“Something that would tie the entire film together,” she added, nervously waving her hand. I nodded my head to show I understood what she was saying, and she took that as my agreement to write the desired voiceover, saying: “Bon. I’ve put together some books, reports and newspaper clippings for you: they’ll give you a clear idea about the Lebanese problem as a whole. Read them first, and then we’ll talk.”
Wadia helped me carry a number of tomes and folders to a car belonging to the media office. The car took us to the house, and then delivered Wadia to a bookstore.
It was nearly six o’clock, so I took a quick bath and changed my clothes. Then I poured a big glass of whiskey and sat down in the living room in front of the television. Around seven fifteen, the taxi that Safwan had promised me arrived.
At his place, I found the Jordanian writer from that morning, and the olive-skinned woman who worked in his office, along with two young Libyan men from the embassy. We congregated in a big room stuffed with pieces of expensive furniture, from two Louis XV chairs, each of which occupied one and a half square meters, to enormous carved tables covered with a sheet of black marble.
The two Libyans were sitting next to each other on the edge of one of the chairs, facing the two women. While the olive-skinned woman relaxed serenely in her seat, a glass of whiskey in her hand, the Jordanian woman perched on the edge of hers, holding a key chain as if she were getting ready to stand up at any moment.
I sat down near the Libyans, so that the olive-skinned woman was directly in front of me. Safwan brought me a glass of whiskey; then his wife appeared, carrying several dishes of food. She was taller and younger than he was, by a wide margin. She moved with a noticeable listlessness. When she shook hands with me, she gave me a smile that didn’t radiate past her lips.
I heard them address the olive-skinned woman as Randa. I saw she had drained her glass and refilled it. The Jordanian woman refused to drink. She started shifting her gaze among the guests, and then she suddenly stood up, saying she had to leave, because she would be traveling early the next morning.
Safwan tried to dissuade her, but without success, so he said goodnight to her at the door. He sat down beside the Libyans after putting on a Fairuz tape. His wife didn’t join us in eating or drinking, but she sat down where the Jordanian woman had been, grabbed a hookah pipe, and busied herself with smoking, letting her eyes wander. Randa was avidly, steadily downing her whiskey. I looked at her several times, but she pretended not to notice.
I suddenly moved over next to her, saying, “I’m impressed by the way you drink.”
She laughed, but didn’t say anything. Then she turned her attention to the conversation going on between Safwan and the young Libyans.
I filled my glass and heard her tell Safwan, “They’ll take a thousand copies of each book.”
“We haven’t decided yet,” interjected the older of the two Libyans.
The other one, who had a drunken look in his eyes, added, “The writer was the reason one woman left the party. Now he wants to drive the second one away.”
“Calm down,” said Randa. “That won’t happen.”
She got up from where she was sitting beside me, and walked around the tables until she stood in front of the two young men, saying, “Make room for me between you.”
The two gladly obeyed. Safwan got up and sat next to me. He clinked his glass against mine.
“The Iran — Iraq war struck me a mortal blow,” he said. “When the Iranian revolution began I published several books about it, and the result was that the Iraqis boycotted all my books; in fact, they refused to pay me what they owed me.”
We were joined by a young Lebanese man. He was elegantly dressed, with an animated face, and carried a Samsonite briefcase. Safwan’s wife beamed with joy when she saw him. He looked a lot like Safwan, even if he was younger than him. Safwan introduced him to me as his brother.
Safwan’s wife left her hookah, getting up to bring the young man a glass of gin and a plate of mezze.
I asked him if he worked in publishing too, but his sister-in-law jumped in: “One brother is enough for that wretched profession.”
The young man said he worked in the music industry, making tapes.
“He makes in one day what I make in an entire year,” Safwan added.
His wife sneered and asked him, “So where is the money you’ve made in the last year?”
Safwan kept silent and stared into his glass. Then he turned to me.
“You haven’t told me about the situation in Egypt,” he said. “You know it’s been ten years since I was last there.”
“You wouldn’t recognize it if you saw it now. Everything’s changed in these last ten years. The air itself has changed, in some people’s view.”
“How so?”
“The streets have grown crowded with expensive cars and luxury buildings, and with potholes, dirt, rubbish, and foreigners. The stores are filled with imported goods and rotten foods. The newspapers are filled with lies, and drinking water with live worms.”
“What about the people? How can they stay silent about all that?”
“People are desperate for bread, cigarettes and chickens, and put up with epidemics, noise and hypocrisy. Every morning, an Egyptian is flung about into several hundred pieces and he is unable to put himself back together again in the evening. Even national dignity no longer means anything to them. But what do you expect? Nasser killed off in them any capacity for working for a common cause.”
The Libyans stood up, expressing their desire to leave. Randa got up with them and turned to escort them out.
I announced my desire to leave as well, but Safwan begged me to stay. He wanted to fill my glass, but I objected.
“I have to work in the morning,” I explained.
He addressed his wife: “Can you drive him home? I don’t think I can drive after all I’ve had to drink.”
“Why do you drink when you have someone you want to drive home?”
“I’ll drive him,” the brother interjected.
I got up, and everyone stood. Safwan’s wife approached his brother and put her hand on his shoulder.
“It’s still early. Stay the night at our place.”
“I can take a taxi,” I offered.
“At this time of night?” the brother asked. “I have to be leaving now because I’m traveling to Damascus early tomorrow morning. Lead the way.”
I walked ahead of him toward the door. Safwan and his wife followed us in silence.
Chapter 7
I stayed at the house for the next two days, devoting all my time to the books and documents that Antoinette had supplied me with. At first, I found that I was lost among the meanings of events, and the significance of names and places. The various points of view, and their contradictory nature, multiplied my confusion as I read. Likewise, they were all armed with an arsenal of decisive proof and justifications. But soon the benefit of that became clear when I managed to take a comparative approach among different opinions. Wadia helped me with his memories and observations, and soon I was making my way with some — by no means easy — effort.
Previously, I had had a foggy idea about the Lebanese Civil War, the gist of which was that it was a war between progressives and reactionaries set in motion by colonialism, and that the majority of progressives were Muslims, just as the majority of reactionaries were Christians. But I realized now that the matter went much deeper than that. The Lebanese problem seemed like an enormous quilt of multicolored strands that were entangled with each other, so that separating them out became an impossible task.