De Niro's Game (11 page)

Tiens, Bébé, mon amour. Tiens
.

When the band around her arm was released, Nicole smiled at me. Should I give the money to George or to you?

Give it to George, I said.

I strolled down the stairs into the city, and over to the church walls, and under the church stairs I sat and smoked. A few cats with striped fur passed by, a few rifles meowed, a few heels licked the earth, and a few bells tolled on the roofs above me.

Eventually, George showed up with Abou-Haddid at his side.

How is the junkie? he asked me. Did the old man shoot as well?

No.

Did he pay you?

No, I told him to give you the money. You should have told me what was in the . . . I paused. Do you have the whisky cut for me?

The man did not pay me yet. When he pays I will take care of you, do not worry.

Next time, tell me what to expect. I am not your private pusher, I said. And I left.

George called out after me, but I did not answer him.

ALL THE NEXT DAY
I lay in my bed and floated. Cigarette smoke hung about me, rose to the ceiling, and formed a grey cloud. Bombs fell in the distance. The plate under my bed was filled with ashes and yellow Marlboro butts with smashed faces and hunchback postures. The candle beside me shone its light on the comic book in my hand. My slippers waited for me under the bed like Milou, Tintin's dog. When I heard a knock at my door, I pulled my gun from under my pillow and killed the candle flame swiftly. I walked to the door in my slippers and glued my eye to the peephole. I saw a dark shadow.

I moved away from the door. Who is it? I asked.

It is me, Nabila. Bassam, open the door.

I obeyed.

Why are you hiding in the dark? Steal a candle from the priest, set the house on fire, but don't hide like a stray ghost.

Nabila followed me into my room. I swept the table with my hand, searching for the box of matches. When I found it, I shook it like a Brazilian musical instrument. I struck one stick against the box's rough edge, and Nabila's face shone.

You are still skinny, still yellow and skinny. Let me come tomorrow to cook for you and fix the house.

No, I said.

Have you seen Gargourty?

Yesterday.

I have not seen him in a week. I called his workplace and they said he no longer works there. I went many times to his place, but he is never home. No one has seen him. Um-Adel, his neighbour, said he is hardly ever home.

He must be busy.

Doing what?

Working.

At what?

I don't know. Whatever comes along.

Like what? What is he becoming? Is he working with Abou-Nahra?

Yes.

But at what?

Security.

Security! Nabila shouted. Security for what? I will call that fat slob Abou-Nahra. I will call him. If a hair on my nephew's head is harmed, I will curse his dead mother in her grave. Talk to George, Bassam. He will listen to you. You two are brothers. He should go to school.

I am leaving this country, I said.

Where to?

Rome, Paris, New York, wherever I can go.

Take him with you. Take him. Talk to him. Yes, both of you leave. Go to France. I will give you the name of George's father, that coward, and ask him to send his son a French
passport and money. I'll ask him for George's papers, tell him that his son is lost. I'll tell him to invite George for a trip, for a vacation. May the virgin saint open all the good doors for you, Bassam. Help your brother. Help him. When do you leave?

I am waiting for some money to come.

I will give you money if you will just go and find George's father.

No, I will be all right.

Look at this house. Bassam! And Nabila picked up the glasses, the overflowing ashtrays, and the clothes from the floor.

Leave it, I said.

She continued picking up items and arranging them like my mother once had.

I grabbed her wrist, pulled a pillow from her hand, and threw it against the wall. Leave it, I said.

Nabila squeezed my hand and touched my face. Now that you're alone, you have to take care of yourself. Do not live in dirt like a rat. Open the window. This place smells of cigarettes and sweat. Look at you. Look at you now, unshaven, neglected.

She retrieved her hand, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out into the dark hallway and down to the street.

ON OUR SECOND DELIVERY,
Joseph and I had the van filled with sixty cases of Johnny Walker. Joseph reached for a box, opened it, and pulled out a bottle.

Don't drink it. This shit might poison you. It is not a good day to die, I said.

No one dies before his time comes, said Joseph.

A fatalist fighter, I mocked him.

Listen, let me tell you this story, and we'll see if you believe in fate or not. We were at the
jabhah
. You know Youssef Asho? The Syriac boy? We call him
RBG
.

No.

Anyway, this kid was on duty one week. And I was in charge at the front that day. I see a woman, an old woman in black, walking toward us, you hear? I took the sniper gun and looked in the binoculars. I see a big cross on her chest, so I knew she was one of us. I called to her,
Ya khalti
(my aunty), where are you going?

She said she was there to see her son, Youssef. This woman must have walked through ten land mines and escaped them all. She appeared from nowhere, like a spirit.

I called Youssef. He was in the other building. Now, the fastest way for him to cross was over a little street, but that street is exposed to a sniper. The other way to cross is longer because one has to go around. When Youssef heard that his mother was there, he walked across the sniper's street, and on the last few metres a sniper bullet whizzed right above his ear and missed him.

When his mother saw him, she started to cry and said that she had had a very ugly dream, and that her heart was telling her something horrible was going to happen.

Youssef was furious at her. He started to curse her, and he held her arm and pushed her, and shouted in her face, asking her to go back, calling her a crazy old woman.

I smacked him on his head, and told him to respect his mother, and never to talk to her that way. I ordered him to
leave the
jabhah
. I do not want impolite people like you in my platoon, I said to him.

Then I made him take a jeep and drive his mother back home. Now, this guy gets home, takes off his clothes. His mother boils water for him, prepares the bathroom, and leaves. While he is cleaning himself, a bomb falls in the bathroom and kills him. It tore him to a million pieces. His mother became insane. Now she spends all her time living and praying on the steps of the Saydeh church. She took a vow, and ever since her son's death she has never bathed or cleaned herself. Now, what do you have to say to that story?

Drink, I said.

ON THE WAY TO
our drop-off with Ali in Al-Aswaq, Joseph and I encountered two young boys who stood in the middle of the street. They waved their hands at us. One of them had kinky hair and torn sneakers on his feet; the other was in jeans and open sandals. The one with the kinky hair held an
AK-47
, and the other had a gun stuck in his skinny waistband.

I stopped the van, opened the door, and walked toward them. Joseph followed me.

Stay in the van, one little kid shouted at me.

Who is in charge? Who is in charge here? I asked him.

I am, the boy said. Go back to the car.

I ignored his request and held my ground.

Where are the
shabab
going? the boy asked.

Why are you asking? Joseph said.

Open the back of the van and don't ask too many questions, the boy said.

Either you say who the fuck you are, or get out of the way! Joseph said.

The little kid took two steps back and with a little difficulty he cranked his rifle and pointed it at us. His friend ran over, shuffling his feet, wobbling under the weight of his gun, and pointed the weapon in Joseph's face. Open the van, the first kid shouted. Open the van! He pointed his machine at me. It looked twice his weight, and thrice his age.

Joseph and I walked toward the van. The boys rushed behind us.

The back door is locked. I have to get the key from the front, I said.

Both boys followed me as I opened the van. I pulled out the key with one hand, and with the other quickly reached for Joseph's military belt on the passenger's seat. I grabbed the first thing that stuck out of the belt — a hand grenade. Then I dropped the keys on the van's floor, dived under the wheel, squeezed my grip on the grenade spoon, and pulled the metal pin. I turned toward the kids and stretched my arm in their young faces.

Drop your weapons,
ya ikhwat al-sharmuta
(brothers of bitches), I said. I do not give a fuck about God or his happy kingdom. I will open my hand and we will all turn into pieces of meat.

Now,
ya wlad al-sharmuta,
that will teach you to fuck with the forces! Joseph shouted, and pulled out his gun and aimed it at their faces. Drop the shit from your hands, Joseph yelled. Count to three, Bassam. If they do not drop their weapons, open your palm. No one fucks with us!

The kid with the gun lowered his weapon first. The other held on to his
AK-47
for a while. Then his eyes started blinking, and he began inhaling air through his nose at fast intervals. As soon as his
kalash
went lower in his hand, Joseph grabbed both weapons. He started to slap one boy while the other retreated slowly and then ran away through the back streets.

Joseph held the remaining kid by his T-shirt and swung him like bag of flour. He dragged him to the pavement and pounded him with his feet.
Ya kalb
(dog), who the fuck are you to stop us? he shouted.

The little kid started to cry, and hid his face in his skinny arms.

I am taking you to the cell to rot,
ya kalb
.

I walked to an empty building, tossed the hand grenade through a window, and plunged to the ground. It exploded and echoed through the whole world. Then I pulled Joseph away from the kid. The kid's little head was bleeding, and his nose was smashed. He lowered his eyes, swept the blood away with the back of his hand, and sobbed like the kid that he was.

Where are you from? I asked.

We live here in Al-Aswaq.

Why did you want to open the van? I asked.

We were looking for something to take, he said and spat blood.

To take where?

Something to sell, he said. We did not know that you are militiamen.

Where did you get your weapons?

We took them from a dead Syrian soldier.

How old are you? I demanded.

Fourteen.

What's your name?

Hassan, he said.

Fucking Muslims in our district, Joseph shouted and pulled out his gun. Let me finish this dirt!

I held Joseph's arm and pushed him into the van.

When I looked back I saw the kid escaping, limping through the bombed city's walls.

Back in the van, Joseph laughed and called me
Majnun
.

We are going to call you
Al-Majnun
, he said. You could have killed us all with that Russian grenade. It is the worst kind you can choose to open, because it is the most unpredictable; it might take a second or it might take three minutes to explode, and both ways we would have been finished.
Majnun.
He started to laugh louder . . .
Majnun
.

WHEN WE ARRIVED
at our drop-off, Ali and his boys were waiting for us. While the boys emptied the van, Ali walked toward me and offered me a cigarette.

How are things on the other side? I asked.

Once it was all one side, but now we call it the other side, Ali said and shook his head. Have you ever been to the other side? he asked me.

Long time ago, when I was young. I have a relative on the other side.

Oh yes?

Yes, a communist uncle.

What is his name?

Naeem Al-Abyad.

I know your uncle, said Ali, surprised. We fought together. He is a high commander in the communist party now. Do you two ever communicate?

No, not for a long time.

I saw Joseph approaching us. I winked to Ali, and we changed subjects.

When the boys finished moving the whisky, I told Joseph that I needed to take a piss. I walked behind a wall and called to Ali.

Can you find a way to tell my uncle that my mother is dead? I asked him.

Allah yirhamha
(may she rest in peace), he said and lowered his head. I will get in touch with your uncle.

I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF KNOCKING IN THE MIDDLE OF
the night. When I opened my apartment door, I saw Monsieur Laurent standing in the hallway with a candle in his hands. I invited him in.

I am looking for George, he said.

Did you check his house?

Yes, and he is not there.

Maybe he is on duty, I suggested.

Where? It is urgent.

Check the
sakanah
(army barricade). Or maybe he went on a mission. He mentioned something about it last week at his party.

We need another fix for Bébé. She is shivering.

I cannot help you, Monsieur Laurent.

It is urgent.

Why don't you take her to a rehab place?

Yes, I am waiting for a vacancy at the clinic in France . . . A blood change. They do blood changes.

Monsieur Laurent, why do you do this?

Why do I give Bébé everything?

Why do you let her do anything she wants?

Can I have a cigarette?

Yes. Do you want some coffee?

No. But let me answer your question. You see, once, we Lebanese ruled Africa. We were the middlemen. We extracted commissions left and right. We built that place. When I left my native village and took a boat to meet my French uncle in Africa, neither you nor Bébé were even born yet. And all I wanted was to save money, work with my uncle for a while, and come back to the village, to that hill, and build a house and get married to a decent local girl.