I told her all about what had happened to me; we laughed together at the Carlos story.
“What’s the news with my book?” I asked her.
“I really liked it, and we’ll take it. When are you leaving Beirut?”
“I have a reservation for the plane on Friday.”
“I’ll draw up your contract today.”
“What about the money?”
“As soon as you sign it, you’ll get it.”
She pulled out some paper and said, “Can you wait for me a little bit? You can drink some coffee and read the papers until I’m done.”
The secretary brought coffee. I picked up one of the newspapers. The front page was shared by news about the Arab summit conference in Amman, a new sweep of arrests against the Palestinians there, and Sadat’s two interviews, which I’d listened to yesterday. There was a reference to a third interview with Danish television, in which he was quoted as saying: “It has been confirmed that God is preparing me for a special mission.”
I flipped through the newspaper and on the last page, I saw a photo of a boy around seven years old, with a handsome face and wide eyes. He sat between two friends behind a desk in a schoolroom. The photo was taken from the front, and at a low angle, so the legs of the three schoolboys showed, as well as a bookbag belonging to one of them on the floor. They all had their legs crossed, revealing their socks and shoes, except for the handsome-looking boy, who put the tip of his pen in his mouth, quietly thinking. His left leg, thrown over his right one, consisted of an empty pants leg.
The accompanying article talked about artificial limbs, on the occasion of the International Year of the Disabled. I read that the market for artificial limbs in Lebanon had been flourishing recently, despite the difficulties it faced. The progress that had been made in their manufacture meant that only the rich were able to benefit from them, while the overwhelming majority of injured people in Lebanon were among the poor.
Below the photo of the boy, I read this caption: “An artificial limb is not like a natural limb, as many believe, but is a device to help people make some of the essential movements they need to get around.”
There was another photograph of the same boy on the street: he supported himself on crutches next to his two friends, and had his bookbag slung over his back. His neck was turned to follow a soccer game among boys his age.
In a third photograph, another boy, around four years old, appeared. He was wearing a vest over his shirt, and he was standing between two metal barricades that revealed his lower half, while the doctor was bent down over his amputated leg, fitting him for an artificial limb. Beneath the photo I read: “Walking is a series of movements made by several joints in the leg, hip, knee, anklebone and toes. Amputation usually takes place above or below the knee.”
Lamia got out of her chair and walked to the bookshelf. She pulled out a folder and brought it back with her. She stopped next to me, laid the folder flat on her desk, and bent over it.
The office door was open, and I could see one side of the hallway leading to the outer reception room. Without taking my eyes off the door, I leaned over a little, and placed the palm of my hand on her calf. Slowly, I traced my fingers up to the back of her knee, then I wrapped my hand wrapped around her knee from the front, and continued moving it up her thigh.
Her skin was firm, smooth and warm. After a moment, my hand bumped against a piece of cloth. I stopped and looked up at her. She was still bent over the folder, but her eyes were closed.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and they met mine.
“I’m not embarrassed in front of you,” she said.
The noise of the explosion was powerful; the building shook down to its foundations. I quickly pulled my hand away, while she stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.
“It’s the sonic boom,” she said, hurrying to the window.
The noise was repeated again. Then several weak, sporadic explosions echoed back, similar to anti-aircraft gun rounds. The secretary walked in on us in an agitated state, saying, “Israeli planes.”
She joined us at the window. We stood there, looking at the sky without seeing anything. The noise didn’t occur again, so the secretary left, closing the door behind her.
I brought my mouth up close to Lamia’s bare arm, and imprinted a kiss just outside her armpit. I noticed that her face was pale.
“Are you afraid?” she asked me.
“Of course,” I replied.
I put my arms around her and plucked at her ear with my lips. She rested her breasts against my chest, then pulled away from me, whispering: “Someone’s coming in.”
She picked up the folder and brought it back to the cabinet. Then she sat down behind her desk and became engrossed in her work. I went back to my chair, lit a cigarette, and began observing her.
Suddenly she tossed the pen aside and pushed back her chair.
“Oof. I can’t concentrate.”
“Let’s go — we’ll get out of here.”
She thought a moment and then said, “I have to go home.”
I put my hand out on the desk and clutched her hand. I felt her nails with my fingertips.
This time the noise was extremely close to us. I could distinguish the sound of two gunshots, one after the other. The door swung open violently and the secretary appeared, looking pale and trying to speak. Right behind her came two of the young men who worked in the office, and behind them one of the two armed men who guarded the entrance to the building.
From the flood of rushed and contradictory words, we were able to piece together that Abu Khalil had gone out to buy cigarettes, and when he came back in the elevator, he noticed an armed man he didn’t know on the stairs. The man raised his machinegun to shoot Abu Khalil. But Abu Khalil was faster: he shot two bullets at him but missed, and the gunman was able to escape toward the roof.
We all rushed out together. We stood in front of the elevator; the glass on its wooden doors looked shattered.
We heard the sound of heavy feet and heavy breathing. Abu Khalil appeared at the top of stairs, his gun in his hand.
“I chased him up to the roof, but he managed to escape.”
The outer door guard shook his head.
“No one came into the building that I didn’t recognize.”
“So where did that guy come from?” shouted Abu Khalil. “Out of thin air? He must have come through the door, while you were asleep on the job!”
The guard was furious. “You’re the one who’s sleeping all the time!”
Lamia intervened to break up the fight, and asked both of them to check the building thoroughly.
We made our way back to the office. She closed the door and leaned her back against it.
“It’s a good thing Abu Khalil saw him,” she said, tapping her fingertip against her lower lip.
Still thinking, she walked over to her desk.
“What time is it?” she asked me.
“Two thirty,” I replied.
She walked toward me and stood in front of me, then she put her hand out to my chest and pressed against it. I leaned my head against her chest and took the tip of her breast between my lips. She drew her legs close and held them against my body.
“I’m very turned on,” she said in English.
“I can’t take much more of this,” she added in Arabic. “Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded. “Let’s go to my place.”
“What about Wadia?” she asked.
“I can call him now at his office and make an arrangement with him.”
“I don’t want that. I won’t feel relaxed that way.”
She looked at the two sofas leaning against each other in a corner of the office, and said, “Not here, either. Not after what happened today.”
Suddenly she made up her mind and picked up her purse.