Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

My sleep was light and restless. I was aware of Wadia’s return, and his departure in the morning. Finally I got myself out of bed, feeling sluggish. I had breakfast and stood out on the balcony to smoke. I noticed that the streets were completely quiet. The shops were closed. Then I remembered that today was Lebanon’s independence day.

I sat at Wadia’s desk. But I didn’t have the energy to work. I pulled the telephone over and dialed Lamia’s number. I listened to the phone ring for a long time. Then I put the receiver back and walked to my room.

I put on my jacket. I made sure I had my passport in its inner pocket. I counted the cash I had on me and found that it came to no more than 200 lira. Then I left the apartment.

I headed toward Hamra Street, crossing streets that were almost empty of pedestrians. When I reached that familiar thoroughfare, I walked by Wimpy’s and the Mövenpick, then the Hamra Cinema and the Red Shoe. I stood on the corner by the Red Shoe and observed the Modka café on the sidewalk opposite.

I crossed the street and walked by the Modka. I kept walking as far as the Café de la Paix.

I pushed open the glass door and went inside. I sat down at a seat covered with artificial leather. A girl caked in makeup brought me a cup of Arabic coffee.

I sipped the coffee while smoking a cigarette as I watched the few other patrons. Then I paid my bill and left the café. I turned left and took a leisurely walk. I passed by the al-Nahar newspaper offices, and the Banque du Liban. I reached Burj El-Murr Square, then I looked out from the vantage point of the Fu’ad al-Shihab Bridge.

I passed through an abandoned checkpoint made of barrels into the neighborhood of Zuqaq al-Blat. The whole area seemed completely abandoned. Soon the street descended toward the left. A checkpoint blocked my path, with some gunmen standing there whose identity I couldn’t make out. But they paid no attention to me, and I walked through. A little later, I found myself in Riad al-Solh Square. I headed right and entered Martyrs’ Square.

Old Beirut’s main square appeared, surrounded by ruins on all sides. The old houses, most of which dated to the Ottoman era, were still standing. But their windows and the doors to their shops had been turned into dark holes pierced by twisted iron rods. On the roofs lingered the remaining frames of neon signs, which transformed the square at night into a blaze of light — prominent among them were the traces of an advertisement for Laziza Beer and Gandour Chocolate beside a Coca-Cola bottle.

In spite of that, the square teemed with activity. In front of the demolished buildings, wooden carts were lined up, carrying all kinds of goods, such as clothes, shoes, dishes and electrical appliances. In the entranceways of some demolished shops sat money-changers. Looking over all this were several armored cars bearing the emblem of the Deterrent Forces.

I walked around the square, looking for an alley that had a shop selling used foreign books, which I had dealt with on my previous visit. I entered an alley with a shop for cigarettes, newspapers and magazines at its entrance. A large poster on the wall next to the shop caught my eye: it consisted of a photograph duplicated several times of the top half of a naked woman, with her right arm wrapped around a naked man’s head. He was leaning with his mouth against her ear. His hair was draped around her head; she had her lips open and her eyes closed. The multiplication of the image suggested that this moment was drawn out and repeated.

I looked at the photo for a long time. Beneath it I could see a line of text in small print, so I got up close. I could make out the words printed in English: “The orgasm is a response that humans alone possess. No other mammals experience moments of intense climax like that during sexual intercourse.”

Looking at the poster wholly engrossed me, so I only noticed the sounds emerging from a dark door at the end of the alley when a group of shabby-looking men came out of it all at once. Soon I could make out the sound of women moaning: that’s when I realized it was coming from a theater. From the men coming out, and the fact that there was no billboard out front, I gathered it was a cheap movie hall showing the worst kind of X-rated movies.

I walked down the alley all the way to the end, and then found myself at an intersection where three streets met. A locked storefront carrying the name Gemayel Pharmacy looked out over it. I didn’t grasp the significance of the name until the stern face of the Phalangist leader, with mad-looking eyes, stared out at me from small-size posters on the walls. I realized that I had unwittingly entered the other section of Beirut.

I was about to retrace my steps when a black car pulled up beside me, and its two rear doors opened at the same instant. The next moment, two men surrounded me, grabbed my arms and then pushed me into the back seat. Instantly, the car shot forward and took off at high speed, its tires letting out a high-pitched squeal.

Before I could make out the face of anyone else in the car, a thick blindfold came down over my eyes, and practiced hands tied it forcefully behind my head. The hands reached into my pockets, under my arms, behind my back, between my legs and above my socks.

My body tensed up in anticipation of being hit. It occurred to me that I was in a better situation than I was the time I was arrested, when I was put into a similar car, next to the driver, and then punches rained down from behind on my neck and head.

The car slowed down and then came to a stop. I heard the sound of someone opening the doors. The person sitting to my right moved, while roughly pulling me out of the car.

I stumbled and would have fallen if one of them hadn’t propped me up from behind while cursing me out. Then he grabbed my left arm and pulled me across a narrow stretch of sidewalk that ended after several steps. After that, we walked for a little. Then we went up two other steps and continued walking. A little later, we went down a long staircase and through a damp place where our footfalls echoed loudly.

My escorts halted, and I heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Then cold air brushed my cheek. The hands that had been clutching my arm let go of me. One of them gave me a rough push forward, and I nearly fell on my face. Then I heard the sound of a nearby door slam, and the sound of footsteps getting fainter.

I stayed frozen in place, and sharpened my senses to make out whether there was someone nearby. My hands were free, so I hesitantly lifted them to my face. When no one tried to stop me, I tore the blindfold from my eyes.

A few seconds passed before I was able to see anything. I found myself all alone in a long, semi-darkened room with a high ceiling. Light made its way in through a skylight obstructed by iron bars. The room was bare of any furniture, and there was nothing in it that gave any suggestion of the character of the place or its owners. At the far end of the room, I saw several cardboard boxes. I walked toward them, and found they were empty. One of them bore the name of an American cleaning powder.

I searched for my pack of cigarettes but didn’t find it. I noticed that all my pockets were empty. And my wristwatch had been taken from me. I estimated the time to be close to two or three o’clock.

I walked up to the door and found that it was made of solid steel. I leaned down to the keyhole, and put my eye up to it, but I couldn’t distinguish anything outside, because of the lack of light. I moved my eye away and stuck my ear to the hole, but I didn’t hear a sound.

I backed away from the door and walked to the end of the room, then I turned and walked to the other end. I began walking back and forth across the room until I felt tired. So I sat down on the bare ground, leaning my back against the wall. Soon dampness began spreading into my body, so I stood up. I went to the door, and put my ear to the keyhole and listened.