Rawi Hage - De Niro's Game

The forces used to be all volunteers, but now you have to sign up and you are paid. We are turning into more of an army than a militia. Now we even have to wear uniforms. When the war started everyone was in jeans. The top commander, AlRayess, has a grand plan. Come back sometime and visit us.

ON THE DRIVE home to George’s place, I asked George what Khalil wanted.

Nothing, he said. Just to talk.

Just to talk?

Khalil knows.

About what?

About our game.

Abou-Nahra knows too?

No. Khalil wants a cut.

How did he find out?

He used to work at the poker place, so he suspected it. He tricked me; first he says that he has a message from Abou-Nahra, and that Abou-Nahra knows. He says there is a counter in the machine. Then he offers to talk on my behalf to Abou-Nahra. If I give the money back to the militia, he says, they will forgive and forget the whole thing. When I said that I do not have the money any more, he switched. He said that he is the only one who knows and that he needs a cut.

Where does Khalil live? I asked George.

Down by the lower bridge.

Where?

Above Appo. The lahm ba’ajin place.

He lives alone?

Yeah.

Tell him OK, we will give him a cut.

I WALKED DOWN to the lower bridge and watched Khalil’s house.

I entered the store below his house and ordered two lahm ba’ajin . I ate them, and drank iran . Then I walked up the stairs looking for Khalil’s name on a buzzer.

When I could not find his name anywhere, I left and went straight back to my house.

At twelve noon the next day, George came to my place. My mother, the Armenian, offered him food. She kissed his cheeks and told him about his mother: Your mother was a wonderful lady, God save her soul, a real lady. She would be so proud to see what a good and handsome man you turned out to be, George.

Then my mother asked George about his aunt Nabila, and his distant uncle and his family. She poured a lot of food onto George’s plate, asked him to eat well, and repeated familiar words: You people do not know how to use those spices, like us Armenians.

George called my mother tante , kissed her hand, and ate well.

After the meal we went to my room. George stretched out on my bed. I lay on the sofa.

How much does Khalil want?

Half. That leaves you and me with a quarter each.

Half? Does he know I am in on it?

He knows someone else must be in on it.

Tell him to meet you under the bridge, I said.

He won’t come. Khalil is a snake.

Okay. Then tell him that we will go to see him down on the front line.

LATE THAT NIGHT, a man named Samir Al-Afhameh was attacked by a chihuahua on his way home. Samir Al-Afhameh, a respectable man who had once owned a law office in the destroyed downtown Beirut, now unemployed and too proud to work at something else, lived on whatever little money his son sent him from Kentucky.

The pack of dogs growled at him when he passed next to the mountain of garbage. The chihuahua who attacked him had once belonged to Madame Kharazi, who fled to Paris in a hurry, taking a taxi to the checkpoint that divided East and West Beirut. From there, through some rich connection that she had in West Beirut, she was taken to the airport by an ex-army Muslim colonel who knew her husband from before the war. The little dog attacked Mr. Samir by order of his three-legged boss.

The next day Mr. Samir went to the right-wing militia centre and talked to the men there about the chihuahua attack and the pack of dogs that had invaded his street. He warned them of the dogs’ ambition to take over the Christian enclave using the power of their sharp teeth and a well-developed intimidation technique called growling, backed by a garbage mountain to feed them through and through until rabies made their eyes red and saliva dropped through their unbrushed gums.

Mr. Samir was dismissed by a local brute commander who walked with open feet like a duck, wore heavy boots in heat or cold weather, whose smell assaulted your nostrils, whose petty theft of vegetables and poultry was reminiscent of a medieval monk on the crusaders’ path.

Mr. Samir, the advocate schooled by Jesuit priests with long, black robes who recorded every detail meticulously, and who had taught him French and discipline, lifted his eyeglasses and walked straight to Nabila’s house. He climbed her stairs and knocked at her door.

Nabila opened the door and made an appearance barefoot and wearing diminutive shorts. This made her thighs look rounder and more luscious than ever. She amended her voice and her hair when she saw Mr. Samir’s large body, his legal status, his tail that wagged with fury and, at that moment, excitement. Mr. Samir dropped his head in reverence and uttered, solemnly, a long monologue worthy of a corrupt judge and a pack of hyenas sitting on jury benches, waiting for leftovers from a lioness with hungry cubs under an African tree.

Excuse me, Madame Nabila. But I must tell everyone what is happening in our neighbourhood. You see, I was attacked by the most beautiful pack of dogs last night. Yes, we might all die any minute from falling bombs and bullets, but if we get rabies from these expensive dogs we might have an epidemic here. I came specifically to you because I know that your nephew has a gun and that he has friends in the militia. Maybe he knows someone in the higher ranks who can do something about it. If I had a gun or knew how to use one, I would get rid of them all. There are kids and women who might be attacked, and there is a pile of garbage not too far from your house, and those dogs might attack even you or anyone. .

Oh my God, absolutely, Mr. Samir, we have to do something about it. I am terrified of dogs.

Yes.

Please come in.

Well. . eh. . okay.

Were do they come from? We never had dogs loose like that before.

Well, there is no government, no law, no order any more, and everyone throws garbage on the streets, some even throw it from the balcony. The other day. . the people above us. .

God help us. . what a life we have now.

Things have changed, Madame Nabila. Everything has changed. . There is no respect in this war. .

Coffee, Professor Samir?

Well, no, thank you.

Oh yes. . We have to have coffee. It will calm your nerves.

Okay, no sugar, please. . We must get rid of them, Madame Nabila, absolutely.

I will tell Gargourty about it. How is your son?

He is well, thank you.

He is in America?

Yes, in Kentucky. The telephone is hard. You know, the lines. . He tries to call. He is always worried. . They see the news there. . And we cannot call him, my wife tries for hours. .

America, all our trouble comes from America, Mr. Samir.

Well, yes, that dog Kissinger’s plan, Madame Nabila.

The oil, they want the oil in the region, Mr. Samir.

Yes, Madame Nabila. Yes, you are right. Your coffee is very good.

Sahtayn . How is your wife?

Well, she sits all day complaining, Madame Nabila. You know, since Ziad left she cries all the time.

Your wife is a wonderful lady, Mr. Samir. The other day I saw her on the street. I did not stop and talk to her. . You know, Mr. Samir, we do not know when the bombing will start any more. We are always rushing. . I listen to the news all day. .

I am sorry, but I have to leave, Madame Nabila. Yes, may God be with you.

The dogs have to go.

I will talk to Gargourty.

Au revoir .

NABILA PICKED UP the phone and called Abou-Nahra.

Dogs!? Abou-Nahra said. Is it the time for talk of dogs now? Is that what you called me for?

Do you know what rabies is, Abou? It makes you bark like a dog. They will put a piece of wood in your mouth for you to bite. Yeah, you will be driving your big Range Rover with a piece of wood in your mouth. . Oh well, maybe it is not a good idea after all, Abou. . Do something about it. . Do something for the people besides shooting them and taking their money.