“Not Kamal al-Askary, no way. No one had a faster trigger finger than him.”
Some of those who were there said al-Askary killed Awwad and then one of them shot him and he died. Others said al-Askary drew his gun but didn’t fire, someone in the bar shot and killed both of them. They said it was murder, that the Second Bureau wanted to get rid of both of them. But Alice didn’t believe that. They both fired and both died, that’d be better, she said, trying to tell the story from the beginning.
That day Beirut went up in flames.
Alice said the whole war started in the Blow Up. “If you’d seen it, if you’d been here, it was unbelievable, all of Beirut came out into the streets, the streets actually walked. Al-Askary was being carried over everyone’s head, like he was flying and everyone else was below him. He was above everyone, and when he went down into the grave, the stories started. Women, if you’d seen the women. Women came and started crying. Veiled, unveiled, all sorts of women. He had an entire tribe. That’s a real man. They killed him, that’s what I think. Impossible, al-Askary is the one who shoots, no one shoots him. But he was shot. I saw how he fell, he fell like a mountain, like a heavy door.”
Alice refused to believe it. But they both died. They both fired and they both fell. And Rita took off. Rita, the Italian girl, knew the truth, but she disappeared. She left and took the secret with her. There were rumors she worked for the Second Bureau, and rumors she was an Israeli spy, no one really knew.
That day Beirut lived through two funeral processions. One that crossed Corniche al-Mazraa in West Beirut and ended up at the Cemetery of the Martyrs, and one that walked from Abu Arbeed’s gas station in East Beirut, passed by a gas station belonging to Asad Awwad, and ended up in Saint Mitr Cemetery.
Ever since that day, Beirut has been shrouded in night.
Alice said the civil war started there, and from that day not one day has passed like the previous ones.
“Everything went to pot,” she said. “Women were treated like old shoes, and old shoes got to be more important than men, all the bullies left, and along came Zaylaa, and after him the midget, and after the midget, the Egyptian, none of them are men.”
Alice said when Suad disappeared in 1976, she went to Zaylaa. The Montana was filled with the smell of those lights. Those dim lights placed in the corners would smoke like snuffed-out candles, and gave off a horrible smell. The place was filled with military-style uniforms, men sitting with women who looked like boys, and the fake laughter crackled through the place, while Zaylaa sat at the entrance like a rooster.
Gandhi came in. At first Alice didn’t see him. He was wearing a broad-shouldered black jacket, walking with his head bent forward as if he would fall, and Alice was sitting alone at the bar, a glass of tea with some ice in front of her, a cigarette burning in the ashtray, and her eyes staring blankly, not seeing anything. Alice said she could sit like that for hours without thinking about anything. She’d sit there like a rock, eyes wide open, seeing nothing and hearing nothing. Gandhi looked for her amidst the shoes flying off of the customers’ feet, big shoes in need of lots of shoe polish. He came up to the bar and stretched his hand out to Alice.
“Sit. What’ll you have?” said Alice.
“No, I can’t. I need you. It’s urgent,” Gandhi answered.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“The girl,” he said.
“All the girls are at your service. Now you want girls?”
“No, no. My daughter Suad, Suad is missing, she disappeared two days ago, I looked everywhere, maybe they kidnapped her, maybe they killed her.”
Gandhi’s voice was faint and cracking with sadness.
“No problem,” Alice said. “We’ll talk to Zaylaa.”
She took him to the door. Zaylaa was smoking greedily, as if he were chewing the smoke in his mouth before blowing it out of his wide nostrils. He listened to the story of Suad’s disappearance without much concern.
“The crazy girl, aren’t you talking about the crazy girl?”
“Yes. My daughter is sick.”
“Yes, yes, I understand, we’ll see what we can do, you go home, and sleep tight, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Hey, we’re neighbors, aren’t we? The Prophet enjoined us to be good to our neighbors.”
“But how?” Gandhi asked.
“What do you mean, How? I told you I’d take care of it, that means I’ll take care of it. You want the girl, don’t you?”
Gandhi nodded his head politely.
“Okay. Go, the rest is up to me, go and sleep and tomorrow, God willing, you’ll have your daughter.”
Gandhi went to his house and slept, and Zaylaa kept sitting where he was. Alice wanted to go with Gandhi, but Zaylaa wouldn’t let her.
“You get inside and take care of business. You think you’re running your own business here?”
Alice went inside and Zaylaa didn’t move from his spot. Actually, he came in at two in the morning and started drinking. Alice didn’t dare ask him anything, for he had a reputation for beating up girls. All the girls were scared of him because he’d beat them up. She waited for him to tell her, but he didn’t. She asked him in a soft voice. He laughed and asked her to come home with him. She went. It was a big house full of mirrors. The electricity was out. He lit a candle and asked her to massage his back for him. He took off his clothes, laid down on his stomach on his big bed, and she began massaging him. He asked her to take off her clothes; she took off her clothes. She took some cream and massaged his back. Then she heard him snoring, so she left him and went to another room and fell into a sound sleep.
The next day, around four in the afternoon, Alice passed Faysal’s Restaurant and saw Little Gandhi sitting on a chair next to the newsstand.
He told her his daughter was back, and he was going to buy a present to take that evening to Zaylaa. He said he was going to buy him a pipe.
Alice tried to tell him Zaylaa didn’t do anything, that he had nothing to do with his daughter’s return.
Gandhi was set on buying the pipe and told her to come by in the evening before going to work so they could go together.
Suad came back.
Gandhi was sitting in his usual spot, his wooden box beside him, newspapers stacked around him, alongside the newspaperman who slept all day. He saw his wife coming to say the girl had come back, their daughter was home, so he ran off in a hurry.
At home he saw his daughter. She’d just come out of the shower, her long, black, curly hair spread out on her back. Her eyes had gotten bigger, more creases around them, and she was thin as a pole, trembling. She sat down next to her father, hugged him, and fell into a long crying spell and told him.
She said she went to their old house in Nabaa. She said she didn’t find the house. She said they arrested her and took her to a shack. She said one of them started beating his head against the wall. She said they let her go, they put her on a truck, and in front of Salomi Circle one of them threw her on a garbage heap. She said she stayed on top of the heap all night, that she was afraid of the rats. She said a man came in the morning, and when he saw her he ran and started to scream. She said she got up from the pile of trash and ran, she said no one stopped her, she walked from Sin al-Fil to Hamra. She said she lost one of her shoes, so she walked half-barefoot. She said she wanted to sleep. She stopped talking.
Gandhi tried to get her to explain, but he couldn’t understand anything.
His wife, who stood there listening to the girl without opening her mouth, yelled at her husband.