Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

I drove, and Joseph navigated. I know this place like my own fingers, he said to me. Turn right, there, next to the barrel. Stop.

I pulled out my gun, and got out of the van, and stood beside it. Joseph pulled out his AK-47 and took his position behind the vehicle.

Chai, come and get it. Chai, Joseph shouted.

A man whistled from the first floor of an empty building.

Ali? I asked.

Bassam?

Yes.

At Ali’s signal, two young boys appeared from behind the sandbags. They were dressed in worn clothes and plastic flip-flops, and had dirt-smudged faces.

I got into the van and turned its rear toward the West Side of the city. The boys’ tiny arms pulled cases from the van and carried them inside the building.

Forty cases, I said.

Mahmoud, did you count the number of cases?

Forty, the little kid shouted from inside the building. Arba’in. Twakkalala Allah .

Kassak , and watch out for the land mine on your way back, Joseph shouted to them.

TEN THOUSAND NEEDLES had penetrated Nicole’s arms, but still I brought her a little bag to open. Monsieur Laurent stood above the stove with a spoon in his hand, breaking powder and heating liquid.

Tiens, Bébé, mon amour. Tiens .

When the band around her arm was released, Nicole smiled at me. Should I give the money to George or to you?

Give it to George, I said.

I strolled down the stairs into the city, and over to the church walls, and under the church stairs I sat and smoked. A few cats with striped fur passed by, a few rifles meowed, a few heels licked the earth, and a few bells tolled on the roofs above me.

Eventually, George showed up with Abou-Haddid at his side.

How is the junkie? he asked me. Did the old man shoot as well?

No.

Did he pay you?

No, I told him to give you the money. You should have told me what was in the. . I paused. Do you have the whisky cut for me?

The man did not pay me yet. When he pays I will take care of you, do not worry.

Next time, tell me what to expect. I am not your private pusher, I said. And I left.

George called out after me, but I did not answer him.

ALL THE NEXT DAY I lay in my bed and floated. Cigarette smoke hung about me, rose to the ceiling, and formed a grey cloud. Bombs fell in the distance. The plate under my bed was filled with ashes and yellow Marlboro butts with smashed faces and hunchback postures. The candle beside me shone its light on the comic book in my hand. My slippers waited for me under the bed like Milou, Tintin’s dog. When I heard a knock at my door, I pulled my gun from under my pillow and killed the candle flame swiftly. I walked to the door in my slippers and glued my eye to the peephole. I saw a dark shadow.

I moved away from the door. Who is it? I asked.

It is me, Nabila. Bassam, open the door.

I obeyed.

Why are you hiding in the dark? Steal a candle from the priest, set the house on fire, but don’t hide like a stray ghost.

Nabila followed me into my room. I swept the table with my hand, searching for the box of matches. When I found it, I shook it like a Brazilian musical instrument. I struck one stick against the box’s rough edge, and Nabila’s face shone.

You are still skinny, still yellow and skinny. Let me come tomorrow to cook for you and fix the house.

No, I said.

Have you seen Gargourty?

Yesterday.

I have not seen him in a week. I called his workplace and they said he no longer works there. I went many times to his place, but he is never home. No one has seen him. Um-Adel, his neighbour, said he is hardly ever home.

He must be busy.

Doing what?

Working.

At what?

I don’t know. Whatever comes along.

Like what? What is he becoming? Is he working with Abou-Nahra?

Yes.

But at what?

Security.

Security! Nabila shouted. Security for what? I will call that fat slob Abou-Nahra. I will call him. If a hair on my nephew’s head is harmed, I will curse his dead mother in her grave. Talk to George, Bassam. He will listen to you. You two are brothers. He should go to school.

I am leaving this country, I said.

Where to?

Rome, Paris, New York, wherever I can go.

Take him with you. Take him. Talk to him. Yes, both of you leave. Go to France. I will give you the name of George’s father, that coward, and ask him to send his son a French passport and money. I’ll ask him for George’s papers, tell him that his son is lost. I’ll tell him to invite George for a trip, for a vacation. May the virgin saint open all the good doors for you, Bassam. Help your brother. Help him. When do you leave?

I am waiting for some money to come.

I will give you money if you will just go and find George’s father.

No, I will be all right.

Look at this house. Bassam! And Nabila picked up the glasses, the overflowing ashtrays, and the clothes from the floor.

Leave it, I said.

She continued picking up items and arranging them like my mother once had.

I grabbed her wrist, pulled a pillow from her hand, and threw it against the wall. Leave it, I said.

Nabila squeezed my hand and touched my face. Now that you’re alone, you have to take care of yourself. Do not live in dirt like a rat. Open the window. This place smells of cigarettes and sweat. Look at you. Look at you now, unshaven, neglected.

She retrieved her hand, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out into the dark hallway and down to the street.

ON OUR SECOND DELIVERY, Joseph and I had the van filled with sixty cases of Johnny Walker. Joseph reached for a box, opened it, and pulled out a bottle.

Don’t drink it. This shit might poison you. It is not a good day to die, I said.

No one dies before his time comes, said Joseph.

A fatalist fighter, I mocked him.

Listen, let me tell you this story, and we’ll see if you believe in fate or not. We were at the jabhah . You know Youssef Asho? The Syriac boy? We call him RBG.

No.

Anyway, this kid was on duty one week. And I was in charge at the front that day. I see a woman, an old woman in black, walking toward us, you hear? I took the sniper gun and looked in the binoculars. I see a big cross on her chest, so I knew she was one of us. I called to her, Ya khalti (my aunty), where are you going?

She said she was there to see her son, Youssef. This woman must have walked through ten land mines and escaped them all. She appeared from nowhere, like a spirit.

I called Youssef. He was in the other building. Now, the fastest way for him to cross was over a little street, but that street is exposed to a sniper. The other way to cross is longer because one has to go around. When Youssef heard that his mother was there, he walked across the sniper’s street, and on the last few metres a sniper bullet whizzed right above his ear and missed him.

When his mother saw him, she started to cry and said that she had had a very ugly dream, and that her heart was telling her something horrible was going to happen.

Youssef was furious at her. He started to curse her, and he held her arm and pushed her, and shouted in her face, asking her to go back, calling her a crazy old woman.

I smacked him on his head, and told him to respect his mother, and never to talk to her that way. I ordered him to leave the jabhah . I do not want impolite people like you in my platoon, I said to him.

Then I made him take a jeep and drive his mother back home. Now, this guy gets home, takes off his clothes. His mother boils water for him, prepares the bathroom, and leaves. While he is cleaning himself, a bomb falls in the bathroom and kills him. It tore him to a million pieces. His mother became insane. Now she spends all her time living and praying on the steps of the Saydeh church. She took a vow, and ever since her son’s death she has never bathed or cleaned herself. Now, what do you have to say to that story?