Elias Khoury - Little Mountain

Everything begins at eight o’clock in the morning. The employees come in quietly, greet one another. One of them opens up a newspaper, heads cluster, peer down or move away. Then the din starts. Scores of people brandishing medical forms. Kamel Abu Mahdi tries to control the lines. Keep the order, fellows, it’ll all get done in order. But no one respects the order. The rooms fill up with the smell of people coming in from everywhere. Kamel Abu Mahdi strives diligently to process the formalities quickly. He sits behind something akin to a glass window, his bald patch glistening with sweat, holding a smudged piece of kleenex which he passes over his head and face and uses to swat at the flies buzzing in the room. He puts the kleenex down, receives some medical document, records it in a big register in front of him. He’s very meticulous. Checks the doctors signature — no fraudulent form can escape the notice of Kamel Abu Mahdi. He’s come to know their tricks. They come here yelling, pushing, and shoving, and when they reach his glass window, their faces take on expressions of misery and affliction. They’re sick, or were sick. And to prove it, their faces lengthen and their eyes look down forlornly. On my honor, Mr. Kamel. But Mr. Kamel isn’t concerned with appearances; he checks everything for himself. That’s why the queue in front of his window is always slow. All the employees of the medical security department have lots of time to chat except this bald one. For he’s a man of principle, that’s what they say. But the bald one has his own opinion on the matter: he can’t, that’s what he tells his wife when he goes home in the evening, worn out. Of course, he doesn’t tell his wife that he has lots of time to chat — but that’s in the afternoons. This departments working hours are quite special; it’s the only government department that works in the afternoons. In the morning, the people and the smells; and in the afternoon — well, some people come, but the greater part of the time is spent gossiping and reading. Kamel Abu Mahdi doesn’t like gossiping. He doesn’t feel he fits in. Most of the employees are still university students, whereas he hates the university. When the employees talk about the university, he puts his bald head between his hands, his dirty fingernails showing, and stares down at the table. The same as when Wafa pesters him; she’s the pretty employee with whom Kamel tried to carry out his decision to be unfaithful to his wife, and who turned him down in an incredible way: she agreed. She said let’s meet in one of the cafàs on Hamra Street. Kamel went there, after having despaired of convincing his wife he had to visit the boss on a Sunday afternoon. He waited for three hours in the cafe, streaming with sweat for fear someone he knew should see him. Then, all of sudden, Hani appeared with the rest of the employees, all laughing. From then on, Kamel decided that being unfaithful was an even more complicated matter than the university. He looks up at Wafa talking to him with a lot of self-assurance. You’re mistaken, Kamel. You should finish your geography degree. Education is better than this dump. He looks at her, not knowing what to answer. As for her, she withholds the smile which she distributes so liberally to the rest of the employees.

We were sitting around the glasses of ’araq and Kamel was drinking with us.

— Why don’t you always drink with us Mr. Kamel?

— Boy, I don’t know how you manage. You know the reason why, everyone knows. It’s marriage. A wife and kids, and you expect me to succeed. Studying is over as far as I’m concerned. I must organize myself on the basis that I’m a functionary. The truth, do you want the truth? He gulps down the glass in one go. I got married because I didn’t succeed. Marriage was the only way out. I don’t know how it happened. Of course, I loved her in the modern way.

— But why shouldn’t we get drunk together?

This Hani, he asks a lot of questions. He wants to know my life history. Look, brother, I don’t like staying up late, I like to spend time with the family. Of course, I curse the TV shows, the way everyone does. But once it starts, I don’t budge from my chair. I on one side and my wife on the other. She makes a running commentary, especially during the Arabic feature. She likes Abdel-Halim Hafez. *I’m easy.

All the employees have lunch at the restaurant opposite the office except Mr. Kamel. He runs out at one o’clock, looks fearfully — right, left — before crossing the street, reaches the bus and climbs on. He prefers to sit. If there’s an empty seat, he looks for another one next to a woman. If he fails to find one, he contents himself with an ordinary seat. But if he does find one, he spends the entire journey clearing his throat, looking at his watch, doubting its exactitude, before finally making his move. That doesn’t usually happen until he’s a few minutes from home. He asks the lady what the time is and she usually turns away and doesn’t answer. But he’s content with the fragrance of her perfume wafting over to him. Then he goes back to the office at three o’clock, running, the way he left.

Everything used to go smoothly. Even surprises occurred in an orderly fashion before this war. My dreams were comprehensible. As for now; everything’s changed, and even football images have faded from my mind. Of course, I like football, everyone likes football. Who can forget Mardeek? Mardeek, who kept the ball between his feet, playing around with it while the other players just looked on because they couldn’t do anything else. Mardeek fired up, Mardeek firing people up. We didn’t forget Mardeek until TV came along. Then, everyone discovered that Mardeek was just an ordinary player. And I’m the only one left on this planet who’s still faithful to Mardeek. My wife brought me my morning cup of coffee. She woke me as usual. I got up as usual. And, as usual, I sat at the table and ate, then drank my coffee.

What’s this paunch, my wife said. Now, Kamel, you really should …

I didn’t let her go on. I was elsewhere. Of course, I didn’t tell her why I’d gotten up. I didn’t tell her that the football pitch was green, like the American University field. Green grass up to your knees and drizzle blowing on our faces, Mardeek and I. We were face to face. He was wearing the green jersey and I the white, surrounded by players, water flying about our heads and between our feet. Mardeek took the ball between his feet and played around with it. I was running, with Mardeek, the king, in his place, the ball between his feet; it circled and he circled with it, with me running around it. My panting was audible while he just stood there, as if he wasn’t playing. Then I dropped to the ground with exhaustion. The players came, the referee blew his whistle, they gave me a lemon, I bit into it; laid out on the green grass with the players all around me, Mardeek not budging from his place and the ball looming larger and larger until it became as large as a car. I stood up. We resumed the confrontation. I shouted, the applause welled up. My wife was beside me, holding a glass of milk. Then, it poured down rain.

No one in the medical security department knew anything about Kamel Abu Mahdi. No one visited him except Hani. Thus Hani was the only source of information. Everyone complained about this man’s avarice and the roundness of his paunch. Doesn’t drink coffee, doesn’t smoke, rarely gets drunk. Low-down and mean. And Hani smiled. Of course, he’s mean. But he works hard. He laughed and we laughed.

Kamel Abu Mahdi comes in smiling and sits behind the glass. He smiles at everyone and doesn’t check the papers meticulously. He laughs, winks at Wafa. Nobody understands. Even Hani didn’t know why when the employees asked him. At one o’clock, after the smell of people disperses, Kamel doesn’t run for the bus. He dawdles. I’m going home. He stands up. Then goes toward his only friend. They link arms and go out together. Everybody waits. It was white and second-hand and it resembled a beetle. Volkswagen was its name. But it was a car. My wife’s opinion is quite definite. She gazes at it from the balcony on the fourth floor: look, it’s long, not the way you described it. It really is elongated, from the fourth floor. But it looks like a box, they all said. I know they envy me. And I envy my wife. She’s completely rejuvenated. She looks like the young girls now. But I don’t know where she got it from. How she collected the cash left over from my miserable salary, negotiated with the seller and bought it, how she persuaded me that the debts don’t matter. I’ve forgiven her everything. The cups of coffee I haven’t had, the restaurants I haven’t been to, the friends I haven’t made, everything. I’ve become a real man. Beirut is like a whore, you can’t deal with a whore unless your pockets are full. And you can’t roam around Beirut unless you’re riding. Otherwise, they ride you roughshod, demean you. I’m a responsible man, and I own a car. That’s why I must deal with the car responsibly.