Beirut Blues (38 page)

As I came down the stairs I didn’t feel any final wrench. I got into the car and waved good-bye to the neighbors, but the lump I’d imagined coming into my throat as I set off on my journey failed to materialize. Fadila’s kisses left no trace on my cheeks; when I took Musa’s letters to mail in Paris, I felt bad that he was under an illusion, as I couldn’t imagine ever sticking stamps on them and mailing them in a Paris street.

I began to feel I was really on the move when I saw quarters of the city I had forgotten all about, buildings which I could remember only vaguely lying in ruins, burned pines, and vegetables and ugly curios for sale on the street. The familiar world returned with the roadblocks. The first one was to examine our luggage. Ali took delight in giving them permission, then showed them an identity card. The soldier smiled at us and gave each of us a chocolate bar.

“The day before yesterday they were giving out bananas,” said Ali.

The airport appeared in the distance; the dull ocher façade was stamped on my memory, its familiar clock had
lost its hands and looked like a dead insect stuck on the wall, and there was a cluster of concrete stumps—the remains of a building or unfinished bridges. Car stopped some distance from the airport to deposit luggage, and passengers and their friends and relatives.

Angrily Ali asked Ruhiyya why she had to come with us, as he wanted to accompany us through security and customs.

She didn’t answer, but embraced Jawad fiercely, laughing and crying, cursing him, wiping away her tears. She pinched his cheeks, then hugged him again, calling him her heart’s love. She held me close and only let me go when I disengaged myself. Ali parked the car and took my bag, brushing away the men and boys who clustered around us, wanting to earn a bit of money by praying for our safety or carrying Jawad’s bags. My heart was in my mouth but the soldier hardly looked at Jawad’s passport and our suitcases weren’t opened. Money had talked, and Ali knew everybody. We caught sight of a group of men in civilian clothes, carrying beds.

“Do you think they’re for the Syrian intelligence?” said Ali.

There were a lot of cages of poultry about and Ali assured us that it was a thriving business.

The airport seemed neglected, despite the crowds. The tiles were dirty. There were signs everywhere, indicating different tour companies, announcing destinations all over the world, giving information in other languages, and advertising the presence of the major airlines: Aeroflot, Interflug, KLM, Alia, British Airways, Air France, Pan American.

All this had been there before the war, and we hadn’t
seen it. We didn’t need it because it belonged to another world which had nothing to do with us. Our world was Lebanon, and Beirut in particular. Now there were long lines of passengers ahead of us, large groups with their luggage and children. This time we had to open our suitcases; Ali whispered something in the Lebanese soldier’s ear but he indicated a Syrian soldier nearby, then gestured as if to say it was nothing to do with him and searched our bags, thrusting his hands among the fine loaves of
marquq
bread, the packets of thyme, even into the boxes of pastries. The Syrian soldier gave back our passports and said, “Why are you together?”

“We’re relatives,” I answered.

We stood there in the turmoil of baggage and people. Fadila and Ruhiyya screamed at us from behind the barrier, where they stood with Musa and others who had been given special permission to come in and see people off. They looked as if they were waiting for food and water to be distributed to them. The people traveling weren’t going on vacations or business trips like before the war, or even emigrating in the way people did in the past. They were setting out to begin again in a far-off country with new minds, even new bodies, and seemed to grow less substantial, like people turning to smoke before they disappeared inside the jinn’s bottle. The people seeing them off feel simultaneous pangs of sadness and envy, and are mystified by the behavior of those inside the airport who seem already to have forgotten about them and be too taken up with the various transactions preceding their departure to give any display of affection.

The airport floor used to be light beige-colored like sugar, sixties design, reminding you of those times. Now it
had dark patches on it and there were cigarette butts everywhere as if the floor were a giant ashtray. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung permanently in the air, or was it just dark? Is a human being only acceptable, in harmony with himself and his surroundings, when he is in the country or the desert and has no need of artificial light or decor? There was no electricity in the airport, and the low ceiling was made of plastic squares, some of which had been torn out. The architect evidently knew he was designing a temporary structure. On a miserable wall there was a portrait of a man with no name, no title, only the cedar to indicate who he was. Portraits of Lebanese presidents used to leave a lasting impression, the medals slashed across their chests giving an air of strength and determination. There were pictures of Hafez al-Assad everywhere, with his name underneath.

Ali pointed out that we were standing in the first-class line. Then he said, “Wait. I’ve got a contact here. I’ll fix it for you.”

But Jawad insisted on paying the difference himself so that I could travel with him. He looked over towards Ruhiyya. “Don’t let her see. She’ll have a heart attack.”

When Ruhiyya had found out that Jawad always traveled first-class, she begged him to go tourist and give her the difference. Jawad told Ali not to mention it to her, well aware he was tempting fate. Ali laughed, delighted that Jawad understood him so well. “What does it matter to you?” he said.

He attracted Ruhiyya’s attention and pointed to the first-class sign but she didn’t understand and gestured frantically,
asking him what he meant. The two men turned away, laughing.

The airport seethed with bobbing heads, like a pot of maize on the stove. There was uproar everywhere. Ali said good-bye to us at the security gate, but stood waiting to see us come out through passport control. My heart stopped again when Jawad handed his passport to the Syrian in plain clothes.

“Jawad. Born in Lebanon. And you’re French.”

Jawad laughed. “What are we supposed to do? They give us the nationality with the passport. Do you expect us to turn it down?”

Then the soldier took my passport and looked at me. “Your hair’s better now, young lady,” he said.

In my passport photo it was short.

We waved to Ali, then to the other three, before we vanished from their sight.

As we entered the departure lounge I shrank back in surprise: I’d got used to houses being dark, but hadn’t expected quite the same murky gloom in the airport. A blown-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, reminiscent of the Phoenicia Hotel, the color of the sea, and calm days. I felt as if I were meeting the Lebanese face-to-face for the first time. Travel exposes people and they appear as they are, without trappings. I discovered how short they were. Perhaps that was why the architect had designed a ceiling so low that the heads of the tallest almost touched it. This country is ordinary. There’s no war going on here, but it’s poor. Old people, young people, and children mill around between the old-fashioned stainless-steel tables and ashtrays. The green
and blue carpet is full of holes and has seen better days. I order a coffee without sugar.

We heard a cat meowing but paid no attention and went off to the duty-free shop. It was like somewhere in the back of beyond, the goods on display all looking old and tired. We stopped at the shop selling local handcrafts, a shining oasis in the dull desert of the airport. Jawad bought key rings with blue eyes hanging on them and we went back to wait in the lounge.

A litter of kittens like little balls of wool were playing there, hiding under the chairs to tease their mother, jumping onto the seats and pulling at the frayed wickerwork. A little girl was playing with one not much bigger than her hand. Suddenly she looked around and slipped it into a bag, closed it, and took a few steps with it before a woman, presumably her mother, swooped down on her, opened the bag, and gave the child a resounding slap. The kitten fled like a demented creature, an expression of terror in its eyes.

I couldn’t relax. I felt uneasy without knowing why, as if I didn’t believe I was really free to go.

Something white approaching distracted me: a large doll with reddened cheeks and lips. It was human, a bride in a long white dress and veil. She didn’t look around her, but kept her eyes fixed on a large overnight bag which an airport employee was carrying for her. She sat down, drawing the bag close to her white high heels. In the crowded, smoky atmosphere she exuded a damp warmth. Everyone was looking at her.

“Poor thing, she’ll suffocate,” I said, seeing her take a plastic wallet from her bag and start to fan herself.

“You’re always so negative,” said Jawad. “She’s glad to be the center of attention. I’m beginning to be sorry you’re dressed so casually. It would be fun if you landed at Charles de Gaulle in a white wedding outfit!”

I laughed irritably. “She’s like a lamb ready for the slaughter. Does the whole world have to know she’s an unsullied virgin going to meet her future husband?”

“You personalize everything. She can do what she likes. And we can watch,” he added, taking film out of his bag and starting to load the camera.

The planes were running late, and an air of impatience began to build up. The temperature rose and the bride, sweating, swigging lemonade, and wiping her face and neck with Kleenex, had become the barometer of the place.

The waiter, dressed in a rusty black uniform, gathered up the empty glasses, pocketed the tips, took orders, interspersing his sentences with French and saying
“Merci”
and
“Pardon”
as politely as could be.

Why am I here waiting for a plane? Why do I want another life when life is all around me in the laughter of the passengers, the bustle of the airport employees, and the waiter bringing the orders with an air of precise decorum?

“Can you believe that a month and a half ago there was fighting and all hell was let loose?” I said to Jawad. “And see how normal everything is now!”

“Normal? Look at the people around you. They’ve become strangers in their own country. Look at the way they’re buying things and hear how they’re talking, just like tourists. They even talk to their children in foreign languages. People from the same country normally stick together
until they reach their destination. But not here. See how curt they are with each other, how critical.”

“In the shelters and buildings under fire they stick together,” I think to myself. “They must do abroad too.”

I’d seen Assyrians in front of a church doorway in Beirut: young and old fused into a single being. And Lebanese abroad as well, on a television news bulletin. The ship docked at Cyprus and a group of Cypriot women was there to welcome it, demonstrating their solidarity with the Lebanese women, whose tearful eyes and tremulous mouths worked in unison. As they were given sweets and drinks, my anger grew and I lay there on the sofa reproaching them for not being at home as I was, with friends or relations, or squatting in an empty building, instead of crying in front of the liner which had carried them away and was tossing fretfully on the waves in the background.

Jawad was the warm bait which had drawn me out of my idle stupor, enticed me away from the gentle ease of my calm existence and my indifference onto this airport seat, where from time to time I interrupted my attempts to picture the life I was going to lead, by jumping up to make sure my passport was safe or listening intently to the announcements. I progressed no further than thinking that I would wake up in a different country and need to make a physical effort to adapt to the way of life there, before sinking back in my seat again. I would see nobody until I had bought some clothes and gone to the hairdresser, and I wouldn’t leave the house for two days. I wanted to become acclimatized to the different atmosphere. Would I have a bed from the start? Would Catherine meet us, or would we arrive in the early hours of
the morning? Would I stay in a hotel, or would they take me home with them and leave me grinding my teeth as they said good night and disappeared into their bedroom? I would lie down on the sofa under the woolen blanket they’d given me and try to cry, but find I was too tired and close my eyes and give in to my thoughts, which would inspire this song:

You brought me to France

And for the sake of this blonde

You deserted me

And left me cold on the sofa

Ask her what I’m singing

See if she understands

I’ll slit my wrists if she knows

Museitbeh
from the Sphinx

Or
bileela
pudding from
fool
beans

The sense of waiting hung over us once more with the disappearance of the bride in white. Then we heard Jawad’s name over the loudspeakers. My heart sank. I knew that from chaos springs order, and order produces chaos. How had they found him in the middle of all this? It was always the same here: they would suddenly be concerned with the most trivial details, and just as unexpectedly, at other times they overlooked important ones. Did they want to scare him or say good-bye to him and remind him to talk about the Syrians and their role in Lebanon?

“Mr. Jawad. We apologize for this delay. The VIP lounge is at your disposal.”

Jawad relaxed visibly when he heard this, but the gesture
was a nuisance to him. He began to make his excuses, but the official insisted, implying that if he refused, he would annoy the Syrian intelligence officers scattered around the place.

“Really, I don’t want to go to the VIP lounge,” repeated Jawad. “They don’t need to feel bad about it. I’m perfectly happy here, thanks.”

Despite the fuss this offer caused, I couldn’t help thinking how the world was changing: writers were on a level with politicians and media stars. They obliged us to go into one of the two VIP lounges. The low leather sofas were cracked and split, there was a layer of dust on the carpet, and the glass tables were covered in sticky stains. I noticed a dead cockroach in a corner. This was different from how I’d imagined such places; they should have bright lights, not spiderwebs and cockroaches, and the people invited to use them should feel they were privileged, to be shown the country’s human face. People came in here as a result of interventions on their behalf by “public relations,” militias, politicians, or the Syrians. Things which I had thought of as fixed and unchanging were in as fluid a state as I was. Then we found out that we were there because of Ali, not Jawad, when someone came to give us Ali’s best wishes for a safe journey.