When Ata and I cleared the table I saw M. Michel bend over to kiss the archbishop’s hand, and I also saw him slip something into his hand. The archbishop took the thing and said, “May God always bless this house.” I wanted to say to M. Michel and to the archbishop that Ata was a fraud and had nothing to do with faith, but I wasn’t sure that my voice would make it out of my throat. I was afraid my voice would come out sounding like Ata’s did, thin and like a little girl’s, so I said nothing.
In the kitchen, while we were washing the dishes, Ata gulped down all the glasses of wine, saying that it was the finest wine in the world, then he drained the bottle and smacked his thin lips. He then handed me some money without daring to look me in the face.
Yalo did not attend the following oil sessions, which were held three times a week in this Parisian residence. He guessed that Ata had decided to exclude him from them, and thanked God for that, because he was sure that had he been summoned to a second session he would have burst out laughing and exposed the whole trick. But the trick was eventually exposed at the villa. Ghada told me how the deacon Issam succeeded in exposing it.
Ata exploited M. Michel’s faith and milked him. Yes, milked him. Ata was a fraud, and thank God it was not I who exposed him. I saw how he left the villa in the February cold. He was naked from the waist up as if he were walking on his knees. I thought he was kneeling, and guessed that he had moved his miracles from the living room to the garden, but I was mistaken. Ata stood under the illuminated balcony for shelter from the rain. I called out to him and he looked back, and when he saw me his teeth flashed from his rain-wet face before he ran into the darkness and was swallowed by it.
Ghada told me how the deacon Issam exposed him. As usual the ceremony took place in the dark, by candlelight. The oil began to leak out of Ata’s extended palms. The deacon leaped up and grabbed him from behind and called for the lights to be turned on. Before Issam joined the clergy he had been a gym teacher in an evangelical college. Once he caught Ata, his poor victim could not move. The lights came on and the deacon asked Ata to take his shirt off, but Ata resisted. But the deacon rendered him unable to budge, and tore his shirt to pull out from under his armpits two tiny plastic bottles filled with oil. Then he turned to M. Michel and said: “This imposture must stop!”
Ghada laughed at her father’s credulity and said that Ata was a crook, that he must have gotten a lot of money out of her father before he took off. I didn’t tell her what I knew, afraid that she would tell her father and that he might think I was an accomplice. All I knew of Ata was that he was a Jehovah’s Witness and that he had nothing to do with me. It is true that he winked at me and gave me some money to buy my silence, but I would never have said anything anyway. My relationship with him consisted of no more than my having seen him, as dozens of others had seen him at M. Michel’s residence in Paris, just as Archbishop Mikhail Sawaya had seen God the Father, which of course was impossible. I know from my grandfather that no one can see God the Father; even Moses did not see him in Sinai. Only Christ saw him. No one saw the Father but the Bro, for Christ is the true Son.
That is all that happened in Paris. I know that you asked me for the Paris story because you suspect that my relationship with the explosives gang began there. But I swear to God this is everything. And Monsieur Michel had nothing to do with it.
Yalo wrote in his previous confessions about his meeting with Haykal. The truth is that the explosives story started with that meeting, which probably took place in Achrafieh when Yalo was in front of the building where the offices of the Araissi Advertising Company were located, waiting for Shirin.
At first Yalo ignored Haykal, but the gang leader approached him. After a forced greeting and embrace, a conversation started. Haykal began to browbeat and threaten Yalo because of the money taken from the Georges Aramouni Barracks. Yalo didn’t pay much attention to the man because he was waiting for Shirin. He wanted to protect her, so he agreed to everything. He made an appointment to meet Haykal at the Badaro Inn. He said they would meet there tomorrow afternoon, shook hands, and left. Yalo claimed that he left the area, but he settled in behind the Empire Cinema to wait for Haykal to disappear. Yalo went back to where he had been waiting and stood under the acacia tree that shaded the sidewalk. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to find Haykal, and knew he had been caught. Haykal asked him for his address, and Yalo found no way out of giving him the address of the villa. Haykal said that he preferred to meet with him in Ballouna and so cancelled their meeting in Badaro Street and went away. Yalo was sure, however, that he would hide himself somewhere to watch him. So he too decided to leave. He looked at his watch and muttered as if he were waiting for someone who didn’t show up, then left.
Yalo went into the café next door to the Empire Cinema, drank a cold beer, and then went back to the building to wait. But Shirin didn’t appear. She must have left while he was away. Again he looked at his watch, muttered, and shook his head before leaving.
This, sir, is how Yalo got entangled with the gang. I am not saying that Shirin was the cause, but I will say that this was fate. Yalo got entangled with fate and was forced to store explosives in his cottage, but he did not take part in the bombings because he was preoccupied. Yalo was a lover, sir, and that’s all.
I made you a promise and I’ve kept it, but I cannot resolve the subject of the explosives better than this, or answer your question — the one that cost Yalo so many kinds of torture and beatings — “Where did you hide the explosives?”
After Yalo confessed to the explosives because of your insistence, you searched his cottage, turned the villa inside out, and dug up the garden, but you found nothing. I cannot guide you to their location, not only because I don’t know, but also because my imagination does not permit me to play this game. What you require of me is truth, not imagination. I have said what I can on the subject of the gang, but I cannot imagine more. Now I am remembering and not imagining, and there is a great distance between the two. Remembering is imagination too, as memories come back to me like fantasies and bring me into a long night, but I cannot lead you to the location of the explosives because I am not writing a story but the truth. I know that if I point you to any specific place, you will go there and search, and if you do not find anything, and of course you will not find anything, my punishment will be disastrous.