Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

I happened to glance at the television screen, and found that the news had started. I turned up the volume and listened to the anchorman talk about 3 billion dollars that Iraq had received from Saudi Arabia to make up for its losses in the war with Iran. Then a photo of Sadat appeared on the screen in relation to an interview he gave with the German magazine Der Spiegel , in which he stated that Egypt and the US had a strategic relationship, and that “his country” was ready to offer facilities to the United States and Western nations so those states could defend their interests in the Gulf.

Sadat seemed to have monopolized the evening news, since he soon appeared at a convention for his political party in Cairo. This time his distinctive voice came out to us as well: “On May 27, 1979… that is, after I raised the Egyptian flag over Arish… On the 27th I was in Arish and Begin came up to me… We went ’n’ visited Bir Saba… Y’know, the topic of Sinai is totally over… uhh, by raising the flag over Arish… I told him, c’mon, let’s sit down… That happened yesterday when I raised the flag over Arish… That means a lot… Why? It means that you really respect your agreements… I know that… You really carry out your obligations… OK, what’s still to come is we have a year left for Palestinian self-rule… Starting from now, we get rid of the agreement… What’s still to come, Begin… Begin said, That’s OK… What do you think? He didn’t need — he didn’t ask me for anything more than security measures… All the security measures they asked for, I told them, I’ll give ’em to you and more. He told me something really great… I told him what would you say to a million square meters a day of Nile water… He told me something really great…”

I suddenly felt overtired and wanted to sleep. As I stood up, I said, “I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t say a word and kept looking at the television screen in an anxious silence. I leaned over him and put my hand on his head.

“Believe me, Wadia,” I said, “I don’t blame you at all.”

The macho bodyguard had a serious look on his face. He occupied a seat next to the secretary’s desk, stretching his long legs out in front of it. He nearly blocked the way. As usual with him, his gun hung from his waist.

“Madame is waiting for you,” the secretary said, gesturing to the inner office.

I walked down the corridor leading to her office. I saw her standing at the door, with her hands out to me. She took my hand between her palms and drew me inside. Then she pulled back from me and headed to her chair behind the desk, saying, “Have a seat and tell me what happened.”

I sat down in the chair by the front of her desk. I noticed she had combed her hair back and gathered it into a knot. She was wearing a pink silk sleeveless blouse, and a full skirt of the same color. I immediately noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She saw where my eyes were looking and her face went red.

“The sun is strong today,” she said. “Happy, ya bey ?”

I told her all about what had happened to me; we laughed together at the Carlos story.

“What’s the news with my book?” I asked her.

“I really liked it, and we’ll take it. When are you leaving Beirut?”

“I have a reservation for the plane on Friday.”

“I’ll draw up your contract today.”

“What about the money?”

“As soon as you sign it, you’ll get it.”

She pulled out some paper and said, “Can you wait for me a little bit? You can drink some coffee and read the papers until I’m done.”

The secretary brought coffee. I picked up one of the newspapers. The front page was shared by news about the Arab summit conference in Amman, a new sweep of arrests against the Palestinians there, and Sadat’s two interviews, which I’d listened to yesterday. There was a reference to a third interview with Danish television, in which he was quoted as saying: “It has been confirmed that God is preparing me for a special mission.”

I flipped through the newspaper and on the last page, I saw a photo of a boy around seven years old, with a handsome face and wide eyes. He sat between two friends behind a desk in a schoolroom. The photo was taken from the front, and at a low angle, so the legs of the three schoolboys showed, as well as a bookbag belonging to one of them on the floor. They all had their legs crossed, revealing their socks and shoes, except for the handsome-looking boy, who put the tip of his pen in his mouth, quietly thinking. His left leg, thrown over his right one, consisted of an empty pants leg.

The accompanying article talked about artificial limbs, on the occasion of the International Year of the Disabled. I read that the market for artificial limbs in Lebanon had been flourishing recently, despite the difficulties it faced. The progress that had been made in their manufacture meant that only the rich were able to benefit from them, while the overwhelming majority of injured people in Lebanon were among the poor.

Below the photo of the boy, I read this caption: “An artificial limb is not like a natural limb, as many believe, but is a device to help people make some of the essential movements they need to get around.”

There was another photograph of the same boy on the street: he supported himself on crutches next to his two friends, and had his bookbag slung over his back. His neck was turned to follow a soccer game among boys his age.

In a third photograph, another boy, around four years old, appeared. He was wearing a vest over his shirt, and he was standing between two metal barricades that revealed his lower half, while the doctor was bent down over his amputated leg, fitting him for an artificial limb. Beneath the photo I read: “Walking is a series of movements made by several joints in the leg, hip, knee, anklebone and toes. Amputation usually takes place above or below the knee.”

Lamia got out of her chair and walked to the bookshelf. She pulled out a folder and brought it back with her. She stopped next to me, laid the folder flat on her desk, and bent over it.

The office door was open, and I could see one side of the hallway leading to the outer reception room. Without taking my eyes off the door, I leaned over a little, and placed the palm of my hand on her calf. Slowly, I traced my fingers up to the back of her knee, then I wrapped my hand wrapped around her knee from the front, and continued moving it up her thigh.

Her skin was firm, smooth and warm. After a moment, my hand bumped against a piece of cloth. I stopped and looked up at her. She was still bent over the folder, but her eyes were closed.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and they met mine.

“I’m not embarrassed in front of you,” she said.

The noise of the explosion was powerful; the building shook down to its foundations. I quickly pulled my hand away, while she stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.

“It’s the sonic boom,” she said, hurrying to the window.

The noise was repeated again. Then several weak, sporadic explosions echoed back, similar to anti-aircraft gun rounds. The secretary walked in on us in an agitated state, saying, “Israeli planes.”

She joined us at the window. We stood there, looking at the sky without seeing anything. The noise didn’t occur again, so the secretary left, closing the door behind her.

I brought my mouth up close to Lamia’s bare arm, and imprinted a kiss just outside her armpit. I noticed that her face was pale.

“Are you afraid?” she asked me.

“Of course,” I replied.

I put my arms around her and plucked at her ear with my lips. She rested her breasts against my chest, then pulled away from me, whispering: “Someone’s coming in.”