With his door open and leaning halfway out of the truck, the driver backed up until the rear of the truck was right up against the door to the house. We continued giving him directions all the while. The porter jumped out of the truck. He was advanced in age and moved lightly — a professional porter we’d never seen before. We moved in closer to him. He had a small copper badge on his back with the serial number 64 engraved on it. He was an official porter from the city, from Tripoli.
He went inside the house, disappeared a little and then came back carrying the dining room cabinet. They had emptied it of all the glass dishes and crystal glassware that we always noticed sparkling from the shelves whenever we used to pass by it. We liked to pass back and forth in front of the hutch as much as possible, because we enjoyed playing with our reflections. The mirror on its back wall faced a second mirror hanging next to the cabinet’s door, and so as we passed in front of it our images were reflected infinitely in the mirrors. We never got tired of seeing our never-ending reflections. The porter strapped the cabinet onto his back and secured it over his forehead with a cloth belt he kept with him the whole time that made it easier for him to lift. He set it down in the truck and went back inside the house only to come out carrying a section of the copper bed frame we always used to see along with a green curtain behind there in the master bedroom which, despite our passing by it every day, we’d never seen with the door wide open like that before. Abu Jamil’s house didn’t hold any secrets from us except for that half a doorway’s opening to the bedroom: the husband and wife’s private place.
At that rate, the house would be emptied in less than an hour’s time. The neighbours had all congregated outside their houses, at their doorsteps, or were standing or even sitting on the balconies that overlooked Abu Jamil’s house, or they were crowded out in the open in the middle of the street. They were all watching the departure of Abu Jamil’s family from our quarter and their move into the quarter of our enemies. It didn’t appear that the women had been drawn away from their housework or that the children had suddenly stopped playing that weekend morning in order to watch some kind of accident — the way it sometimes happened when children came running with a ball in their hands and mud up to their knees, or when women came outside with their hands wet from doing laundry because they didn’t have time to dry them, like when our young neighbour went into a fit. That used to happen to our neighbour; all of a sudden he would faint and white foam would come out of his mouth, and we’d hear his mother’s squeals until the neighbours sought the help of someone who could drive him to the hospital.
That fellow who suffered from fits at least once a month was standing there with us, not showing any signs of his illness. We had all been prepared ahead of time, having cleared our schedules the day before in order to watch the spectacle. The lady of the house, Umm Jamil, and her children were standing outside like the rest of us, across the street from their house, watching everything along with us. We were standing there watching them while they watched the porter empty the house of its furniture. And they were watching us, too. Maybe deep down Umm Jamil expected the neighbours to object to their moving at the last minute. Neither she nor the children were wearing the kind of clothes that indicated they were ready to pack up and go. Umm Jamil was wearing her housecoat, the one that always bared her flabby white arms.
The porter worked by himself. No one — none of the young men or the women — lifted a hand to help him. The women’s arms were folded across their chests in grave silence. Every time the porter carried something out on his back, Umm Jamil looked at her neighbours, looked at her friends one woman at a time. She looked directly into their eyes. She wanted them to bear witness to what was happening to her. Some of them even had tears in their eyes, my mother included.
My mother was sad. Umm Jamil and her family’s departure was going to leave a big gap in our quarter. A gap in the sense of a hole no one would fill. She was sad, my mother, because of the young men who’d been killed and sad too because Umm Jamil was her friend and her cousin. Umm Jamil was a member of our family, from the heart of our family. She loved us; she cried tears of blood the day of the Burj al-Hawa incident. Her wailing filled the whole neighbourhood. She tore out her hair. She may have exaggerated her wailing on purpose to protect her husband and children — that’s what some bad-mouths said.
My mother was also sad because of the open area in front of their house. Maybe someone would move in who would want to keep the neighbours out of it. Maybe they would intentionally rent the house to someone they knew was despicable who would fence it in and plant a garden. It was an open area that had been created by the obscure decision to build the house a few metres back from the road, unlike the other houses whose owners made use of every bit of their land and consequently built their houses with the gates opening directly onto the main road. The patch in front of Abu Jamil’s house was the quarter’s only playground. That piece of land belonged to Abu Jamil’s family, but they never acted like they owned it, so it became a playground for everyone. My father always used to say that they could fence it off if they wanted and forbid anyone from passing through it, but they never did.
The residents of the quarter treated it like an extension of the road, a stopping place where Syrian peddlers from Saidnaya spread out their wares. They would rest there, taking a break from those heavy trunks they carried on their backs and travelled around with. Umm Jamil would bring chairs for them and coffee for the neighbours. They would haggle over the prices of shirts and towels and sheets, swearing their prices were fair and insinuating that they were Christians. There were two brothers dressed in baggy black sherwal trousers who would rummage through their goods, making it a tough task to pack everything back up and stuff it into the trunks before heaving them up onto their backs and slowly wending their way to other quarters. In that spot, too, the tall, dark salesman sold icons of the saints even though people said he was a Muslim. In that same patch we used to sit around on moonlit nights and tell each other scary stories until a familiar voice called us in for bed: my mother’s voice.
‘When will it be Fayad’s family’s turn?’ I whispered to her.
She became agitated. It gave her a lump in her throat. She wiped a tear from her eye.
‘Where do you get such ideas from?’ she shouted, covering up her agitation. ‘Who told you that?’
We knew everything. We knew other families would leave our quarter. We knew them and even counted them one by one. And there would be other families, relatives of ours we didn’t know and never saw before, who would pack up all their furniture and come to us, for protection.
‘Uncle Hamid, isn’t he from our family?’
She made light of my question. ‘Be quiet, boy.’
‘Why did Uncle Hamid and his family leave? Why did they leave the quarter and move to Beirut?’
‘…’
‘Why did my cousin Munir stop playing with us before he moved with his family to Beirut?’
She looked at me for the first time and said sharply, ‘I don’t know. Ask your uncle’s wife…’
I knew that my uncle’s wife was a stranger who wore red lipstick and powdered her cheeks, but I didn’t understand why I should ask her why Munir had stopped playing with us.
Each item the porter carried out of the house had its own effect on the people from the quarter who were watching. We all knew Abu Jamil’s house piece by piece. We knew his house because his door was always open, all day long. To us it was like an extension of the road. If we came running away from some stray dog, we would find ourselves, without meaning to, standing on their front steps in search of protection. If we played hide-and-seek outside we would hide in their living room without thinking anything of it. We’d crouch behind the drapes and even ask the family members not to do anything that might give us away. Young and old alike, they all put up with our noise with a smile. When we played war, we proceeded to shoot at each other between the kitchen and the little garden out back where we hunkered down behind the trunk of the loquat tree. We’d go inside the house with all our noise and all the dirt from the road that clung to our shoes. We never heard them complain once.