White Masks (34 page)

“And what authorities would those be?” he replied. “We
are
the authorities,
we
're in charge,” he said. He explained he was under some sort of protection and that I was to be discreet.

And then the problems started . . . bad, bad problems ... I got this anonymous phone call at the paper. The guy said he was Najma's brother. I played dumb, pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. Then he came to see me in person. He was this fortyish-something man, with deep-set eyes, telling me he knew everything and that Najma was his sister and I had to marry her.

That was ridiculous! How could Najma be his sister? Since Najma wasn't Najma at all, it was just my name for her-I didn't even know the girl's name. Najma didn't exist as Najma, and it was obvious that I had been the object of some sort of extortion racket - right from the get-go. I was about to tell him that he was lying, that Najma wasn't Najma, but then I saw the gun bulging under his jacket, and I held my tongue. He said he'd give me five days, or else . . .

“Or else you know what'll happen, don't you?” he added before leaving the room.

Then he started to call. He's been phoning every day, both at home and at the office, “to remind me,” he says. And the five days are up tomorrow, and I don't know what to do. I can't marry her! That's out of the question! Whom would I go to and ask for her hand anyway? To Nazeeh al-Tabesh? . . . And start pimping for him, maybe? No, sir, I will not marry her. Let them kill me! This time tomorrow I'll be dead. Tomorrow, they will kill me!

When I went to see Nazeeh al-Tabesh, he acted as if he didn't know me, the bastard! He's the one who got me into this mess! Can you imagine, pretending he didn't know me or the girl. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said! And all that time, he was pocketing the money! He'd be waiting at my door for his 400 lira, like a panting dog ... And now he knows nothing! I'm telling you, I won't give in, I will not marry her. What can they be thinking of, me marrying a prostitute? I wouldn't marry anyone - the very idea of marriage is abhorrent - and I certainly won't marry a professional whore! Let them kill me! I'd rather die than marry her!

 

I could see that Dr. Abu Suleyman was very distraught. I told him I thought the problem was simple. “All you have to do is pay up: that's what extortion is about. They just want your money.”

“What do you mean just pay? Suppose I offer her ‘brother' money and he then considers it an insult to the family honor and kills me!”

“Let's go and see Nazeeh,” I suggested.

“If he knows ‘nothing about this,' how am I supposed to give
him
the money?”

I told my friend I'd go with him. The truth is I wanted to go, partly for his sake, but also partly because I found all this talk about young, nubile girls titillating. I thought it was pretty hot stuff, especially if the girls were virgins. So we went together.

Nazeeh al-Tabesh greeted us courteously and asked what he could do for us, acting for all the world as if he really had never seen my friend, Dr. Abu Suleyman. We took Nazeeh to one side, I did all the talking.

“It's about Najma, Mr. Nazeeh,” I said.

“I'm sorry, Sir, but I don't know what you're talking about.”

For a minute, I believed him. Perhaps he didn't know, perhaps this friend of mine Dr. Ajjaj Abu Suleyman was playing games with me. Maybe he was making the whole thing up, like he did with his teeth fantasy, and his work as a journalist, and his . . . But I quickly dismissed the idea ... it's not possible, I thought.

“I know that it's nothing to do with you, but we'd like you to act as a go-between, a go-between who will help bring about a positive outcome,” I said.

“Go on.”

“We'll pay.”

“It's nothing to do with me.”

“One thousand,” I told him.

“See you around, sonny. We're busy here.”

“Three thousand. What do you say?”

“Three thousand isn't worth discussing. Sorry, but the brother won't be impressed.”

“Four thousand then.”

“. . .”

“Alright, five thousand . . .”

“A little bit more than that,” he urged.

“Five is all we can manage. It's five thousand or . . . or, do as you please!”

“We don't stop at murder.”

“And we don't have any more than that.”

“Alright then, it's a deal. Let's have it.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Uh-uh. Now.”

“Tomorrow. We'll be here, with the money, early in the morning. OK?”

“OK.”

Dr. Abu Suleyman asked, “I have your word?”

“Absolutely. My word of honor, Doctor.”

“That means the phone calls will stop.”

“That's right. The whole thing will be over, and with 5,000 lira we'll make sure the girl has a decent future.”

As we left the café, Dr. Abu Suleyman grumbled that he didn't have that kind of money. I urged him to get hold of the necessary sum by the next morning.

“And what if I don't?”

“You're a dead man. Don't you understand, we're at their mercy! They run the show round here. Pay up and you're safe.”

The doctor was of course able to get the money together somehow, the threats stopped, and Najma disappeared from his life exactly as she had appeared.

Still, what I find difficult to understand in all this is how these people manage to set up such specialized prostitution rings. Maybe it's because there are so many refugees, and a general breakdown in family relations - actually, that's not true, because family ties have, if anything, strengthened during the war. So how are they doing it?

My friend Dr. Ajjaj Abu Suleyman could no longer bear to even hear about the subject. One day, he announced that he was planning to go overseas.

“I'm going to Mexico,” he said. “I've got relatives there, and I'll start a dental practice.”

“What about your writing?” I asked him.

“What writing, man? I haven't got what it takes to write! Would I be able to write about my episode with Najma? Of course not! So why write if I can't write about my own life? Writing doesn't make any sense otherwise.”

I told him I thought he should get married and stay in Beirut.

“Expatriation is hard. We're used to Beirut in wartime ... Once you've gotten used to Beirut you can't live in another city. It's hard to imagine cities without war - because you know that all their civilities and niceties would fly right out of the window at the drop of the first bomb.”

Still, the real problem is not Dr. Ajjaj Abu Suleyman - by the way, he never did leave; he stayed on in the archives department, he never became a writer either, and it looks like he's planning to get married.

No, I think the problem - the real problem - is exemplified by Imm Mohammad. She's the sort of woman you can't set eyes on without cursing your very existence! Honestly, death seems preferable to that woman's life! A widow with ten children: the eldest, only eleven, and she the sole bread-winner.
She's always on the move, working as a maid, a cook, a laundress, and all the while her children are constantly hungry.

“The problem, Sir,” she tells me, “is us, not the refugees. They'll all go home as soon as the war is over. But us, where will we go? . . . It's my fault, I wouldn't let him do what he wanted, and that's why he died. I killed him. Like everyone else, he could no longer go to work because of the fighting. But he wasn't an employee either, so there was no salary coming in at the end of every month. He was a longshoreman down at the port, and they're dailies, they don't get a monthly wage. And with the port becoming a war zone, who would dare go down there and work?”

 

He wanted to do what everyone was doing: we'd see people going down there - we saw them with our very own eyes - loading up TVs and fridges, selling them and making a living. Not him though ... It was all my fault, I tell you . . . I was afraid, and he listened to me. May you rest in peace, dear Abu Mohammad why, oh why, did you listen to me?

Whenever the shelling started, I wouldn't let him leave the house - no way! So he stayed home. And whenever it was quiet, he'd work as a day laborer on one of the few remaining construction sites close by. And I helped out . . . I cleaned people's houses, and we managed. We barely had enough to eat, but
hamdulillah,
we were able to have another four children, praise the Lord!

He was a man though, and like all men, he wanted to go with the others . . . He tried to convince me, but I wouldn't be convinced. “No, it's ill-begotten wealth,” I told him. And he agreed with me. Dear man, he always agreed with me! May the good Lord rest his soul!

Then everything calmed down. People said the war was over, the “Deterrent” intervened, the shelling stopped, the streets were crowded once again, there were tanks and soldiers everywhere, it was over. I told him it was time to go back to the port. “You should go back to work now,” I said.

He said that he didn't like his job anymore ... that it wasn't for a man of his age. I told him that was ridiculous, it was the only job he knew and surely he wasn't going to learn a new trade now.

“Or are you going to stay home, then, and let me do all the earning?” I asked him.

So, because I insisted, he went back to the port.

I felt sure it was safe and I looked forward to working a little less and spending more time with the children. And so he went back to being a longshoreman. Gradually he regained his strength . . . he was like a young man all over again! I thanked the good Lord he was happy with his job! And everything went back to the way it was.

Not a month went by, I swear, maybe less than a month, and he was dead. He wasn't hit by a bullet or a shell, no one abducted him, so that we could say he died in the Lord's service, no, he just dropped dead. How could he . . . and me with all these children! I can hardly manage, I swear to God, I simply can't manage any longer . . . I'm exhausted, weary to the bone and worn to a thread, look at my hands ... And the shame! . . . And no help from anywhere . . .

God will provide . . . He's dead, they said. Just like that, dead. He was helping to unload a fridge, they told me, you know one of those enormous refrigerators . . . he was bent forward, with his back braced against the truck, his arms extended behind him to steady the load. And he slipped, or the
fridge slipped, honestly, I don't know, anyway, something slipped, and the fridge fell on top of him, and he was crushed to death. It landed on him with an almighty thud, they said. They all heard it.

He went without a peep, they said, and when they brought him home he was dead as the dead. What was I supposed to do? Yes, of course, I wept, but I had to carry on working. I've a family to keep. People said I should go and have him registered as a martyr, a war hero, you know. They said go to one of those militia offices and register his name, and get the stipend. Nothing to it, they said.

So I went. But the men at the militia office wouldn't do it. They said he wasn't a martyr because he wasn't a combatant.

“Consider him one!” I told them. “Did he not die in the line of duty, that we might live, that the port may prosper, that this country may be glorious, that the devil knows what . . . for crying out loud, consider him something, anything!”

But they wouldn't, and we got nothing, not a piaster.

Then they told me to go and see Nazeeh al-Tabesh, the owner of that café on the street corner. People said that with his “connections in high places” he would be able to “obtain something” for me. So I went to see him.

He was very polite, he gave me 1 ,000 lira and told me to come back in a week and that he'd have “something arranged.” Well, of course, the 1,000 lira just evaporated - it was as if I'd never had it. You know what it's like, Sir, with all the expenses when someone dies . . . the funeral, and then food and coffee and cigarettes for everybody.

When I went back to the coffee shop a week later, Mr. Nazeeh wasn't
there. They said he'd be back soon. I had just made it home when he arrived. He greeted me and sat down. Then he started explaining how difficult everything was.

“Things are difficult, my dear, and the monthly stipend is an extremely complicated matter. But listen, sister, yes, you're like a sister to me, and I would like to be able to help you . . . you're still young, and you're pretty, you know that . . . and making a living could be the simplest of matters. If you did just three hours a day, you'd get one hundred lira, that's more than a doctor makes in a day. What do you think?”

I didn't understand what he meant. So I asked him to tell me more.

“There, take this 500 now, get yourself some new clothes, fix yourself up a bit-a little powder, some rouge, a touch of kohl, you know what I mean.”

“What for, Mr. Nazeeh, Sir?”

“They're the tools of the trade, my dear. If you get yourself ready, you can get started in a couple of days. I'll go with you to the client's house, he'll hand the money to me and I'll give you your share - you are not to take direct payment.”

Now I understood! Shame! Shame on him for even thinking that I could do such a thing!

I threw him out, and tossed the 500 lira in his face! Imagine, suggesting that I should do such a disgusting thing! The nerve! Doesn't he fear the good Lord? Does the Day of Judgement mean nothing to him?

He was armed, but arms don't make a man. Honor, and honor only, makes a man and that Tabesh fellow has no honor! And he threatened me. “Where's that thousand lira, then?” he said.