White Masks (7 page)

The bodies were discovered two days later in the caretaker's room, on account of the putrid smell in the building's lobby.

The investigating magistrate was apparently flabbergasted by the way the three young men conducted themselves after they were arrested. Evidently,
they exhibited no feelings of remorse and were not the slightest bit fearful of the investigation and the prospect of imprisonment. They responded to his questions in a calm and matter-of-fact way, and even told jokes, as he tried to establish the motives for the murders and the rape.

 

Sir, it's quite simple really. Everyone else's gotten rich in this war, and we were down and out, so when we discovered that the doctor owned some valuable jewelry, we thought we'd rob him. We had no intention of killing him. But he got up just as we were getting started, and when he turned on the light and tried to run, we got scared we'd be found out. So we killed him. Then we went into the bedroom, and before we had even taken anything worth mentioning, the woman started to wail and scream. She tried to get out of bed, so we did what we did and fled. You can't trust anyone these days, it's a disgrace! We told an old friend who works in a pharmacy what happened, and he's the one who snitched.

And it's only because we have no connections in high places that we've been arrested. That's all there is to it.

 

Sameer is quiet and then recounts how he raped the woman.

“How could you rape a woman your mother's age, if not your grandmother's?” the magistrate asks.

Sameer says he hadn't thought about it beforehand, it just happened, by accident.

“Ahmad had covered her mouth to stop her screaming, and I was sitting on the edge of the bed in case he needed help, and when I saw her trying to
struggle out of the bed, I jumped on her. Holding her head down with one hand, I put my other hand on her thighs so she would stop her kicking, and when I felt her naked skin under my hand all of a sudden . . . I don't know exactly how it happened . . . but I felt incredibly aroused, as if I had desired this woman for the longest time. I didn't even take off my pants: I just pulled out my member and let it find its way. I didn't have to undress her, either, I slid right in, and the strange thing is that she didn't say anything or try to resist - well, yes, she pulled at my shirt and the buttons all ripped off, but she didn't struggle - or maybe she couldn't. Anyway, after I finished and got off her, I felt really sick. I was so disgusted with myself that I pulled out my knife and stabbed her. And then, seeing the rivulets of blood seeping into the room from the hallway and the kitchen, I took a step back and fired one shot at her. Then we ran. No, before that, I pulled off the gold bracelet glittering on her wrist covered with age spots.

“Don't ask me why, but they tried to take the bracelet from me, and I wouldn't let them. It's mine, I told them, and mine alone. I was the one who did everything. Then they went and told that dog of a pharmacy boy ... I'm gonna kill him.”

 

Ahmad interrupts and recounts how he was caught off guard, how he had his hand clamped over her mouth, and then all of a sudden, Sameer was on top of her and he began to take her while I looked on. I could hear him panting, or was it her . . . no, it wasn't her, she wasn't panting, she was as stiff as a corpse. I couldn't see her face - he was going at it like a billy goat. Naturally, I felt a little excited too, I'm only human, I'm not made of stone,
but I was scared at the same time: I was afraid that someone would come and see what we were doing, so I yelled at him to finish so we could leave. But he didn't hear me: he was writhing on top of her like a fish. Then he straightened up and stabbed her. The strange thing is she didn't fight or even try to get out of the bed after Sameer was done with her. Then, when the blood gushed out, he shot her with the pistol, grabbed the bracelet, and we took off.

Assem was waiting for us at the front door, gun in hand. He wanted to know what had taken us so long, and then, seeing Sameer's blood-spattered clothes, he asked us what had happened.

“We killed her,” I answered.

“Did you find anything?”

“Sameer has the jewelry.”

Then we went to my house and Sameer took off his clothes and showered. He said he felt nauseous, that the smell was killing him, and he needed a 7-Up. When we went out in the morning, he got his 7-Up, and we all had some
foul.
But he refused to give us the bracelet. Then I told the pharmacist - not on account of the bracelet, it wasn't worth the trouble - but I told the bastard for laughs, how Sameer had screwed a woman his grandmother's age, and he went and squealed! He claims it's because the doctor was his friend and he felt sorry for him. That's what he says, but I'm sure it's just because he used to get a cut on the prescriptions the doctor wrote ... the medication mafia . . . you know what I mean. And because we don't have connections in high places, nobody's got our back - actually everyone turned their back on us - and we're not regarded as “part of the bedrock
of society” . . . meaning that we're expected to do the shit work while they reap the benefits . . . that's why we're being investigated . . . well, I have my pride, and I'm not willing to be someone else's fetch dog!

 

The magistrate was astounded as he watched them reenacting the crime with the utmost matter-of-factness; they showed him how they carried the two corpses out of the apartment, took them down in the elevator, dumped them in the empty caretaker's quarters, and then locked the door behind them and pocketed the key.

Such a heinous crime - it makes you shudder just thinking about it . . . And Khalil, poor man, he hadn't done anything ... I told you I used to see him out and about - he was completely harmless, just an ordinary man. Only now do I understand what was ailing him . . . it was his nerves . . . all these wars had shattered his nerves . . . honestly, we're all at the end of our ropes. So what if he stood on the sidewalk in his suit and tie as if he'd lost something? Why kill him? . . .

Dr. Khatchadourian's son, a young man in his thirties, was finishing medical school in America. He was at Georgetown University, in Washington, DC, when he had to come back for his parents' funeral. He told anyone willing to listen that he couldn't understand how a nineteen-year-old was capable of raping a sixty-five-year-old woman.

 

Poor Father, the bane of his existence was that he could never quench his thirst! There was never enough water as far as he was concerned. He'd drink and drink and was always afraid of water shortages and the dark. He'd
collect all the bottles and put them by the side of his bed, as if the water might run away. Whenever I came back to Beirut on short visits, he'd talk about how the water was contaminated and how you had to boil and filter it thoroughly because it was full of germs. I used to tell him he should drink the mineral water you could get in plastic bottles, but he wouldn't: he said those bottles were tampered with, that the water wasn't pure, and that it was probably even more polluted and dangerous than tap water.

I felt sorry for him in his old age because of the way he used to forget things. He'd fill one bottle and then, forgetting the first one, he'd fill another. My mother barely looked after him anymore. She gave the impression that she couldn't stand him and was always making fun of the way he urinated, standing in the bathroom for hours with the water running. My advice to him was that he shouldn't drink so much water. Where was it to go after all? I told him if you need to drink that much water, why don't you go ahead and have the prostate operation? But he'd just get angry and go and sit alone in a corner of the living room, refusing to speak to me.

I don't know what happened to my mother ... She wasn't looking after the house anymore, or cooking the delicious, spicy food that I miss every single day in America. No vegetables, no meat, and no eggs for her: the days of eating are over, she'd say. She had taken to drinking vast quantities of milk - and Father did the same. The house stank of milk, but whenever I tried to suggest that they should have something besides that, my mother wouldn't hear of it.

“I like milk, my son. And your father, he too can drink milk. It's better than water.”

Milk was everywhere: the milk in glass bottles, and the powdered kind, in cans. The kitchen floor was littered with empty cans mother wouldn't throw away. “I never throw anything away,” she'd say.

Now they're dead, and there's no longer any reason for me to come back to Beirut. I'm just going to leave - the house, the furniture, everything. Let them have it, all of it, I don't want a thing. I used to beg them to come with me to America, but they never would. You'd think Beirut was Armenia! I told Father that he was entitled to leave without feeling guilty. Leaving Beirut isn't an act of treason, I'd tell him, but he'd say, “What about our home? People shouldn't abandon their homes!”

I think I'd like to meet their killers . . . Well, maybe not . . . I wonder why they did that to my mother ... No, no, I'm leaving and I don't want to see anybody . . . They all despise me anyway: I saw how they behaved at the funeral, sniggering and grimacing, and then sitting in our house drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, making conversation and laughing! You'd think we were having a party they were having such a good time! A funeral a party! No, no, I don't want to see anybody, I just want to leave.

 

I remember the first time I met him. I don't recall the exact day, but I was on my way home one evening, slightly breathless from the load of fruit and vegetables I was carrying, when I saw this man standing on the sidewalk across the street from our building. He greeted me, or I thought he did . . . In any case, he nodded and muttered something; dressed in a well-cut suit, he looked as if he might be waiting for someone, but he had this bewildered air about him - unshaven, a vacant look about the eyes, a mouth that seemed
to be quivering. Come to think of it, I don't think he said anything to me, it was just his mouth quivering.

Climbing up the stairs to the apartment, I didn't give him another thought - there wasn't anything to think about. I went in, washed my face, and, as was my habit, slumped down in front of the TV with a glass of whiskey and started telling my wife about my day. At about ten o'clock that evening I heard gunfire on the street, so I went out to the balcony to see what was happening, and there he was again, facing the wall with his back to the street, his hands moving up and down as if he were plastering something onto the wall, or taking something down. I couldn't quite make out what he was up to. I remember being puzzled and thinking to myself that it was strange. But I went back inside and thought no more of it-Ididn't even bother telling my wife about him, I just went to bed and fell asleep.

Things began to get complicated, at least from my point of view, when my friend Musa Kanj came to visit. We go back a long way, Musa and I. I first met him when he came to our office seeking help with the interior decoration of his apartment. I went to see the place and met his wife, Nadia. She was a pretty brunette with long hair, who seemed twenty years younger than him; she was the one who discussed all the details of the work with me. At my suggestion, they bought some fairly expensive furniture, for which Musa paid quite happily- he had his heart set on pleasing his wife in whatever way possible - and the work was completed in short order. Nadia was a divorcée, and it surprised me that a man of Musa's wealth who owned a fabric store in Souq Taweeleh would marry a divorced woman with two children. But, I guess those are love's hidden ways and love overcomes all things . . . Then we all became friends. One day my wife went to Musa's
store to buy some fabric, and he wouldn't take any payment from her. We exchanged visits, and the two women grew close; over time our relationship deepened and grew stronger.

The war didn't seem to affect Musa. The store burned down, but he opened another one, on Television Avenue. To tell the truth, he wasn't really working anymore - the sales clerks were the ones who ran the store, he just came by around ten every morning to check in and have some coffee, then he headed home. He really didn't do much of anything and behaved as if there was nothing wrong.

I found out from my wife that Nadia had come into a lot of money-I mean millions - after the death of one of her uncles in the Congo. It seems that my friend Musa was looking for ways to spend this windfall, so one day he came to see me and told me that he had bought a new house. “But you've already got a really nice place,” I told him.

“Oh, but this one is much better, with both sea and mountain views. It's amazing!” And he asked me to help him refurbish the place.

“I want parquet everywhere - we'll rip out all the tile floors and replace them with parquet! No tiling anywhere! And all the furniture must be Italian. Cost is not an issue. I want a stupendous house!”

I agreed, and we set to work. When I went over to the new house, I was dumbfounded: marble floors stretched all the way from the entrance to the end of the living room!

“It's a pity, Musa, a real pity to replace this marble with parquet,” I told him.

“No, that's how I want it. All wood, just like houses in Europe,” he insisted.

I was baffled. I said, “I don't agree with you but will do whatever you wish.”

Musa's eyes danced with delight as he glanced over at his wife, who was there in some tight-fitting black pants with one of her sons, wandering around the apartment. And so we set to work. Nadia was at the worksite every day, and Musa came by once in a while. The fact is that nothing happened between us, nothing at all, the thought didn't even cross my mind, nor hers I am sure - and in any case, the place was teeming with workmen! Nevertheless, somehow or other, the devilish thought took hold of him.