Zone (6 page)

wissen Sie
, he says, if we got out in Tetschen, we could get on the freight train that left Brno this afternoon a little before five o’clock, it would leave us in Dresden around two in the morning and we could catch this very train which isn’t supposed to leave before 2:45, it’s incredible, don’t you agree—I agree, the man continues, his catalogue is actually a giant railroad timetable, there are
all
the trains here, do you understand,
all
, it’s a little complicated to use but when you get the hang of it it’s practical, it’s for railroad professionals, for instance we’ve just passed a train going in the other direction it’s 9:23 well I can tell you where it’s coming from and where it’s going, if it’s a passenger train or a freight train, with such a book you never get bored when you travel in a train, he says seeming very happy, how come he doesn’t know if the train is stopping in Tetschen, well it’s very simple, very simple, see, the stop is in parentheses, which means it’s optional, but the stop is indicated, so we have the
possibility
of stopping in Tetschen, we had another possibility for a stop a few minutes ago and you never realized a thing, you didn’t even notice that we
could
have stopped there,
wir hatten die Gelegenheit
, you see this book is wonderful, it allows you to know what we could have done, what we could do in a few minutes, in the next few hours, even more, the little Czech man’s eyes light up, all eventualities are contained in this schedule, they are all here—the train’s engineer has only to consult it, I’ll give you an example, I know you’re going to Paris and so you are going to change in Frankfurt to take the 8:00
A.M.
Intercity, in the meantime you’ll have eaten
Brötchen
and a sausage in the train station, then when you arrive you’ll certainly go to your home on 27, rue Eugène-Carrière in the 18
^th
arrondissement of Paris where you’ll arrive tired at 3:23 in the afternoon, you’ll set down your bags take a quick shower and two options will then occur to you, go to the office immediately or wait till the next morning, each possibility will have its advantages and its disadvantages, if you go to the Boulevard Mortier you won’t be home when someone rings your doorbell at 5:48
P.M.
, but if you stay, the intervention of this young person and the news she brings will make you forget one part of the information to be included in that secret file, that list of dead people you’ve been gathering for some time now by using more or less illegally the means that Foreign Security puts at your disposal, you see everything is written here, pages twenty-six, 109
et passim
, in either case, whether you’re there or not, the next connection will be on page 261 in the timetable, the Venice-Budapest express, where you’ll get drunk and sing “Three Drummer Boys,” then on page 263 you’ll get into a freight car headed for the Jasenovac extermination camp on the Sava river, then on page 338 into a Benghazi-Tripoli train, you see, the Tangier-Casablanca express is on page 361, all that will bring you to page 480 and the loss of a kid you won’t know, and so on, your whole life is there, many connections will bring you quietly, almost without your knowing it, to a final Pendolino train
diretto
Milano-Roma that will carry you to the end of the world, expected at the Termini station at 9:12
P.M.
, I listen attentively to the little man’s train litany, he is right, this catalogue is a magnificent tool, the train professionals are lucky, I think, the man puts the book down and takes out another sandwich, he eats it with great appetite as he looks me in the eye, all of a sudden I’m hungry—the Czech smiles at me, offers to share his meal with me, I have the sensation of imminent danger, deformed by the obsequious smile his face is suddenly horrible, he insists, holds out half of his sandwich to me and I understand that he wants to poison me, that this guy who looks like an accountant is dangerous, Death is a German-speaking Czech with a railroad timetable, the end of the line always comes by surprise I’m going to die I’m afraid, I’m afraid and I wake up with a start my heart is pounding absurd dream I must have given a violent jump maybe even shouted out loud for my neighbor is staring at me, the Czech accountant who looks like the madman in the Milan train station, I realize it now, horrible nightmare, bad omen, I could have had a nice little erotic dream with some unknown woman, but no, I had to have a dream of the railway grim reaper, in Prague I did in fact buy this little star carved from a block of crystal, it came from the Theresienstadt camp, Jewish children locked up in that ghetto had polished it for days, in one of the Nazi workshops, the antique dealer who sold it to me had a deceitful face, he said imagine the little hands of the poor kids who made it, I don’t know why but I believed him—night has definitely fallen now you can only make out a few lights in the distance, in one of the dreams in
Johnny Got His Gun
who is driving the train, it’s Christ I think portrayed by Donald Sutherland, who knows who is at the controls of this train, what demiurge is calmly driving me to Rome, according to the Great Timetable of the Parcae, I’d like to go have a drink at the bar, I’m thirsty, it’s too early, at this rate if I begin drinking now I’ll arrive in Rome dead drunk, my body is weighing me down I shift it on the seat I get up hesitate for an instant head for the toilet it’s good to move a little and even better to run warm non-potable water over your face, the john is like the train, modern, brushed grey steel and black plastic, elegant like some handheld weapon, more water on my face and now I’m perked up, I go back to my seat, seeing the
Pronto
cover I spare a thought for the young cocaine-addicted wolf who is vomiting blood in his clinic in Turin, may the gods be merciful to him—in his hospital the character in
Johnny Got His Gun
is caressed by the sun and a beautiful nurse, Johnny whom they don’t let die despite his prayers in Morse, Johnny the little soldier destroyed by a land mine dreams of the landscapes of the Midwest and of driver-Christs, the little Lebanese book winks at me on the tray-table, why not go there after all dive into it go out of myself for a bit enter the imagination of Rafael Kahla and his stories, for lack of Dalton Trumbo and
Johnny Got His Gun
, the slightly textured paper is pleasant to the touch, let’s see if the bookseller on the Place des Abbesses was mocking me or not:

IV

Intissar raised her right fist. She shouted, cried, angrily wiped away her tears and leaned on her rifle like a cane.

Defeat begins with the feet.

It insinuates itself first into the same boots that were supposed to lead to victory, the ones you’d gotten ready, for years, for the last parade. Defeat begins with the boots that you polished every morning, the ones that grew misshapen, covered with dust, the ones that kept the blood from your toes as well as they could, that crushed insects, protected you from snakes, withstood stones on the path. Physical at first, like a cramp that makes you limp, defeat is a weary surprise, you begin to stumble, in war you totter on fragile feet. Suddenly you feel what you’d never felt before, your feet can no longer run, they refuse to carry you into the attack—suddenly they’re paralyzed, frozen despite the heat, they no longer want to serve the body that owns them. And then the rifle, Intissar’s cold staff, no longer fires straight, instead it gets jammed, begins to rust in the soldier’s imagination; you hesitate to use it from fear of breaking it completely and finding yourself without any support in a world that is starting to sway dangerously because your feet, inside the shiny boots, are beginning to bemoan their weariness and their doubt.

Suddenly your comrades avoid looking at each other, their eyes no longer settle on anything, they sink to the ground, their heads lowered to their weird feet and the mute sensation of defeat that fills their entrails, from the bottom up, from the legs, and then you see many of them dying, sadly, for no reason, whereas they used to die handsome and sleek and gleaming in the sun: now you know, you feel that from here on everything is pointless, if your feet, your legs, your stomach, your rifle yield to the defeat that is seeping in everywhere and is suddenly replacing the rightness of your cause, the songs, the anthems, the sharing of food and caresses, you’ll never be able to cross the mountain, never reach the top of that hill; the wounded are unbearable mirrors and the dead become strangers about whom you wonder, day after day, defeat after defeat, what will become of them—they’re no longer heroes, brothers, just victims, conquered people that history will hide on its bad side in that earth pounded now by the heavy feet of deserters, the boots of abandonment and fear. Everything follows quickly after that: after walking slowly at the front you find yourself walking silently in town, under the betrayed stares of civilians who blame you for their desperate grief, those women in front of their empty houses, those men, who recently, too recently, used to cheer you on, now they all are getting ready to cheer the new conquerors as from the ground they watch the fierce shadows of planes, doing their funereal work and finishing the defeat.

Tonight, Marwan died, boots on his feet, near the airport. He must have smelled the scent of the sea as he died. The heat is unbearable. Apparently Arafat is negotiating. In Hamra, turbulence is at its height. No one understands a thing. The ones who were supposed to be fighting are no longer fighting. The Lebanese left is still defending West Beirut. Marwan is dead. If he had died the day before yesterday, or in May, Intissar would have collapsed. But today she has a ball and chain on her feet, conquered by heat, thirst, and the bombs. The city is suspended in air, no one knows on which side it will fall.

This morning in headquarters there was motionless turmoil. The planes have destroyed a whole group of buildings in Chiah.

It’s unfair and no one can do anything about it. The Russian clodhoppers are so heavy that Intissar feels as if she’s glued to the ground.

She plays at loading and unloading her rifle as she thinks about Marwan. The well-oiled mechanism is reassuring, it’s still working perfectly. A little after noon. At dawn Beirut smelled not of thyme but of burning trash. Yesterday too. She slept in a stairway. Abu Nasser woke her gently around six in the morning. He said: Marwan has fallen.

Now he’s the martyr Marwan. They’ll print posters with his photo and paste them onto the walls of the city. If there’s still a city left. If there’s still anything left to print posters with. If they still have time. If time still exists.

The sea is everywhere. Beirut is an island. Where could they go? Intissar has never left Beirut. She has never slept anywhere but in Beirut. No, that’s wrong, once she slept in Tripoli and, when she was little, a few days in the mountains. Beirut is her island.

Defeat is all the more obvious when no one wants to acknowledge it. Their possible exile is proclaimed as a victory. The Palestinians have gloriously resisted the Israeli army. The resistance continues. The glorious fight for the liberation of Palestine continues. In the stench spread by the bombardments, Intissar wonders whether Palestine really exists. Whether something besides the Palestinians themselves (a piece of land, a homeland) exists, Palestinians who scatter their dead throughout the Middle East like wheat. There are Palestinian graves all over the world, now. And Marwan lying dead somewhere. Intissar closes her eyes to keep back tears of impotent rage. Despite herself she sees again the most horrible corpse of the siege—in Khalde, a combatant crushed by a tank on the road, as easily as a rat or a bird. His faceless head was a flat puddle of reddened hair. The first-aid people from the Red Crescent had had to peel him off of the asphalt with a shovel. Around the body, a circular pool of viscera and blood, as if someone had stepped on a tomato. Palestinians cling to the land.

She goes on playing mechanically with the rifle. Marwan is dead. When she asked Abu Nasser how he had died, he didn’t know what to say. He said: I wasn’t there, Intissar. Abu Nasser has four sons. He was born in Jerusalem. He has a fine greying beard and lives in a big apartment in Raouche.

She’d like to know how he fell.
Ya Intissar, ya Intissar, istashhad Marwan
. That’s all she knows. She hears the bombings, it’s like everyday music, a drumbeat or heartbeat. The planes are tearing the sky apart. She wishes Marwan a fine death. Without pain, without anxiety, a sudden flight, a disappearance into the sea or into the sun. She sees again Marwan’s hands, Marwan’s smile, feels the absence of Marwan’s mouth, his chest.

She goes out to go to the main command post. Fighters are running, shouting, calling to each other, the battle is still raging, she discovers. At the southern entrance to the city. In the mountain. Everywhere. The Israelis are making statements on the radio, on television. In the South the Shiites welcomed them as liberators. Villages tired of supporting Palestinian fighters. Tired of being poor, bombed, and despised. Cowards. Traitors. Abu Nasser hesitates to send Intissar to the front. She insists. I want to know what happened to Marwan, she says. Did . . . Did they bring back his body? Abu Nasser doesn’t know. His voice catches in his throat. Everything’s going badly, my little one, everything’s going badly. Look for Habib Barghouti and the others, they were with him yesterday. Take care of yourself. I’ll come soon.