Eli.
He took sight down an imaginary rifle. âI shot it.â There were a few secondsâ silence.
âThe start of a beautiful friendship,â said John.
Samir and I started giggling again but I saw that no one else was laughing except Faris, who was just smiling to himself. I tried to stop. I caught Eli giving me a look. She put a hand on my arm, as if to calm me down.
In truth I knew little about Samir. Weâd met when he started driving my father around just before the invasion and had continued throughout the siege. He was a friend forged from adversity. We were very different. Samir was uneducated and, apart from running his little café, drove for a living. He had moved around the different factions of the PLO and Lebanese Left depending on which one he got on with or paid better. I, on the other hand, had gone with my fatherâs organisation, done the training, and joined Signals without giving much thought to the politics or whether I agreed with them. In a sense I was no better than my old schoolmates Bedrosian and Mustapha, joining their fathersâ import-export businesses, except that they would probably make good businessmen, whereas I knew that I would never be the politician my father was.
Samir took another drag on his re-engineered Marlboro then examined the end.
âThis was grown here in Lebanon,â he said to nobody in particular.
âProbably the best export Lebanon has to offer,â said John.
Later in bed I struggled with my disappointment at Eli not staying the night, although I hadnât dared ask her in front of the others. Instead I was stuck with Samir in the other bedroom and John on the sofa. I told myself that she was too old for me, that she had a child not much younger than Youssef, that she had a partner waiting in Norway. I told myself these things but they didnât help me sleep. I replaced them with thoughts of waking up beside her and her goodbye kiss before she went to work, her hands on my shoulders. Except the way I remembered it she hadnât got dressed and was pulling me back to bed.
7
Donkey Man was up and walking on crutches, visiting all the patients on his floor as part of what he was calling his âdaily routineâ, even though it was only day one. Eli said it was excellent physiotherapy. Heâd also been discovered by distant relatives, who came across him while visiting someone in the same ward. Eli and I were now sitting in their two-room breeze-block home as theyâd insisted she come for tea. I hadnât been invited but Eli had asked me along to translate and chaperone. But I was happy to be here, pretending we were a couple. Sweet, strong tea was served in small glasses. We were offered food: cakes and sweets, their syrupy glaze glistening in what little light filtered through the single window. Eli ate out of politeness; Iâd told her it was rude to decline these offerings. I nibbled at a sweet pastry, embarrassed at how much effort theyâd gone to, given their circumstances. An elderly woman showed Eli her embroidery: intricate, colourful needlework covering every inch of a shawl. I was translating for her, explaining to Eli that the patterns differed according to which area you came from back home. Back home was Palestine, which the woman hadnât seen for thirty-odd years, not since the Naqba, which I translated as âthe catastropheâ. Her pride in her work reminded me of my Danish grandmotherâs complex Hedebo embroidery. I could picture both women exchanging stitching tips. Neighbours arrived to have a look at Eli, and I was starting to tire from the introductions and from having to say my name at least twice to every person.
I thought, not for the first time, how something as simple as a name could set you apart, particularly in Lebanon. To have a name clearly defining one side or the other, though making life easier in some respects, could have been worse, as it would have
He took sight down an imaginary rifle. âI shot it.â There were a few secondsâ silence.
âThe start of a beautiful friendship,â said John.
Samir and I started giggling again but I saw that no one else was laughing except Faris, who was just smiling to himself. I tried to stop. I caught Eli giving me a look. She put a hand on my arm, as if to calm me down.
In truth I knew little about Samir. Weâd met when he started driving my father around just before the invasion and had continued throughout the siege. He was a friend forged from adversity. We were very different. Samir was uneducated and, apart from running his little café, drove for a living. He had moved around the different factions of the PLO and Lebanese Left depending on which one he got on with or paid better. I, on the other hand, had gone with my fatherâs organisation, done the training, and joined Signals without giving much thought to the politics or whether I agreed with them. In a sense I was no better than my old schoolmates Bedrosian and Mustapha, joining their fathersâ import-export businesses, except that they would probably make good businessmen, whereas I knew that I would never be the politician my father was.
Samir took another drag on his re-engineered Marlboro then examined the end.
âThis was grown here in Lebanon,â he said to nobody in particular.
âProbably the best export Lebanon has to offer,â said John.
Later in bed I struggled with my disappointment at Eli not staying the night, although I hadnât dared ask her in front of the others. Instead I was stuck with Samir in the other bedroom and John on the sofa. I told myself that she was too old for me, that she had a child not much younger than Youssef, that she had a partner waiting in Norway. I told myself these things but they didnât help me sleep. I replaced them with thoughts of waking up beside her and her goodbye kiss before she went to work, her hands on my shoulders. Except the way I remembered it she hadnât got dressed and was pulling me back to bed.
7
Donkey Man was up and walking on crutches, visiting all the patients on his floor as part of what he was calling his âdaily routineâ, even though it was only day one. Eli said it was excellent physiotherapy. Heâd also been discovered by distant relatives, who came across him while visiting someone in the same ward. Eli and I were now sitting in their two-room breeze-block home as theyâd insisted she come for tea. I hadnât been invited but Eli had asked me along to translate and chaperone. But I was happy to be here, pretending we were a couple. Sweet, strong tea was served in small glasses. We were offered food: cakes and sweets, their syrupy glaze glistening in what little light filtered through the single window. Eli ate out of politeness; Iâd told her it was rude to decline these offerings. I nibbled at a sweet pastry, embarrassed at how much effort theyâd gone to, given their circumstances. An elderly woman showed Eli her embroidery: intricate, colourful needlework covering every inch of a shawl. I was translating for her, explaining to Eli that the patterns differed according to which area you came from back home. Back home was Palestine, which the woman hadnât seen for thirty-odd years, not since the Naqba, which I translated as âthe catastropheâ. Her pride in her work reminded me of my Danish grandmotherâs complex Hedebo embroidery. I could picture both women exchanging stitching tips. Neighbours arrived to have a look at Eli, and I was starting to tire from the introductions and from having to say my name at least twice to every person.
I thought, not for the first time, how something as simple as a name could set you apart, particularly in Lebanon. To have a name clearly defining one side or the other, though making life easier in some respects, could have been worse, as it would have
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