the candle and smelled them, which made his wife shiver and puff and murmur in objection. What are you smelling them for? Abou-Dolly rushed at me and snatched the boxes. Get out, get out. He started to push me; I shoved him back. His son-in-law picked up a long broomstick and threatened me with it. I snatched back one of the boxes from Abou-Dollyâs hand, slipped my other hand behind my waist, and pulled out my gun. I let it hang off my fingers, pointing toward the floor. Um-Dolly shouted, He has a gun! He has a gun! Dolly cut off the jet of warm milk to her babyâs lips, which made the baby cry, and rushed into another room.
Clutching the box, I stepped outside the door into the fresh air and walked away. In the background I heard Abou-Dolly shouting, I knew your father, I knew your father, he was a friend of mine, and he would be ashamed to see what his son turned out to be. A thug! Shame on you, insulting me in my own house, in front of my family. A thug! That is what you are, my son, a thug. And he spat on the floor and cursed my generation and my kind.
The thug walked between the buildings, avoiding the falling bombs. The thug crossed streams of sewage that dripped from broken pipes. He walked with a gun in one hand and a box of tender cotton in the other.
THE NEXT DAY , George came by to pick up his motorcycle.
It was parked, tilted toward the earth, over a round pool of dried oil, in the shade in front of the vegetable store, facing the hospital, its back to the church.
I gave George the keys; he dangled the ring from his longest finger and said, Letâs go talk.
He drove, and I held on to his waist. We drove down to Quarantina, to the old train tracks where the Kurdish shanty-town had been conquered and demolished by the Christians. Now the earth was flat here, the tin roofs, the little alleys, the pools of sewage all evaporated, vanquished and levelled to the ground. The fighters had been massacred in cold blood. Their women had fled in little boats bouncing on Mediterranean waves, barefoot kids with dripping noses in their arms. It was here that Abou-Nahra and his men had stormed the camp, killed the men and pulled out their golden teeth; it was here that he had gained his reputation as a ruthless commander. His victorious men had pierced the heads of the defeated on bayonets and paraded the streets. Cadavers had been tied to the backs of jeeps, bounced on asphalt roads and hurtled down the little alleys.
The camp was a meadow now, with wild weeds growing from the cadaver compost, ashes of burned walls, and troops of flies that once grazed on blood and empty bullet shells.
Speak, I said. Speak, before the buried under our feet come to life.
I am leaving the poker place, George said. I asked Najib, my distant cousin, to take my place. You can still do the deal. I will show him the trick.
Why are you leaving?
Abou-Nahra asked me to do some work.
What kind of work?
I will be leaving for Israel soon for some training. The forces are establishing relations with the Jews down south.
It is a mistake, I whispered.
No, Bassam, we are alone in this war, and our people are being massacred every day. And you . . . whose grandfather was butchered. . . your father killed . . . you. . . you. . . We will unite with the devil to save our land. How are we to make the Syrians and the Palestinians leave?
I am fleeing and leaving this land to its devils, I said.
You believe in nothing.
Thieves and thugs like us, I said, since when have we ever believed in anything?
WE DROVE DOWN the highway to the seashore. The roads were empty; it was a summer day, and the wind was warm. We sat at the shore and watched the water.
Little boats rocked, modest waves advanced, and still we sat. Night fell, and we lit fires on thin paper, and smoked and gazed and watched and hallucinated, and laughed and smoked some more. We burned the joints down to the tips of our fingers, sealed the embers with our nails. I had a vision of
Clutching the box, I stepped outside the door into the fresh air and walked away. In the background I heard Abou-Dolly shouting, I knew your father, I knew your father, he was a friend of mine, and he would be ashamed to see what his son turned out to be. A thug! Shame on you, insulting me in my own house, in front of my family. A thug! That is what you are, my son, a thug. And he spat on the floor and cursed my generation and my kind.
The thug walked between the buildings, avoiding the falling bombs. The thug crossed streams of sewage that dripped from broken pipes. He walked with a gun in one hand and a box of tender cotton in the other.
THE NEXT DAY , George came by to pick up his motorcycle.
It was parked, tilted toward the earth, over a round pool of dried oil, in the shade in front of the vegetable store, facing the hospital, its back to the church.
I gave George the keys; he dangled the ring from his longest finger and said, Letâs go talk.
He drove, and I held on to his waist. We drove down to Quarantina, to the old train tracks where the Kurdish shanty-town had been conquered and demolished by the Christians. Now the earth was flat here, the tin roofs, the little alleys, the pools of sewage all evaporated, vanquished and levelled to the ground. The fighters had been massacred in cold blood. Their women had fled in little boats bouncing on Mediterranean waves, barefoot kids with dripping noses in their arms. It was here that Abou-Nahra and his men had stormed the camp, killed the men and pulled out their golden teeth; it was here that he had gained his reputation as a ruthless commander. His victorious men had pierced the heads of the defeated on bayonets and paraded the streets. Cadavers had been tied to the backs of jeeps, bounced on asphalt roads and hurtled down the little alleys.
The camp was a meadow now, with wild weeds growing from the cadaver compost, ashes of burned walls, and troops of flies that once grazed on blood and empty bullet shells.
Speak, I said. Speak, before the buried under our feet come to life.
I am leaving the poker place, George said. I asked Najib, my distant cousin, to take my place. You can still do the deal. I will show him the trick.
Why are you leaving?
Abou-Nahra asked me to do some work.
What kind of work?
I will be leaving for Israel soon for some training. The forces are establishing relations with the Jews down south.
It is a mistake, I whispered.
No, Bassam, we are alone in this war, and our people are being massacred every day. And you . . . whose grandfather was butchered. . . your father killed . . . you. . . you. . . We will unite with the devil to save our land. How are we to make the Syrians and the Palestinians leave?
I am fleeing and leaving this land to its devils, I said.
You believe in nothing.
Thieves and thugs like us, I said, since when have we ever believed in anything?
WE DROVE DOWN the highway to the seashore. The roads were empty; it was a summer day, and the wind was warm. We sat at the shore and watched the water.
Little boats rocked, modest waves advanced, and still we sat. Night fell, and we lit fires on thin paper, and smoked and gazed and watched and hallucinated, and laughed and smoked some more. We burned the joints down to the tips of our fingers, sealed the embers with our nails. I had a vision of
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