayfat, they go and set the garbage on fire! That's no way to work, there's no comparison, no comparison at all, between Shuwayfat and Qarantina! Now that was a proper garbage dump: a clearly defined area, with a name, where the garbage was dumped and then sorted, at least to some extent anyway. Even though the garbage was piled everywhere, it wasn't harmful, because there were people that sorted it. They sorted it out well, putting each thing in its place.

Nothing gladdened our hearts more than seeing the street kids jumping up and down in excitement when they sighted the garbage truck. As if it were laden with presents! As soon as we'd emptied the trucks, the hills would swarm with them: children of all ages, girls and boys, squatting over the piles of garbage and working quietly, without fighting. It was like watching a silent game being played - hundreds of children on the garbage mountain fashioned by our labor, sorting trash and making an income, thanks to our work. They'd take things and resell them, that way we earned a living and they earned a living. We learned to set special things aside, like shoes and bottles, before shoveling the garbage into the truck. And however much we took, there was always plenty left to go around. We filled our bellies and they theirs. The children, the men, and the women of Qarantina scattered across the hills we created, and all of us made a living.

Some said the stench was foul, but it wasn't: yes, it smelled bad, but it wasn't foul. It was quite bearable, and the children could play. I'd watch them sometimes playing house, perched on the top of the garbage hills; they'd visit and take presents to each other, eyeglasses, combs, any little thing, all valuable things the rich threw out because they're godless and ungrateful for their lot. For our part, we counted our blessings . . . we'd kiss the ground in gratitude for the bounty we enjoyed. But the only thing people ever talked about was the smell. The men in Naba'a were always wondering how I put up with it. As if their jobs were any better, what did they think they were doing down at the docks as longshoremen? They were mere beasts of burden - yapping on about the smell! I don't think the smell was foul then, but it is now, it's disgusting. We dump the garbage in
Shuwayfat, right by the seashore, and people come and burn it. Then they douse the fires with water and that's what stinks and causes all manner of disease - not to mention rats!

I don't like to work on the Corniche by the sea. The sea's gone, there's no more sea . . . they've blocked it off with all those roadside stalls. A scourge on those shopkeepers! And what's worse, they parade themselves on TV as refugees. Some refugees! Their downtown shops were burnt to cinders? They've opened new ones, where the prices are sky high, which means that they're making profits many times over what they were used to in old Souq Sursock - and then they go on TV, and bemoan their fate, and claim to be poor. They're the rich, not the poor, and they're the ones complaining about poverty, while we keep our mouths shut and our heads down and thank the Good Lord for what we've got. What kind of people are they? Nothing but unscrupulous mercenaries, shamelessly money-grubbing and greedy - and living in filth too! It's unbelievable! Imagine this high and mighty fabric merchant who's not even capable of sweeping up in front of his shop: he wants us to do it! He doesn't even ask himself how it's possible to live in such filth! It's disgusting, I told them it was filthy, and that I refused to work on the Manara strip of the Corniche. Oh, they replied sarcastically, you expect us to do your bidding, who do you think you are, the president of the republic? Even the president doesn't talk to us like that! So I kept quiet. But these new guys, they know nothing about this job, that's why they agreed to do it. Not me. The boss said we had to sweep the litter off the Corniche and take it to the truck. No way, I told him, we're not street sweepers. Sweepers are one thing and we're another.

I flatly refused-I take pride in my work. But those two at the back, they
agreed. Of course things won't be like this forever; everything comes to an end. The war will end and, in the fullness of time, good will prevail over evil. And when our occupation recovers the respect it deserves, they will appreciate my integrity, and they might even promote me to supervisor. And I'll sit behind a desk without lifting a finger all day, answering the telephone, registering people's complaints and settling their problems. Still, we must bide our time and wait: everything in its own good time.

But these new fellows, especially that devil Mohammad al-Kharroubi. Who does he think he is? . . . Just yesterday, he asked to sit beside the driver, leaving me to hang off the back of the truck! What complete disregard for age or seniority! Me, a garbage collector of twenty years' standing, and him scarcely out of his teens . . . if I'd married a little earlier, he'd be the age of my children!

I regret not having listened to my mother's advice now. She always told me to marry early, but I wouldn't. I wanted to have some security before getting married. How could I marry with nothing more to my name than fifty lira? I said no, my mother said I'd get too old, but I still said no.

Then, may he rest in peace, my uncle Hajj Mahmud 'Alloul came to visit. After we all sat down, he spoke to me and my mother and then put his arm around my shoulder.

“Zayn, you're not married, and Husniyyah is your cousin. I kept her for you. (I never asked him to!) Your late father, before he died, made his wish known to me. ‘Mahmud, Husniyyah is for Zayn,' that's what he said.”

“When shall we sign the contract, my dear?” he asked, turning to my mother.

“Tomorrow, with the blessing of the Almighty,” she replied.

So they signed the contract, and I married Husniyyah. She's a good woman, Husniyyah. Cooks and cleans and looks after the children. But she's come to hate my mother. “Don't you fear the Lord, woman?” I ask her. “Were it not for her, I wouldn't have married you!” But Husniyyah just grumbles on. And what can I do? Throw my mother out on the street? I can't do that, a woman of her age, and paralyzed - from her stroke. The doctor said there was no hope, so we brought her back home. But she can't walk, and every time she has to urinate, Husniyyah complains. No, bless her, she doesn't complain, she's tired though. An invalid is a burden. My mother doesn't complain either, she spends all her time reading the Qur'an and praying . . . And now this al-Kharroubi fellow here wants to take my place in the truck, he does, as if there were no levels or seniority! I'm the boss around here; Mr. Kabbani said so, he said it in so many words: “You're like the captain of a ship,” he said. I'm responsible for the entire area's garbage collection, and he expects me to stand on the fender at the back of the truck! He insisted, you know, and if it weren't for the driver's intervention, we would have come to blows. A fine man that driver is, and he's fond of me too, he knows I'm conscientious and that I always look out for them so they don't work too hard. Anyhow, the driver stepped in and al-Kharroubi went back to his place, behind. I sit beside the driver and ask him to stop whenever there's a proper pile of garbage to collect, then the two at the back hop off and shovel it onto the truck. I don't always get down ... I used to before, but I'm tired now and I'm entitled to a rest. When the pile is really huge, then I get down and help: I take the shovel and let one of them rest while I work in his place.

“What are all these people doing here, sitting in front of their cars sipping coffee?” the driver asks, puffing on his cigarette in the front cabin.

Yes, thinks Zayn'Alloul, what
are
they doing there? People have become so . . . Oh, well . . . may the Lord preserve us from people!

As the truck rumbles on its way in the early morning haze, it passes a group of fishermen and fishmongers. Zayn asks the driver to stop and gets down to ask about the price of a kilo of fish.

“Forty lira,” the fishmonger replies, as he lifts up the large wooden crates and pushes the ice aside for Zayn to see.

Zayn doesn't buy any fish. How is he supposed to come up with forty lira just like that? So he walks away. He sees a child crouched next to a crate full of fish, selecting a piece and dipping it in a bucket of water.

“What's this?” he asks.

“Frozen fish.”

“Why the water?”

“So the fish defrosts and we can sell it as fresh.”

White, dead fish ... Zayn picks one up but it slips from his grasp and he hears al-Kharroubi yelling: “We've got to get a move on! We're late!”

Zayn is tempted but the feel of the fish makes his flesh creep, like that time when he kissed his dead father's hand before the burial. He gets back into the truck. It continues on its way. The driver says he thinks frozen fish is alright, it's cheap. The truck rumbles on, now it's almost at the last stop, at the UNESCO roundabout. There's always a big pile of garbage here, so they all get down and shovel, and after they are done, they head for Shuwayfat. Zayn sighs with relief: soon, he'll be home, having a glass of tea and a cigarette. He doesn't like to smoke on the job. A cigarette doesn't
taste the same when you're working. At home, with a glass of tea, then it's a cigarette.