Having got all that off his chest, he withdraws into somber silence. I’m afraid my indiscretion has touched a particularly sensitive spot and opened a wound he’d like to let heal.
19
After dozing off on the sofa, Dr. Jalal finally leaves, and I hasten to remove my medications from sight. I’m furious at myself. What was I thinking? Even a dimwit would have been astounded at the giant battery of medicine bottles crowded onto my night table. Did Dr. Jalal suspect anything? Why, contrary to all expectation, did he come to my room? I didn’t think he was in the habit of visiting other guests. Except for when he’s getting drunk by himself in the bar, he’s almost never to be seen in the corridors of the hotel. Moreover, he’s generally sullen and aloof and returns neither smiles nor greetings. The hotel staff avoids him, because he’s liable to fly into an awful rage over some triviality. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he knows nothing about the purpose of my sojourn in Beirut. He’s in Lebanon to give his lectures; I’m here for reasons that are top secret. Why did he join me yesterday on the terrace, when he’s a man who abhors company?
I intrigue him; there’s no doubt about it.
I take a lot of medication. For three solid days after my arrival in Beirut, various physicians examined me, evaluated me, sounded my depths, and drew my blood, assiduously passing me back and forth between scan machines and cardiographs. After being pronounced sound of body and mind, I was introduced to a certain Professor Ghany, the only person authorized to decide whether or not I would be sent on the mission. He’s a wiry old gentleman, dry as a cudgel, with a nimbus of thick, stringy hair surrounding his head. He subjected me to countless tests — some to determine what products I might be allergic to, others to prepare my body to resist possible rejection phenomena — and then he gave me my many prescriptions. Sayed informed me that Professor Ghany’s a virologist, but he’s also active in other scientific fields; a gray eminence without peer, Sayed says, almost a magician, who worked for decades in the most prestigious American research institutions before being kicked out because he was an Arab and a Muslim.
Until yesterday, everything was proceeding normally. Shakir picked me up and took me to a private clinic north of the city. He waited for me in the car until the consultations were over, and then he drove me back to the hotel. No questions asked.
Dr. Jalal’s intrusion troubles me. Ever since he left, I can’t stop going over our few encounters. Where did I make my mistake? When did I first arouse his curiosity? Did someone around me blow my cover? “I hope you’re going to give it to them good and hard, those bastards.” What was that supposed to mean? Who authorized him to address me in such a fashion?
Summoned, apparently, by my distress, Shakir finds me pondering these mysteries. “Is anything wrong?” he asks as he closes the door behind him.
I’m stretched out on the sofa. The rain has stopped at last, but from outside you can hear the swishing sound of vehicles driving through water. In the sky, thick brown clouds are gathering, preparing for the next downpour.
Shakir grabs a chair and straddles it backward. He’s not as young as I thought, thirty or so, handsome and jovial, with broad shoulders, a stubborn chin, and long hair pulled back in an austere ponytail. He must be nearly six feet tall. His blue eyes have a mineral luster, and their gaze is a little vague as they settle here and there, as though his head were somewhere else. I bonded with Shakir the moment I shook his hand, back on the Syrian border, when Sayed consigned me to him and Imad, who then brought me clandestinely into Lebanon. It’s true that Shakir doesn’t talk very much, but he knows how to be there. We can stand side by side and look at the same thing without exchanging a word.
But something’s different now. Ever since his friend Imad was found dead of an overdose, Shakir has lost his proud assurance. Before, he was crackling with energy. You didn’t have time to hang up the phone before he rang the doorbell. He put the same vigor and dedication into everything he did. Then the police discovered the body of his closest collaborator, and that was a sad jolt for Shakir. It was as though he’d hit a wall.
I didn’t know Imad very well. Except for our journey from the Jordanian border to Lebanon, he and I weren’t together much. He’d come with Shakir to pick me up at the hotel, and that was it. He was a shy kid, crouched in his partner’s shadow. He didn’t seem like a person who used drugs. When I learned how he’d been found, lying blue-mouthed on a bench in a public square, I immediately suspected that he’d actually been murdered. Shakir agreed with me, but he kept it to himself. Only once, I asked him what he thought about Imad’s death; his blue eyes darkened. We’ve avoided the subject ever since.
“Any problems?” he asks.
“Not really,” I reply.
“You look upset.”
“What time is it?”
He consults his watch and tells me we still have twenty minutes before it’s time to leave. I get up and go to the bathroom to wash my face. The cold water calms me down. I stay bent over the sink for a long time, dousing my face and the back of my neck. When I straighten up, I catch Shakir looking at me in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted to one side, and his shoulder against the wall. I run my wet fingers through my hair, and he watches me with a glassy gleam in his eye.
“If you’re not feeling well, I’ll postpone the meeting,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He purses his lips skeptically. “It’s your call. Sayed arrived this morning. He’ll be very happy to see you again.”
“He hasn’t given a sign of life for more than two weeks,” I point out.
“He had to go back to Iraq.” Handing me a towel, he adds, “Things are getting really bad over there.”
I dry my face and pass the towel around my neck. “Dr. Jalal came by to see me this afternoon,” I blurt out.
Shakir raises an eyebrow. “Oh, did he?”
“He also came out on the terrace last night to chat with me.”
“And?”
“It’s on my mind.”
“He said unpleasant things?”
I turn and face Shakir. “What kind of guy is he, this Dr. Jalal?”
“I have no idea. Not my department. But if you want my advice, don’t get all worked up over nothing.”
I go into my bedroom, put on my shoes and my jacket, and announce that I’m ready. “I’ll go and get the car,” he says. “Wait for me in front of the hotel.”
The automatic gate slides open with a screech, and we enter the grounds of the clinic. Shakir takes off his sunglasses before steering his 4×4 into an interior courtyard. He parks between two ambulances and switches off the engine. “I’ll wait for you here,” he says.
“Very good,” I reply, getting out of the vehicle.
He winks at me and leans over to pull the door closed.
I climb up a wide flight of granite steps and enter the lobby of the clinic. A male nurse intercepts me and shows me to Dr. Ghany’s office on the second floor. Sayed’s there, hunched in an armchair, his fingers clutching his knees. A smile lights up his face when he sees me come in. He stands up and spreads his arms, and we embrace forcefully. Sayed’s lost a lot of weight. I can feel his bones through his gray suit.
The professor waits until we release each other before inviting us to take the two chairs facing him. He’s nervous; he can’t stop tapping the desk blotter with his pencil. “All your test results are excellent,” he announces. “The treatment I prescribed has proved effective. You’re perfect for the mission.”