Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

Dust flew onto shop windows, dust landed on silky, exposed thighs; everyone inhaled it, everyone saw through it, dust from the undertaker’s shovel, dust of demolition, dust of fallen walls, dust falling from Christian foreheads on a holy Thursday. Dust was friendly and loved us all. Dust was Beirut’s companion.

LET’S EAT, I said to George.

Man’oushe or kunafah ? he asked.

Kunafah , I said.

We stopped at a store with a screen door and we sat at a round table. The mirror on the wall above us was stained and barely gave off a reflection. The worker behind the counter had a large moustache and wielded several knives. I drank water. George lit a cigarette. A woman with a baby in her arms walked in. The news was on: two were dead, five injured; an Arab diplomat was visiting Beirut; an American diplomat was also visiting Beirut. The moon was round, and the diplomat’s flag was on it, and an extraterrestrial sniper was using it for target practice.

We ate our kunafah plates. I watched the baby play and nibble on a plastic gun. I needed a shave and a bath, and we all needed water. I gave back George’s gun, under the table. George’s cigarette burned in an ashtray; mine was still in George’s box. His sad eyes reminded me that his mother was dead, that his father had left, that my father was also dead. I thought about how, after my father’s death, my uncle Naeem had visited more often. I had watched him on Sundays, giving money to my mother, and my mother, with her eyes lowered to the floor, took it and shoved it down into her bosom. Naeem took me for long walks, bought me clothes and books. And when I said to him that my father was with God, he said to me that there was no God, that God is man’s invention.

I finished my plate; George gave me a cigarette. I thought about my mother, how she would cook all day, complain, and ask my uncle for money. My uncle was a communist. One night, he fled to the West Side. The militia came looking for him. They knocked at my mother’s door in the middle of the night and asked for Naeem the communist.

I contemplated the flies barred by the store’s door, longing to come in. Only dust flew in and out as it pleased. Beirut is an ancient Roman city, I thought. There is a city buried under our feet. The Romans also turned to dust. When I opened the door to leave, the flies rushed in.

GEORGE DROVE ME back to my mother’s home. And I slept above ancient Rome, dreaming, while the city still breathed dust.

EACH DAYBREAK, THE WOMEN OF OUR BUILDING GATHERED over morning coffee. They talked about the price of vegetables, meat, and fruit. They repeated what they’d heard on the news, like colourful parrots on a pirate’s deck.

The women’s shouting woke me. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and as I did so, I heard someone calling Rana’s name. I put my shorts on and walked to the living room. I greeted the women; in return, they shouted out my name. Salma, our next-door neighbour, asked me for a kiss: Come here and kiss your aunt Salma. No matter how big you get, you’re still our baby here.

I kissed her and moved toward Rana. She blushed; the women held their breath; Rana’s mother smiled. I looked at Rana and said, What are you doing, hanging out with the old?

The women shouted and jeered at me. No one is old here, young man!

I can shoot my husband and get a younger man any time, Abla said, and everyone laughed.

Rana blushed again. I smiled, and my mother poured coffee with a grin on her face. They all shouted and talked. Rana’s cup was being read. She looked breathtaking in her short skirt. Her bosom rose and fell with her breath, her eyes were outlined in dark black lines, and she sat with her legs crossed, protecting her virginity from predators’ eyes, tongues, and crooked teeth.

I left the room and waited on the stairs at the entrance to our building. Soon, Rana came down with her mother. Her mother walked by me first, and I nodded farewell. Rana was trailing behind; I grabbed her by the wrist.

So what did the cup predict for Rana today? I asked.

It says that my hand will be taken.

By whom?

By the one who is leaving.

Sad, I said.

No, not if I leave too.

I will pick you up at six this evening.

I am busy.

Doing what?

Just busy. Bassam, please, you have to let go of my hand now, people are watching.

I opened my palm, and she left.

ABOU-NAHRA ASKED me to join his militia, George said to me.

Don’t do it, George, I warned him.

He said they need men at the front line.

Say no.

He will give my job to someone else. George poured whisky and looked me in the eye.

We have to leave, I said. We have to get organized. Do a big hit and leave. And we have to time it for when there is enough money in the cash to cover a big win. Let me know. I looked him back in the eye.

What is it with you and Rana? he asked.

How do you know about Rana?

Everyone knows everything in this place. She has grown.

I nodded.

You can meet her here. I will give you the key to my place. My mother won’t show up, he said. He looked at me and smiled.

We drank. From his balcony we could see the roofs of houses covered with white laundry, TV antennas, and empty water barrels. The houses were all connected by loose electrical wires tied on wooden poles, filling the concrete city that has no trees for Judas to hang from, no meadows for invaders to roam, only flat roofs and mortals waiting their turn for water and bread. On the pavement there were kids’ bicycles, and the clay marks of kids’ drawings. Inside our houses, there were women stranded in kitchens, cooking. From below a radio was playing, a mother was calling her kid, a few passing cars rolled slowly through our narrow street. There was that silence, that quietness before bombs fall and teeth shatter and kids piss in their older brothers’ shorts, and young girls menstruate before their time, and windows shatter, and glass slices our dark flesh wide open.

Johnny Walker is the best whisky, George said to me. Ice or no ice, this is the life, my friend. He lifted his glass and kissed it.

I WAITED FOR RANA downstairs, but she didn’t show up. I called to Danny, our neighbour Nahla’s son, who was riding on his VelAmos bicycle. I said, Come here. Go to the Damouny family, enter their house when no one is looking, and give Rana this letter. No one should see it, you understand? No. . come here! You understand? No one should see it.

Yes, the little boy nodded.

You will get something good later. Go now, do not be late.

Danny smiled and darted down the stairs and flew like a pigeon toward Rana’s house.

Rana and I met down at the French stairs. It was dark, and I saw her coming down the slope, walking between the cars, concealing herself in the walls’ shadows.

When she saw me she waved discreetly, from afar.

I held her hand and took her round the back of a building. I leaned against a wall and pulled her toward me.

You have to stop holding my hand like that, Rana protested.

No one is looking.

You have to ask for permission, she said playfully.

From whom?

From me.

Since when?

Since I won that fight and wrestled you to the ground and made you eat dirt. She laughed.

I kissed her on the cheek; I put my arm around her waist.

She gave me back my hand, pushed me away slowly, and said, Not here.

Come, I said.

I held her wrist and led her up the stairs, and in total darkness I found George’s door. I searched for the lock, feeling it with my fingers like a blind man on his wedding night, like a lion in the fox’s den. I drove the key in and turned my wrist in a smooth, slow twist. I held Rana’s hand and pulled her inside George’s house. She resisted, but I kissed her neck. I locked the door, searched for a candle to light. When I struck a match and the fire started to dance on the tips of my fingers, she blew on it and said to me, No. No light.