Elias Khoury - Little Mountain

But the war. Fish are prettier. The shell wouldn’t fall anywhere but on my head.

Sameer stepped forward, rifle in hand, never mind, Sameer said.

Never mind, Mr. Kamel said. Everything’s never mind.

Never mind death, the wife said.

They were laughing. Imm Jameel stood there, holding her new baby girl. Never mind, neighbor. God be praised, you’re safe. No one was injured. Money comes and money goes.

But it goes. Ever since I’ve known it, it’s been going. It’s never once come. It only ever goes.

Imm Jameel was making fun of us. Her husband owns a car. Honestly, you’re an idiot, my wife said. Why did you park the car there?

I told my wife I was an idiot. But the shell, that’s what the shell wanted. I told her the car had died. This woman abhors me. She despises me. I’m sure of it.

— Why did you park the care there?

— I parked it in its place.

— But the shelling.

I sat on the chair, all by myself. Picked up the newspaper and tried to read. My wife was standing in front of me, crying. I didn’t say anything. The city was shaking. Even the street was no longer tenable. The small cars standing in a long line, one behind the other, as though awaiting execution.

They told Kamel, it won’t do. The smell. The smell of rubber and the disgusting sight of it. He wouldn’t listen. No way. I’m going to try to repair it. He told his wife the insurance company had to pay. She laughed. Sameer told Kamel the car had to be towed away. The smell, the children, you know. Kamel was desperate. I beg you. He wouldn’t hear of it. He told them all right. The tow-truck came. They slung the cables down and tied them to the car. They dragged it through the streets, the sound of the metal grating against the asphalt was painful … they were flaying it. He followed behind. The tow-truck proceeded slowly, young men shouting, children watching, the wife on the balcony. And Kamel walked behind his car. He told them. But it went.

I’m the only one who hasn’t stopped going to work. I now go to the office on foot. I sit by myself. I answer the boss’s phone calls. I listen to his opinions and to his advice. Everything’s changed. Even the boss’s voice has greatly changed. It’s become gentle. He tells jokes and asks after the family. And at the end of the month everyone turns up to get his pay. Why don’t I do the same? I’m the only civil servant left in the Lebanese Republic. But I can’t. What would I do at home? There’s no one there but the neighborhood youths, with their weapons, laughing and dying. Even my wife has changed — she says it’s because of the war. She can’t take the war anymore. I’m sure she’s changed since the car died. She despises me. My father always said women were fearsome: one lapse and they lord it over you. You have to keep your ground before her. Everything lapses: the car, the job and … And me, on my own, with the newspapers, the ’araq and my black thoughts.

Then the office came to a standstill. It would open only at the end of each month, pay-day. … There were shells now everywhere, everyone slept in shelters. And Kamel argued with his wife and the children bawled. He would go down to the street, mingling with the lads, getting to know them. He’d feel their rifles, was impressed with such courage that doesn’t fear death. He’d ask for news of the fighting. They’d tell him. Of course, they’d lie a little. But the sound of the explosions proved to him that there was a real war going on. And that these lads were fighting a war just like the ones we read about in books. The sight of the confiscated loot dazzled him — the colored shirts, the new clothes. He refused a shirt offered him as a gift but then accepted it the following day.

His wife wailed: unlawful wealth. Everything’s unlawful, he answered her, and went back down to the street. But best of all were the cars. Every day a newly requisitioned car. Kamel toyed with the idea of driving the new car.

— I’ll drive you guys.

— But were going to Wadi Abu Jameel. There’s sniping on the way.

— I’m a good driver. Don’t worry. He got into the car, turned on the ignition. Then turned it off… I’m busy now. Never mind, I’ll drive you over tomorrow. They laughed. He smiled at them. He’d made up his mind to decide on the thing he’d been dreaming of for a long time and didn’t dare announce: I must go with them. There, I’ll find cars. But how to go? My wife’s gone mad and the tire still stares me in the face. I must get rid of the tire first. The tire was in the house, in the bedroom. Kamel had bought a new tire for his car even though all four of its tires were fine. A spare, he told his wife; he didn’t tell her that he had bought it because it was going cheap.

— We should put it in the trunk.

But she wouldn’t hear of it.

— The trunk’s too small and it’s for the stroller and bits and pieces. She convinced me. We put the tire in the room. Then the car died. I want to throw it away. But she won’t allow it.

— We’ll take out the inner tube and the children’ll use it to swim at the beach.

She’s ridiculing me. She despises me. Kamel Abu Mahdi grabbed the tire, picked it up, went out of door, and rolled it down the stairs. The tire was going down the stairs, Kamel following behind, with eyes and body. The man screamed. The tire had hit him. Men haven’t got much of a sense of humor these days. He cursed, I cursed back. He drew his pistol. Holding it in his right hand, he came toward me. I didn’t know this man. He came toward me. The tire lay there like a corpse. He advanced, put his pistol up to my face, and begun punching my jaw with his left fist. I didn’t feel any pain, but shook before the gun-barrel. The man went on up. I followed behind, entered the house, didn’t breathe a word. 4

The confiscations are something else. What a city — a whore of a city. Who can imagine a whore laying a million men and still being there. A city with a million shells falling on it and still there. The city is shells. And thirst. A city without water. Never mind the electricity, we can always buy another lamp. But water … Even the sweat on our bodies has become just salt. There isn’t any water left to sweat and dirty the shirts with. The city is salty. I couldn’t take it anymore. Sameer gave me his pistol. He told me he’d come with me, but he never did. I was scared. There were no more policemen and I was still scared. I stuck the pistol on my hip, the way everyone does, and waited on the street. But Sameer didn’t come. I was scared — Beirut is long in the darkness and the noise of the shells. The man was walking through the darkness alone. He lit a match which cast his shadow against the walls of the half-deserted city. Then the match went out and the shadow with it. The noise faraway was getting closer, and the man was walking practically bent in two, hugging the wall. In the streets, the cats were yawning. And the smell welled up alongside the mounds of garbage. The man who walked hugging the wall was trying to find his way through these things. He got closer. It was as though the parked cars were asleep. He went on, then came to a stop in front of a Volkswagen. He lit a match, but it was ugly. The pistol on his hip trembled. He reached the Zokak al-Blatt intersection where you cut across the wide street and reach the entrance of Wadi Abu Jameel with its abandoned cars and destroyed houses. And the war. Beirut, completely still, immersed in darkness. Then the sounds of light sniper-fire began. He felt the street reeling with every shot. Then the heavy machine-gun rang out. He stepped back. Everything was shaking. He decided to go back. He turned his back to the wide street and set off slowly. He felt a gun-barrel was aimed at his back. His neck was heavy now, as though the barrel were up against it. He went a little faster, the sound of his footsteps merging into the gunfire. He was panting and it was still a long way home. Rats springing between his feet and salt spreading over his entire body.