I walked around the square, looking for an alley that had a shop selling used foreign books, which I had dealt with on my previous visit. I entered an alley with a shop for cigarettes, newspapers and magazines at its entrance. A large poster on the wall next to the shop caught my eye: it consisted of a photograph duplicated several times of the top half of a naked woman, with her right arm wrapped around a naked man’s head. He was leaning with his mouth against her ear. His hair was draped around her head; she had her lips open and her eyes closed. The multiplication of the image suggested that this moment was drawn out and repeated.
I looked at the photo for a long time. Beneath it I could see a line of text in small print, so I got up close. I could make out the words printed in English: “The orgasm is a response that humans alone possess. No other mammals experience moments of intense climax like that during sexual intercourse.”
Looking at the poster wholly engrossed me, so I only noticed the sounds emerging from a dark door at the end of the alley when a group of shabby-looking men came out of it all at once. Soon I could make out the sound of women moaning: that’s when I realized it was coming from a theater. From the men coming out, and the fact that there was no billboard out front, I gathered it was a cheap movie hall showing the worst kind of X-rated movies.
I walked down the alley all the way to the end, and then found myself at an intersection where three streets met. A locked storefront carrying the name Gemayel Pharmacy looked out over it. I didn’t grasp the significance of the name until the stern face of the Phalangist leader, with mad-looking eyes, stared out at me from small-size posters on the walls. I realized that I had unwittingly entered the other section of Beirut.
I was about to retrace my steps when a black car pulled up beside me, and its two rear doors opened at the same instant. The next moment, two men surrounded me, grabbed my arms and then pushed me into the back seat. Instantly, the car shot forward and took off at high speed, its tires letting out a high-pitched squeal.
Before I could make out the face of anyone else in the car, a thick blindfold came down over my eyes, and practiced hands tied it forcefully behind my head. The hands reached into my pockets, under my arms, behind my back, between my legs and above my socks.
My body tensed up in anticipation of being hit. It occurred to me that I was in a better situation than I was the time I was arrested, when I was put into a similar car, next to the driver, and then punches rained down from behind on my neck and head.
The car slowed down and then came to a stop. I heard the sound of someone opening the doors. The person sitting to my right moved, while roughly pulling me out of the car.
I stumbled and would have fallen if one of them hadn’t propped me up from behind while cursing me out. Then he grabbed my left arm and pulled me across a narrow stretch of sidewalk that ended after several steps. After that, we walked for a little. Then we went up two other steps and continued walking. A little later, we went down a long staircase and through a damp place where our footfalls echoed loudly.
My escorts halted, and I heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Then cold air brushed my cheek. The hands that had been clutching my arm let go of me. One of them gave me a rough push forward, and I nearly fell on my face. Then I heard the sound of a nearby door slam, and the sound of footsteps getting fainter.
I stayed frozen in place, and sharpened my senses to make out whether there was someone nearby. My hands were free, so I hesitantly lifted them to my face. When no one tried to stop me, I tore the blindfold from my eyes.
A few seconds passed before I was able to see anything. I found myself all alone in a long, semi-darkened room with a high ceiling. Light made its way in through a skylight obstructed by iron bars. The room was bare of any furniture, and there was nothing in it that gave any suggestion of the character of the place or its owners. At the far end of the room, I saw several cardboard boxes. I walked toward them, and found they were empty. One of them bore the name of an American cleaning powder.
I searched for my pack of cigarettes but didn’t find it. I noticed that all my pockets were empty. And my wristwatch had been taken from me. I estimated the time to be close to two or three o’clock.
I walked up to the door and found that it was made of solid steel. I leaned down to the keyhole, and put my eye up to it, but I couldn’t distinguish anything outside, because of the lack of light. I moved my eye away and stuck my ear to the hole, but I didn’t hear a sound.
I backed away from the door and walked to the end of the room, then I turned and walked to the other end. I began walking back and forth across the room until I felt tired. So I sat down on the bare ground, leaning my back against the wall. Soon dampness began spreading into my body, so I stood up. I went to the door, and put my ear to the keyhole and listened.
My ears picked up the sounds of doors slamming, footsteps and muffled shouts. Footsteps approached and I heard someone say angrily: “The bastard was shooting at us.” Another one answered him, saying: “Come on. What do you want her for? There must be a thousand girls who wish they could get their hands on your salary.” A third voice reached me, this one in a tone of command: “Do you have authorization from the party?” The voices clashed with each other and I couldn’t make out a single word. It wasn’t long before they gradually grew faint and distant.
I stood up straight and noticed a light switch beside the door. There was an electric lamp hanging from the ceiling. I flicked the switch several times, but without result. I could feel the cold more strongly, so I jumped up and down repeatedly, then started some warm-up exercises until I felt tired.
There was one corner in the room protected from the draft coming through the skylight — the one taken up by the cardboard boxes. I walked over to it, and started moving the boxes, taking them to another corner. Then I flattened one of them between my hands, put it on the floor, and sat on it. I did the same thing with another box and put it behind my back.
I enjoyed a little warmth until darkness fell, and the two boxes became saturated with the dampness of the walls and floor. The cold was soon penetrating into my bones. Coiling myself up did me no good. A little later, I had a strong urge to urinate.
I knew by experience that as long as I was by myself and didn’t have a way to resist or put pressure on them, then no matter how much I yelled or banged on the door, I wouldn’t change anything about what had been decided for me. Most probably I would run the risk of getting myself hurt. So I decided to wait until my kidnappers revealed their intentions.
But urine pressed on my bladder, and made me abandon my wisdom or fear, so I walked up to the door and started pounding on it with all my strength while shouting and calling out.
After a while my hands hurt, so I stopped the pounding and listened. I heard footsteps approach. A key turned in the lock and then the door opened up onto a dim electric light, and a young man carrying a machinegun slung over his shoulder, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth that gave off the smell of hashish.
“What are you knocking for?” he said to me sharply.
“I want to go to the bathroom,” I said.
He shut the door without saying a word. I stood there, confused and contemplating whether I should start pounding on the door some more. Soon the door opened again. The young gunman appeared, holding a plastic bucket that he tossed at my feet. Then he closed the door in order to lock it, but I objected, saying: “I want to speak to the person in charge here.”
“Not my concern,” he replied.