Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

The room where she was waiting for me was medium-sized. In the center was a low, round bed without pillows, but covered by a thick pink bedspread.

She pulled me by the hand and led me to a plush couch, then she sat down in front of me on the edge of the bed, watching me with interest, and observing my mood.

My eyes wandered from the thick carpet topped with wavy tufts of wool to the enormous curtains that revealed a glass panel looking out over a wide balcony. I relaxed into the couch, burying my body among the soft cushions.

I felt at peace as I cast my eye over the clean, carefully arranged furniture, and the dark sky visible through the glass. The peaceful feeling was total. I felt the desire to succumb to the couch and its cushions. And the desire not to move or speak, in order to prolong this moment a little.

She leaned over to me and put her hand on my knee. I took her arm and gently pulled her toward me. She moved over to sit next to me and buried her head in my neck.

Her body was warm, and I felt her tremble. But my nerves were relaxed, and I was enveloped in a kind of numbness.

I put my hand on her leg, and felt her soft skin. Then I ran my hand along the curves of her thighs. I looked up at her and saw that she was breathing heavily, with her eyes closed. Soon she began trembling with every touch of my fingers.

My fingers grew tired after a little while and my wrist started to hurt. But I continued touching her without taking my eyes off her face until her shudders subsided, and I took my hand away.

She collapsed on my chest, with her eyes still closed. After a while, she opened them, then sat up straight and readjusted her clothes, saying, “We’d better go back.”

I followed her to the library and sat facing her. I lit a cigarette as I watched her. She had a serious look in her eyes, lost in a flow of inner thoughts.

“I have to go now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Hmm?”

I repeated what I’d said.

“Stay for a little,” she said without enthusiasm. “I have an Egyptian movie starring Nadia El Guindy.”

“And I have a movie that needs a voiceover commentary.”

“As you wish,” she said.

She walked me to the elevator door.

“Will you be here tonight?” I asked as I walked into the elevator.

She nodded.

“Should I call you or will you call me?” I asked.

“No. I’ll call you,” she replied.

“I’ll be waiting.”

It seemed to me that the commentary should be reportorial and terse, without a trace of stirring emotions or sorrow in the tone. What would be the value of an impassioned, eloquent speech in the face of indelible scenes of bloodletting, conflagration and destruction? I was troubled by doubt for a moment about the need for a voiceover at all. Then I remembered that film required many things to give it vitality, and it could be that one of them was a human voice.

I had to get rid of most of the original title cards, or to be more precise, I had to incorporate them into my voiceover. Likewise, the length of this commentary had to progress in tandem with the amount of material in the film. In many places, the voiceover had to be synchronized with the scenes running through it.

I resorted to Antoinette’s abbreviated list recording the time of each shot. I knew that twenty seconds on the screen takes up, on average, thirty words. So I calculated the required number of words for each scene, which was composed of various shots. That made it possible for me to determine the amount of material I was being asked to write.

I decided to treat the voiceover as an integral text, with a beginning and an end, not as a collection of captions suited to each scene. I also had to take into account some scenes that needed explanation, and others that didn’t need a single word.

I threw myself completely into the work, and it was midday Thursday by the time I finished a draft of the voiceover. I reviewed it carefully from different angles — the logical sequence of events; good writing and a smooth style; the political viewpoint; getting the facts right; and from first to last, being in sync with the film’s scenes and shots.

The tight schedule gave me a sense of urgency, and I set myself to writing a final, clean copy, until the phone rang and pulled me out of my deep concentration.

I picked up the receiver, and a female voice that I didn’t recognize came to me down the line: “Sir…”

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m Jamila.”

I said hello again.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she went on. “But I really need to talk to you.”

“By all means.”

“Maybe we can meet somewhere a half-hour from now?”

“Where?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Would it be a problem for you to come to my place?”

“A café on Hamra Street would be better. Like the Modka, for example.”

“All right,” I said. “The Modka it is.”

I pushed my papers aside. I put on my jacket and left the apartment. I walked slowly toward Hamra Street. Then I strolled over to the Modka, and chose a table in a prominent spot. Not long after, I saw her looking for me, so I stood up. She came over, walking quickly. She squeezed my hand forcefully and sat down.

She was wearing a tweed jacket and skirt. She seemed a little thinner than I remembered. She had no makeup on, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes.

I asked the waiter for two cups of coffee and two glasses of cognac. I lit her cigarette for her. She took a deep drag, and said, “I apologize for intruding on you like this. Are you flying out tomorrow?”

“Yes. In the evening.”

“I want you to break off your relationship with Lamia as soon as you leave.”

I had raised the glass of cognac to my lips, but I put it back down and looked at her in astonishment.

She nodded and repeated what she had said.

“Strange,” I said. “First of all, you are assuming that there is a relationship between me and Lamia. Then, you are asking — ”

She cut me off. “I know everything, so you don’t have to deny it.”

“Even if we assume that that’s true,” I went on, “don’t you see that what you’re asking for is a little unusual?”

“I have my reasons, and you’ll be persuaded by them once I explain them to you.”

“There’s nothing between me and Lamia,” I said. “The relationship between us is only a professional one.”

She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and held the glass of cognac between her hands.

“Listen. I’ve known Lamia for many years now. She tells me everything.”

“If she was the one who told you about this so-called relationship we have, then she was lying.”

“I have two eyes, you know.”

I looked at her two powerful, masculine hands, with their trimmed nails carefully painted a seashell color. I feigned the nonchalance and confidence of someone with nothing to hide.

“I’m sure you’ll understand,” she went on.

She looked intently at her glass, hesitating; then she looked up at me and said: “There is a special relationship — a very special relationship — between me and Lamia.”

“Why does that concern me?”

“Sir, you have your life in Cairo. I don’t have anyone except Lamia. She is a delicate creature who needs to be completely protected and given a high level of affection. No one understands her, values her and loves her like I do. But sometimes something happens that I don’t understand. Let’s say an attempt to prove her femininity or her ability to attract men. Or maybe boredom.”

She laughed bitterly, adding, “Or a midlife crisis.”

“Maybe she belongs to both sides,” I added.

“Probably. But I haven’t lost hope that I can win her over completely to my side.”