There was a dignified bearing mixed with apprehension in the wedding photographs. Or at least in the two photos I managed to look at before closing time. In the first one stood a bareheaded young man with a wispy mustache, wearing a pleated collar with two long edges that nearly touched, and the small knot of a striped necktie in between them. He carried white gloves in his right hand, behind the seated bride, who was arrayed in a lace dress that left her arms bare to the shoulder and almost came up to her knees. She was adorned with masses of jewelry: two rows of pearls above her forehead, necklaces around her throat, armlets on her arms halfway between the shoulder and elbow, and a bracelet of pearls around her wrist, along with the rings on the ring and pinky fingers of her visible hand that had settled in her lap.
In the second photograph, the groom wore a low fez that was leaning so heavily to the right that its edge touched his eyebrow. He had grown out a thick mustache with pointed ends in a straight line over his lips, and his jacket hung down below his knees, while his hands were concealed in white gloves.
The bride stood to his right, winding her gloved hand around his arm. The wedding dress covered her from head to toe.
We were the last of the few visitors there to leave the gallery. We walked along the sidewalk opposite the American University, which seemed like a dark mass. I smelled with longing the scent of damp trees looking down from behind the university walls. My eyes followed along the old trolley tracks that extended along the walls and gleamed in the dazzling light cast by the movie theater that was showing an erotic film.
We walked slowly in front of a building from which a dim light emanated. I followed Wadia up a few steps and through a glass door, to an elegant room with tables spread out along its sides. Its wooden walls were covered with paintings.
We chose a table beside the glass façade looking out over the street, and sat down across from each other. Wadia had his back to the room.
“This is one of the unique places in Beirut,” he said, looking out over my shoulder onto the street. “Its owner is half-artist, half-politician. He offers light dishes, drinks, news and art exhibits. Café revolutionaries come here, as do thieves, exiles, lovers, pimps, gays, lesbians and spies.”
The waiter brought us two glasses of whiskey, a bowl of peanuts (or “slaves’ pistachios”, as the Levantines call them), and another one of French fries. Presently, the owner joined us, welcoming Wadia. He looked about forty to me, with dark bluish eyes and a sensuous mouth.
He and Wadia traded the latest news and jokes. I turned away to observe the paintings hanging on the walls. They were by modern Lebanese painters of different schools and styles. I noticed that their names alternated among Armenian, Muslim and Christian. The Christians were of two kinds: those with Arab names, like Ilyas and Saliba, and those with European names, like Yvette and Helene. The subjects of the paintings were similarly divided: some had a distinct European feel, but a minority of them had a local character.
I was struck by two paintings next to each other by the same artist. They were distinguished by their rich colors, and the aesthetic unity of their folk origins. One of them, in which purple colors predominated, represented two horsemen facing each other, in the manner of popular images of al-Khidr and Dhul-Qarnayn. As for the second painting, it derived its topic from the shape of the cross which contained the Virgin Mary in the form of a blazing candle.
I noticed a young man and woman sitting in a corner, clinging to each other. In front of them were two martini glasses. The young man was continually whispering in his companion’s ear. I sensed the café owner leaving our table, and I followed him with my eyes as he cut a path between the diners, directing an amusing remark at a heavy-set lady wearing black clothes. She was by herself at one of the tables, with her back to me.
“Did you hear what he said?” Wadia asked me. “He thinks it was the Deuxième Bureau that planned the explosion at Adnan’s publishing house. Apparently, it also had a hand in what happened to Bashir Ubayd.’’
“How so?”
“Bashir Ubayd was a Maronite Christian. He was just about the only Maronite among the leading bodies of the Lebanese National Movement. Getting rid of him serves the purposes of the Phalangists, who want to be the only ones that represent the Maronites.”
“But wasn’t it the Mourabitoun that killed him?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen with the planning of the Deuxième Bureau for the benefit of the Phalangists.”
“What is the Deuxième Bureau exactly?”
“The intelligence agency. The way it’s structured is a reflection of the current situation. You can find agents there working for all the political movements, not to mention international spy agencies.’’
I happened to look at the woman in black, and found that she was no longer by herself. Sitting across from her was another woman, in her early thirties, with a beautiful face, and wearing a light-blue sleeveless blouse that exposed her delicate arms.
“And what about Adnan?” I asked Wadia.
“Who knows? Maybe he was an operative for the Deuxième Bureau who turned against them, and so they wanted to teach him a lesson. Maybe they did the whole thing for a fee to benefit some party.”
As I listened to him, I observed the woman with the blue blouse. Before me was an elongated face with radiant skin, a straight nose and full lips. Her long coal-black hair came down over her back.
“For the last ten years,” Wadia continued, “Adnan hasn’t held a steady job for more than a month or two before being let go. He had revolutionary ideas; then he married Lamia. She is from an old, respectable family, although she wasn’t very wealthy. The two of them succeeded in amassing an immense fortune worth millions of lira.”
The woman with the blue blouse crossed her legs, and her skirt revealed her attractive curves, and a side view of her firm thighs. She was talking non-stop and her companion was listening attentively. Then she stopped talking and I turned my attention to her hand spread out on the table. I noticed her companion’s hand resting on it in a gesture of reassurance and affection.
I became aware of Wadia’s voice: “What made Adnan’s fortune was petroleum. It made it possible for him to move from books to printing presses, movies and tapes. But he had talent, too.”
The woman stood up, revealing a slender figure topped by a long neck. She had a long-sleeved jacket thrown over her shoulders, letting it hang down over her bare forearms. She crossed the room with firm steps and an unintended haughtiness. Her friend, who seemed older than her, followed. Her face was attractive despite its masculine features that were emphasized by the lack of any trace of makeup.
Wadia followed the direction of my eyes, and suddenly he put his hand on mine, saying quietly to me: “There’s a Lebanese expression that says, ‘If you walk on the wolf path, bring a stick.’ Lamia.”
I gave him a puzzled look.
“Lamia al-Sabbagh. Adnan’s wife,” he added.
“The one wearing black?”
“No, the first woman — the tall one.”
“So talk to her,” I said, getting ready to stand up.
He didn’t move, but shook his head, saying, “You don’t talk to someone like Lamia in the street like that. You have to call her first. First thing in the morning.”
Chapter 6
The morning revealed that the armed displays in front of the house had vanished. When I went out into the street, I found no trace of the Mourabitoun flag.
I rode in one of the service vans heading toward the sea. I sat beside a young man with a beard. The scent of hashish wafted from his cigarette, and he was absorbed in reading a newspaper. From over his shoulder I noticed the photo that most of the papers had published, showing the naked bodies of three young Christian men that had been pulled out of a well in the town of Hammana.