Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

When Roland came back, Rhea stood up and grabbed her large bag. On his way out, Roland pushed a box of cigarettes toward me. Here, keep this; it might make you refrain from future heroic acts.

I pushed it back toward him. When I need something, I will take it myself, I said.

I STAYED IN the café for a while and drank the mineral water that Rhea had ordered and never touched.

When I left, I walked through the streets of Paris, and the weight of the gun in my bag was heavier than before. I wondered if I would walk the same way with no weight on my back. I wondered if I would feel naked. What would the emperor think if I laid down my arms in the river? It must be a conspiracy, I thought; Roland is a rich aristocrat, and if I lose my gun it will only serve the purpose of vanity, heredity, and oppression.

I WENT BACK to my room and waited for the sun to sink into the water, and for the water to rise and fill the earth, and swallow all the rivers and streams. I was horizontal, in bed, flowing perfectly parallel to the low ceiling. I held my gun and extended my arm. I aimed at the painting on the wall of deer hunters and dogs sniffing the ground.

Then I aimed the gun at myself and looked the barrel in the face. If I possessed the baccarat kind of gun instead of an automatic, would I play with my fate? Would I leave myself only one bullet and roll the barrel, like so many young men had in Beirut during the war, after watching the movie The Deer Hunter ? Many had died playing De Niro’s game. A few of us knew that Roger, the son of Miriam the widow, had pulled the trigger one night, and the blood from his brain had stained the cocaine on the table, and George’s shirt, and Issam’s face, and my chest. We had carried him down the stairs, Issam and I, and laid him in the back seat of his car. It is no use blocking the flow of blood, George said to me. He is gone. When we arrived at the hospital, we waited in the hallway and smoked, without remorse. We smoked until the paramedic came out and asked us for the dead man’s name and the story of what had happened. George told him that Roger was shot while fighting at the jabhah . The paramedic did not buy the story. He smelled the lies in our silk shirts and in our cologne that overwhelmed the smell of blood. He looked at us with suspicious eyes and mumbled hesitantly, It is a very close-range bullet . George pulled the paramedic to one side, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, talked in his ear, slipped his hand higher to his neck, and talked to him some more. He released the paramedic with a push. The man walked back in anger, taking off his medical coat and throwing it in protest on a rolling stretcher, cursing the war, his job, the gods, and his land of madness.

At the funeral, Zaghlloul had sung Zajal, and the men had danced with the coffin. Roger’s mother walked the streets shouting to the balconies, He is a hero, my son is a hero, I gave birth to a batal, batal .

WHEN NIGHT CAME to Paris again, I went to face the river. I cursed all the rivers from Jordan to the Mississippi. I stood at the water’s edge, and held my bag, and opened its zipper. Treacherous rivers that wash you and leave you naked and cold, I shouted. I pulled out the gun, but did not throw it.

I walked back to the hotel. On the way, I stopped at a store and bought plastic bags and a rope. I went to my room and wrapped the gun in many bags, and tightened the bundle with ropes and knots. Then I walked again to the river, to its most deserted point. I found an old, rusty bridge there; it stood alone, with no one to witness its darkness. I walked under it, and there I saw traces of homelessness and small fires. I tightened the end of the rope to the beam of the bridge, and I threw the gun into the river. It sunk, and as it sunk it joined the rusty cannon ball, the thirsty dead soldiers, and the emperor’s horses that grazed underneath the river’s banks.

I walked back to the hotel feeling an unbearable lightness. The bag on my back seemed irrelevant, useless, the echo of a large insect buzzing below my ear.

In my room, I found that my bed had been made. The bathroom contained a fresh wave of new soaps and a clean towel. The toilet paper was rolled and pleated at the tip.

I opened the window and let air in. The drizzle from the shower fell on my foaming body parts. When I stopped the water, I plucked the towel and swept my body with it.

Wearing only my underwear, I reached for my book. I opened it:. . and has he uttered a word of regret for his most odious crime ?

No, I answered. Why should he? We all agreed to participate. It was our choice, we each spun our own gun barrels, we each had four chances out of five. We all acted out of our own convictions, and out of passion. Reason? you ask. Mr. Prosecutor, while we are all sweating in this courtroom filled with French men and judges, reason is a useful fiction.

I left the court, and turned another page in my book:. . but all this excitement exhausted me and I dropped heavily onto my sleeping-plank .

IN THE MORNING, THE PHONE RANG.

It is Roland, the voice on the other end of the line said.

Yes.

We should meet, but come without your object.

It is in the river.

Oh good, good, excellent. Then come by this afternoon. We need to talk. I will meet you at four at the Montparnasse metro.

I WENT DOWNSTAIRS and out to buy a coffee.

Hakim (I had discovered that was the name of the Algerian) asked me if I had finished my book.

Yes, I said, but I am keeping it.

He laughed and said, You might have to pay a price for your deeds.

But I am willing.

ROLAND MET ME at the metro station. He was, as usual, well dressed, well combed, and smelled of cologne. We exited the station, and I got into his Renault.

Are you hungry? Roland asked.

Yes.

Good. Come to my place and I will make you a small dinner.

Roland’s apartment was filled with tableaux, artifacts, and rugs. From a large, open window there was a view of the Eiffel Tower. Roland opened a bottle of wine from his modest wine cellar and poured the whole bottle into a decanter. Then, after a few minutes, he poured me a glass.

Is Rhea coming? I asked after the second sip.

No, she is not.

She is upset?

Yes, she is upset, but she also wants to help. Rhea is not for you. You have different lives.

Why does she still want to help? I asked.

Rhea has convictions and religious beliefs. She also considers you to be the closest thing to her brother. When you followed us that night, Roland said as he poured oil into a pan, we were discussing the possibility of bringing George here to Paris. Rhea is concerned about her brother. Though she has never met him, still her curiosity is slowly turning to some kind of. . how should I say it? Not love, but maybe obsession, if you ask me.

It is normal, no? I said.

Normal to be infatuated with someone you’ve never met?

I do not know. But I do understand, because maybe she feels she is alone, without a family.

What is your last name? I said.

My last name? He seemed surprised. Meusiklié.

The lighter was not yours, I said. The initials do not match your name.

It belonged to Claude, Rhea’s father.

He gave it to you.

No. I kept it after he died.

You were close?

Actually, we worked together.

Diplomats?

Yes, diplomats, Roland laughed.

Why are you laughing? I asked.

Rhea calls us spies.

Are you?

Well, maybe to some extent all diplomats are spies.

So, why did you invite me here?

Rhea asked me to help you. I was reluctant at first, but Rhea insisted. You have to leave France. You have no papers, and you will not get any for years to come, and the police will catch up with you sooner or later. You have no money, I assume, or you would not have been so desperate for cigarettes, if you know what I mean.