He pushed me away, then pulled the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.
I carried the bucket over to the corner that was occupied by the cardboard boxes, and urinated. I felt relief. I resumed pacing the room back and forth, groping about for a little warmth. Then I sat down on the floor in the corner I had prepared for myself. I lay down with my knees bent and my arms beneath my head. I fixed my eyes on the thin strip of light underneath the door.
I must have nodded off for some time, because I suddenly became aware of a sound at the door. I found that it was open, and a broad-bodied man had planted himself in the doorframe. He had a machinegun in his left hand. Dim light fell from behind him onto part of the floor in the room, concealing his face from me. But I perceived the movement of the machinegun in his hand, gesturing me to come out.
I stepped outside, and he forcefully grabbed me by the arm. I saw that he was a man noticeably advanced in age, with a head of white hair, although obviously endowed with bodily strength. We walked along a long passageway lit by a single electric lamp, and with two other doors opening onto it. The smell of the air, the heavy dampness coming from the walls, and the tiled floor made me feel that we were below ground.
We went up a steep staircase to another passageway, this one flooded with the warmth of strong light from fluorescent lamps. The floor was covered with colorful linoleum. The passageway was long, and at the end of it hung a flag next to a photograph I couldn’t clearly make out.
My escort came to a stop in front of a door and knocked on it. Then he turned the handle and pushed me in front of him. He entered behind me and closed the door.
I was struck by the heat coming from the radiator on one side of the room. I saw that I was facing a desk, behind which sat a heavy-set, rough-lipped, clean-shaven young man. He was talking on the phone with his eyes on a color television screen that rested on top of a wooden table beside the desk. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing thick hair on his chest and arms. The hair on his head was fine and black, carefully trimmed and parted on the left.
I couldn’t understand anything he was saying on the phone because he was speaking French in a low voice. I directed my attention to a piece of cloth hanging on the wall above his head with a colorful cedar tree embroidered on it. On another wall there was a piece of paper with a line of Arabic written on it in a substance like liquid gold: “Of the repositories of knowledge in the world, their treasures are from Lebanon. Of the languages of nations, their most beautiful letters come from Lebanon. Of the Seven Wonders of the World, their greatest legend comes from Lebanon. The tree of eternal life selected for its everlasting abode a mountaintop from Lebanon. The Son of God was baptized in water from Lebanon. I wonder: did Adam leave Paradise for your sake, O Lebanon?”
The young man finished his phone conversation, put down the receiver, and continued watching the television screen for a moment. Then he reached out and turned it off. He directed his attention to several pieces of paper in front of him, among which I recognized the contents of my pockets. He flipped through them with short, plump fingers that had long, manicured nails.
He addressed me without taking his eyes off the papers in his hand.
“I can’t find any indication here of your sect.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.
“Your religion,” he asked. “What is it?”
For the first time, he lifted his eyes up at me, and two cold, yellowish circles looked out from a bloated face with oily skin.
“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself to me first?” I asked. “And tell me why I’m here?”
A ghost of a sardonic smile appeared on his lips.
“You don’t know yet?” he asked.
“I could guess where I am. But I don’t know why I’ve been abducted.”
He slowly lit a French cigarette, then explained: “You’ll find that out after you tell me first what you’re doing in Beirut, and where you’re staying. You’re living in West Beirut. Isn’t that right?”
I nodded.
“So you won’t tell me what your religion is?”
“What does my religion have to do with it?” I asked.
He stared at me for a moment, and then spoke in the tone of someone using self-controclass="underline" “Religion is the mark of a man. His identity. It’s what determines his relationship to his Creator.”
“Then defining it is of no importance,” I replied. “Every individual determines his relationship to his Creator according to his religion. And as far as I’m concerned, religions are all the same to me.”
“That’s not how we see it. For all of its existence, Lebanon has been threatened with annihilation by Islam.”
“I have another idea of the danger that has threatened Lebanon, and which is threatening it now.”
“You’re in luck that I want to talk logically with you. It gives me a chance to explain my point of view.”
I paid no attention to him and went on: “It’s based on you being a majority in Lebanon. That’s a subject for debate. Because there are those who say that Muslims are the majority now. In any case, whether you are the majority or minority, this doesn’t change the nature of the danger that is threatening Lebanon. It’s the same danger that threatens the Arab and Muslim countries and all the states of the third world.”
He shook the ash from his cigarette into a silver dish on which the white bayonets of three rifles embraced each other, and said, “You’re talking about an imaginary danger. I’m referring to Arab expansion, and that’s a real danger.”
I laughed. “Where is this Arab expansion? There’s only an Arab nationalist awakening that is uprooting all religions. In fact, some activists in this awakening are Christians, as you know.”
“They are Arabs. As for us, we are Phoenicians.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“Are you being serious? I’ll say it again: whether you’re Phoenicians or Arabs, it won’t change the reality of the shared danger that confronts all Lebanese, Syrians, Iraqis, Egyptians, Iranians and so on.”
He put out his cigarette in the gun-ashtray and lit a new one.
“So what do you think about the oppression that Christians are confronted with in Egypt?”
I took my time in answering as I thought of a suitable response. He put on a victorious smile and said, “Have you thought about it? Have you considered it?”
“I won’t claim that there isn’t discrimination,” I hastened to say. “But it doesn’t rise to the level of oppression. Also, part of it is artificial. The other part is a legacy of the past. When we imposed secularism on the state, we put an end to all trace of it.”
“What I’ve seen in Egypt is just the opposite of that. It’s a profound and historical oppression. And it’s also growing.”
“This is what I meant when I said that a part of the existing discrimination is artificial. It’s what Islamist groups are practicing and calling for. I myself have heard one of these fanatics say that Pope Shenouda is more dangerous to Egypt than Begin is. In that regard, he is entirely in agreement with you. You are allied with Israel against your fellow countrymen.”
He shrugged. “You can’t blame a drowning man for asking the Devil for help.”
“How do you know he will really help you? That he won’t seize the opportunity to devour you?”
He laughed derisively. “Will he devour a corpse that foreigners have squeezed the life out of?”
“You mean the Palestinians? Their presence in Lebanon is what protects you from the Israelis.”
“No one protects Lebanon from anything. Our weakness and our neutrality is our weapon. So long as we don’t attack anyone else or threaten them, no one will put us in harm’s way.”