On the way back Si l-Habib seemed grave. I waited until two men who were hurrying toward us had passed and we were free to talk. Then I cried in earnest, “I heard everything.”
I stared into his eyes and saw no effect. He answered coldly, “Those weren’t secrets.”
“You know, for some time I’ve started to feel as if I don’t know the ABCs of politics. If I were to start over I would choose another path.”
The pressure of dazzling light which wounded the eyes had begun to lessen, but it kindled the heat of the alcohol. What amazed me was the woman’s clinging to the memory of her husband and her repetition of the word “hero,” with the pride familiar to those who are wronged and who deify their dead. But Si l-Habib, who in the great uprising had lost his companion, famous for his skill in propaganda, insisted that the word “hero” was a dwarf-like description for a giant of unplumbed depths. For some reason this hero appeared before me as a statue of cast iron, his flaming eyes radiating fire.
chapter 5
Because of the fear that was always with me during my multiple meetings with Si l-Habib, I stayed within limits and did not exhaust him with anything that might tire his weak heart. Thus, when we met Si l-Sabir and al-Miludi after this tiring interview, I considered it a rock cast by chance to stem the rushing tide of debilitating memories. Events had failed to sever his life, but the memories would not fail to sever his heartbeat.
The two drove up in al-Miludi’s big taxi with the black meter, which he drove only outside the city. They greeted me with, “How are you, Si l-Lubnani?” and prevailed on us to get in, and despite the objections of Si l-Habib we drove through the enchanting city on the afternoon of an amazing day. I shared laughter and exuberance with Si Sabir, but I began to think fearfully—as I had at various periods during the day, ever since I had left al-Jaza’iri’s relative lying in my bedroom—of what surprises awaited me on my return. I believed that delay, however long it might be, was perhaps the best course. But after a little while I realized that it was as if we had fallen into a spider web.
It was not pure chance that had led us to meet al-Miludi and Si Sabir now, nor had it been chance a month previously. At that time we had been coming out of a bar on the afternoon of a gray day. The clouds floating above had seemed like a canopy for our drunkenness, which was at its height and which we would do anything to maintain.
We had stumbled upon a lovely tradition in a bar run by a pretty Frenchwoman, not yet thirty, under the watchful eyes of her husband, who always had a wan smile fixed on his plump features. This was our third or fourth visit to the peaceful bar, with its quiet western music and dim lights, and the pretty young Frenchwoman served us some warm mussels with an outstanding flavor, refusing to let us pay. It was the free day of the week for regular customers, although Si Sabir, who insisted on treating others in a civilized way, whispered to me that we should not exploit the situation.
We were in an excellent state created by his sympathetic frame of mind that would never allow him to spoil a day like this by drinking too much. As we left we showered the owners with expressions of gratitude, and Si Sabir assured me that this tradition was a custom of modern business in developed countries. This small custom gave me a welcome feeling of my own importance as a resident of the city, not differing in any way from the people who lived there.
Just at that moment, at the height of that exquisite moment of sweetness and security, Si l-Miludi had pounced on Si Sabir, overflowing with welcome and genuine expressions of praise which we could not doubt were sincere, especially coming from the tired mouth of a middle-aged man. His work as a taxi driver gave him a knowledge of every inch of the environs of city and their hidden places, and he had learned where to track us down. every tree had a thousand eyes in its branches, and he knew where he would find us. A teacher was watched by everyone, out of either good or bad intentions. He called me “the Lebanese” and recalled Zahle, mezze, tabbouleh, hamam and all the other words which had sunk into his memory since the Second World War, when he had been taken to the east as an enlisted man in the French army. In a few hours of merriment he must have encountered some small moments of joy that remained in his memory until now, coupled with the famous enchantment of the Lebanese mountains.
In no way could I convince him that I came from far beyond Lebanon. That was because he grouped together Algerians, Moroccans, and Tunisians, all of whom ate couscous, wore the burnous, and drank green tea with mint. He could not imagine another group.
He was over fifty, and his only son was going to take the elementary baccalaureate examination in two days at our school. I did not believe that I, as the supervisor of a group of proctors and graders, was able to help any student in any fashion whatsoever; but I promised him verbally, on the initiative of Si Sabir, that I’d try. I still don’t know how he managed that.
I succumbed under the influence of disgusting egotism, in order not to spoil the passing moment of happiness, not knowing how I would keep the promise when the time came. It happened that Si Sabir reminded me of it on the morning of the exam, to my great distress. Concerned, I had met the little boy; he had intelligent eyes and a shaven head, which gave his face a terrified, persecuted look. I reassured him and patted his head, ignoring the prickliness of his hair like a porcupine’s; he smiled innocently, making me think that for the first time he felt an enviable distinction. According to my information the boy did not need any external help of the sort that I was anyway incapable of providing. But his father didn’t properly appreciate the good score he got, doubting the abilities and capacity of a little boy who cried when he was denied a sweet and whom his mother helped to dress. He was saying now, “If it weren’t for you—don’t defend him—if it weren’t for you, that boy no higher than a hand span could not have succeeded.”
His language made us roar with laughter, and Si l-Habib responded willingly and began to joke. That cheered me, so I asked him now, as he drove us toward the entrance of Wadi l-Nufaifekh, if he had ever seen a more beautiful view. His eyes wandered and he mumbled a single word: Ifran. Here we saw two mountains bearded by great forests above a sweet little river so hidden by tree branches that no trace of the water was visible from the road. Our black car must have looked like a little crawling insect as we descended the valley, plunging into an ocean of green, replete with cool, heavy air, where only the twittering of the birds and murmur of the waters could be heard.
Si Sabir wished for a drink as we were walking along, the dry tree leaves crackling underfoot. Si l-Miludi showed he was ready, because the trunk of his car was filled with every sort of drink one could wish for. But that put Si l-Habib in an awkward position, as it had gotten late and the sun was about to set; so I refused for us all, and we turned back.
I thought our driver had forgotten the matter of the exam, but he returned to it. I could not remain silent before such great praise for something I had not done, so I tried to evade it; but I sensed after a while that my attempts were being interpreted only as great modesty dictated by “elevated manners and taste which I had inherited from my original environment, since I was a pure Lebanese,” so I gave up and let the matter pass.
The sun began to plunge into a horizon awash in color. We returned by way of the road that bordered the sea, where the high tide was crashing on the shore, breaking into showers of shining white foam in the light of the velvety dusk. I would have liked to sit on one of the rocks and let the pounding waves get me wet, as I had dreamed of doing since I saw the beach for the first time.
When night fell, since it was impossible for Si l-Habib to abandon his chosen principle of abstaining from alcohol, we dropped him at his apartment. We ended up in the hotel La Caravelle, where our host had reserved a room for us with the manager, Si Ibrahim, a man of medium height, compactly built, with a dark countenance and pale eyes. The room had a large bed, four chairs, a table, and a low window; when we opened it we found we were overlooking a tree-lined side street. Al-Miludi brought us a full “case,” as he said, filled with “good beer, gin, whiskey, champagne, aged wine, etc.” He began to set out the bottles in rows on the table before us, explaining how he had given up alcohol and returned to the fold of godliness and piety long before; thus he excused himself from joining