Elias Khoury - White Masks

But Ahmad. . how could he die?

I told him, I begged him, not to! I still can’t believe it. I hardly saw his body for one minute. They brought him home in the coffin, they put it on his bed, and they opened it for just one minute and then they took it away. There was blood on his neck, it was horrible. And now, he’s dead. Everybody’s dead. Abu Saïd is dead too.

The war was supposed to be over. That’s what people said. The Deterrent 10had come in and everyone said it was over. But it was nothing of the sort. Wars are like cats, it’s one litter after another. .

One day Abu Saïd is standing outside his butcher’s shop, with the freshly-slaughtered carcasses hanging from their hooks, and this car speeds by, guns blazing. . and, boom, he’s dead.

Nadeem was really upset. When he saw Abu Saïd sprawled out on the sidewalk with the strung-up lambs in the storefront, he came home crying like a child. Why did they kill him? I don’t know, Nadeem wouldn’t say anything. All I know is that ever since Abu Saïd died, Nadeem has started coming home early again. He’ll watch TV, have a glass of araq with a plate of labneh and some sliced tomatoes, and then go to bed.

Mother said they closed down the gambling den after Abu Saïd died. Which means Nadeem was involved. But I never asked-I don’t want to know. The important thing is he no longer hits me, and he doesn’t rant and rave and turn the house upside down. And he no longer gets apoplectic every time he sees Ahmad’s picture in its black frame hanging in the living room. And he’s stopped getting upset when I tell the children stories of Ahmad dancing in the ring and beating his opponent in every boxing match he was in.

Basically, he’s calmed down. Ahmad never did, however.

He used to come home from school, toss his books on the bed, and go straight out again to the sports club; and he wouldn’t return until after dark. Mother complained that he wasn’t studying hard enough but Father always said the boy had a future full of promise. Some future! What promise? He’s gone now, dead and gone.

They’re all dead. Even the son of our neighbor Abu Khalil died. The war was supposed to be over, that’s what everyone said, but they still kidnapped him, when his body came back, it was mutilated. Poor old Abu Khalil, sitting on a chair outside his front door, day after day, waiting for people to come and condole with him! Nine months he didn’t move off that chair, sitting there waiting all day, drinking endless cups of coffee and listening to the radio.

They’re all dead now.

What I’d like to know is why this shelling doesn’t stop, since the war is supposed to be over. When I asked Nadeem, he said it was the Jews.

“The Jews are shelling the South,” I told him, “not here in Beirut.”

But he said the only explanation for the shelling was the Jews.

“Why are they still shelling?” Abu Khalil would ask the mourners coming to condole with him. “Looks to me like they want to kill every single person — like that, there won’t be anyone left who’s witnessed this war to do the telling: if someone survived to tell the tale there’d never be another war. It seems that this country’s destiny is to spawn a new war every twenty years. That’s why everyone must be killed.”

“But who would do the fighting then, Abu Khalil?”

“People. .”

“But they would have all died.”

“Others would replace them. The human race is resilient, it’s not easily annihilated. God created Man to hold sway over Nature, to burn it all up if he so wishes! And that’s what we’ve done, we’ve torched every field and every orchard, and if it came to it, we might even set the sea alight.” Abu Khalil is always waiting for visitors and I feel scared. I’ve been scared of the shelling ever since the war began — unlike Nadeem, who was totally unfazed by it. He’d come home at all hours and never seemed scared of anything. But he’s changed. Now, whenever he hears the shelling, he doesn’t stir. He stays home all day, and sits quietly in a corner like a child who’s afraid he’s going to be punished.

Everyone’s scared now, even my father was. And he too died… Who would have thought that you would meet such an ignominious end, Abu Ahmad! They killed you and threw you in a heap of garbage. . it was a complete fluke that anyone found you at all. In the garbage, Abu Ahmad! First your son, then you!

What the hell is going on here?

Right from the beginning, I never understood what was going on. I mean, why did my father lock himself up in his room like that? It must have been because of my mother, she’s so insufferable! God help you, Abu Ahmad, with her for a wife! Whenever I went to visit them — even though I never saw him — the smell was unbearable. If my mother was cleaning the room every day, as she claimed, where then was this smell coming from? Maybe it was the cat. Honestly, I don’t know how she ever agreed to this cat business. But even cats don’t produce such a foul odor! And then why did she let him out of the house? She should never have let him go. “But what could I do?” she lamented afterwards. . What could she have done? She could have stopped him. . she could’ve asked the neighbors for help. But she worried about what people would say. . And now we’re in the papers. .

What’s more, how could he disappear for three whole weeks, without us knowing anything of his whereabouts, when, afterwards, everyone said they kept bumping into him on the street? It’s all Nadeem’s fault: he tells me that since Abu Saïd died, he no longer knows “the boys.” How could they leave him like that after he died in such a gruesome way, how could they bring his body home, with that stench, and put on such a boisterous celebration at his funeral!

As far as I’m concerned, it’s utterly incomprehensible. None of it makes sense, and I can’t bear to think about it anymore. I don’t even care to know who the killer is. And if we did know, what could we do? Take our revenge? And who would do it anyway? Nadeem, who’s terrified? Or maybe the husband of Sitt Su’ad? Those people are all armed to the teeth, how could we possibly take them on? An eye is no match for an awl, as the saying goes. But why, that’s what I want to know, why did they do it?

Because he went around painting the walls? That’s nothing but a lie! The walls in Beirut are not painted, period. If he had whitewashed them, the city would look nicer. So then, was it to rob him? He wasn’t carrying any money, no more than twenty lira anyhow. That’s what Mother said. Or was it for his worthless wedding band?

At least, I’m not afraid for him anymore: he died, and found his rest. But it’s my mother. She’s been through so much, and Su’ad doesn’t seem to care. She says her husband won’t let her come to Beirut because the coastal highway is too dangerous, and driving down the other way, the inland route, is very long — it takes over six hours. The truth be told, I don’t have much time for that husband of hers, even if he is a rich contractor! All he’s got to show for it is his potbelly and his affectations of piety! His is the worst sort, as Nadeem says, appearing holier-than-thou but stopping at nothing to get what he wants. . completely underhandedly of course! He talks like some character out of that TV soap, Abu Milhim , all morally superior and sanctimonious, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!

So he won’t let her come to Beirut, and she won’t move herself, and I’ve had enough: I can’t take anymore, I can’t shoulder the entire responsibility by myself! Nadeem says I could stay with her, he even suggested she should live with us, but she wouldn’t hear of it:

“And leave the house! Not over my dead body. This is my home.”