I found Wadia in his office listening to the radio. “What’s the news?” I asked, as I threw myself into a chair.
“Sixty-eight kilograms of dynamite exploded in two car-bombs in East Beirut. The victims include nine killed and eighty wounded, in addition to the businesses, homes and cars that were damaged.’’
“Who did it?”
“Persons unknown, as usual. But we know what the result will be.”
“What?”
“An act of revenge against West Beirut.”
The young man brought me a cold can of beer which I sipped nervously.
“And you?” Wadia asked. “What have you been up to?”
I briefly mentioned to him the meetings I’d had. He commented on the story about the 990 copies, saying, “Did you really think you’d be getting anything out of them?”
After a moment, he asked, “Did you get in touch with Lamia?”
“I couldn’t find her, but I left her my name and phone number.”
“Obviously, you’ll be staying with us for some time. That’s great.”
“Why?”
“I have some work for you.”
“I’m not ready for anything. I’m overstressed and completely incapable of focusing.”
“It’s something that will certainly interest you.”
“What is it?”
“Writing the voiceover commentary for a documentary about the civil war.”
“But I don’t understand anything about this war. I still don’t know who’s on whose side, and who’s fighting who, and why.”
“That’s not a problem. You can easily figure out the whole story.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if a Lebanese writer did that, or at least someone who has lived through the war? There are lots of writers in Beirut.”
“It’s the director — she thinks it would be better if the writer of the voiceover came at the problem from the outside, so that his point of view is objective and fresh.”
“It’s a female director?”
“Yes. Antoinette Fakhuri.”
“I’ve heard about her. Is she good-looking?”
“She’s not bad.”
“Who’s the producer? Who’s behind the film?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I don’t want to end up finding out I’ve been a shill for one of the organizations.”
“So what?” he replied. ‘‘Do you remember your friend Abd al-Salam? He wrote a book about the life of the ‘Guiding Leader’ Saddam Hussein that had millions of copies printed. He made piles of money. It was his good luck that Saddam got rid of most of his longtime political allies who were mentioned in the book and then had the book pulled from the market. Abd al-Salam was commissioned to write a new book. That way, he was guaranteed never to be poor again. Then there was your other friend who made it known that he was Gaddafi’s lapdog. In any case, the film has nothing to do with any government. It’s being produced by a cooperative group of young Lebanese film-makers.’’
“And where are their political loyalties?”
“They’re not related to any party or movement. But generally, they’re leftists.”
“Are you sure there’s no one behind them?”
“I’m certain. The film is Antoinette’s project. She’s the kind known as a ‘clean-hands progressive’ — someone who’s still mired in foolish idealism.’’
“Would they pay me, or would they see me as a partner with a share in future earnings?”
“They’ll pay you, of course. Everything nowadays is done for pay.”
“How much do you think it will be?”
“I don’t know. But it will be a reasonable amount.”
I thought for a bit. “I’d have to see the movie first,” I said.
“Bon, as the Francophile Lebanese would say. We’ll go see her in an hour and a half. She’s using the studio that belongs to the PLO.”
We ate some shwarma sandwiches, and I drank two cans of beer. Around three, we left the office, and we took a taxi to the Fakahani district that was teeming with people.
We walked by the tall building that housed the Palestinian Media Bureau, then we turned into a street packed with working-class coffee shops and restaurants. We stopped near a taxi stand, from which emanated a repeated calclass="underline" One seat left for Damascus!
We went into a building guarded by two armed men. They took charge of inspecting us, after they confirmed by phone that we had an appointment. An elevator with a filthy floor carried us to the third story where Antoinette occupied a small office that had a desk, file cabinet and several chairs.
She was slim, of moderate height, in her late twenties, and was wearing a denim outfit. She stretched out to me a rough palm that she used to squeeze my hand with a force that betrayed her seriousness, while I gazed on two beautiful eyes that tended toward green, and a pale face that spoke of undernourishment, or stress and nervous tension.
She led us into a side room that was taken up by a table with a Moviola machine where the film editing was being done, saying, “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to reserve a screening room. But you’ll be able to get some idea about the film from the Moviola.”
There was a young man with long sideburns sitting at the table in front of a polished glass screen. The screen stood over a small projector surrounded by several reels, one of which held the black film tape, while another one had the brown audio tape.
Wadia and I sat down on a pair of chairs behind the young man. Antoinette leaned over him, following his hands as they spliced the two tapes together and affixed them to a double row of sprockets on the calibration machine.
She switched off the lights, and the room went dark, except for the thin light coming out from the table.
The young man touched one of the reels, and the two calibrated tapes started moving. A musical rattle made its way into our ears, while film frames followed each other in succession on the small screen.
The first frames were dark; they were followed by others defaced with scratch marks and circles. Then a large title card appeared in the middle of the frame with a scratch mark on it:
What happened to Lebanon?
Brief shots followed one after the other: of villages, of Beirut’s streets in both rich and poor districts, of storefront windows, of posters on walls, of television ads and photos of leaders. Fairuz’s enchanting voice wafted over them in several of her songs. Finally, the large title card appeared once again:
What happened to Lebanon?
Then Antoinette’s name, identified as both writer and director, and the names of those who worked with her. And then, finally, the film began.
At first, I was able to follow the various events and keep track of some of the key individuals. I was helped in that regard because the film resorted to the silent-movie tradition of using title cards that filled the screen in order to explain some details. But soon enough, I found myself incapable of following events, which started to blend into each other, and I was no longer able to keep track of individuals or places.
The screening went on for an hour and fifteen minutes. And when the light went on in the room, Antoinette took off her glasses. She offered me a pack of American cigarettes, so I took one and lit hers.
“What do you think?” she asked, smiling nervously.
“The film certainly grabs the viewer,” I replied. “And it has an obvious political value. But I would be lying to you if I told you that I understood everything.”
The muscles on her face relaxed, and her eyes sparkled as she responded, “That’s our problem. The only person who could absorb the film this way is someone who already knows Lebanon well. So from the beginning I resorted to using title cards. But clearly they haven’t solved the problem; they just created a new problem with the film’s balance. The solution I’ve reached is to replace the title cards and accompanying music with a voiceover commentary that closely follows the narrative, fills in all the gaps, and plays a part in supporting the dramatic structure of the film.