Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

Drink, I said.

ON THE WAY TO our drop-off with Ali in Al-Aswaq, Joseph and I encountered two young boys who stood in the middle of the street. They waved their hands at us. One of them had kinky hair and torn sneakers on his feet; the other was in jeans and open sandals. The one with the kinky hair held an AK-47, and the other had a gun stuck in his skinny waistband.

I stopped the van, opened the door, and walked toward them. Joseph followed me.

Stay in the van, one little kid shouted at me.

Who is in charge? Who is in charge here? I asked him.

I am, the boy said. Go back to the car.

I ignored his request and held my ground.

Where are the shabab going? the boy asked.

Why are you asking? Joseph said.

Open the back of the van and don’t ask too many questions, the boy said.

Either you say who the fuck you are, or get out of the way! Joseph said.

The little kid took two steps back and with a little difficulty he cranked his rifle and pointed it at us. His friend ran over, shuffling his feet, wobbling under the weight of his gun, and pointed the weapon in Joseph’s face. Open the van, the first kid shouted. Open the van! He pointed his machine at me. It looked twice his weight, and thrice his age.

Joseph and I walked toward the van. The boys rushed behind us.

The back door is locked. I have to get the key from the front, I said.

Both boys followed me as I opened the van. I pulled out the key with one hand, and with the other quickly reached for Joseph’s military belt on the passenger’s seat. I grabbed the first thing that stuck out of the belt — a hand grenade. Then I dropped the keys on the van’s floor, dived under the wheel, squeezed my grip on the grenade spoon, and pulled the metal pin. I turned toward the kids and stretched my arm in their young faces.

Drop your weapons, ya ikhwat al-sharmuta (brothers of bitches), I said. I do not give a fuck about God or his happy kingdom. I will open my hand and we will all turn into pieces of meat.

Now, ya wlad al-sharmuta, that will teach you to fuck with the forces! Joseph shouted, and pulled out his gun and aimed it at their faces. Drop the shit from your hands, Joseph yelled. Count to three, Bassam. If they do not drop their weapons, open your palm. No one fucks with us!

The kid with the gun lowered his weapon first. The other held on to his AK-47 for a while. Then his eyes started blinking, and he began inhaling air through his nose at fast intervals. As soon as his kalash went lower in his hand, Joseph grabbed both weapons. He started to slap one boy while the other retreated slowly and then ran away through the back streets.

Joseph held the remaining kid by his T-shirt and swung him like bag of flour. He dragged him to the pavement and pounded him with his feet. Ya kalb (dog), who the fuck are you to stop us? he shouted.

The little kid started to cry, and hid his face in his skinny arms.

I am taking you to the cell to rot, ya kalb .

I walked to an empty building, tossed the hand grenade through a window, and plunged to the ground. It exploded and echoed through the whole world. Then I pulled Joseph away from the kid. The kid’s little head was bleeding, and his nose was smashed. He lowered his eyes, swept the blood away with the back of his hand, and sobbed like the kid that he was.

Where are you from? I asked.

We live here in Al-Aswaq.

Why did you want to open the van? I asked.

We were looking for something to take, he said and spat blood.

To take where?

Something to sell, he said. We did not know that you are militiamen.

Where did you get your weapons?

We took them from a dead Syrian soldier.

How old are you? I demanded.

Fourteen.

What’s your name?

Hassan, he said.

Fucking Muslims in our district, Joseph shouted and pulled out his gun. Let me finish this dirt!

I held Joseph’s arm and pushed him into the van.

When I looked back I saw the kid escaping, limping through the bombed city’s walls.

Back in the van, Joseph laughed and called me Majnun .

We are going to call you Al-Majnun , he said. You could have killed us all with that Russian grenade. It is the worst kind you can choose to open, because it is the most unpredictable; it might take a second or it might take three minutes to explode, and both ways we would have been finished. Majnun. He started to laugh louder. . Majnun .

WHEN WE ARRIVED at our drop-off, Ali and his boys were waiting for us. While the boys emptied the van, Ali walked toward me and offered me a cigarette.

How are things on the other side? I asked.

Once it was all one side, but now we call it the other side, Ali said and shook his head. Have you ever been to the other side? he asked me.

Long time ago, when I was young. I have a relative on the other side.

Oh yes?

Yes, a communist uncle.

What is his name?

Naeem Al-Abyad.

I know your uncle, said Ali, surprised. We fought together. He is a high commander in the communist party now. Do you two ever communicate?

No, not for a long time.

I saw Joseph approaching us. I winked to Ali, and we changed subjects.

When the boys finished moving the whisky, I told Joseph that I needed to take a piss. I walked behind a wall and called to Ali.

Can you find a way to tell my uncle that my mother is dead? I asked him.

Allah yirhamha (may she rest in peace), he said and lowered his head. I will get in touch with your uncle.

I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF KNOCKING IN THE MIDDLE OF the night. When I opened my apartment door, I saw Monsieur Laurent standing in the hallway with a candle in his hands. I invited him in.

I am looking for George, he said.

Did you check his house?

Yes, and he is not there.

Maybe he is on duty, I suggested.

Where? It is urgent.

Check the sakanah (army barricade). Or maybe he went on a mission. He mentioned something about it last week at his party.

We need another fix for Bébé. She is shivering.

I cannot help you, Monsieur Laurent.

It is urgent.

Why don’t you take her to a rehab place?

Yes, I am waiting for a vacancy at the clinic in France. . A blood change. They do blood changes.

Monsieur Laurent, why do you do this?

Why do I give Bébé everything?

Why do you let her do anything she wants?

Can I have a cigarette?

Yes. Do you want some coffee?

No. But let me answer your question. You see, once, we Lebanese ruled Africa. We were the middlemen. We extracted commissions left and right. We built that place. When I left my native village and took a boat to meet my French uncle in Africa, neither you nor Bébé were even born yet. And all I wanted was to save money, work with my uncle for a while, and come back to the village, to that hill, and build a house and get married to a decent local girl.

But the community got rich. We worked in slums and jungles selling textiles. We became the middlemen for the French, and the Portuguese, and whoever else came. We brought cars and electric fridges to the place, we bribed the policemen, the mayors, the army generals, and we all lived in penthouses. Do you know that all the Lebanese in Africa lived in penthouses?

We threw parties in our private clubs. As a young man I worked hard and learned how to buy and sell. I travelled with suitcases filled with bills that smelled of African soil and humid mattresses. We swallowed stones in African bathrooms and walked into Swiss hotels and defecated diamonds. We had mulatto women under our feet, dancing on our tables to Arabic songs that made us decadent and nostalgic. You see, the Lebanese ruled these places without guns, without an army, without slaves.