Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

She let out a sardonic laugh.

“I want to kiss you,” I said. “All of you. Even your feet.”

“Really?” she asked coyly.

“Really.”

“I have to go now. Call me in the morning.”

“It’s better if you call me.”

I hung up the phone. I poured the rest of the beer into the glass and drank it in one swallow. I lit a cigarette and turned on the television.

I watched the last scenes from an American TV series, where police cars converged as usual from all directions, their sirens wailing. After that came the news. It carried a report about an Arab summit meeting in Amman to be held within days. And statements by Egyptian officials on the occasion of the third anniversary of the historical peace initiative. The Egyptian foreign minister appeared on the screen, announcing that the peace treaty made the 1973 war Egypt’s last. He was followed by the Egyptian chief of staff, Abu Ghazaleh, declaring the readiness of the Egyptian armed forces to defend the Gulf states.

I heard the sound of the outer door opening. Wadia walked in, carrying a bag of apples. I took the bag from him and put it on the table. He took off his jacket and threw it on the couch.

He gestured to the television, and asked, “Did you watch the news from the beginning?”

I nodded. “The states participating in the summit haven’t been determined yet.”

“I’ll be going to Amman in the morning,” he said. “I see you finished early today. Have you finished the work of going through the film?”

“We will be done in two days’ time. After that, two or three days to write the voiceover, then I travel immediately after that.”

“And the book?”

“The owner of Modern Publishing called me to apologize. As for Lamia, she hasn’t finished reading the manuscript yet.”

“Didn’t you say you had an agreement with Adnan? I don’t understand what she’s up to. I’m afraid there’s something funny going on.”

“You mean they are trying to get out of the contract?”

“Something like that.”

I shrugged. “In that case, my only option is Safwan.”

“But Safwan won’t pay you anything. For now, at least.”

“So, all I have left is my payment for the film.”

“How much will they pay you?”

“I don’t know… We haven’t talked about that yet.”

“You should bring it up with Antoinette. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone is paid. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

“No need for that. I’ll talk to her.”

He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook, then headed toward the telephone.

“Don’t you need cash?” he asked as he dialed a number.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“Why don’t you write an article or a short story for a newspaper?” he asked, dialing again. “You can make some real money if you want.”

“I know.”

He put the phone up to his ear. “Write anything. Everyone does that. You know the current terminology — it’s all straight from the revolutionary lexicon.”

“I’m very stressed. And I haven’t been sleeping well. I have a hard time holding the pen. I wouldn’t even know how to write an opinion piece.”

He put down the receiver and flipped through the pages of his notebook, adding: “How about an interview with a fascinating personality?”

“How much would an interview with Carlos be worth?”

“The international terrorist? There’s a rumor going around that he’s in Beirut.”

I nodded. “If I meet him, I’ll sit down and have a talk with him. I believe that’s something I could do.”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“You mean you know where he is?”

“No, but I might come across him.”

He walked toward me in a state of excitement. “An exclusive interview like that would be priceless. All the newspapers and wire agencies in the world would compete to buy it. Are you being serious about this?”

“Of course.”

“You would be the first person in the world to interview him.”

“That’s why I asked you about how much I could get for it.”

“You would be the one to set the price. Listen. Let me come with you. We’ll put together an unprecedented face-to-face interview.”

“I’m not certain yet that I’ll succeed in meeting him.”

He looked at his watch, and then walked over to the phone. He stopped suddenly and started pacing back and forth in the living room while thinking. Then he picked up his jacket, put the notebook back in its pocket and put it on, saying, “I’d advise you to make this matter a priority. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime for any journalist. If you get cold feet or change your mind for any reason, I’m ready to go in your place. I’m going to the agency now. Call me there if you need anything.”

I nodded, and my eyes followed him out the door.

I ate my breakfast quickly, then swept the apartment and tidied up the living room. I scrubbed the bathroom sink, the tub, the toilet seat and its cover. With some difficulty, I was able to remove the bits of soap stuck to the sink. I washed the dishes piled up in the kitchen, and brought a little order to its chaos. Then I shaved and showered. I changed my underwear. Then I hung the wet towel out to dry on the balcony, and put a clean one in its place.

Around 10 am, I called Lamia.

“Are you going to Fakahani today?” she asked me.

“Yes. Why?” I replied.

“I can drive you there. I won’t be going to the office.”

“Excellent. I’ll be waiting for you. What would you say to coming up first for coffee?”

She hesitated for a moment, then asked me, “Is Wadia with you?”

“Wadia’s in Amman. He won’t be coming back before tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“And what about your bodyguard? Will he be coming with you?”

“I’ll get rid of him before I come,” she said with a laugh. “Bye bye,” she added, in English.

I poured myself a glass of cognac and sat down to drink it in the living room, as I observed the cloud-covered sky through the balcony door. Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer rang.

I hugged her with one arm while locking the door with the other arm. She gently extricated herself, saying:

“I escaped Abu Khalil, but I’ll have to go back soon, otherwise he’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”

She undid the buttons on her raincoat as she walked toward the sofa. Then she took it off and tossed it on a chair, followed by her purse. Only then did she sit down.

She was wearing tight brown chamois pants and a yellow blouse. There were thick woolen yellow stockings on her feet, in open-back platform shoes.

“Where’s that coffee you claimed to have?” she asked.

“Coming right up,” I said.

I hurried to the kitchen, made the coffee, and brought it out to the living room. I put it on the table. I sat next to Lamia and put my arms around her. Then I kissed her on the lips.

“What’s that?” she asked suddenly, pulling away from me.

She was referring to a small black box mounted over the apartment door.

“The buzzer,” I said, with an air of bafflement.

“Are you sure?”

“What else could it be?” I replied.

“A recording device or a hidden camera.”

I laughed. She took a sip of coffee and put the cup back down on the tray, saying: “I’d like to use the bathroom.”

I stood up to let her pass.

“You have to leave the apartment,” she said.

“But why?” I asked, perplexed.

“I won’t be able to if you stay here. I’m embarrassed.”

“But where should I go?”

“Buy me something. Do you have mineral water?”

“I think so. There’s a bottle or two of Sihha.”