I also remembered the first time I masturbated, and the time that Wadia and I drank a bottle of wine, and we masturbated in front of each other. I remembered the first girl I slept with. Wadia and I and a third friend from the hand-warming group succeeded in pooling our money, and we picked her up from a shady spot along the banks of the Nile — the same place where Anwar Sadat’s mansion and the Sheraton now sit. We brought her back to the house of one of our friends, and when it was my turn, I found her fast asleep. I woke her up, but then I didn’t know what to do. So she laid me down on my back and got on top of me. It didn’t take more than a few seconds, and while it was happening, the only thing I felt was that I was producing a great deal of semen. When I left the room, she had already gone back to sleep, and resumed her rhythmic snoring.
Chapter 10
The morning papers didn’t mention anything about the gunfire incident. While we were having our breakfast, Abu Shakir knocked on the door to let us know that the bullet had been fired accidentally while a gun was being cleaned by one of the top-floor residents.
I was busy cleaning my dark-blue suit with a brush. Then I ironed the shirt I had washed yesterday. I shined my shoes with a piece of cloth I found in the kitchen. And finally, I hung my briefcase over my shoulder and set out behind Wadia.
A taxi took us to the Ain Mreisseh neighborhood, near the checkpoints for East Beirut. Wadia asked the driver to stop in front of a modern building that had scorch marks at its entrance. I got out of the car, which made a U-turn to take Wadia to his office.
The scorch marks extended to a shop selling candy and cigarettes, from which wafted the fresh scent of coffee beans. A group of ball-shaped glass containers of identical size were set out in front of the entrance, containing different kinds of hazelnuts, shelled almonds and peanuts.
Two young men, carrying weapons, accosted me at the entrance to the building. They insisted on searching my shoulder bag, and on using the phone in front of them to call Lamia’s office before they would let me go upstairs.
I went up a few steps to the elevator, but it wasn’t there, so I opted to continue walking up the stairs, which had blast marks on the walls. When I reached the second floor, I saw “Dar al-Thaqafa Publishing” on a sign above an open door. A metal scaffold was erected in front of it. There was a worker on top of the scaffold busy adding layers of cement mixture to the ceiling.
There was another worker inside painting the walls. A tall man with a gun hanging from his waist was watching him with an unusual level of attention. He only let me pass after I showed him my passport and he had inspected me. Then he handed me over to a plump secretary with a laughing face, who led me to an office at the end of a passageway to the right of the entrance.
She knocked on the door and went in, and Lamia’s wide eyes gazed on me. She was sitting behind a metal desk at the end of a large office. She stood up with a smile, and walked around her desk. She extended her hand to me, and I shook it. She held my hand in a tender grip, as she led me to two small couches next to each other in a corner of the room. A small glass table stood between them. We each sat on a couch.
She was wearing a green ensemble, made up of a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt that looked like shorts. My eyes took in her rosy skin and her soft, plump lips.
She addressed me in a refined voice: “How are you?”
“Good,” I responded, using the Lebanese word.
“We like the Egyptian dialect, and we have no problem understanding it. Don’t wear yourself out imitating ours.”
“What if I like the Lebanese dialect?” I asked as I pulled out of my shoulder bag the envelope containing a copy of my book manuscript.
She took the envelope from me with straight fingers that had long nails painted the color of her skin. As she put it on the table, she asked, “What would you like to drink? Coffee, or something cold?”
“Coffee.”
“Bitter, or the way the Egyptians make it?”
“The way you’ll drink it,” I replied, with my eyes on her lips.
She stood up in an elegant movement, and walked over to her desk. She leaned over it with her back to me. She pressed the button for the intercom, and spoke into it in a half-whisper. I didn’t take my eyes off her firm, well-proportioned behind. Our eyes met when she suddenly turned around and walked back to her couch. In her eyes, I noticed the trace of a light smile.
She sat next to me on the adjoining couch and crossed her legs.
“Adnan spoke with me again today,” she said. “He sends his sincere apologies for the inconvenience we’ve caused you. He entrusted me to use my judgment in regards to your book.”
“My fate is in your hands.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she replied, laughing.
“Did you know that I saw you a few days ago?”
“Where?”
“I’ve forgotten the name of the place. A café near the American University. You were with a woman who was wearing a black dress.”
“Aah… that was a friend of mine.”
The secretary brought the coffee on a small silver tray and then left. I lifted my cup to my lips and swallowed a sip of bitter coffee, as my eyes ran over Lamia’s legs down to her feet and her long, full toenails.
She noticed the direction of my gaze, and looked down at her feet. At that moment the telephone rang and she got up again. She walked to her desk, then walked around it so as to face me. She lifted the phone to her ear and listened for a moment, then pressed a button on the phone.
“Hello,” she said, in the same whispering voice.
I saw her eyebrows knit a little, as she listened without saying anything. Then she muttered a word I couldn’t make out, and slowly put the receiver back in its place.
I occupied myself by looking at a glass bookcase that held copies of the firm’s publications in deluxe editions. She spoke to me from behind her desk as she gestured at the phone: “That was my friend, the one we were talking about. Unfortunately, I have to leave now. Would you like me to drop you off somewhere?”
“I’m on my way to Fakahani.”
She leaned over the intercom and pressed the button, then whispered two words into it. She took a small purse from the desk and straightened up.
I placed my cup on the tray, and picked up my shoulder bag as I stood up myself. I followed her outside.
The secretary was waiting for us. Beside her was the tall young man who walked briskly ahead of us out of the building. I walked over toward the elevator, but Lamia put her hand on my arm, saying, “It’s better if we take the stairs. Security precautions.”
“Why?”
“The elevator might be rigged to explode.”
The young man went down the stairs ahead of us. Lamia leaned her head toward me and I breathed in her perfume.
Gesturing at him with her eyes, she whispered, “It’s for security precautions, too, that I don’t go anywhere without a bodyguard.”
Our companion went ahead of us to a late-model Chevrolet; in the driver seat was a chauffeur in a uniform with two rows of shiny brass buttons. The bodyguard held open the back door and waited until Lamia got in. Then he closed it and walked around the car while I followed him. He opened the other door for me, and after closing it behind me, he completed his walk around the car, and took the seat next to the driver.
As the car set off, passing in front of the American Embassy and heading toward Hamra Street, I said, “You can take your time reading the manuscript. I’ll be staying in Beirut for at least ten more days.”
“Very good,” she said, imitating the Egyptian dialect. “I’ll call you as soon as I finish it.”