He came over to our apartment one day and asked to see me alone. After my wife left us in the living room, he got up and closed the door.
“It's about Nadia,” he said.
“What about her?”
“You and her-I know everything!”
What was this man talking about? His face had gone crimson, and he had this glazed look in his eyes.
“Nadia and you,” he repeated. “I know about it . . . But you're a friend, how could you?”
I tried to explain, but it didn't do any good. “Honestly, Musa, there's nothing like that going on. Your wife is a respectable woman - she's like a sister to me. I don't know how you got that idea into your head - it must be all the stress . . .”
“It's true I'm very tired,” he answered. “I'm at a loss, at a complete loss what to think . . . but you're a friend . . .”
Then he asked how the work was progressing at the house, questioning
Nadia's frequent presence there, our long conversations, and our visits to furniture galleries and cafés together. I told him that when she went to the Italian furniture dealer - because she liked to pick things out for herself - she requested, indeed demanded, that I accompany her. I assured him that he was my friend, and that nothing had happened, I swore, nothing.
I'm not sure why he believed me so quickly, but it must have been because it was the truth - the truth is quick to convince, apparently. “You're a real friend,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. I offered him a drink and he asked for a whiskey. I got up and opened the living-room door, and my wife brought us two tumblers of whiskey on ice. We drank under her questioning gaze, and as soon as he'd downed his drink, he got to his feet and announced he was leaving. I tried to keep him but he insisted on going. After shutting the front door, my wife asked why he had come.
“Nothing in particular . . . He just wanted to find out about the new house.”
“You're lying! I heard Nadia's name being mentioned, what did he say about her?”
“Nothing.” And I picked up the paper and pretended to start reading.
“I heard everything! About you and Nadia,” she said, bursting out laughing. Sitting down beside me, she added, “Poor guy! I know what's going on, Nadia tells me everything!”
No, it wasn't Nadia that caused the tension in our relationship, nor the car accident.
“I know everything, Nadia tells me everything,” she repeated. “She's told me that her husband can't ... he can't . . . do it! You know what I mean . . . I mean . . . get it up . . . !”
Nadia had apparently been over one morning and, in a flood of tears, told my wife that Musa was impotent. “It's been like this from the night of our wedding,” she had said. “He married me even though he knew he couldn't do it and was taking all sorts of medicines and potions. He said he couldn't help himself, he was haunted by the idea that I was going to cheat on him with every man I saw! Imagine that, me only twenty years old, still studying for my Baccalaureate, with my newlywed husband sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to me, puffing angrily on a cigarette, what was I supposed to do? I put on my nightgown and went to sleep-I was tired and went out like a light. In the morning, he told me he hadn't slept all night, and that
tonight
he would do it. But he never did . . . I spent the day in tears . . . and now he wants me to stop going to the worksite, telling me it's a woman's duty to stay home! All I feel like doing is crying, but I can't leave him: I was already divorced once and went back to school ... It's all my parents' fault, they married me off to the first one when I was only sixteen and if I divorce the second one now, people will say I'm a whore . . . No, I won't leave him, I can't, but I want what everyone else wants, just like you.”
I told my wife that I didn't understand how Musa, broad as he was tall, and in good health, couldn't do it. And that's when all the trouble started.
My wife and I never had any disagreements until the car accident. It was horrible: that car accident frightened me more than all of the insane shelling that brings down entire buildings. I was driving home from work one day, not far from the UNESCO roundabout. It was dark and the rain was really coming down. Just as I put on my windshield wipers, a car appeared out of nowhere, cut in front of me and came to a screeching stop. Several gunmen-I don't remember how many exactly - spilled out, pistols and
machine guns drawn. I don't remember what they looked like, but I do recall one of them had a gold tooth that glinted in the dark. He came over and banged on my window with a pistol aimed at my face, so I rolled the window down.
“Switch off your lights,” he barked. I did as he said. “Get out, get out of the car!”
I was gripping the steering wheel hard, and even though I didn't really want to stay in the car I found myself clinging on, unable to release my grip. Their guns still pointed, one of the gunmen hopped into the front seat, and another one climbed in the back. The barrel of the gun they held against my neck was practically boring through my skin.
“Follow the car in front of you!”
As I switched on the engine and started the car, the gunman in the back seat hit me across the head with his pistol. “Faster,” he screamed. “If you try to escape we'll kill you. Not a word out of you. Come on, faster than that!”
I stepped on the accelerator and, as the car picked up speed, they spat out directions, and I tried to follow the speeding car in front of me. It came to a sudden stop and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. As soon as we stopped they fell on me, kicking and punching.
“Your money . . . everything you've got!” I gave them everything I had: one thousand lira in cash and a check for another fifteen hundred. “More. Come on now!” And they took my watch, my wedding band, my papers - my ID card, passport, and address book - as well as the car keys.
I stood there, with the roar of the sea and the rain all around ... and nothing, just me, the roiling sea, and the raining sky . . . and them . . .
When I tried glancing over toward the sea, one of the gunmen - the one with the gold tooth, I think - grabbed me by the collar, practically strangling me.
“We're letting you go,” he said, “but only because you're a coward and an idiot. You be very, very careful, now . . .”
I told him I hadn't done anything and that the car was new, I hadn't even finishing paying for it.
“Very careful, you hear,” he said. “Not a word ... Next time, we'll kill you!”
“Please, the car . . .”
The gunman got in, turned the ignition, and the two cars sped off. I ran shouting behind them, while they were probably looking out the back window and laughing.
Nothing but rain and that surging, black sea. I leaned against the railing of the Ouza'ï Corniche and let the water soak my hair and disheveled clothes. I felt sorry for myself at the thought of walking all the way to Mar Elias through the rain, and I was on the verge of tears. There wasn't a taxi for miles around.
I don't know where I found the strength to do it, but I walked all the way home. And as I did so, I could hear the surging of the sea, and I felt myself surge and fall in unison with it, floating in the air one instant and plunging into the depths the next. Then I began to run, crying and laughing at once, like someone in a dream. When I reached the intersection, I took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a building and started thinking about my daughter.
“Your Aida's a real problem,” her teacher, Madame Helen, had said. “She's seven and still wets herself in class.”
The teacher had pursed her lips tight, fixing her lipstick, and claimed the problem had started when Aida refused to sit at her desk, preferring to crouch underneath and bark, like a dog. I had noticed that she'd taken to sitting under tables pretending to be a dog at home, but I hadn't given the matter much thought.
The problem was serious, Madame Helen said, and it was no longer possible to take such a thing lightly, because the habit had begun spreading to the other students. One of the nuns had instructed her to call me to discuss the problem, she said. I told the teacher that I would take care of it ... but really, what could I do? When I broached the subject with my wife, her reply was, “It's completely normal, the child is frightened.” And she said I was to blame; she claimed that it was my way of racing down to the shelter under the building whenever the shelling started that was causing the child's anxiety.
So what was I supposed to do? Still walking in the rain, I thought maybe I should go and see our doctor, and I resolved to call him the following day. And ever since, Sitt Inaam - my wife - hasn't been the same.
First of all, she phoned all her friends and told them what had happened. Then she said I should report the incident to Comrade Ayyash: “He's a friend of ours and one of the city's prominent leaders.”
So I called him, and he came over to hear my story. He listened attentively, drank three cups of coffee, and promised my car would be returned. He took notes as I talked and was particularly interested in the men's appearance. I told him that all I recalled was the gold tooth on one of them. He noted that and drew a circle around the words. Then he put his notes
down on the coffee table, next to his American-brand pistol, lit a cigarette, made a phone call, and issued some vague promises. And that was it!
Then he rose to take his leave, tucking away the pistol; I saw him out to the elevator. When I came back into the living room, I found the sheet of paper with his notes detailing the particulars of my Renault - license plate number, color, and so on - and the location of the incident. I tore it up and didn't tell my wife.
Really, that is how all our problems started. I don't know what got into her, but she was transformed overnight, it was as if she had become a completely different woman: she took to praying and fasting and reading religious books; then she started hiding away any alcohol that was in the house, burning incense, and doing other such nonsensical things.
And because I drank - yes, I admit, I drink, and I can't stop . . . How else are we supposed to put up with all this horror, how does the stupid woman expect me to sleep with her if I don't have a couple of glasses of araq beforehand - she left the house and went to her parents. But her father just made fun of her, and he was the one who brought her right back. Since my wife still had her keys on her, they just walked in, the two of them, with him leading her by the hand.
“It looks as if your wife has seen the light,” he said as she slipped off to the kitchen, leaving us alone in the living room. The old man looked at me long and hard, and then gave me a pat on the head.
“You're like a son to me, Ali, you know that. I told her that all men drink - how could we not? God created evil and man drinks so we can learn to distinguish between right and wrong!” But then he asked me not to drink
at home. He told me how all his life he had drunk alcohol but never let it into the house.
“It's not proper, my son. Evil must not be brought into the home. When a man comes home, he cleanses himself of evil and treats his wife the best way possible.”
So after that I began drinking outside the house, but everything changed. She used to be like a real partner, we discussed everything together. Not anymore. And now, she'll turn her back to me and say no - she flat out refuses me, and the loneliness is practically killing me . . . not even my wife understands me anymore.
Now I really can feel for my friend Musa, even though our problems aren't the same. My situation is completely different from his, but I understand his feelings a little better. Anyhow, that evening I was . . . well ... you know, I don't frequent such places, but he does . . . I was leaving my office on Makdissi, the street parallel to Hamra; it was about seven o'clock in the evening, and I was thinking about getting my araq at Baron's after a hard day's work, when I saw him in front of the Beirut-Life bar; he was teetering about next to a slim, blonde bar girl, and was clearly drunk. I didn't meet his glance, I couldn't, I just went on my way. But then I heard a voice calling from behind, “Ali! Ali!” and when I turned around, he waved at me. I gestured to him that I was on my way home, but he was indignant: “What's this? You see me and don't even say hello?”
The street was bustling with people, the scandal there for everyone to see. So, I crossed the street and we shook hands - the girl didn't even turn around, she was completely indifferent.
“What do you say to a drink?”
I told him I was feeling tired but maybe some other time.
“Come on, have a drink with me!”
And he pushed the two of us, the bar girl and me, inside the bar. We sat at a table in the corner and after ordering a bottle of whiskey, he turned toward me.
“All the girls here are at your disposal,” he said. “Take your pick!”
“No, Musa, that's out of the question. I don't go in for this kind of stuff.”
“Just one, my good fellow . . . Think of it as an appetizer!”
He gestured towards a mini-skirted blonde casting us sideways glances.
“No, not that one . . .”
“Alright, the brunette then ... You like brunettes!”
The idea grew on me: a whiskey and an appetizer! Why not? So I agreed. He got up and brought her over to our table. She sat down next to me and I poured her a whiskey while he dived into some amorous banter with the blonde. He gesticulated and laughed raucously, but the girl was clearly impatient, and her eyes kept flitting toward us. My brunette was gulping her drink fast.
“Careful, that's not tea you're drinking!”
“No, it's whiskey.”