I had to get rid of most of the original title cards, or to be more precise, I had to incorporate them into my voiceover. Likewise, the length of this commentary had to progress in tandem with the amount of material in the film. In many places, the voiceover had to be synchronized with the scenes running through it.
I resorted to Antoinette’s abbreviated list recording the time of each shot. I knew that twenty seconds on the screen takes up, on average, thirty words. So I calculated the required number of words for each scene, which was composed of various shots. That made it possible for me to determine the amount of material I was being asked to write.
I decided to treat the voiceover as an integral text, with a beginning and an end, not as a collection of captions suited to each scene. I also had to take into account some scenes that needed explanation, and others that didn’t need a single word.
I threw myself completely into the work, and it was midday Thursday by the time I finished a draft of the voiceover. I reviewed it carefully from different angles — the logical sequence of events; good writing and a smooth style; the political viewpoint; getting the facts right; and from first to last, being in sync with the film’s scenes and shots.
The tight schedule gave me a sense of urgency, and I set myself to writing a final, clean copy, until the phone rang and pulled me out of my deep concentration.
I picked up the receiver, and a female voice that I didn’t recognize came to me down the line: “Sir…”
“Hello,” I said.
“I’m Jamila.”
I said hello again.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she went on. “But I really need to talk to you.”
“By all means.”
“Maybe we can meet somewhere a half-hour from now?”
“Where?”
“It’s up to you.”
“Would it be a problem for you to come to my place?”
“A café on Hamra Street would be better. Like the Modka, for example.”
“All right,” I said. “The Modka it is.”
I pushed my papers aside. I put on my jacket and left the apartment. I walked slowly toward Hamra Street. Then I strolled over to the Modka, and chose a table in a prominent spot. Not long after, I saw her looking for me, so I stood up. She came over, walking quickly. She squeezed my hand forcefully and sat down.
She was wearing a tweed jacket and skirt. She seemed a little thinner than I remembered. She had no makeup on, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes.
I asked the waiter for two cups of coffee and two glasses of cognac. I lit her cigarette for her. She took a deep drag, and said, “I apologize for intruding on you like this. Are you flying out tomorrow?”
“Yes. In the evening.”
“I want you to break off your relationship with Lamia as soon as you leave.”
I had raised the glass of cognac to my lips, but I put it back down and looked at her in astonishment.
She nodded and repeated what she had said.
“Strange,” I said. “First of all, you are assuming that there is a relationship between me and Lamia. Then, you are asking — ”
She cut me off. “I know everything, so you don’t have to deny it.”
“Even if we assume that that’s true,” I went on, “don’t you see that what you’re asking for is a little unusual?”
“I have my reasons, and you’ll be persuaded by them once I explain them to you.”
“There’s nothing between me and Lamia,” I said. “The relationship between us is only a professional one.”
She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and held the glass of cognac between her hands.
“Listen. I’ve known Lamia for many years now. She tells me everything.”
“If she was the one who told you about this so-called relationship we have, then she was lying.”
“I have two eyes, you know.”
I looked at her two powerful, masculine hands, with their trimmed nails carefully painted a seashell color. I feigned the nonchalance and confidence of someone with nothing to hide.
“I’m sure you’ll understand,” she went on.
She looked intently at her glass, hesitating; then she looked up at me and said: “There is a special relationship — a very special relationship — between me and Lamia.”
“Why does that concern me?”
“Sir, you have your life in Cairo. I don’t have anyone except Lamia. She is a delicate creature who needs to be completely protected and given a high level of affection. No one understands her, values her and loves her like I do. But sometimes something happens that I don’t understand. Let’s say an attempt to prove her femininity or her ability to attract men. Or maybe boredom.”
She laughed bitterly, adding, “Or a midlife crisis.”
“Maybe she belongs to both sides,” I added.
“Probably. But I haven’t lost hope that I can win her over completely to my side.”
“If she is using me to thwart the relationship the two of you have, then what makes you think she won’t do it again with someone else?”
“Leave that to me to worry about,” she said. “What I want from you is for you to end your relationship with her as soon as you leave. No promises of any kind.”
“I haven’t conceded that there is anything between us. In any case, I’m not the kind of person who loves writing letters.”
“I knew I could rely on you.”
As she stood up, she stared at me with a revealing look, as though making certain I would do what she had asked. She shook hands with me to say goodbye, and then walked away.
I watched her go, confidently standing tall and erect as she walked between the tables. Then I paid the bill and left.
I found Wadia busy preparing a tray of potatoes in the oven, so I got down to work on the revised copy of the voiceover until I was done with it. Then I called Antoinette and offered to bring it to her after lunch.
“I have two spare tickets to an Arab concert,” she said. “How would you and Wadia like to come? You could bring the voiceover and I would bring the check for your payment.”
I called out to Wadia and told him what Antoinette had suggested. He agreed to go.
“We’ll do it,” I told her. “Only, would it be possible to be paid in cash, rather than by check? I won’t have time to cash it tomorrow.”
“I’ll try,” she replied.
The concert began at seven. That gave me enough time to eat and review the voiceover one last time. At six forty-five, Wadia and I took a taxi to the American University in Beirut.
There was a large crowd in front of the concert hall and Antoinette was hard to find. She was wearing a light fake-fur coat over the usual pair of jeans and slender high-heel shoes.
She squeezed my hand warmly, and I kissed her on the cheek. We went up to the entrance, but a policeman came over to us and pointed to her purse. She opened it and pulled out a gun that she offered to him. The policeman put it in a side storage area, after giving her a receipt. A young man next to me pulled out his gun, getting ready to hand it over. Wadia and I walked through after declaring we had no weapons.
We had a hard time finding a place to sit. I noticed the tense atmosphere that dominated the hall, as well as the excitement of the audience.
“It’s the first time that people are out at night in Beirut since the killing of Bashir Ubayd,” Wadia observed.
I handed the voiceover to Antoinette. She gave it a quick glance and put it in her bag. She handed me an envelope that contained my fee.
“If you want to make any adjustment in the text,” I said, “or if there turns out to be any problem with it, write to me.”
She nodded in agreement. I turned my attention to the printed program that Wadia handed me. The concert was made up of songs by Sayed Darwish, and some of Leila Mourad’s songs composed by Daoud Hosni, as well as some Umm Kulthoum numbers composed by Zakariyya Ahmad, in addition to the poem “They taught him how to be hard”, by Abd al-Wahhab.