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TEN THOUSAND BOMBS HAD LANDED, AND I WAS WAITING for George.
Ten thousand bombs had landed on Beirut, that crowded
city, and I was lying on a blue sofa covered with white sheets
to protect it from dust and dirty feet.
It is time to leave, I was thinking to myself.
My mother’s radio was on. It had been on since the start
of the war, a radio with Rayovac batteries that lasted ten
thousand years. My mother’s radio was wrapped in a cheap,
green plastic cover, with holes in it, smudged with the residue
of her cooking fingers and dust that penetrated its knobs,
cinched against its edges. Nothing ever stopped those melancholic
Fairuz songs that came out of it.
I was not escaping the war; I was running away from
Fairuz, the notorious singer.
Summer and the heat had arrived; the land was burning
under a close sun that cooked our flat and its roof. Down
below our white window, Christian cats walked the narrow
streets nonchalantly, never crossing themselves or kneeling
for black-dressed priests. Cars were parked on both sides of
the street, cars that climbed sidewalks, obstructed the passage
of worn-out, suffocating pedestrians whose feet, tired
feet, and faces, long faces, cursed and blamed America with
every little step and every twitch of their miserable lives.
Heat descended, bombs landed, and thugs jumped the
long lines for bread, stole the food of the weak, bullied the
baker and caressed his daughter. Thugs never waited in lines.
GEORGE HONKED.
His motorcycle’s cadaverous black fumes reached my window,
and its bubbly noise entered my room. I went
downstairs and cursed Fairuz on the way out: that whining
singer who makes my life a morbid hell.
My mother came down from the roof with two buckets
in her hands; she was stealing water from the neighbour’s
reservoir.
There is no water, she said to me. It only comes two hours
a day.
She mentioned something about food, as usual, but I
waved and ran down the stairs.
I climbed onto George’s motorbike and sat behind him,
and we drove down the main streets where bombs fell, where
Saudi diplomats had once picked up French prostitutes, where
ancient Greeks had danced, Romans had invaded, Persians
had sharpened their swords, Mamluks had stolen the villagers’
food, crusaders had eaten human flesh, and Turks had
enslaved my grandmother.
War is for thugs. Motorcycles are also for thugs, and for
longhaired teenagers like us, with guns under our bellies,
and stolen gas in our tanks, and no particular place to go.
We stopped at the city’s shoreline, on the ramp of a bridge,
and George said to me, I have a mashkal (problem).
Talk, I said.
This man, Chafiq Al-Azrak I think his name is, parks his
car down from my Aunt Nabila’s place. When he leaves, he
still reserves the space for himself. I moved the two poles
marking his spot so my aunt can park. So she parks, and we
go up to have coffee at her place. This Chafiq fellow knocks at
my aunt’s door and asks her to move her car. It is his space, he
says. My aunt says, It is a public space . . . He insults her . . . She
shouts . . . I pull out my gun, put it in his face, and kick him
out of the house. He runs down the stairs and threatens me
from below. But we will show him, won’t we, quiet man?
I listened and nodded. Then we hopped back on the
motorbike and drove under falling bullets, oblivious. We
drove through the noise of military chants and a thousand
radio stations all claiming victory. We stared at the short
skirts of female warriors and drove beside schoolgirls’ thighs.
We were aimless, beggars and thieves, horny Arabs with curly
hair and open shirts and Marlboro packs rolled in our sleeves,
dropouts, ruthless nihilists with guns, bad breath, and long
American jeans.
Excerpted from De Niro's Game by Rawi Hage © 2007 by Rawi Hage. Excerpted by permission of Steerforth Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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