Broken Mirrors (57 page)

Mokhtar said the peasants’ revolution that had burned down their house and killed their father was the last chapter in the tragedy of their life with that savage man, “though there was no call for them to drag our father’s body through the streets of the village. That was wrong and indecent.” He recounted how his eldest brother, Deyab, had hidden gold liras in the waistband of his trousers and taken the decision to migrate to Homs.

“And why didn’t you go back after things had calmed down?”

“We thought about returning but the civil war had begun. ‘Where are
we going to go?’ we said. ‘The land has been left unsown and here we have a pastry shop which is doing well, thank God,’ and then Deyab and Ahmad married sisters from the Atassi family, which is a very respected Homs family, and I’m now about to marry a girl from Tartous and we’re doing fine, thank God.”

Mokhtar said he wanted Nasim to give his mother and Hend his greetings and that he didn’t think he could arrange a meeting between Salma and her children. “That Deyab, God protect us! Like his father, arrogant and without a trace of tenderness. He certainly won’t agree to let Salma come here, but thank God, three years ago God gave him guidance and he stopped drinking arak, his wife started covering her hair, and even his daughter, Salwa, who’s fifteen, covers her hair. This year the three of us are going to make the pilgrimage. May you do so too, God willing, brother-in-law.”

“His eldest daughter’s called Salma?” asked Nasim.

“Salwa, not Salma, and forgive me: you’re one of our Christian brethren, right?”

“Right,” said Nasim.

“No problem – ‘May you do so too’ because God guides to the Truth whomsoever He pleases.”

Mokhtar started to laugh but his laughter was choked off in his throat, his face darkened, and he started fidgeting in his chair. Then he rose and looked in the direction of two men who had entered the premises.

He spoke with them in a low voice, pointing at Nasim. The men, on whose foreheads could be seen the dark mark made by frequent prayer, approached him.

“I’m Deyab,” said one of them, who, from the gray of his sideburns, seemed to be the eldest.

Nasim stood up and extended his hand in welcome, but the other man’s
hand wasn’t extended to meet it so Nasim withdrew his and said, tripping over his words, that he brought a message to Deyab, Ahmad, and Mokhtar from Beirut.

“But we don’t have anybody in Beirut,” said Ahmad.

“The message is from your mother, Salma. I’m the husband of her daughter, Hend, and she wants to ask for forgiveness from her three sons before she dies and to see them.”

As soon as Deyab heard the first words he raised his hand and pointed toward the door. “Out!” he said. “We don’t have a mother.”

Nasim rose and began walking backward, feeling it could be dangerous to turn his back and leave. He saw Mokhtar coming toward him carrying the two boxes of pastries.

“Leave them here,” shouted Deyab. “We don’t want to sell to him.”

“But the man paid and they’re his,” said Mokhtar, giving the pastries to Nasim.

Nasim tried to say he hadn’t paid and wanted nothing but he saw something like supplication in Mokhtar’s eyes, as though he were pleading with him to take the pastries to his mother and tell her, “These are from your youngest son, Mokhtar.”

Hend told him her mother had diabetes and shouldn’t be given the pastries. “Even now when she sees the children eating chocolate I don’t know what comes over her. It seems she can’t resist anything sweet because when you have diabetes you can’t resist your cravings.”

Karim said the story was depressing and he didn’t know why Nasim had gone there. “There’s no pain worse than that. How terrible life is! But maybe it’s her fault, and now she’s paying for the mistake she made.”

“You’re calling love a mistake? If love’s a mistake, what’s right?” responded Nasim.

“Everything’s a mistake,” thought Karim as he sat in the back seat of the Volvo driven by Ahmad Dakiz, his wife, Muna, next to him.

Karim felt sure it was Muna who’d arranged things. When she phoned him he’d explained he was in two minds about going to Tripoli. He’d said he was supposed to go on the Friday morning to visit an old friend but wasn’t sure. He was exhausted by lack of work. “An idle mind fills with devils,” he said.

He’d decided against going because he felt Radwan was hiding something. His commanding tone and reference to the code name Sinalcol in a conversation that combined blackmail with jocularity had made him feel absolved of the need to carry out his promise to visit Khaled’s grave.

Muna had made him give in. After her last visit she’d phoned to say that their journey to Canada had been postponed because of complicated immigration procedures. When he asked if he could see her she refused and said their relationship had come to an end at his apartment, when they’d made love while she was still wet from the shower. She’d said she couldn’t do a repeat of the farewell scene but she would like to talk to him on the phone, if he didn’t mind. “Why should I mind?” he said. “But I swear I don’t understand anyone anymore and no one understands me anymore.” Then he told her about his delayed Tripoli project.

Karim was taken aback by a phone call from Ahmad Dakiz inviting him to Tripoli. “Muna tells me you’re a specialist in the Franks and crusaders so I’m inviting you to see something incredible.”

How had Muna found out about his old article on the Franks and his interest in their castles and what had become of them? He couldn’t remember telling her, and besides he’d never pretended to be a specialist in crusader history. All it came down to was that as a young man he’d written an article, lacking historical accuracy, on the topic, Abu Jihad had liked the article, and so on and so forth …

He couldn’t remember telling Muna. The only woman he had spoken of it to was Bernadette, at the beginning of their relationship, and he hadn’t said much even to her because he didn’t know much. He might have told Muna in bed without realizing it, or perhaps he got things mixed up in Beirut as much as in Montpellier. But he was sure he hadn’t committed here the error that he had in France when he’d called himself Sinalcol.

Ahmad said he was going to go with his wife to see his father before they migrated to Canada. “I suggest you come with us. We’ll have lunch and get back the same day. You’ll see something incredible. We’re not going to show you a castle or stones and ruins. You’re going to meet crusaders in the flesh.”

The trip was set up, with Ahmad Dakiz deciding that he’d drive Karim to his appointment at noon. They’d be waiting for him at two thirty at the Silver Shore restaurant in the port, where he’d introduce him to his father.

Karim phoned Radwan and told him he was coming to Tripoli the next day.

“Then I’ll be waiting for you at Hallab’s after the noon prayer.”

Ahmad Dakiz decided he’d take the old Tripoli road and avoid the motorway, which was full of trucks and pollution, and that would be an opportunity for the doctor to see the beauty of the Lebanese coast. In fact the doctor saw nothing, neither the sea which hugged the mountains, nor the magical sweep of blue undulating with white.

Karim had found the best solution: going with Ahmad and Muna gave him an illusory feeling of security, despite the fact that he had no desire to listen to the stories of Ahmad’s father, whom Muna had characterized as senile but sweet. Karim felt his heart had become like a vessel filled with stories and tales, and that he could listen to no more. For the first time, he thought of Montpellier with longing. There he would close his eyes, block his ears to the hubbub of Lebanon, cast into oblivion all these stories that
had reclaimed him, and begin his life over again. He would return to his two girls, whose existence he had almost begun to forget, and restore his relationship with Bernadette.

Instead of seeing the Lebanese coast stretching on beyond the horizon, he imagined the beach at Palavas with its firm sand and gusting wind, and saw himself carrying Nadine and Lara and making them fly, and Bernadette running behind them, stumbling over her ballooning skirt.

He longed for the quiet of his home, for his cup of café au lait at the Grand Café on the Place de la Comédie, for the films at the Cinéma Diagonale, and the tobacco-stained mustache of Monsieur Roger, who used to come to see him at the hospital to beg off him the price of a bottle of wine and remind Karim of the days when they were friends, when the Lebanese medical student had stayed at Le Ponant hostel on Avenue Palavas, far from the university, because he hadn’t been able to find university housing during his first year. Monsieur Roger, the hostel concierge, had been his guide to the secrets of the small city and the tales of its women.

Instead of drawing up a detailed plan for his visit to Tripoli and what he wanted to see and do there, in the City of a Thousand Libraries, he curled up on the back seat of the car, giving his imagination free rein to summon up the French city as a lost paradise. He felt his affection flowing out and covering the small fine-featured face of his French wife. He could see her loving smile and realized that he was on the verge of losing the woman who he’d once declared was the love of his life. Would it be possible to begin his life over again with her, the woman who’d been his refuge during hard times? Paternal feelings for his daughters swept over him and he pulled out his wallet to contemplate his photo of them with their mother.

Ahmad and his wife thought Karim was asleep on the back seat and, not wanting to disturb him, decided to forget about stopping at the Patisserie Helmi in Batroun to drink the frothy Batroun lemonade.

When they got to Abd el-Hamid Karami Square at the entrance to the city – now called God’s Square because the Islamists had replaced Karami’s statue with a stone monument composed of the words that form His many names – Muna turned around and shook Karim’s shoulder to wake him and the photo fell to the floor of the car.

“Show me the picture,” said Muna, who, as soon as she looked at it, declared his wife beautiful and said the girls were to die for.

“You never told us the names of your wife and daughters,” said Muna.

He put the picture back in his wallet, got out of the car, and walked sluggishly to Hallab’s, hearing Ahmad’s voice saying, “You’ll be taking a taxi to the Silver Shore restaurant in the port. Don’t be late.”

He found a young man waiting for him at the door to the shop. “Are you Dr. Karim, sir?” he asked. Karim nodded. “This way,” said the young man. “Mawlana is waiting for you on the second floor.” The young man walked ahead, Karim followed in his wake. They climbed a flight of stairs leading to a second dining salon. Karim scanned the people there but the young man kept on going, so Karim followed him and they emerged from the large salon to find themselves in front of a closed door. The young man knocked three times and they entered.

“Welcome, welcome, doctor!” said the sheikh, who got up, his arms open in greeting.

The young man left the room, closing the door behind him. Karim approached the man, who was wearing a gray mantle that failed to hide his belly; he had a large white turban on his head. They embraced, to the accompaniment of the sheikh’s astonished exclamations that Karim hadn’t changed a bit.

“It looks as though France agrees with you, Brother Sinalcol. Heavens be praised, you’re just the same as ever. No paunch, no gray hair, not like us, God help us.”

The conversation had got off on the wrong foot but Karim made no comment on his being “sinalcolized.” He swallowed the name and behaved as though he’d heard nothing.

Soon a waiter arrived with dishes of meat cooked in pastry, stuffed lamb, and salads. The sheikh rolled up his sleeves and removed his turban, exposing his bald pate. “In the name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate,” he said, reaching for the food and inviting Karim to join him. The waiter came back carrying a jug of chilled ayran. The sheikh poured two glasses, raised his, and said “Cheers!”

Karim was too embarrassed to say he couldn’t eat because he was invited to lunch at the Silver Shore, so he reached out and ate a few mouthfuls while drinking the ayran and listening to the sheikh’s requests.

Sheikh Radwan wanted Yahya’s papers from Karim. He said he remembered very well that Khaled had sent him, Radwan, to Karim with the papers; he wanted nothing else from him. “You’re far from the country and the struggle now and I have need of these papers for two reasons, the first being my memoirs – the revolutionary movement that we created here must be documented and I am currently engaged in that very process – and the second is that I am thinking of publishing them as an appendix to my book so that all may see how we were guided to God’s religion through our commitment to the defense of the impoverished.”

Karim was surprised at the classical tone of the sheikh’s Arabic. He had abandoned the aesthetics of the dialect of Tripoli and the people of the north who changed the glottal stop into a w. He listened to the sheikh recounting how he’d made the decision to wear the turban during his long stay in Ain Helweh Camp, how he’d worked with Palestinian brothers engaged in jihad, and how now he’d come back to Tripoli convinced that education and cadre-building had to come before jihad and the bearing of arms.

Karim nodded and told the sheikh he respected his choices, and that he’d loved Khaled and had respected his choices too, even though he wasn’t convinced by them. True, Marxism no longer attracted him and the repressive excesses of China’s Cultural Revolution had made him rethink it all. But he was still a secularist and a believer in socialism who thought the struggle for Palestine was the shortest path to the liberation of the Arab individual.

The sheikh cleared his throat before saying, “Thou guidest not whom thou likest, but God guides whom He wills.”

The sheikh’s questions focused on the Arab and Islamic communities in France, especially in Marseille, and on the great renaissance that these communities were experiencing – he predicted a major role for them in the future.

The conversation continued along the same lines, Sheikh Radwan not asking again about Yahya’s papers, a topic Karim also avoided. Instead he spoke about living abroad, saying he understood the thirst of second- and third-generation immigrants for an identity. He spoke of his experiences with patients from Maghrebi communities who suffered from the identity disease, which had now replaced the nostalgia so widespread among those of the first generation.