But this time he wore khaki clothes, and helped several laborers move rocks in order to level a piece of land he had chosen for his private bodyguard. Afterwards he brought for his companions food consisting of eggs, local cheese and apples, to a table made of two large stones. When he finished lunch, Jumblatt stood up and said, “Let’s go, we should be on our way.” He put on his clothes, then got into the car with his companions — his driver and his private bodyguard — on the road to Beirut.
At the crossroads for Deir Durit monastery…
Blood fills the ground. Jumblatt’s car pierced by bullets from every direction.
In front of the ancient al-Mukhtara palace. Beneath a cloth awning: Jumblatt laid out on a wide bier made of white silk, between his companions in life and death. Weeping women in black clothes, and white sashes, surround the bier. Long lines of people in black clothes pass in front of the bier in the rain. Machinegun volleys in the air mingle with sounds of thunder and flashes of lightning.
Beirut. A solemn procession of tens of thousands of people paying their respects at Jumblatt’s funeral.
The site of the crime once again. A car with this license plate number: Baghdad 72719.
Title card:
The car used by the perpetrators. But suspicions are directed toward another Arab capital.
A still photograph of another two-person meeting between Kamal Jumblatt and the Syrian President Hafez al-Assad in Damascus.
Chapter 18
“There’s only the last part of the film left, and it’s about Operation Litani,” Antoinette said as she took the reel out of the machine. “Do you think we’ll be able to finish it tomorrow?”
“Why don’t we try today?” I wondered.
She looked at her watch.
“It’s three o’clock now. We have to have something to eat. And then I want to take you somewhere,” she said.
I gave her a quizzical look.
“I want you to meet someone I know,” she explained.
“Who?”
“I won’t tell you now.”
I stared at her in surprise.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Then don’t ask.”
We left the office and went out into the crowded street. We entered a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. We had zucchini with tomatoes, meat and rice, along with lentil soup. Antoinette insisted on paying the bill, which came to 20 lira.
We went back to where she had left her Volkswagen, and we got in. A little later, we were setting out on the road leading to the airport.
We reached the Sabra refugee camp, and she turned the car off the road toward it. Several gunmen accosted us at a barrier made of barrels. They were wearing the insignia of the Palestinian Armed Struggle. One of them recognized Antoinette and greeted her affectionately, so they let us pass.
Antoinette stopped the car a few meters further on, beside a falafel vendor who had several chairs and wooden tables set out — an open — air restaurant. She got her purse and rolled up her window, so I did the same thing with my window. Then I got out of the car and stood there looking at the jars of colorful pickled turnips distributed among the tables of the small restaurant.
She pulled me by the arm and we set out on a street crowded with boutiques and shops, including one for used clothes, which hung from hangers attached to the ceiling. The walls were covered with slogans, political posters and pictures of martyrs.
We headed toward a network of back alleys, with humble homes — most of them no more than two stories tall — set on the sides. The smell of fried onions and coriander with garlic slipped its way into my nose. I nearly bumped into several children who were playing football. We were forced to stop and stand against the walls to make room so that three women in black frocks, with their heads wrapped in white kerchiefs, could walk three abreast.
The sound of a heated argument reached us through a window overhead. I heard a woman yell in a real Egyptian accent, asking for her passport so she could go back to Egypt. We passed the three women again and then kept walking for several minutes. Then we went inside a house and knocked on a door belonging to one of the two first-floor apartments.
A tall young man in pants and a sweater opened the door. A beaming smile lit up his face at the sight of us. We walked inside to a clean living room with a metal table and several chairs. At the far end was a desk with bookshelves above it.
He gestured for us to sit, then slowly took a step, moving one of his legs with difficulty. He took a chair facing us. He observed me silently without letting the smile disappear from his face. It was a handsome face, with sharp features, and filled with lines belied by the luxuriant black hair. A lock of it hung down over his brow, and there was a strange expression in his eyes, the significance of which I couldn’t make out.
Silence settled over us and I lit a cigarette. Antoinette did the same. Finally, I forced a smile and asked her, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Walid is Palestinian, originally from Jaffa. He is an art teacher at the camp school. He also does translating for the media institute.”
After a moment, she added: “I talked to him about you. He is happy to meet you.”
I looked at both of them in confusion. I noticed that he didn’t take his eyes off her lips.
“He can’t hear or speak,” she said in a trembling voice.
I looked at him, and he exchanged looks with me. I got the feeling he understood what she had said.
“What do you want to drink?” she asked me. “I don’t think we’ll find alcohol here.”
“I don’t want anything to drink,” I said quickly.
“I want some coffee,” she said. “Should I make one for you, too?”
“Sure.”
She walked to a door at the side of the room. I could see a gas cylinder through it. I looked up at the walls, and began scrutinizing the posters all over them. Among them was a newspaper aimed at children, of the kind printed to be displayed on a wall. I happened to glance at Walid, and I found him watching me with a friendly smile. I realized that the strange expression reflected in his eyes was the same one we always see on people with disabilities connected to hearing and sight. It makes them seem as if they are seeing you, but thinking about something else at the same time.
Antoinette walked in on us with a tray of coffee. I reached out for a cup, and she said:
“No. That’s for Walid. He takes it with a lot of sugar.”
“Why the surprise?” I asked her, helping myself to another cup. “Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she replied.
Walid took two sips from his cup, then put it back on the tray. He turned toward the office, and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote several lines, then handed the paper to Antoinette.
“He welcomes you,” she said, after reading the first line.
She silently finished reading what was on the paper, then folded it and put it in her pocket. She turned to look at him.
I finished my coffee, and fidgeted in my chair. I told Antoinette that I had an appointment back at the apartment in half an hour. She stood up. “We can leave,” she said.
Walid’s expression changed. A hint of worry appeared in his eyes. Antoinette gave him an inquisitive look, so he got out of his seat. He walked, limping, to his desk and sat there. He picked up a thick Flo-master pen and a piece of white paper.
Antoinette went over and stood behind him, telling me, “One minute.”
Walid busied himself with the paper for several seconds, and then put it to one side and pulled out another one. Antoinette picked up the piece of paper, and then handed it to me.