Beirut, Beirut Read online

  The newspapers’ tone encouraged us to go outside in the afternoon, and we went to an exhibit of photographic portraits in a gallery in front of the American University. The photos were all old, the kind that hang on living-room walls, or that are kept in thick, leather-bound albums. The photos of the first type retained their antique frames, decorated with ornamentation and gold leaf. The second type had been placed in simple, modern frames. Both were gathered under one title: “Lebanon Long Ago”.

  Occupying the place of honor was a traditional photograph of a large family: the grandfather in the center wearing Ottoman-style clothes, and with a thick mustache and a long beard that hung down over his chest. Beside him was the oldest son who threw his head back with an arrogance befitting his family’s prominence, with his fez moved to the back of his head. The firm edge of a stand-up collar drove into his chin, and was encircled by a thin ribbon affixed to a wide necktie. He was wearing a jacket and vest of colored checkered cloth, and striped pants that disappeared at the knee inside the high tops of his boots.

  To the left of the grandfather sat his wife or oldest daughter, and then the second son who was distinguished by the jacketed book he was carrying in his left hand, and by his ordinary pants and shoes. Behind the four seated people there was a row of three young men and three girls, all of whom resembled each other. The last girl in the row had placed her hand with special affection on the one holding the book. At the grandfather’s feet, two small boys sat on the ground; next to one of them was a straw hat. The picture seemed to have been taken outside, since its background consisted of a curtain or sheet that failed to conceal a stone wall.

  There were no captions next to the photograph or in the catalogue we got from a girl at the entrance who wore extremely tight jeans. Wadia volunteered some explanations: these were the clothes of the Druze, and these people were Shia or inhabitants of Mount Lebanon, and this woman was the old man’s third or fourth wife.

  He pointed to an old man in a long robe with a half-collar and an extremely short fez that revealed two white temples. Beside him was a woman who could be his daughter’s or granddaughter’s age wearing black clothes consisting of a loose-fitting outer robe, a vest and a veil. Between them stood a six-year-old child wearing a full suit and short-topped shoes. The old man had another child on his knees who was giving the camera a fatuously serious look. As for the woman, she was on the verge of smiling. In grief? Or in amusement? Or in compliance with the photographer’s wishes?

  I followed Wadia to a photograph of several young men with thin, delicate mustaches that barely reached the sides of their mouths, wearing tall fezzes leaning to the left or back, and dark sarwal trousers, as well as jackets that revealed white shirts without neckties, worn over robes or puffy sarwals. They were standing around a young man who sat on a wooden chair with a straw seat, like the chairs in lower-class cafés. Two of them were resting their hands on his shoulders. He was wearing a full set of European clothes, with a fez that was not as tall and leaned more toward the front and right, as well as a small-knotted necktie that almost concealed the bottom of the shirt collar, and a small Hitler-style mustache. He was gazing confidently at the photographer, with his left leg crossed over his right. His hand clutched a thin cane that was balanced on the side of his shoe.

  “Antara on a brief visit to his village.”

  It seemed that the corner where we were standing was devoted to photos of the countryside and of Mount Lebanon: a handsome young man whose mustache almost reached his ears, with a dagger sticking out from an opening in his embroidered vest. A mother clothed in black from the top of her head to a few centimeters above her feet – only her eyebrows, eyes and the tip of her nose could be seen – with a barefoot child beside her. Ten men, most of whom were wearing a shirt, pants and a fez at an angle: they sat around two wooden tables set out in the open air, laden with mezze dishes and small glasses of arak. One of them poured the drink from a flask the size of a fist, while another one puffed on a narghile, and a third leaned back, giving the photographer a heroic look, with a cigarette showing behind his left ear. Behind them stood a man with European features: he might have been the Armenian owner of the place.

  We moved to another gallery, and it was as though we had crossed a divide separating two worlds. I stood for a long time in front of a photograph of the entranceway to a bourgeois residence in the city: the solemn wooden door composed of two panels, the lower halves of which were covered with engraved ornamentation, while the upper halves consisted of two glass windows encased in iron gridwork of symmetrical designs. The pots for houseplants. The familiar, colorful rocking-horse ridden by a child in a sailor suit. Standing next to him, in Napoleonic style, was another child wearing the same clothes.

  The next photo had only a girl with delicate features in a silk dress that flowed down to her feet. Its narrow sleeves reached her fingertips, which she used to support herself on the ornate brass edge of the couch. Her hair was done up in a chignon, held in place with the rubber bar that was used for that style in the past. In a corner of the photograph, I noticed a signature in Roman letters, from which I could make out the name “Mary”.

  In one of the photos, there was a date: 1918. The era of the Arab revolt against Turkish rule, two years before the defeat of the Arab Army at the hands of the French at the battle of Maysalun, which was followed by the imposition of the French mandate over Syria and Lebanon. It was one year before the great Egyptian revolution against British occupation. The photograph was of a stern-faced mother with light-colored eyes. She was sitting beside her older daughter, while the younger daughter stood behind their chairs. The three of them were bareheaded, and they wore long garments that were notable for their many folds and ornamentations. But only the two girls stood out with light colors and lace sleeves that ended just below the elbow.

  In another oval-shaped portrait, two girls had their heads so close that their cheeks touched. One of them was looking at the photographer with a confidence that clearly reflected the force of her personality. As for the other one who supported herself with her cheek against the first, she stared off into space with a foolish grin.

  Instead of arak drinking-sessions, cafés and large extended families, individual portraits of elegant young men looked out at me. One of them had his hair parted on the left, with a slim lock of it hanging down over his forehead. He had bent the stiff collar of his shirt along its edges, so that its rim stood over his wide necktie. His right forearm was bent to clutch a chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket.

  Another one had swept his hair back, and wore a shirt with a double collar and a bowtie, underneath a narrow suit with two rows of buttons. In his left hand, he carried a pair of gloves, while supporting himself with his right elbow against a wooden fence, gazing into the camera in contemplation. A third one wore a fez of medium height that leaned to the left, a high stiff collar, and a jacket with one row of buttons. Prayer beads dangled from his hand, while the tapered ends of his mustache pointed up toward his cheeks.

  I couldn’t keep from smiling when I saw a portrait of a bareheaded young man wearing evening clothes with a high stiff collar and bowtie. He was sitting at a table with playing cards scattered on it, leaning his head over the left hand of an elegant girl. He was raising her hand to his lips with his index finger to plant a giddy kiss on it. His eyes were lowered, while the girl was looking at him with a smile.

  There was a dignified bearing mixed with apprehension in the wedding photographs. Or at least in the two photos I managed to look at before closing time. In the first one stood a bareheaded young man with a wispy mustache, wearing a pleated collar with two long edges that nearly touched, and the small knot of a striped necktie in between them. He carried white gloves in his right hand, behind the seated bride, who was arrayed in a lace dress that left her arms bare to the shoulder and almost came up to her knees. She was adorned with masses of jewelry: two rows of pearls above her forehead, necklaces around her throat, armlets on he
r arms halfway between the shoulder and elbow, and a bracelet of pearls around her wrist, along with the rings on the ring and pinky fingers of her visible hand that had settled in her lap.

  In the second photograph, the groom wore a low fez that was leaning so heavily to the right that its edge touched his eyebrow. He had grown out a thick mustache with pointed ends in a straight line over his lips, and his jacket hung down below his knees, while his hands were concealed in white gloves.

  The bride stood to his right, winding her gloved hand around his arm. The wedding dress covered her from head to toe.

  We were the last of the few visitors there to leave the gallery. We walked along the sidewalk opposite the American University, which seemed like a dark mass. I smelled with longing the scent of damp trees looking down from behind the university walls. My eyes followed along the old trolley tracks that extended along the walls and gleamed in the dazzling light cast by the movie theater that was showing an erotic film.

  We walked slowly in front of a building from which a dim light emanated. I followed Wadia up a few steps and through a glass door, to an elegant room with tables spread out along its sides. Its wooden walls were covered with paintings.

  We chose a table beside the glass façade looking out over the street, and sat down across from each other. Wadia had his back to the room.

  “This is one of the unique places in Beirut,” he said, looking out over my shoulder onto the street. “Its owner is half-artist, half-politician. He offers light dishes, drinks, news and art exhibits. Café revolutionaries come here, as do thieves, exiles, lovers, pimps, gays, lesbians and spies.”

  The waiter brought us two glasses of whiskey, a bowl of peanuts (or “slaves’ pistachios”, as the Levantines call them), and another one of French fries. Presently, the owner joined us, welcoming Wadia. He looked about forty to me, with dark bluish eyes and a sensuous mouth.

  He and Wadia traded the latest news and jokes. I turned away to observe the paintings hanging on the walls. They were by modern Lebanese painters of different schools and styles. I noticed that their names alternated among Armenian, Muslim and Christian. The Christians were of two kinds: those with Arab names, like Ilyas and Saliba, and those with European names, like Yvette and Helene. The subjects of the paintings were similarly divided: some had a distinct European feel, but a minority of them had a local character.

  I was struck by two paintings next to each other by the same artist. They were distinguished by their rich colors, and the aesthetic unity of their folk origins. One of them, in which purple colors predominated, represented two horsemen facing each other, in the manner of popular images of al-Khidr and Dhul-Qarnayn. As for the second painting, it derived its topic from the shape of the cross which contained the Virgin Mary in the form of a blazing candle.

  I noticed a young man and woman sitting in a corner, clinging to each other. In front of them were two martini glasses. The young man was continually whispering in his companion’s ear. I sensed the café owner leaving our table, and I followed him with my eyes as he cut a path between the diners, directing an amusing remark at a heavy-set lady wearing black clothes. She was by herself at one of the tables, with her back to me.

  “Did you hear what he said?” Wadia asked me. “He thinks it was the Deuxième Bureau that planned the explosion at Adnan’s publishing house. Apparently, it also had a hand in what happened to Bashir Ubayd.’’

  “How so?”

  “Bashir Ubayd was a Maronite Christian. He was just about the only Maronite among the leading bodies of the Lebanese National Movement. Getting rid of him serves the purposes of the Phalangists, who want to be the only ones that represent the Maronites.”

  “But wasn’t it the Mourabitoun that killed him?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen with the planning of the Deuxième Bureau for the benefit of the Phalangists.”

  “What is the Deuxième Bureau exactly?”

  “The intelligence agency. The way it’s structured is a reflection of the current situation. You can find agents there working for all the political movements, not to mention international spy agencies.’’

  I happened to look at the woman in black, and found that she was no longer by herself. Sitting across from her was another woman, in her early thirties, with a beautiful face, and wearing a light-blue sleeveless blouse that exposed her delicate arms.

  “And what about Adnan?” I asked Wadia.

  “Who knows? Maybe he was an operative for the Deuxième Bureau who turned against them, and so they wanted to teach him a lesson. Maybe they did the whole thing for a fee to benefit some party.”

  As I listened to him, I observed the woman with the blue blouse. Before me was an elongated face with radiant skin, a straight nose and full lips. Her long coal-black hair came down over her back.

  “For the last ten years,” Wadia continued, “Adnan hasn’t held a steady job for more than a month or two before being let go. He had revolutionary ideas; then he married Lamia. She is from an old, respectable family, although she wasn’t very wealthy. The two of them succeeded in amassing an immense fortune worth millions of lira.”

  The woman with the blue blouse crossed her legs, and her skirt revealed her attractive curves, and a side view of her firm thighs. She was talking non-stop and her companion was listening attentively. Then she stopped talking and I turned my attention to her hand spread out on the table. I noticed her companion’s hand resting on it in a gesture of reassurance and affection.

  I became aware of Wadia’s voice: “What made Adnan’s fortune was petroleum. It made it possible for him to move from books to printing presses, movies and tapes. But he had talent, too.”

  The woman stood up, revealing a slender figure topped by a long neck. She had a long-sleeved jacket thrown over her shoulders, letting it hang down over her bare forearms. She crossed the room with firm steps and an unintended haughtiness. Her friend, who seemed older than her, followed. Her face was attractive despite its masculine features that were emphasized by the lack of any trace of makeup.

  Wadia followed the direction of my eyes, and suddenly he put his hand on mine, saying quietly to me: “There’s a Lebanese expression that says, ‘If you walk on the wolf path, bring a stick.’ Lamia.”

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “Lamia al-Sabbagh. Adnan’s wife,” he added.

  “The one wearing black?”

  “No, the first woman – the tall one.”

  “So talk to her,” I said, getting ready to stand up.

  He didn’t move, but shook his head, saying, “You don’t talk to someone like Lamia in the street like that. You have to call her first. First thing in the morning.”

  Chapter 6

  The morning revealed that the armed displays in front of the house had vanished. When I went out into the street, I found no trace of the Mourabitoun flag.

  I rode in one of the service vans heading toward the sea. I sat beside a young man with a beard. The scent of hashish wafted from his cigarette, and he was absorbed in reading a newspaper. From over his shoulder I noticed the photo that most of the papers had published, showing the naked bodies of three young Christian men that had been pulled out of a well in the town of Hammana.

  We passed through the chic Raouché district, with its tall modern buildings, its entertainment palaces that never sleep, its cafés and expensive restaurants. We emerged onto the waterfront near the famous rock that the heartbroken are fond of throwing themselves off. I saw it was occupied by carts selling coffee, cold drinks, open-air tables with clothes, shoes, household appliances and vegetables.

  On the other side, I noticed the façade of the Dolce Vita café, which was a symbol of Beirut’s “sweet life” in the 1960s and beginning of the ’70s. It had an air of neglect and decrepitude, just like the ruined buildings around it.

  We left the coast road, and headed down the Corniche al-Mazraa. I paid a lira and got out near the Soviet Embassy. I cro
ssed to the other side of the street, walking in front of a large supermarket and different modern-looking businesses, as I gazed at the signboards hanging over building entrances and on different floors, until I stumbled on what I was looking for.

  The director of Progress Publishing welcomed me in an office presided over by an enormous color photo of Lenin. He stood out as having an extremely calm disposition, made possible by a soft, settled existence, and he reinforced this impression with his plump body and his excessive elegance.

  I gave him a letter from one of my friends in which he demanded the remainder of what was owed him from one of his books. He read it carefully, then pressed a buzzer. He started assiduously examining his fingernails, until one of the young men in the office responded to the call. He asked him to bring him the file on my friend, and ordered a cup of coffee for me.

  The young man brought the requested file and he looked at it for a moment. Before I could say a word, he jumped in: “So far, your friend’s book has only sold nine hundred and ninety copies, and he isn’t entitled to another royalty payment until we get a thousand out.”

  “My understanding from him is that he didn’t conclude an agreement with you over his share of the profits from distribution,” I replied.

  “Accounting was done on a ten percent basis,” he said.

  “I think he deserves fifteen percent,” I countered.

  “We don’t pay authors more than ten percent. That’s our policy.”

  I did a quick calculation of what I could get from publishing my book at that rate, and decided I wouldn’t offer him the manuscript I was carrying. When I finished my coffee, I stood up, saying, “I will tell him what you told me.”

  There was another publishing house, by the name of Modern Publishing, near the Gamal Abd al-Nasser Mosque. It was founded at the beginning of the 1950s, and was famous for publishing translations of books that were popular in the West. But sales of those books didn’t last long. At the same time, competing houses, very well supported by the oil-rich Arab countries, proliferated. This led to the house’s decline at the beginning of the 1970s, until it ended up on the verge of finally leaving the publishing market. It would have done so, but for the fact that in the last few years it showed some surprising vitality, meaning that the publisher had stumbled on a good source of financial support.