Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

Shut up, Hashash (drug user)! The man with the gun to my head slapped my face. You are coming with us. Abou-Nahra wants to see you.

Let me get dressed, I said.

The man with the gun pushed me.

I am coming! I said. Do you want me to meet the commander in my underwear?

He grabbed me by my shirt. Do it fast, he said.

I led him to my room, found my pants, and while he was shoving me, I slipped my finger inside the bundle of money in my pants pocket. I waited until he pushed me again, then pretended to fall and stashed the bundle under the old, heavy couch. Then he and the other men led me to the jeep. On the way down, Abou-Dolly, the grocer, was standing at the entrance shaking his head. Zu’ran (thugs), he said, and looked me in the eyes.

Why are you taking me? I asked my captors.

The man with the gun bounced around in his seat and grabbed my hair. One more word and I will make you spit blood from your mouth. Do you understand?

Eventually, we arrived at the Majalis. I got out of the jeep, and two militiamen led me down some stairs and underground. They shoved me into a room containing a table and couple of chairs. I sat on one of the chairs and waited.

Two hours passed, and still I waited. All I heard was the slam of a metal door, a few guard’s steps, some moaning. I felt the dampness of the moist underground, the cold walls, the vague urine smells, and the unpainted concrete floors. I paced, and fidgeted, and changed chairs. Maybe they had found out about the poker deal. I should have killed Najib, that idiot; or had George stabbed me in the back again?

Soon I became vindictive. Was it the poker deals, or the envelope from my uncle to Jallil Al-Tahouneh? I prepared myself for the coming slaps, the repetitive questioning. Tell the same story, Bassam, tell the same story . I craved a cigarette. Finally, I heard keys twisting inside the door lock, and Abou-Nahra came inside, smiling. He was accompanied by a guard.

Ah! You are Bassam. I thought it was you, he said from behind his glasses. I wondered if he could still see me by the room’s dim lightbulb that almost touched his head under the low ceiling.

Stand up! his man shouted and slapped the back of my head. Stand up for the commander, Hashash .

I stood up slowly, looking Abou-Nahra straight in the eyes.

Kalb , stand up fast! The guard slapped me again on the head, pushed me, and kicked my shin. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. When I touched the grainy surface of the concrete I felt its coldness and dampness, and my clothes rubbed against it and picked up its grey colour, the soft grey grains that covered the rough, uneven surface. I wondered about the sloppy job they’d done of pouring concrete in that place. The floor was not even; maybe that is why all the chairs wobbled when I was sitting down, I thought, as feet landed on my face and battered my morning eyes.

I stood up, bleeding. Abou-Nahra waved his hand, and the monster stopped his Dabkah dancing on me.

Do you know what you did?

No.

Listen, I am a very busy man, and your uncle the yassareh (the leftist) was a friend of mine. You speak, or I will keep you here with Rambo.

I have no idea what I did.

Why did you kill the old man?

What old man?

His wife said there were things stolen.

Who? I have no idea what you are talking about.

Rambo came back and grabbed my hair, put his mouth in my ear and whispered, Talk now, or you will not be happy at all.

Okay, here is the story, little boy. Abou-Nahra leaned his glasses toward my face, and in a low, calm voice, he told me, Last night, Laurent Aoudeh was killed in his apartment. A burglary also took place. We interrogated his wife. She was at her friend’s place in the mountains. Some African diamonds were stolen from the house.

Maybe she killed him! Maybe she stole them! I said.

Do not interrupt the commander! Rambo barked and hit me on the head.

When we pressed her, Abou-Nahra continued, she said that she suspected you. You pushed drugs on her. And you were hanging around with the old man lately. Do you like old, rich men?

No.

Yes, you do. Maybe you give him massat (blowjobs). People in the neighbourhood have seen you with him lately.

People like who? I asked in defiance.

The grocery man, Abou-Dolly, told us that you took a walk every day with him. We heard a great deal about you. Everyone knows that you are a hashash . Where were you last night?

Home. I did not do it.

We found a gun in your place. Listen, you little communist. . You are a communist, aren’t you, just like your uncle? You tell me where you hid the diamonds or Rambo here is going to show you the midday stars from inside the womb of your mother.

My mother is dead.

Rambo went berserk: Are you answering back to the commander, ya kalb! He beat me with the butt of his gun.

I fell on that cool floor again, and his boots came and retreated like waves that splash on misty shores, like black veils that eclipse the sun from your eyes, like the sound of blasting drums in your ears, like lollypop drips on your chin, like the smell of plastic erasers in your classroom. The dust from the floor rose again, like the powder chuck that was swept from the blackboard by that brown-nose Habib, oh, and like the slaps from the French Jesuit priest that landed on your palm as if they were the ruler’s blessing, and like your bent knees on those narrow logs under the chapel benches, and like the smell of incense that came back and gave you a celestial high, and forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, I jerked that tree until it ejaculated fruits, I broke that glass with St. Peter’s rock, I stole candies, and I fumbled that little girl under the falling bombs in the shelter, while her mother was snoring in sync with the news on the radio. You see, Father, I confess, I am the one who waited until the candle was dead, and then I slipped my hand under her nightgown, to her newly acquired pubic hair, and she never said a word, and she followed me when I played, when I went up to the roof, she followed me like a puppy dog, like a female bird. Ever since then, Father, she dressed louder, played with her hair, chewed gum with an open mouth, danced flamboyantly to every jingle. She became jealous of my mother, of my young friends, and then, Father, suddenly one day she was repulsed by my husky voice, my puberty nose, my red pimples, and my swollen nipples. You see, Father, she grew up to hang out only with militiamen who came in stolen Italian cars, who honked under her father’s window. And I, resentful of my age, of my poverty, resentful that she left me for older boys, would watch her rushing to their cars, to their golden rings, their dangling Christmas cedars that hung on their open chests, and their Drakkar Noir cologne, and their loud music tapes that offended the neighbourhood. Her hair, Father, flew from their topless cars, cars that drove them to their summer cottages on polluted beaches, and their mountain’s garçonnière . And when she saw me, Father, she smiled at me like the little man in her dollhouse. So you see, Father, ever since I have refused to go down into the shelter, even if Rambo here hammers me into a meat pie. No, I won’t go down to that dark place because I have always hated the underground and the little devils who dwell there, who made me lust for her skinny thighs and her newly acquired pubic hair.

BEFORE ABOU-NAHRA left the room, he walked toward me and leaned over to the floor. I could barely see his face; everything was hazy. His glasses danced as if he were in a diabolic 1970s James Bond movie, and I heard his gangster voice: We will shake you and stir you. . and all I need from you are the diamonds. Then we will let you go. Now, be a good comrade and share with Rambo your hiding place. I heard that communists like to share things, so here is your chance to be part of an egalitarian society. Do the right thing and make your communist uncle proud.