Two days later, on August 12, 1976…
Red Cross automobiles in front of Tel Zaatar. A truck carrying the emblem of the Arab Security Forces. Several women and children — no trace of a man among them — climb onto it. The street is covered with countless numbers of different kinds of shoes: traditional slippers, sandals, women’s shoes (high heels and flats). Another truck with sides made of interlaced slats, like trucks used for transporting animals.
In front of the Teachers’ College in West Beirut. Crowds. A weeping woman, another woman with torn clothes, and children step out of a small truck. Another weeping woman embraces two children.
The Arab University Hospital. An elderly woman leans over a wounded man with no legs and embraces him.
Title card:
During the evacuation of non-combatants, the Phalangists and Tigers assaulted the camp in large numbers. Fighting occurred between them and 300 Palestinian and Lebanese young men who refused to submit and continued to resist to the end. At the end of the day, it was announced that Tel Zaatar had fallen.
Chapter 14
The woman really was captivating: she was wrapped in a diaphanous cape that showed off her body’s charms. Below the photo I read these words: “The West, enraptured by the Orient and its exoticism. The Orient — like a magic wand, it can turn you into a woman of a thousand faces.”
I took my eyes off the advertisement, and went back to reading the news report about the elderly French philosopher Althusser, who had choked his wife. Then I put the newspaper to one side and picked up the phone.
I dialed the number of Dar al-Thaqafa Publishing, and found the line was busy, so I called Wadia in his office.
As soon as I heard his voice, I said, “The maid hasn’t come yet and I’d like to leave the house.”
“If she hasn’t come by now, then she won’t be coming today,” he explained. “Should I expect you for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. Antoinette and I have been invited to the house of a French acquaintance in the evening. We might go directly there from Fakahani.”
The sun was shining, making it a warm day, so I went out wearing only a wool sweater over my shirt, and slung my bag over my shoulder. Then I dialed the number for Dar al-Thaqafa again, and since it was still busy, I left the apartment.
I stood waiting for a car to take me to Antoinette’s office. An empty one stopped in front of me, so I asked the driver to take me to Ain Mreisseh.
The burly security guard was sitting at the entrance to the building, beside one of the armed guards. Reluctantly, he accompanied me upstairs, and handed me over to the secretary, who called Lamia to let her know, and asked me to wait.
I sat down on a seat facing her. I began looking over into the hallway, at the end of which was Lamia’s office. Her door was closed.
After a few moments, the door opened and she emerged. She was wearing a blouse patterned in magnificent colors with long, wide sleeves and gray velour pants. Her hair was plaited in two large braids, and she looked like a teenage girl.
She approached me, taking slow steps, with an absentminded look in her eye, as if she had been taken off-guard. She gave me her hand and forced a smile.
“Nice to see you,” she said by way of addressing me.
She turned back toward her office, and I walked behind her. At that moment I saw the hem of her blouse dangling over her pants.
The face of her friend who I had seen in the café looked up at me. She was sitting on a couch, with her legs crossed and sipping coffee.
Lamia headed toward her desk, walked around it, and then sat down, saying: “My friend Jamila. You’ve seen her before.”
I inclined my head toward her, walked to Lamia’s desk, and sat on the chair in front of it. I put my shoulder bag on the floor.
I looked over at Jamila and asked her, “Do you work in publishing, too?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Close to publishing,” Lamia said. “She is a bank manager.”
I turned toward Lamia.
“I called you yesterday,” I said.
She shot a quick look at her friend. “I wasn’t at home,” she explained.
“I took the manuscript for your book from Lamia, and I’ll be reading it today,” Jamila said to me.
“Don’t worry,” Lamia quickly piped in. “I only have the last chapter left to read.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. “All I want is to finish up this matter before I travel.”
“When are you leaving?” Jamila asked me.
“Within a week.”
The secretary brought coffee, and I sipped it in silence, while Lamia occupied herself with the papers on her desk. Her friend got out a notebook from her purse, and began flipping through the pages. The vibrant red she had painted on her lips was well-suited to the shape of her broad face, and to the color of her wheat-brown skin. She looked to me at least ten years older than Lamia.
I finished my coffee, picked up my shoulder bag and stood up, while telling Lamia, “I have to be going now. I’ll call you later.”
She made no attempt to keep me from leaving, and didn’t see me to the door. She was content to merely shake my hand while she sat. With a nod of the head to her friend, I left her office.
I fought off an urgent desire for a drink, and took a taxi to Fakahani.
I found Antoinette in the editing room. I noticed that she had arranged her hair carefully, and done her nails in clear nail polish. She was wearing a tight woolen blouse that emphasized her small breasts.
I got my pen and paper ready and turned out the light. Then I took my place next to her in front of the Moviola. She touched the machine’s reel, and scenes dealing with the fall of Tel Zaatar passed before us, one after another.
She stopped the machine suddenly, and said, “Do you need to record the next section? It’s only the testimonies of a group of women who escaped from the massacre. They don’t need any voiceover commentary.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe. But I should familiarize myself with the content of the testimonies, their rhythms, their length, and their connection to the scenes coming before and after. Getting to know them like this will determine the ending for the voiceover that comes before: whether it should be incorporated into them or end before them, with a climax or without one. I will record everything so I can work on it in my own time.”
“As you wish,” she replied.
The Fourth Part of the Film
Women in the prime of life or in middle age. Their clothes are simple. Their heads are covered in scarves knotted below their chin. Their voices are dry, with no trace of life in them. The camera stays motionless on each woman until she finishes her testimony.
Title card:
Umm Ali Salem, age 50.
“When they expelled us from Palestine, we went to Syria. Then we came to Tel Zaatar. We were always being chased away. The supervisor Abu Aboud from Lebanon’s Deuxième Bureau would eavesdrop on us from under the window. Afterwards, they imprisoned my husband because of the leaflets. All my sons joined the resistance when they were young, and they went to training sessions, and then carried weapons. I only have one son left. I used to participate in the illiteracy-eradication units that worked in the camp. The men of the Deuxième Bureau would often take my husband and torture him to make him tell them where the children were. They began coming every day to inspect the house and ask about the children. But all that changed after the resistance took over the supervision of the camp.