I was walking about the hall of St. Louis Cathedral. This is an old church, a very old church. Maybe it was built in the age of the church missions. Maybe it was built by the first silk merchant to arrive in Beirut from Lyons, in fulfillment of a vow he made for the success of his commerce. The fact is that I forgot to ask the priest about the history of the church, how it was built and since when there has been a community called the Latins in our country. The important thing is the organ. Lying on the floor, broken, moaning, its beautiful melodious sound gone. And everywhere, the remnants of smashed floor tiles and water from the rain. The thick walls white but pock-marked, with multi-colored graffiti, black and red and green, all over. And between a holy statue and an ancient icon, you can read: allahu akbar, Fateh* was here. And all around, the sounds of percussion and the echo. I didn’t used to understand what an echo was. When we were little, we would go to the wadi overlooking Nahr Beirut and shout, and our voices returned, repeated over and over again. But here the echo has a different beat. One shell becomes a whole battle. The echo mingles with the sound of glass and the rattle of the censer and the pacing of the priests’ footsteps.
— The ship’s been wrecked, Father.
The church had turned into something like an abandoned house. Blankets on the floor, empty bullet cases, the rhythms of our footsteps. In the middle, where the helm and the altar stood, sandbags were being taken to the buildings nearby and echo reigned sovereign over the church.
War destroys everything. But what shall we do with victory?
— We’ll take it to the Jordan River. Imagine victory. Victory means that the poor become the masters and the former masters remain masters but without serfs. The organ will play an eastern mode and our fingerprints will be the flag. Well take Victory to the Jordan River and Johns head will come on a golden platter and they will speak to each other. Then they will go down to the Jordan River together. John will baptize Victory and Victory will carry Johns head before it.
— True, if we’re victorious here in Lebanon, what will happen?
— Israel will come, and after we defeat her, Amer ica will come.
— And after we defeat America, who will come?
— When we defeat America, everyone will go. We will have written the story of the longest and most beautiful war.
— But what?
Talal doesn’t agree. Winning isn’t important. What’s important is something else. What’s important is that we live life as it is, take it as it comes, fight, and die on the mountain top.
The church shook with every shell. The body of Christ was still bent over the ground. And the long censer still awaiting the hand that would hold it, but the hand wouldn’t come. Everything smashed: brass vessels, small silver spoons, silken robes littering the ground. And then, Jihad discovered the treasure. Innumerable candles. Thin, shiny tapers, in special drawers. He took them and threw them up in the air. We ran, gathering them up. This is a fortune. In the evening, we lit up the entire fortune. One hundred tapers, which we stood on the ground, shining into the night. Between the beat of the censer and the beat of the rain. They cast a brilliant glow such as we’d never known. In it, our bodies seemed slight, our movements sha dowless. A hundred tapers flickering in the middle of a ruined church. We’re in a real ship. The ship shimmering in the middle of the sea and inside it strange seamen looking for their new clothes. In the middle of the sea, the drizzle falling on the church’s red tile roof and running off its sides, all around us waves and priests and pirates’ bullets. Father Marcel comes running and smiles when he sees the candles.
— I thought the church was on fire. No problem, do as you please.
— Thank you, Father.
A tribe around the tribal fire. The lights were dancing but we didn’t dance around the fire. We were blowing cigarette smoke into the vast emptiness and looking for the sea.
— What do you think, Father? Why doesn’t the ship sink?
Father Marcel doesn’t answer, sets off for his memories, telling us stories about the saints, then goes back to asking: Why don’t you kill me?
— And why should we kill you, Father? We are to gether, living close to the sea in a wrecked ship. When we reach the sea, the ship will sink and our story will be over.
The sea’s our goal, the commander says, and we are waiting for the sea. We will get there, cast our nets, take off our clothes, and breathe in the smell of the fish. Jihad sits down close to the fire and starts singing. Our voices rise. And from the chorus soars Ahmed’s voice, taut, moaning as he traces the future on the broken wall in front of him. SCENE FIVE
The sea in our eyes. Between the cordons of fire and the salt of the sea, Jaber fell. He fell like an arrow on the mountain top, so the snow mixed with the sea and the rain with the saltiness from the gunbarrel. The battle for the sea was the most difficult, the roads twisting and turning endlessly. We didn’t surprise them, nor were we surprised, except when we reached the sea. The raining shells mixing with the sky’s own rain, the wind carrying the rifles as much as we did, the battle flowing from balcony to balcony and from trench to trench. The sea was far away, that’s why it surprised me. There was darkness and voices and the movement of feet and the suppleness of bodies and fear for one another. All of them things we’d experienced before. But today we were experiencing surprise. We were running, no longer seeing for the thick darkness: just fire and movement which we shot at, advancing, as across the entire area the others shot and advanced.
The smell of salt and fish sprang to my nostrils. We’re there, I shouted. I gripped my clothes, unbelieving. The hours of pain vanished. But I wasn’t seeing the sea, or hearing anything save the sound of the waves. I breathed in its smell. The smell of the sea spreading through the pores of my body and penetrating the joints that had soaked up the decay of the swamps and hugged sand and dust while looking for the arc stretching from Mount Sanneen* to the shore. The sea was entering our eyes. Searing them, the smell of salt smothered in fishy things flooded our eyes. We were advancing and the sea was ours.
Talal tore off his clothes and threw himself naked into the waves.
— But we’re still in the middle of the battle!
— This is the battle.
He swam like someone making love to a woman. Diving in and coming up. He scooped up the water, throwing it to the sky. Embracing the cold and the drizzle and the salt. And when he got out he was shivering like a bird.
— You’ll get sick and have to leave the battle.
But Talal didn’t get sick and didn’t leave the battle. From shipwreck to shipwreck, he carried the battle on his shoulders and when he had safely delivered his trust to the sea, he died on the mountain top.
— Jaber’s fallen, said Sameer. He was beside me; he was hit in the head and just keeled over. I carried him and ran to the back. Some comrades took him. And now they’ve come and told me he’s dead.
— Death is a bird, Jaber says. It circles above the water, in search of fish, then drops and the fish eat it.
— Death is a sign, butterflies and horses. Death is us, then Butros falls silent. The sea was bleeding salt into his eyes and he wouldn’t cry. He was laid out, his head covered with his red keffieh,*his eyes half-shut, his clothes spattered with blood and mud. Jaber, graceful as a spear, fallen between church spire and mountain top. He lay there, covered, surrounded by voices and the Palestinian flag. He knew he was going to die, that’s why his laugh welled up with every shot. He’d hold his rifle tight, fire and laugh like children holding their toys.
— We’ll drape him in the Palestinian flag.