Rabee Jaber - The Mehlis Report

The glass building — past the building with the green dome, and behind the Virgin — formed the edge of the plaza. It was only completed a year ago. Tall. Blue. Its raised entrance increasing the feeling of height. He can’t see its pool from here.

He doesn’t know whose number this is. Should he answer, or not? He looks at the lights on the green dome. That used to be the Opera Cinema. He had seen countless movies there, long years ago. How many lives does a person live in a single lifetime? After the war, he climbed up a hill of dirt and grass and iron and shattered wood, and he saw — inside the building — that a fire had swept through the hall. The seats were charred, and the walls were black. Yet the backs of the seats had not been destroyed. Black, square, lined up row after row, covered in white lines that looked like melted wax. They looked like rows of tombstones. A flock of pigeons behind the last row of seats flapped their wings and took off. They flew through the stagnant air and out the shattered windows. The sun was blinding in its whiteness. The pigeons, black as coal against the sun, looked as if they too had been burned.

His cell phone stops ringing.

“Listen, Saman. I call you, but you don’t answer. You look at my number, and you don’t answer because you don’t know who it is. I’m calling you from this side. From a place where no one calls anyone, where no one asks for anything. Well, in a way we do ask for things, but we’re not really asking. We ask for less than we used to. It’s better here.

“I call you, but you don’t answer. I want to tell you things. I have so many things to tell you. I’ve said it all many times. And many times, when I’m unable to speak these things, or when I simply don’t speak them, Saman, I sit and write them down on paper. I write and write and write. At first it was hard to write, but gradually I learned. I learned slowly, but I learned. Understanding comes with time. I came to know what I would write, and what I wouldn’t. I began to write, and write, and write. I’m not the only one who writes, but when I write I’m alone. There are things I want to say, things I want to tell myself. And things I want to tell you. I’m not alone. And neither are you. But there are times when we don’t know that. Most of the time we don’t know it. Most of the time people think they’re alone. They’re not alone, but they think they are. And because they think they’re alone, they come to be alone.

“I call you, but you don’t answer. You look at the number and you don’t answer because you don’t know it. You should see eight numbers on your phone. When the call is domestic, you see eight numbers. When it’s international, you see more. But it surprises you to look at the tiny blue screen and see only two or three numbers, or just one. What is this? you ask yourself: this new Japanese cell phone can’t already be broken. And before you can pursue your thoughts, the ringing stops. Wrong number, you think, or the lines must be crossed, and you tell yourself you’ll call the company to ask them about this, but you never call, and you never ask, because you’ve already almost forgotten it, because you’re not really interested.

“I call you, but you don’t answer. I want to ask you why you’re not interested. You look at the number. There are eight digits this time, but you don’t know the two-digit area code at the beginning. The code for cell phones is 03, Beirut is 01, Sidon is 07, Jounieh is 09, Mount Lebanon is 05. And after the area code, you see the actual number of the person who’s calling. But this area code confuses you: Where’s this person calling from, who are they, and why are they calling? You’re confused for a moment, you look at the green dome, there where the cinema used to be — the movies, and the popcorn, and all the whispering, and the orange juice, the bottles of Crush, the chocolate bars in silver wrappings. You look at the dome and you know that the building isn’t the Opera Cinema anymore, it houses an insurance company now, and on the wall there’s a marble plaque with dates — when it was built, when it was renovated — the building isn’t a movie theater anymore, although it used to be one — and on that marble plaque they’ve written the names of the owners, old and new, beside the dates, but they haven’t written that it used to be a cinema.

“I call, but you don’t answer. You hesitate a moment in front of the number, and then the phone stops ringing. And you forget that it ever rang. In a man’s life the phone rings a lot. So why should he care about every single phone call? What happens if you don’t answer? Do you remember a time when you ever answered the phone and it changed things? You don’t answer. I call you, and you look at the number, but you don’t answer. It’s as if you don’t care. Why don’t you care? I’m not just talking about the phone. That should be clear by now. I’m talking about a lot of things.

“I want to speak with you. Do you know that I want to speak with you? But how would you know? I tell myself that you know. When you write, you discover things about the world that you never knew before. When I started writing more quickly, I felt strong. But then the feeling vanished. And I wanted to rip up what I’d written. In the beginning I was slow. Then I became quicker. And when I came to believe that I was good at this, I soon discovered I wasn’t. So I stopped writing. Understanding comes with time. I started writing again. Sometimes more slowly, and sometimes more quickly. But now I feel joy when I write. Not exactly joy. I feel that I have to write what I’m writing. I wanted to tear up the older pages I’d written, but they said that was forbidden. All pages are kept in the archives. It’s forbidden to tear up anything. It’s the law. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think about those pages now. I’ve started writing what I need to write: rest and peace of mind only come to me when I write. I’m not alone. But when I write I am.

“Listen, Saman. I’ve got things I need to tell you. I’m not calling you because I’m the only one who wants me to call. I’m calling you because you want me to call you as well. You don’t fully realize it, but that’s what you want. I have things to tell you. What’s this empty life you’re living, Saman? Why don’t you make something of your days? It’s all well and good for you to walk through the streets and mentally register the buildings and the sky and how they’ve all changed. It’s all well and good for you to swim and watch your weight, to not let yourself go. That’s all well and good. But it’s not good for you to waste your time reading newspapers and aimlessly chasing after short skirts. How many women have you known? What good has it done you? Why don’t you open a book and read something of value? One has to grow. That’s our task. To become more beautiful. To become better. To keep improving. But you, what do you do? Besides wasting your time with newspapers and dinners and women, what do you do? You drink like a camel, you never read anything worthwhile, and you neglect your work. It’s as if you don’t care.

“Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you were born in an inauspicious hour. A city thrives for a time, then collapses. A house flourishes for decades, then falls. The city is falling now too. Your problem is that you were born at a moment when the house is collapsing. The aristocratic district is reeling. The blows of time are hard. The elderly bow their heads: old bones and walking sticks, skin overrun by wrinkles. On Abd al-Wahab al-Inglizi, from one end of that street to the other, the houses are teeming with the elderly. Their heads crowned with white hair, their garages full of fancy cars that never move. And those small dogs that sound more like cats: dogs with birth certificates, only ever eating from sealed cans, only ever eating small portions. Dogs brought to Beirut from beyond the sea.