Rabee Jaber - The Mehlis Report

But the clock’s chimes oppressed him on the night of the Geitawi explosion. After the explosion had convulsed the air and woken him from his light slumber on the old sofa outside (in the peaceful courtyard), the chimes rang hollowly from the depths of the house and oppressed him. Oppressed him? That isn’t the right word. Words don’t say anything. We say “moon,” but that word isn’t the moon. The moon is a white object swimming in the heights. How could a single word ever grasp it?

He had opened his eyes in terror. That horrifying thunderous noise, what was it? Surely an explosion. Surely a detonation. The air had roared and he’d heard glass breaking. He wanted to get up from the sofa, walk into the house, and turn on the TV. Yet before he’d moved from the spot, the moon surprised him at the top edge of the oak tree. And he’d remembered why he was lounging there. He had come out to look at that moon. He had come back from the Starbucks on Sassine Square at 9:30 that night: he’d felt tired and thought to himself, it’s best I go home early tonight. So he’d excused himself from his friends and left. Roger had wanted to give him a lift, but he said no, I’ll walk. Walking at night was a real pleasure. And then there was the moon in the sky. The people sitting outside Starbucks (at the tables on the sidewalk, drinking coffee and Nescafé and iced milk) were watching the cars going by on Sassine Square more than the sky. Yet the customers at the café could still feel the full moon that night. The moon has an effect on people. Every now and then someone would raise their head skyward and gaze at the lofty round disc. And even if you didn’t look up, the white light still stole over you. He said good-night to everyone and left. Sassine Square was like the crown on the summit of Mount Achrafieh. The traffic was thick in the square. A lot of streets come together there. On its other side, the tables in front of the Chase restaurant were also packed with customers. He’d turned away from his friends and quickly crossed the road in the direction of the newspaper stand. He’d passed in front of the building where the Shrimpy restaurant used to be, and where a café had finally opened, across from Dunkin’ Donuts. He’d turned onto the street in front of the entrances to the ABC Mall. The city was buzzing that night. Tomorrow was Saturday: a holiday. The people had come out into the streets. A group of women had appeared. They were young, and were laughing and leaning on one another. They’d gone inside the mall and hovered around the fountain. On the other side of the street, men were lined up at the taxi stand. They were eating warm sandwiches from Sheikh Shawarma and from Falafel Fareeha. The two restaurants were next to each other, and the line of men stretched between them. Juice was dripping from the sandwiches onto the edge of the sidewalk, among the wheels of the parked cars and bikes. The streetlights shone on their hands and mouths, and were reflected in their eyes. As they ate, the sandwich wrappers fell to the ground. They stared at the girls and women coming and going from the ABC. The mall was buzzing too. The restaurants were packed, as were the cafés — even the ones underground. At first, people were angry about the mall being built here, here in the heart of Achrafieh. People were angry because the developers had bought the sports club that used to be here and tore it down to build this mall. Ever since he was in college, since before he was in college, Saman had gone to the Sons of Neptune Club on a daily basis. When he heard ABC had bought the place and that it would be torn down, he’d felt a lump in his throat. But here the mall was: electric, teeming with people, its gorgeous white marble standing against the night. And that beautiful moon filling all the bodies with energy. The city was hopping, as if it hadn’t been rocked by explosions just a few weeks earlier. As if it there weren’t a threat of it being completely upended at any hour. At any moment.

As he walked along the white wall of the Zahrat al-Ihsan School, he felt a wave of despair crash over him. One minute he was up, and the next he was down. What was this strange recent mood? When had this transformation begun? Had it begun with the disturbances? With February 14th? No, it had started before that. But when? At the end of last year? While he was watching the tsunami in the Indian Ocean on TV?

His birthday was December 28th. On his last one, he remembered thinking he’d completed half his life journey. Maybe more than half. The TV had been full of tidal waves and bodies and shattered wood. Naked corpses, swollen, black as coal.

Where had his despair come from? He’d just been enjoying the crowds and voices and laughter in front of Falafel Fareeha, and in front of Chocolat Nora and Hardee’s. The young bodies jostling one another in front of the passing cars had delighted him. People were honking their horns. Light was flowing, yellow and orange, from the streetlamps. He’d been happy, so what was weighing on him now? Was it the sight of the jostling young bodies? The laughing young women in short skirts; shirts that revealed their midriffs; bare, slender thighs.? Was it seeing all this that had so exhausted him? Was it desire? No, it wasn’t merely desire. What was it, then? The women crossed the street laughing and dancing, the headlights of the cars beaming at them. The lights were bright and revealing, and the sound of the horns cut through the night like knives. He looked at their faces fearfully, stealthily. What was this fear? It must have come from his mood — but then where had this dark mood come from? From outside, or from within?

He passed the memorial plaque and the sad olive tree, and then the Black Tulip store. Beneath the shade of the sycamores, he passed an intersection and turned onto Abd al-Wahab al-Inglizi Street. The sidewalk was covered with sycamore figs. They sweep it clear, and more fruit falls. And the more they sweep it, the more the fruit falls. His grandmother said people used to eat those figs in the old days, and they’d liked them better than regular figs.

There were posters of Samir Kassir on the walls. A few days after that man’s car exploded, Saman Yarid had gazed at the La Rose building. He had gazed at it as he stood on high: from the rooftop terrace of the ABC Mall.

From that vantage point, from the tiled plaza in front of the cinema entrance, the building looked as if it were leaning. The air was swaying the stunted potted trees at the edge of the terrace. And the building was leaning. He peered over the edge of the courtyard and saw orange trees below him in the playgrounds of the Zahrat al-Ihsan School. It had been a very long time since he’d seen those playgrounds. When had they planted the trees? He hadn’t even remembered they were there!

Cars passed in front of him on the road. Laughter, the smell of fried potatoes, and lights. Men on a balcony laughing. The giggles of women. Beirut is all laughter on Friday nights. Televisions flickered in the windows. In front of Bread Republic at the end of Furn al-Hayek Street, the smell of rising dough filled the air. At that moment he looked up: The moon was laughing. His despair left him. Whoever dies dies. And whoever lives lives. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

He washed up and put on his pajamas. He took his beer and went outside to sit for a while by the potted roses and look at the moon. It was a clear night. There wasn’t much smog in the air, so rare for Beirut. And the moon was full.

He sat down on the familiar sofa. He could smell the old wood and the old foam. This cover, who had embroidered it? His grandmother? The cover was threadbare, but the embroidery was still there. It hadn’t changed. Delicate blue flowers on the fraying white cloth.