I was looking at a drawing, the meaning of which I couldn’t make out. It was made up of several lines and black marks. I turned the paper over in my hand. Eventually I recognized the map of Palestine as it had appeared in 1948, when Zionists cut out a small part of it where they declared their state.
Walid finished the second piece of paper, and was busy with a third. Antoinette handed me the paper, and I found that it was the same map, but the black mark that looked like Israel had grown bigger and expanded, and contained the West Bank up to the River Jordan, and the Sinai Peninsula, and Syria’s Golan Heights, and the cities of Gaza and Rafah.
On the third piece of paper, arrows extended from the black mark to southern Lebanon. On the fourth, the arrows reached Beirut, Amman and Damascus. On the fifth, they extended to Baghdad, Kuwait, Dhahran in Saudi Arabia, and Benghazi.
I felt annoyed. I felt as if he was treating me like a student in his school. What he wanted to make me understand was something all Arabs “from the Atlantic to the Gulf” knew about. Soon my annoyance dissipated, and I saw that, on the face of things, circumstances proved just the opposite.
I folded the five pieces of paper and put them in my pocket, then I shook his hand. I left the apartment and stood waiting for Antoinette at the entrance of the building. On the wall opposite I saw a poster of a martyr. It had a bad photograph of a smiling face overflowing with youthful virility. Beneath the image was his name, and a notice that he had received academic military training, and that he was killed while dismantling an explosive charge.
Some time later, Antoinette joined me and we retraced our steps in silence to where we had left the car. As soon as we passed the barrier with the gunmen, we headed out on the road to the center of West Beirut.
“Walid’s leg was hit during the massacre that King Hussein orchestrated for the Palestinians in Jordan in 1970,” she explained. “I got to know him at the end of ’75. He was completely normal. He talked and sang and everything. After Tel Zaatar, he went silent.”
“Didn’t he go to a doctor or a hospital?” I asked her.
“Everyone who examined him agreed that his hearing and vocal apparatus aren’t damaged.”
She slowed down to avoid hitting a car that had Syrian plates and was driving in the middle of the street. She pressed the horn several times, but to no avail. In the end, she was forced to stay behind the other car.
“He leaves me the freedom to do what I want. I can leave him if I want,” she went on.
I gave her a puzzled look. Flushing red, she hastily added: “He doesn’t touch me. But I won’t leave him. I love him.”
We traveled the rest of the way in silence. I wanted to get out of the car on Hamra Street, but she insisted on bringing me to the door of the building. I stood out on the street until she left, then I crossed to a grocery on the sidewalk opposite. I bought a kilo of grapes, several pieces of cheese, some canned goods, and a few cans of beer.
The elevator was on the top floor, so I opted to take the stairs. Wadia was out, so I set my purchases on the kitchen table. I took out a can of beer from the refrigerator. I put my finger in the pop-top ring but yanked it too quickly and it twisted. A spray of beer shot out of the can and landed on my face and clothes.
I poured the contents of the can into a glass, and dried myself. Then I carried the glass to the living room, and sat down next to the telephone. I gulped down half the glass in one swig, picked up the phone and dialed.
The phone rang for a long time before her voice came to me, cold and reserved.
“It’s been two days since I’ve seen you,” I said.
“You saw me yesterday.”
“But you weren’t alone.”
She didn’t reply, so I went on: “I want to see you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Adnan’s family came from their country home, and I can’t leave them.”
“What about your office?”
She laughed. “Wait until tomorrow.”
“But I want you so badly now.”
“Are you drunk?”
“All I’ve had to drink today is half a can of beer. I decided to abstain from alcohol.”
She let out a sardonic laugh.
“I want to kiss you,” I said. “All of you. Even your feet.”
“Really?” she asked coyly.
“Really.”
“I have to go now. Call me in the morning.”
“It’s better if you call me.”
I hung up the phone. I poured the rest of the beer into the glass and drank it in one swallow. I lit a cigarette and turned on the television.
I watched the last scenes from an American TV series, where police cars converged as usual from all directions, their sirens wailing. After that came the news. It carried a report about an Arab summit meeting in Amman to be held within days. And statements by Egyptian officials on the occasion of the third anniversary of the historical peace initiative. The Egyptian foreign minister appeared on the screen, announcing that the peace treaty made the 1973 war Egypt’s last. He was followed by the Egyptian chief of staff, Abu Ghazaleh, declaring the readiness of the Egyptian armed forces to defend the Gulf states.
I heard the sound of the outer door opening. Wadia walked in, carrying a bag of apples. I took the bag from him and put it on the table. He took off his jacket and threw it on the couch.
He gestured to the television, and asked, “Did you watch the news from the beginning?”
I nodded. “The states participating in the summit haven’t been determined yet.”
“I’ll be going to Amman in the morning,” he said. “I see you finished early today. Have you finished the work of going through the film?”
“We will be done in two days’ time. After that, two or three days to write the voiceover, then I travel immediately after that.”
“And the book?”
“The owner of Modern Publishing called me to apologize. As for Lamia, she hasn’t finished reading the manuscript yet.”
“Didn’t you say you had an agreement with Adnan? I don’t understand what she’s up to. I’m afraid there’s something funny going on.”
“You mean they are trying to get out of the contract?”
“Something like that.”
I shrugged. “In that case, my only option is Safwan.”
“But Safwan won’t pay you anything. For now, at least.”
“So, all I have left is my payment for the film.”
“How much will they pay you?”
“I don’t know… We haven’t talked about that yet.”
“You should bring it up with Antoinette. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone is paid. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”
“No need for that. I’ll talk to her.”
He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook, then headed toward the telephone.
“Don’t you need cash?” he asked as he dialed a number.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Why don’t you write an article or a short story for a newspaper?” he asked, dialing again. “You can make some real money if you want.”
“I know.”
He put the phone up to his ear. “Write anything. Everyone does that. You know the current terminology — it’s all straight from the revolutionary lexicon.”
“I’m very stressed. And I haven’t been sleeping well. I have a hard time holding the pen. I wouldn’t even know how to write an opinion piece.”
He put down the receiver and flipped through the pages of his notebook, adding: “How about an interview with a fascinating personality?”
“How much would an interview with Carlos be worth?”