Elias Khoury - Little Mountain

Kamel Abu Mahdi was sitting by himself on a wicker chair on the balcony of the fourth floor. He jumped when he heard the voice. He grabbed the empty ’araq bottles and ran. The lift was out of order, so he took to the stairs four by four. Then fell. The bottles shattered into shards and blood started trickling down his hand. Kamel Abu Mahdi went back, washed and bandaged his hands, then sat down again on the balcony. The old man had aged, he was more stooped and the cart in front of him was practically a wreck. The voice was faint: scrap metal for sale, glass bottles for sale. Next to him was a small boy all proud of himself. Holding the bottles up, knocking them against each other musically. People buying and selling. 3

It was pouring rain. I came home from work exhausted and stopped the car on the street below the balcony. But I didn’t find a place. I tried to park the car in its usual place and finally succeeded. I went up to the house, I was hungry. The four children were leaping about the house, screeching. I washed my face, told my wife I was hungry. But eating has its own rites. The children must go to bed first. I sat and waited for the children in the living-room. The radio was making ugly noises. I think I fell asleep. Then when I opened my eyes, Ahmed Ayyash and Hani and Zuheir were standing there, towering above me. I was hungry. My wife told me there was rice and fasoolia. * Ahmed Ayyash sucked in his breath as if you were inviting him to make love to a woman. But fasoolia doesn’t mean a thing with ’araq. He darted out and came back a second later with a bottle of ’araq in his hand. We sat at the table and drank, taking our time. We mustn’t get drunk, said Mr. Zuheir, humorless as a shoe. We drank and talked shop. The same dumb talk, of the boss, of this and that. Naturally, we didn’t talk about women out of due respect for my wife; then they began to talk about things that reminded me of university and of the honorable sheikh — may he rest in peace — who’d put his turban down and lecture on the greatness of Omar Bin Khattab. **

Everything’s changing. We’re a nation without civilization. And Ahmed Ayyash went off into his religious trance. The conversation got sticky, like the beans between our teeth. Our lips and the rims of our ’araq glasses were smudged red. The plates in front of us and next to the plates, the forks that no one used. Hands reaching out to pieces of bread. You mix the white beans swimming in the red with the white rice then put them in your mouth after swilling it with a bit of ’araq. Everything in this conversation was becoming repetitive like cooking. Mr. Zuheir was clearing his throat, he wanted to speak.

— Cheers.

We drank to our health.

Everything’s changed, Mr. Zuheir said.

Everything’s changed, we answered him.

— No, its true. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed or been replaced. Yakhneh. *Yakhneh is the essence of civilization. The Turks are a civilized people. Forget language and the rest. They subjugated us with their cooking. Stuffed courgettes is a good dish. You bet it’s good. But it needs a Turkhead to make it.

Our civilization is alive and well. Long live our civilization. We drank to our undying civilization. Then the food and the conversation finished and we started to yawn.

The rain was torrential. Naturally, they said to Kamel there’s no need and, naturally, he insisted. They went down together. He drove them home and came back alone in his car. He drove slowly through the rain. He felt slightly cold. But driving was a pleasure. And Kamel loves his pleasures.

When I got home, I was in a fix. Someone had taken my parking place … so I had to park the car far from the house. I bolted down the street, getting soaked, and went in. My wife was in bed. I took off my clothes, put on my pajamas and slipped in next to her. I was cold. This central heating of ours doesn’t work properly. Landlords are all meaner than dogs. They bleed us white in the name of modern buildings, then switch off the central heating before the pipes have even heated up. I was sure she was faking sleep. I stretched my hand out to her. Her body was hot. I moved closer, her smell filled the air. She wasn’t my wife, she was a woman. ’Araq can do anything. I kissed her and climbed on to her body like a young man seeing a woman for the first time. And she moved closer, then away a little, holding me. I plunged into her. The nicest thing in the world is a woman who laughs as you make love to her. I was hard and leaned over her as she swayed in my arms, swooning.

— We don’t want any children, she whispered, laughing.

— You’re nicer than children.

She bowed her head. You’re making fun of me. I wasn’t making fun of her. I was taking her into my arms and swaying. Children are born and cry. Their faces are grubby and their feet muddy. She was beautiful.

I don’t know how I fell asleep but she woke me up. I’m scared, she said. That’s her old trick. A woman’s a woman. Whenever I sleep with her and fall asleep, she wakes me up because she wants more. And I always submit to her desire. But not today. I’m tired, I’ve drunk a lot, no way. I pretended to be fast asleep. I turned my back to her and snored my usual way. But she insisted. I felt her hand on my back, trembling.

— I’m scared.

I sat up and pretended to be startled like any man waking up from sleep.

— The noise, don’t you hear the noise.

— It’s the rain. I want to sleep. Understood?

I got up. She followed me. No doubt an open window in the living-room. The window was open and the rain all over the carpet. I closed the window. My wife rolled up the carpet and swept the living-room. I felt her seducing me. She swept in a bizarre way. No. It was the see-through nightie. We went to bed. I want to sleep, I told her. She took my hand. I lit a cigarette. She fell asleep as the cigarette glowed in the room.

I wept. The corpse was in front of me, with people all around it, but the corpse was before me alone. Kamel Abu Mahdi stood dazed. His bald head trembled, his hand tried to brush something off his forehead. I don’t know where the women came from. Women on the pavements, holding handkerchiefs, laughing.

I told my wife that the car.

I told the woman standing in front of me that the car. But she pointed to a little girl running in the street and laughed.

I told her that …

She said that the shells.

Kamel Abu Mahdi stood alone. It was all alone in front of me. The street was full of shrapnel shards; the street was full of glass; the street was full of cars. But it had died. He went toward it. The front tire blew out. The rubber resembled chewing-gun. The street was full of black rubber that looked like soldiers’ boots. I told them we should move the car. The black rubber was spreading. I gripped the tires. Kamel Abu Mahdi kneeled. Everyone watached. He was gripping the rubber, trying to move it. He stood up, wiped his face. It was black. He knew he shouldn’t cry. It can’t be true, he said to his wife. The tears fell nevertheless. Tears are like nothing else. He sat down on the pavement, his head in his hands, and it rained.

They said to him: shame on you, really, Mr. Kamel.

He said to them: shame, but she died.

They said to him that the shell.

He said, never mind.

He stood up. There was glass on his lips. The steering wheel was broken in two. He went over to the engine: metal devouring metal. It looked like what you saw in pictures. He touched it. Her skin was dry and blisters covered his hands. He held her, he told her. She didn’t answer. He told his wife, his wife didn’t answer.

The wife said that the war.

I said to her. The war.