Read Online An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan - Free Book Online Page B

mind was only half awake I imagined myself lying there, my father’s shirt blood-stained and filthy. Why it was my mind stuck so tenaciously onto this image I cannot tell; perhaps it was the gross indignity of it, a kind of insult to him. I spent hours wondering what this second day would hold.
     
    Doors banged in the distance. Voices shouting. The guards were returning. I quickly got myself up, tried to dress. Strange how we preserve some kind of minimal vanity even when there is nothing to be vain about. I heard the other prisoners’ cells opening, heard them shuffling past my own, and water running in the distance. It was obvious they were being taken to a shower or to a sink to wash. I waited my turn, eager to be out if only to see what the shower room was like. But my turn did not come. All the prisoners were taken back, but no one came for me.
    My cell door opened, only a few inches. I saw the face of an old man looking in at me. His hair was askew, several days’ growth on his face. I looked at him. He kept staring and then the door opened wider. I stood up thinking I was going to be taken to wash, to use the bathroom but he gently put his hand out as if to tell me no, and I sat down. I was given bread, some cheese and a cup of tea without milk. A small glass of hot, and very sweet black tea, and the door was locked. I looked at my second breakfast, without desire and without hunger.
    After some minutes the door opened again and in came my captor; the one who spoke English and sat in the passenger seat of the car. It seemed I was to have him with me frequently, perhaps because he had some English and the others had none, only very poor French. He squatted beside me. ‘How are you today?’ I answered that I was fine, what other answer was there? ‘Do you want anything?’ I shook my head wanting to say: yes, I want to get the hell out of this place; but I didn’t. I simply nodded, remembering always to look him in the face and not to flinch. He offered me more tea. I refused trying to explain to him it was too hot and too sweet, but I don’t think he understood.
    Instead I asked for some water and it was quickly brought. He watched me as I drank slowly, then came the second interrogation, if that is the proper definition. A lot of questions: Why did I come to Lebanon? What Lebanese people did I know? Did I know any Lebanese people before I came to Lebanon? Who were the political advisors to the foreign teachers in the American University of Beirut?
    Though I tried to answer these questions as uncomplicatedly as possible, I think that he was unused to asking questions and getting answers. He was simply a messenger boy, a gunman or a warrior given an order to go and collect someone. Anything beyond that he would have been incapable of dealing with. But nevertheless he asked the questions again, trying to fix one word in his head so that he could report back. I explained again how I came to be in Lebanon, and that I knew no Lebanese before coming and had only met a few since arriving; that I knew of no political advisors to the foreign teaching staff. I think he understood the nos and the yeses and that was enough for him. He rose to leave and said he would be back. I asked him when.
    He simply said ‘Soon, soon’ and went.
     
    I spent some time wondering about the significance of these questions. My answers hardly gave any information and couldn’t be of any use to them, so I waited to see what would be the outcome of his report to his superiors. I was soon to find out. Within an hour he returned, this time accompanied by the much older, more literate and intelligent interrogator of the day before. It was a repeat of the previous day’s confrontation. He stood in the doorway and I sat on the floor on my mattress. We stared fixedly at one another and held the silence, each contemplating the other. He asked me how I was, as his younger friend had done previously, and I gave the same innocuous answer. ‘I am