I leaned over Antoinette and whispered to Wadia, “Did you notice that the selections in the program are all Egyptian?”
Finally, the curtain raised on a Lebanese ensemble, with the musicians sitting in a row in the front, and the male and female choristers behind them. The concert began with a well-known song by Sayed Darwish made famous by Fairuz, “Visit Me Once Each Year”, followed by two of his songs about various professions — “The Cart Drivers” and “The Pickpockets”.
It was an excellent performance and the applause was thunderous. I was swept away by a feeling of elation. When the ensemble sang “That’s What Happened”, the pent-up dam burst.
Written more than sixty years ago, the song, with lyrics by Badia Khairi, went:
What happened, happened, so don’t blame me:
You don’t have the right, for we are not free.
How can you say I’m to blame, my brother,
When the wealth of our land belongs to another?
Talk to me first about the things we need,
Then you can blame me for my misdeeds.
Instead of them gloating over our plight,
With your hand in mine, we’ll stand and fight.
We are one people,
Our hands are strong.
Tears flowed from my eyes like a flood. I couldn’t stop them. I sobbed without restraint. I sensed that Wadia and Antoinette were exchanging glances.
“What’s the matter?” Antoinette whispered in my ear.
I didn’t answer her, but abandoned myself to weeping.
A little later, it was intermission, and I dried my tears. We went out to the garden of the American University to smoke. Wadia reminded me of our student days, and the tears started up again, pouring from my eyes in spite of myself.
He put his arm around me, and began patting my shoulder. Soon a sense of calm came over me, and I dried my tears. I was able to keep control of myself for the rest of the concert.
The audience clapped for a long time when the program ended. The ensemble played an encore of some of its songs, and then we finally left our seats and moved slowly to the door. Everyone was dragging their feet, as though they hated to go back to their homes.
Antoinette reclaimed her gun and we left the concert hall. We had barely stepped out onto the street when we heard the sound of gunfire nearby.
Shouts went up from different places; some people ran, while others brandished their guns.
“Run,” shouted Wadia.
Antoinette took off her shoes and clutched them in her hand along with her purse. She carried the gun in her other hand. We set off running, while she led us through streets that took us away from the neighborhood.
We heard no more gunshots, so we slowed down, and finally stopped, out of breath. We heard the sound of a speeding car coming up behind us, so we pinned ourselves against the wall for protection. A military jeep, enclosed on all sides, sped past us. We followed its blinding headlights as they danced on the walls of buildings and fell on an old poster that had the famous photo of Gamal Abdel Nasser where he seems to be sad and dejected, immediately following the 1967 defeat.
Wadia offered to let Antoinette stay the night with us, but she refused and insisted on going back to her house in East Beirut. So we put her in a taxi and we took another to the apartment.
Chapter 26
My last day in Beirut began with overcast, cloudy weather. Wadia was still sleeping, so I had my breakfast while reading the papers, which carried news of a new Israeli attack on South Lebanon. There were several photos of houses destroyed as a result of this attack, and of the victims lying in hospital beds.
I got my suitcase ready, cleaned the room and made the bed. I did the same thing in the kitchen and living room. Finally, I took a bath and put on my clothes. In the meantime, Wadia woke up and had his breakfast. When I went back to the living room, I found him getting ready to go out.
“I’ll be back before tonight to go with you to the airport,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that,” I responded. “I can order a taxi.”
“I’ll order it for you. Is six o’clock all right?”
“That’s fine.”
He headed to the door, but I stopped him, saying, “If you’re coming back early, call me first. I might have a female visitor.”
He promised he would, and left the house.
There was a bottle of whiskey on the desk, so I poured a glass and sat down to drink it. A little before noon, the phone rang.
Picking up the receiver, I said “hello” in a flat, mechanical tone.
Lamia’s scolding voice reached me: “You’re in a bad mood.”
“Hi,” I said, using the same tone.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.
“Didn’t you tell me not to? And you promised to call me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Did you get the contract and the advance?”
She didn’t answer my question, but asked me in turn: “What time are you heading to the airport?”
“I’m leaving here at six.”
“Is Wadia there with you?”
“No.”
“When is he coming back?”
“Tonight. Why?”
“I’ll come over in an hour.”
“Will you have the contract with you?” I asked.
“We’ll talk about that when I get there.”
I drained my glass and poured another one. By the time she came, I had had three more glasses.
She took off her coat, under which she had on a crimson skirt and an olive-green sweater with a low neck that revealed a blouse of the same color. She tossed her purse and the yellow envelope that contained my manuscript on the chair. She threw herself onto the couch.
Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Coffee?” I asked, still standing.
“I don’t want any,” she replied.
I sat down in front of her and lit a cigarette.
“Do you know what we realized about the gunman who attacked Abu Khalil? There was no trace of him. No one else saw him. It’s obvious he made up the whole story.”
“Why?”
“To convince us that we needed him, after he got the sense that I would be getting rid of him. You know, I’m afraid of him sometimes? I suspect he was a sniper during the early part of the war.”
“What was his original job before the war?”
“I think he worked in sales, or was a building security guard.”
“Was he the one that planned the explosion?”
“No. That’s another story. We know who did that, and we’ve come to an agreement with them.’’
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you.
“Adnan talked to me yesterday,” she said after a moment. “I read him several paragraphs from your manuscript. The paragraphs that can cause problems and prevent it from being distributed in Arab countries. He told me he can’t assume the responsibility for publishing it in the current circumstances.”
I lit another cigarette.
“You could have told me that on the phone,” I pointed out.
“You’re in a bad mood,” she said.
“Your friend came to see me yesterday.”
“Jamila? How?”
“She called me and asked to meet me.”
“What did she want?” she asked, perplexed.
“She asked me to break off my relationship with you.”
She became angry.
“Sticking her nose in! I’ve had it with her. She’s always that way with my friends.”