Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

“Hi,” I said, using the same tone.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.

“Didn’t you tell me not to? And you promised to call me .”

“I couldn’t.”

“Did you get the contract and the advance?”

She didn’t answer my question, but asked me in turn: “What time are you heading to the airport?”

“I’m leaving here at six.”

“Is Wadia there with you?”

“No.”

“When is he coming back?”

“Tonight. Why?”

“I’ll come over in an hour.”

“Will you have the contract with you?” I asked.

“We’ll talk about that when I get there.”

I drained my glass and poured another one. By the time she came, I had had three more glasses.

She took off her coat, under which she had on a crimson skirt and an olive-green sweater with a low neck that revealed a blouse of the same color. She tossed her purse and the yellow envelope that contained my manuscript on the chair. She threw herself onto the couch.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Coffee?” I asked, still standing.

“I don’t want any,” she replied.

I sat down in front of her and lit a cigarette.

“Do you know what we realized about the gunman who attacked Abu Khalil? There was no trace of him. No one else saw him. It’s obvious he made up the whole story.”

“Why?”

“To convince us that we needed him, after he got the sense that I would be getting rid of him. You know, I’m afraid of him sometimes? I suspect he was a sniper during the early part of the war.”

“What was his original job before the war?”

“I think he worked in sales, or was a building security guard.”

“Was he the one that planned the explosion?”

“No. That’s another story. We know who did that, and we’ve come to an agreement with them.’’

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you.

“Adnan talked to me yesterday,” she said after a moment. “I read him several paragraphs from your manuscript. The paragraphs that can cause problems and prevent it from being distributed in Arab countries. He told me he can’t assume the responsibility for publishing it in the current circumstances.”

I lit another cigarette.

“You could have told me that on the phone,” I pointed out.

“You’re in a bad mood,” she said.

“Your friend came to see me yesterday.”

“Jamila? How?”

“She called me and asked to meet me.”

“What did she want?” she asked, perplexed.

“She asked me to break off my relationship with you.”

She became angry.

“Sticking her nose in! I’ve had it with her. She’s always that way with my friends.”

“Why?”

She stared at me with her eyes wide and innocent-looking: “I don’t know.”

“She told me everything. I mean about the relationship between the two of you.”

Her face went pale. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“You don’t have to play dumb. I’m not asking you to explain yourself.”

“Why should I have to explain myself?” she shouted furiously at me. “I can do what I like.”

“Exactly.”

“Is it my fault I can’t stand you men and your boorishness, your egos and your lies?” she went on in the same agitated state. “You don’t know what Lebanese men are like. Their whole lives revolve around paying in installments, joining the rat race, and producing a son to carry on the family name.”

“They do that on account of you women.”

“I know. That’s why I always go back to him. Generally I prefer men.”

I laughed and her anger dissipated. She smiled.

“You’re a free woman,” I said. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I only knew happiness when my mother was by my side. She was strong. I wanted to be like her, so I took part in demonstrations.”

“When you were in college?”

She nodded. “Can you believe I used to shout out slogans for Palestine and Gamal Abdel Nasser, and against imperialism? Sometimes I shouted slogans for Mao Zedong.”

“And then what happened?”

“My mother died. Then I got married. I couldn’t find the cause that would sweep me off my feet.”

“Because you only love yourself.”

“How did you know?” she said, mockingly. “Actually, I love my body.”

“I’m being serious. You only take. I challenge you to recall one time that you gave.”

She smiled and gestured with her chin at the couch, saying, “Lots of times. With you, for example.”

“With me you took without giving,” I said.

She stood up and walked over to me, then sat on my lap.

“Don’t you want to give me something before you travel?”

She looked appealing, her face flushed with emotion. I put my arm around her waist and she leaned against my chest.

“I didn’t finish telling you what Adnan told me,” she said. “He is prepared to take a risk on your behalf. Because of the promise he gave you. But in this situation, you will have to relinquish all your rights.”

“Is that all?”

“No. There’s another idea. There is a Swiss company that is interested in publishing the book.”

“In Arabic?”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t know the Swiss read Arabic.”

“We will distribute it to Arab readers.”

“In Switzerland?”

“No, dummy. Use your brain. The book didn’t leave a single Arab regime unscathed. And then there’s the sex in it. What is the only place where it can be distributed without restrictions?”

“Lebanon,” I volunteered.

“Lebanon isn’t a distribution center. It’s only a production center. There isn’t a publisher in his right mind who would think of relying on Lebanese readers alone. Only one place can easily print and distribute the book.”

“Where?” I asked, puzzled.

“I didn’t think you were this stupid. Israel, of course. There are more than one and a quarter million Palestinians thirsting to read something in Arabic.”

I lit a new cigarette and noticed my hand was steady.

“Write us a letter authorizing us to act on your behalf,” she went on. “We’ll take care of the whole thing. It will be a lucrative deal, and you’ll be able to get some of the advance before you leave.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Are you paying in cash or in kind?” I asked.

She slapped my chest playfully. “You’re terrible!” she said. “You don’t deserve to be treated nicely.”

She leaned over me and put her cheek up against mine.

“ You know, you haven’t slept with me yet ,” she whispered in English.

I placed my palm on the triangular opening of her sweater, and ran my hand up her neck, up to her clavicle. My fingers probed the base of her neck, and I felt her skin.

“Do you like my neck?” she whispered.

She pushed her head back to give me an opportunity to admire her neck, and I put my fingers around it.

She closed her eyes and a purple tinge appeared on the skin of her neck, spreading to her chin and cheeks. The place where I touched her neck was soft and tender, and I gently pressed on it.

“Hey,” she said in a faint voice. “You’re hurting me.”

I suddenly sensed that I was fully erect. Without letting go of her neck, I undid my pants with one hand, and pushed her clothes to the side. Then I leaned on top of her and raised my right hand to her neck. I clutched it between my fingers while thrusting into her body.

A mysterious glow burned in the space of the room, coursing through my body and my entire being. My fingers continued to press on her neck muscles and their bulging veins, while my body moved on top of her.

Her face began to contort with pain. Her lips slackened into a moan, and her neck and face turned red. But I paid no mind. The fire was lit before me. My semen was welling up inside me and was on the point of bursting out and gushing forth. Every squeeze of my fingers on her neck became a step toward the edge of the pitch-black abyss, where the exploding volcano was, and absolute ecstasy.