Beirut Blues Read online

  And tell you what they’re up to every day

  And if you ever find I’m lying

  Then you must beat me, beat me

  Until I shit a mountain

  And give up all my secrets.

  Mustafa knew that only in my grandmother’s presence could he make an incursion into his father’s logic, if his father was to hear him having a discussion with her, blocking all her chances to make skillful interventions or use her powers of eloquence, and leaving her fumbling for words. As he spoke to her he was acutely conscious that he must not make the same mistake again: he was not going to open his heart to her and tell her, as he had told his father months before, that he wanted to be a guerrilla, to stand ready in combat gear, give orders, feel the heat of a weapon. Bruce Lee films were being acted out in your orchards and he was aware of it, but instead of fulfilling his ambitions, he was obliged to run errands for his mother, give her his blessing whenever she spat at the bands of youths, and go along with her as she emptied the bowl of dirty water after the wash and cursed them: “God willing, they’ll become like the black scum in that water.”

  Mustafa said, “The fathers don’t understand the rage of their sons. Yes, they were in the orchards and so were the boys’ mothers, hoeing, planting, harvesting, and packing, while the sun beat down on their children all day long, and they were left to scream unattended when insects stung them. Wherever they looked, they saw land stretching to the horizon and knew that it all belonged to the blond man sitting in the hut, the one with a resounding laugh who rode around on horseback. Did he have a right to these lands simply because his grandfather imported wheat and slabs of ice to the villages during the First World War and took land in exchange when the people had no gold liras?”

  Mustafa was disconcerted when he realized that despite these historical arguments he was unable to defeat my grandmother. She was more knowledgeable than he had believed, and brought religion into the discussion and quoted the sayings of the imams and the prophetic traditions in front of his father, who was a believer. My grandmother kept a hold on religion by way of its prophets, its imams, and its female personalities: Fatima, the Prophet’s daughter; Our Lady Zaynab; and the Prophet’s wife, Khadija. She knew all the stories about them, their sayings, the prophetic traditions they had themselves related and the ones told about them. She argued over their biographies, giving her own stubborn interpretations of the texts, not shifting an inch from her declared position, even when her opponents were sheikhs and religious scholars. At the same time she was well informed about Nasser and his land reforms and about the Israeli enemy. In desperation Mustafa quoted from his own experience: “I can still remember my father and mother on the threshing floor in the very hottest part of the day,” he shouted, “and my big sister shaking a tree to bring the fruit down and holding out her skirt to catch it.”

  My grandmother gasped in disgust at the hypocrisy as she stood up to leave, drawing her coat around her and gripping her sunshade. “How did we oppress you? Your mother and father were agricultural workers, not the king and queen. Did we take them down off their throne, steal their gold, and force them to work? See! We’re making you remember. Isn’t that better than being in the dark?”

  That was the last visit, and my grandmother and Zemzem came back home, my grandmother holding the blue sunshade so low that it was almost touching her face, for fear that the sun would damage her snow-white skin. She sighed deeply, hoping to provoke a response from Zemzem. For the first time in her life she wanted her opinion, although she knew that she would only select a word or two, a sentence at the most, from what she had to say. Zemzem did not take the trouble to choose her words as she normally did, but simply sighed herself too, and said, “It’s boiling hot.”

  When my grandmother pressed her, she remarked indifferently, “Working on the land is like a job. Now their children have got other jobs and some kind of status. Not only that, but they’ve started to bring money home and spend it on themselves. If you’d put five piastres in their pocket, they’d have understood what you were saying.”

  My grandmother looked utterly downcast, like a young girl who had discovered on her wedding night that her sweetheart was marrying somebody else. “You’re right. Money talks. Kalashnikovs bring power, and power brings money.”

  She was very depressed because you were no longer hers. You no longer needed her. As she walked along, at the mercy of the sun’s single eye with no shade to protect her, she felt dwarfed by you. She was certain people were watching her from their windows and porches. She had to think of a way to grow taller instead of shrinking. What had happened to the wooden box lined with green and mauve velvet which used to be beside her father’s bed? She wished it still had gold in it: English sovereigns, Ottoman gold liras, and Egyptian guineas, all shining and jingling. She had seen inside it when she was little. Where had it all gone? If she had thought about it before when she was younger, perhaps she would have found an answer. If only the profit from these orchards had been turned into money and paid into bank accounts instead of being used to buy more land; if only she had bought comfortable furniture.

  My grandparents never thought that you would return to them until the Israelis were actually inside Lebanon. How they both hoped that the Israelis would reach the village! They followed their operations on the radio, and right at the beginning my grandfather asked Naima’s son to go to the Unmentionables to find out what news they were getting on their walkie-talkies, while my grandmother in Beirut relied on the news from Radio Monte Carlo. Each time my grandfather deduced from the news that Israel was making progress, his face grew redder and rounder, and whenever he heard that America and other world powers were cautioning Israel and trying to halt her advance, his eyebrows stuck up in all directions. And my grandmother used to turn her pillow every evening and every morning, addressing my grandfather: “I’m thinking of you. God willing, they’ll reach you.”

  Zemzem heard her and laughed to herself. She told me that although my grandmother was old, she had not given anything up and was still dependent on my grandfather as a man.

  There were rumors that the Israelis would soon reach our villages with their airborne weapons. Early one morning helicopters hovered in the sky above and the armed men who were occupying my grandfather’s land fled like frightened chickens from a predatory fox and scattered far and wide. My grandfather was overjoyed and let out a whoop of delight, then rushed to your orchards, kissing the earth and raising his eyes to the sky, whether to pray to God or Israel we didn’t know. When two days went by without any further activity in the air, my grandfather was afraid the occupiers would return, and wished at that point he had a militia. For a few moments he thought of throwing himself on the mercy of “that family” but discounted the idea and considered other possibilities. However, the events of the next few days gave him confidence again: a helicopter landed, with a Star of David emblazoned on its side, and men in civilian clothes jumped out, asking about Mustafa and his companions, who had fled from the village and its environs into the tangled network of trails among the streams and fields which connected the villages to one another. In spite of some fear and caution, the children and adolescents gathered around curiously and followed the men. They spoke Arabic fluently but with an accent. They made straight for Mustafa’s house and went in without any warning, searching for weapons. Mustafa’s aunt, who was almost stone-deaf, welcomed them enthusiastically: “Hello, come in, we’re delighted to see you. We’re always glad to see handsome lads like you. What can I get you?”

  Then she called out to Mustafa’s sister, Amina, who was gnashing her teeth in fury. “Why are you standing there like some graven image? Get something for these young men. You’re most welcome. A cold drink. Or perhaps they haven’t eaten yet. Put out a dish of rice and lentils for them.”

  At this Amina’s patience deserted her. “Sit down!” she shouted at her aunt.

  One of them came up to the aunt and clapped her on the shoulder. “You�
��re a kind woman. Where’s Mustafa?”

  She didn’t hear what he said. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked. “Now, why are you standing up? Please sit down.”

  She talked incessantly and kept apologizing that Mustafa wasn’t there. “He’s off with the bandits firing guns. He’s not tidy and clean and well mannered like you.”

  She said good-bye to them, waving until Amina struck her hand to make her stop. “Someone should gag you,” she yelled in her ear. “They’re Israelis and you go welcoming them.”

  Her aunt gave a cry and beat herself on the face. “What? Oh, no!” She rushed up onto the roof, grabbing her slippers as she went, waving one threateningly in the air and striking her cheek with the other. “Oh, God, I’m so stupid! They were Israelis and I was trying to give them something to eat.”

  The soldiers in the helicopter saw the friendly woman waving and waved back, not noticing the slipper in her raised hand.

  My grandfather saw the arrival of this helicopter as meaning that a dark page had been torn out and destroyed so that life would go back to normal in his orchards. Almost instantly his old worries were replaced by new ones. Should he give Mustafa’s father and the other lads’ relatives their jobs back or replace them with the Pakistanis and Sudanese who were knocking on doors all over the area looking for work? Then Israel started to worry him, flooding the market with cheap vegetables to tempt the Lebanese merchants; he called Israel a snake, while my grandmother ended all her prayers with an entreaty to her Maker to destroy Israel’s houses and fields. After a while she changed this to a prayer for the destruction of the strangers and thugs who reoccupied the orchards and distorted your features without batting an eyelid, transforming you internally as well as externally so that now you have a different spirit.

  I seem to hear sounds as if there’s a fight going on but it’s a strange sound, which even drowns out the water hydrant. I get out of bed and discover that it’s the wind rising. I try to secure the window and succeed in deadening the noise, but find I’m wide awake, writing this letter in my head, even taking care to put in all the commas and periods, open and close quotation marks, and I notice that I no longer use question marks and exclamation points. A fly buzzing around on the low ceiling, despite the darkness, keeps me from sleeping.

  My grandfather’s voice roused me: “My mule’s better than yours. My saddle’s better than yours,” he was calling.

  The veins running through your branches and each particle of your soil still seemed to be charged with his voice and simply repeated his words in reply. But other voices called back, “Let’s get some sleep tonight. How about letting your family have a bit of peace and quiet too?” Then I realized that I had only just woken up.

  I heard the sound of footsteps on the porch, then this barking or weeping or singing or laughing: my grandfather again. No one responded this time and I twisted over to the other side of the bed, trying to forget what I’d heard and go back to thinking about you and about my mother and this strange world. But then I sat bolt upright at the sound of glass breaking on the porch and my grandfather shouting, “Where can I hide my face from my family, and my father’s bones, when the land is planted with this poison?”

  I ran to the porch. The neck of the empty oil bottle was still in his hand. I took it from him gently and steered him away from the scattered glass. “Were you asleep, my dear?” he asked me simply. “Since those wild boys took the land, I haven’t been able to sleep like normal folk.”

  I realize now why the occupiers ignore him: all his strength has left him. They tried to kidnap him the day they occupied the land; he was armed and on horseback. Following their instructions, he dismounted and gave himself up. Their faces were covered and they blindfolded him and made him walk with them. Then he managed to escape and raced away from them, hurling himself from rock to rock. It seems that even acts of violence are governed by laws agreed in advance and that if a kidnap victim knows the identity of his kidnappers and can escape, he will never be kidnapped again. To their astonishment, my grandfather called his abductors by name.

  “He died with a hoe in his hand and only the cow to mourn him …” sings my grandfather disparagingly.

  “But, Grandfather, Mustafa’s not with them anymore,” I say.

  “Who cares? It’s all his fault.”

  I laugh and he laughs with me. I try to pretend to myself that he’s cheered up and go inside, but he starts shouting again. “Your mothers and grandmothers thought my father’s car had dropped from the skies. They touched it as if it was the holy Kaaba. And didn’t they think photographers could take their pictures without seeing them? So don’t come telling me about your walkie-talkies and driving around in front of me in your flash car.”

  Yet again I hear the sound of footsteps on the porch outside the door of my room and a faint chuckle, but I don’t consider getting up this time. I wonder why the deep red tiles give a feeling of great warmth and delicious coolness at the same time. I can’t believe I’m really here: although we took so long on the journey, it seems like magic.

  I open my eyes and close them again, delighting in the mild, dry air, and the noises which remind me of normal life and mingle with the steady beat of my letters. I thought these letters fell asleep as soon as I closed my eyes, but they are still awake, like me. I hear a different laugh, then Zemzem’s voice, then the new voice more loudly. From Zemzem’s uncomfortable tone, I know the newcomer is cramping her style. Zemzem makes an effort, but the new voice grows louder, full of laughter. I listen hard to it, trying to make out who it is. My grandfather speaks but is drowned out. “I don’t want anything to eat or drink. Ruhiyya has been waiting for Asmahan since the crack of dawn.”

  At this I sit up sharply. Am I losing my mind? I haven’t thought about Ruhiyya since we drove past the hairdresser’s, café, and chicken farms. My grandfather lashes out again, saying that today is ideal for spraying the fruit; he curses the bandits, the young rebels, the bearers of grudges, the beggars and pimps, shouting that their women are whores, that they pimp for their mothers and daughters and wives. The newcomer tries to silence my grandfather, but his voice, which makes a sound like a rusty needle on a record, is not easily silenced, and its rasping echo continues to reverberate all around the porch. I hastily put on my clothes so that I can go and join in, frustrated by my inability to hear properly because of the thick stone walls and the emotion distorting the voices. Is my grandfather weeping? No, he’s laughing. Laughing and singing a folk song. The loud female voice silences him.

  I came out, overwhelmed by the feeling that the day was almost over, that they had all got there before me and monopolized events down to the tiniest detail, so that there was no longer a place for me. The owner of the voice flung the tongs she was holding into the washbowl and swooped down on me. Ignoring Zemzem’s expressions of disapproval, she pulled me close and kissed me, saying, “Thank goodness you’re safe. Thank goodness.”

  She was the girl who had stared at us from a distance the day before when we arrived, who had seemed uncertain whether to approach us, and then vanished. The smile never left her beautiful face, and her blue eyes almost bored into me, so that after a bit everything seemed to be tinged with their blueness. Obviously mystified because I wasn’t more friendly, she introduced herself as Juhayna and said that I had given her my barrette when she was a child. I remembered her as a little girl, red-eyed from some allergy, and she said she still suffered when figs were in season.

  I laughed in spite of my annoyance at being so much older than her.

  “I put a bunch of flowers in your room,” she said. “Naima and all the rest of them tried to stop me.”

  “Stop gossiping,” interrupted Naima. “Perhaps Asmahan wants to have her breakfast.”

  “Why do you call her Asmahan?” asked Juhayna bossily. “Her name’s Asma. ‘Asmahan’ sounds so old-fashioned. She’s not eating. Ruhiyya’s been waiting for her for hours.” Then she turned to me. “What do you think? Would you like
to go to Ruhiyya’s?” she said ingratiatingly. “When she knew you’d come, she was over the moon. Really. She’s crazy about you.”

  My grandfather returned from the small part of you below the porch. Dusting the earth off his hands, he said, “Today’s perfect. No frost, not too hot, and there’s a heavy dew. Just the day for the apples to get a color on them. Ah, these poppies will break my heart, if Juhayna hasn’t done it already.”

  Juhayna was still talking loudly and she seemed to want to provoke me, but my attention was distracted by the opium poppies swaying in the gentle breeze, flashes of white and scarlet in the sunlight, a vast expanse spilling out darker, deeper colors onto your yellow and green. For the first time I felt I had come face-to-face with my grandparents’ tragedy, and I was deeply struck by the idea that this no longer belonged to us. The laborers’ noisy shouting, the trucks and barrows, no longer kept you company like before, and our house, which looked out over our lost possessions, was an empty shell. My thoughts strayed to the other houses in the distance. How had they all come to accept this change as normal? Why hadn’t it made more of an impression on them? I watched their cars making their way through your orchards. Sounds of laughter and voices floated down, and the words of a song were audible on the breeze: “Come on in here with me for an hour, I want to play with you under the shower.”

  “It would have been better if they’d burned it. Opium’s like poison. It sucks the water from the soil, takes out the vitamins.”

  My grandfather is afraid for your well-being. Now he is comparing you to a snakeskin sloughed and shriveling up in the sun, while I am wondering why Juhayna’s voice annoys me. She must have snared my grandfather in the coils of her long, light hair.

  “If only I’d had some sons. I would have let them loose on them like a pack of dogs and watched them tear them apart. I swear it,” he said dejectedly.

  “See, it’s your fault,” I joked. “You should have married again.”