I went up to the next car and gave the driver my destination. He left his seat and walked around the car. I followed him and handed him the suitcase so he could put it in the trunk. Then I walked up to the policeman and asked him in a low voice how much the fare would be.
“Thirty lira,” he replied.
From where he was standing by the car, the driver shouted, “Thirty isn’t enough. Everyone pays forty.”
The policeman gently rebuked him, indicating to me to get in.
The driver dug in his heels, shouting, “I don’t want to go to West Beirut.”
“Come on,” the policeman said, chiding him. “Don’t yell. Are you going to take him or should he take the next one?”
The driver gave in, shouting at me, “Hurry up, man. Get in.”
I got into the back seat. The car took off, with the driver audibly muttering to himself as he made a fast turn that put us on the main road.
The airport road appeared more abandoned than I had expected. Earthworks and mounds of dirt extended on both sides. We approached a group of soldiers concealing themselves behind one of these mounds, standing around an armored car that bore the name Arab Deterrent Force.
“Now the Syrians are stopping us,” the driver muttered.
Our car stopped in front of the soldiers. One of them examined the driver’s papers, and then asked for my passport. After a close look inside the car, he let us continue on our way.
We reached the Bourj el-Barajneh camp, with its humble dwellings cheek by jowl, none of which were more than two stories high. We passed a group of armed men wearing the badges of the Palestinian Armed Struggle on their shoulders. They stood behind a barrier made up of a line of barrels. The driver slowed down in order to be ready to stop, but they waved at us to let us pass.
“Where in West Beirut?” the driver asked without taking his eyes from the road.
“Hamra Street,” I said. “At the Piccadilly Cinema.”
We reached the end of the camp, then we crossed a small city square, and made our way alongside the Sabra camp. Three men wearing scruffy clothes blocked our path. The first of them had his head wrapped in a woolen headscarf, and the second held a big bundle of cloth in his hands. One of them addressed the driver: “Mazraa?”
The driver raised his chin, using the well-known Lebanese gesture that means “no”. As they continued walking, the man with the headscarf asked him, “Where are you headed?”
“Hamra,” he replied.
“Why can’t you go by way of Mazraa?”
“I don’t want to.”
An old man, his face filled with wrinkles, interjected: “Please, driver. We’re late — we’ll pay what you want.”
“Hey man,” the driver yelled, “I can’t take Mazraa. Those guys keep you held up.”
“Look, it’s right by the Abd al-Nasser Mosque. Why can’t you go from here to the Cola intersection?”
The driver thought about it, then asked, “You’re getting off at Cola?”
The three of them agreed, and the driver asked me to move up to the front seat so the three men could sit together in the back. I sat down beside him, putting my carry-on and bag of cigarettes and alcohol between us.
“That’s just like you Palestinians. Always causing problems,” he said as he started us moving again.
No one answered him. Silence descended over the car for the rest of the trip. From time to time, I would catch the eye of the old man in the rearview mirror as he looked nervously between me and the driver.
We emerged onto another city square. After a little while, we turned off to the left, and passed by a large building that showed extensive destruction. All that was left of its façade was a row of darkened crevices, one next to the other.
Scenes of destruction followed in succession as darkness quickly descended. Locked-up shops lined both sides of the street, which was empty of pedestrians. The driver turned into a side street, then stopped near a high bridge.
The three men got out of the car, and they collected among themselves several banknotes, which the old man handed to the driver, saying, “God be with you.”
The driver examined the cash, then shouted, “Ten bills? That’s not enough. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
The three men exchanged glances, and the youngest responded, “That’s what we always pay.”
A powerful searchlight suddenly fixed on us, and a military jeep approached. When it pulled up alongside us, we could see the emblem of the Palestinian Armed Struggle on its side.
The driver cursed under his breath and put the cash in his pocket. Then he stepped on the gas, and the car sped off.
We reached the edge of Hamra, and as he was about to stop, he said, “Here’s Hamra.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’ll be getting out at the cinema.”
He proceeded down the street. Its shops and cafés were locked up, even though there appeared to be a few people about. Then he turned down a side street. A distracted look appeared in his eyes, as though he were thinking over some problem.
“Where are you going?” I called out. “The cinema is on the main street.”
“Now we’ll see.”
He leaned out the window and shouted at the driver of a passing taxi: “Save me a space, Abu Hasan!”
I asked him where he wanted to save a space. “The airport roundabout,” he replied.
He began to drive aimlessly between the streets, so I told him, “We have to get onto Hamra Street itself. That’s where the cinema is.”
He didn’t respond, but headed towards a street corner where several young men were gathered, armed with machineguns. He stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Hello, guys! Which way to the Piccadilly Cinema?”
One of them came up to us and rested his gun on the edge of the window. He looked to me like a teenager with a mustache that had barely begun to appear on his lip. He looked me over carefully, then turned to the driver and explained to him which way to go.
“These streets all look alike,” he said, as we took off.
“Obviously you don’t know the streets of Beirut very well,” I said, trying to imitate the Lebanese accent.
“We came from the south in ’78, after the Israeli invasion.”
We emerged onto Hamra Street. In a few moments, the cinema appeared, and I asked him to turn into the street next to it. I had a hard time recognizing the hotel I was heading for, since everything was dark.
I made him stop and I got out of the car. Then I turned around to take my carry-on and duty-free bags, and I found his hand exploring inside the carry-on. I wrenched the bag away from him, saying, “Shame on you!”
He left his seat in silence, and opened the trunk, then he took out my suitcase and put it on the ground.
I counted out thirty lira, then added five extra, and gave it to him. Silently, he put it in his pocket and drove off. I picked up my things and crossed the street.
Dim lights illuminated the hotel lobby. Several young men were scattered on worn-out leather chairs. Some of them were armed.
The employee at the reception desk dealt with me without much enthusiasm. I asked for the cheapest room with a bath, and he gave me one for forty lira per night. A young man sluggishly carried my suitcase and accompanied me in the elevator to the fourth floor. Then he walked ahead of me to an extremely narrow room with a torn carpet.
I gave him a lira and he took it with a show of indifference. I locked the door behind him, then I leaned over the suitcase and opened the lock. I raised the lid and laid it against the floor. I got down on my knees and with my fingers groped around the inner lining. Then I pulled out a delicate leather frame that went around the entire lid. The frame submitted to my fingers, and peeled off the lid like adhesive tape.