Roundabout of Death Page 2
On the way to the cafe there are a few burned-out houses—not a lot, but signs of destruction are everywhere. This can’t be our street, no way: missile shells, tanks, a torched bus, which I think must belong to the regime, tons of tree branches, stones, and chimney remains, the sound of gunfire as militiamen open fire on one another. Some of them are with the regime, others aren’t. A driver speeds forward and asks, “Any casualties?” Several voices answer, including my own, “Everyone’s fine.” He continues rushing ahead, a snorting guffaw spilling out of his mouth.
When I finally made it to our cafe, Joha’s Club, I toddled inside. It’s located in the same square as the business hotel, which is off to the right if you’re sitting in the upper level, and the Officers’ Club which is to the left. Directly across is the post office, and right next to that is a store where people who feel like buying things can go and buy things. In the middle of the square there is a statue by Abd al-Rahman Mowakket, the sculptor who sacrificed a good deal of his younger years to create a martyrs’ monument that people could stand in front of breathlessly, snapping photos just to prove they were once in Aleppo.
Yesterday a missile screamed across the facade of the business hotel, at least that’s how it seemed to me, and all of a sudden scores of soldiers from the Republican Guard sprinted out of the hotel and the Officers’ Club so they could fan out in front, armed to the teeth, everyone in position, their fingers poised to pull the trigger. But the missile just sailed right past, nothing happened, and the soldiers from the Republican Guard relaxed their fingers, picked up their weapons, and went back inside the hotel. I didn’t notice any soldiers going inside the Officers’ Club.
This cafe—our cafe—is distinguished by its ancient Oriental atmosphere, at least that’s the way it had been constructed, the owner flaked off every last bit of stone and painted the wood, furnished the place with lanterns and decorated the tables with cloths the same color as bathhouse towels. He put up a portrait of the trickster character of Joha along with some information about his biography and his exploits, crowned with a sign that read “Joha’s Club, A Place for Everyone.” Some of those people appear in a flash, down their coffee and then leave, while others never stop gazing out the window expectantly, because she just might show up. That’s me, the one who’s been waiting seven years for a woman who still hasn’t come, the one who sips at his coffee and mentally records the thoughts rattling around in his mind, and even though he always carries his notebook with him, he always seems to forget that it’s right there in his back pocket, and he always leaves his pen at home so there aren’t any records or journal entries other than those he keeps stored in his head.
At the back of the cafe, which is to say, in the corner, sits the Shabbih, the Henchman, who takes his name from the Arabic word for ghost, which is also the nickname of a specific car that the shabbiha were known to drive in the eighties, racing around at top speed, transporting smuggled goods like cigarettes, electrical supplies, and other contraband. But this guy is a shabbih manqué: he has piled on top of his wooden cart assorted lighters and playing cards. At the other end of the cafe there’s another shabbih who has spent his entire life hawking illicit tobacco, and when he had kids he stationed them by his side so they could learn the family business.
But how did I ever find out that these men were shabbiha? There’s a story here I’d like to share with you, if you have the patience to hear me out.
Some days I get to the cafe at 11:30 a.m. and take a seat at a table, the waiter brings me a cup of instant coffee, a bit of sugar in a small bowl, two glasses of water in the summer, one in the winter, and I put a heaping amount of sugar into the cup and start to stir. I don’t sip the coffee while it’s hot, but wait until it has cooled off, at which point I’ll drink it down in several gulps: I don’t swallow it in one go like a camel.
One of those days there was an explosion in one of the tents scattered in the square. I think there had been seven tents, which were then winnowed down to five. They belonged largely to recently formed political parties, except for one that had been founded a long time ago, the Progressive Party, I think it’s called. Some of them were there so they could write things in blood, which is to say they would spell out letters as large as several meters long scrawled in blood.
The important thing, my good people, is that the tents that had been scattered throughout the square were torn down and there were only two left standing. The shabbiha come and go around there day and night. One of those security goons who would pass by over there was very fat, and he’d just sit there humming to himself, at some point sauntering inside the business hotel, apparently to use the toilet. Customers in the hotel cafe started hurrying outside, one by one, holding their noses, until the entire place was cleared out and there was nobody left except for the employees, who were pressing handkerchiefs up against their noses. They had been there since early in the morning, before the fat guy ever went to use the bathroom, but the handkerchiefs ceased to provide enough protection, and everyone ended up outside, leaving the empty cafe to the fat man, who could now hum to his heart’s content.
The employees and the staff who had been expecting the arrival of the fat man for an hour waited more than another hour for him to come back out, let’s call it two hours all told. Some of them decided to take their lunch breaks and just up and left. And in light of the fact that there weren’t that many customers around because of everything going on in the country, because of the artillery fire coming from all sides, they decided to shut down the business hotel. That was before the security forces even discovered the strategic significance of this place in relation to the square, at which point they quickly stocked the area with soldiers and snipers, stationing all of them in a room that directly overlooks the square as well as the streets branching off from it.
The fat man was thoroughly unaffected by all this. When they slammed shut the doors of the business hotel in his face, he casually wandered over to another cafe next door. Our cafe had nothing to do with the whole thing, thank God, because ours is located off to the left and twenty steps up off the ground—otherwise the fat man might have found it, which is to say that this guy isn’t capable of climbing up to our bathrooms, or we would have been made a laughingstock—and where were we ever going to get another cafe like this one?
Like I said, there was an explosion in the square, possibly inside one of the tents, the shabbiha tent—well, all of the tents belonged to the shabbiha. A man was thrown out of the tent, tearing apart the canvas as another came out carrying someone on his back, and they were thrown onto the green grass; then the shell of another man came through the door of the tent, followed by another, then another. Then it was time for the shabbiha who were stationed outside of the square, and they came running in droves, each one of them toting a Russian-made 7.62mm rifle and shouting at everyone—Clear the streets, you dogs!—and other things I’m too ashamed to write down.
They stopped every taxi they could find and filled them with the wounded, rushing them off to the hospital. As I sat there, I was able to watch everything that was happening through the window, as the shabbiha ran through the streets for a long time, hollering, waving their arms, hoisting up their weapons. Other armed factions responded by shooting into the air from far off in the distance. Then someone rolled up in a Mercedes to write a report about what had taken place, and a policeman handed them a satellite phone, telling them that he needed to go to the Party Bureau, asking them to hold on to the phone until he returned, just for a little while, and no more than half an hour had passed before the device blew up and wounded a number of people. The investigation was complete, and the news was broadcast on Syrian television.
But that isn’t the whole story. Those young men were in good spirits, they were having a good time, tossing around a grenade, this one throwing it here, another one hurling it over there. But it was when one of those geniuses decided to pull the pin and chuck it at his comrade, who tossed it right back, that there was
an explosion, and then everything else that happened happened.
Miss Beauties was her stage persona, she never told anyone her real name. She used to sneak into the square from the side of the hotel cafe. I saw her with my own two eyes, the same ones the worms will feed on one day. The shabbih who sells lighters also saw her and warned her to get away, but she didn’t pay any attention to what he said, simply placing her finger over her mouth and shaking her head side to side, shimmying part of her body, just the upper half, asking him to allow her to pass. He refused sternly, telling her, “Get the hell out of here, you whore, this isn’t your time.”
What matters, though, my good people, is that eventually he did let her pass, and Miss Beauties rushed right past and took shelter in the corner, with a tabac proprietor who was no longer in his kiosk because he too was a shabbih, now toting a Russian-made machine gun and standing in the middle of the street, holding up his hand to stop people and cars and motorcycles from passing, hurling curses at them, seemingly without limits.
It turns out that Miss Beauties was in need of a cigarette, so she stopped there, unaffected by what was going on all around her, gazing at the tabac, casing the joint, then thrusting out her hand to swipe a pack of Kents, and when she was certain that the coast was clear, she shoved it in her pants pocket, and started to walk away, but just then the shabbih who owned the place spotted her, shot some rounds into the air and shouted at her—“I see you, you whore!”—but she just smiled at him and shuffled off.
“You’re gonna have to pay for those!”
But because he was tied up at the moment blocking traffic, and had forced everyone up against the walls with his rifle, he had no choice but to let her get away, and she raced over to the courtyard of the hotel cafe, sat down on the pavement, and unwrapped the pack of cigarettes. She took one out and lit it up, her smile seeming to fill up the entire expanse of existence, sucking down a drag and then exhaling the smoke. Her entire body seemed to unwind, and in that moment it occurred to her that the entire space was being filled with the sound of her own voice, as she took another drag, remembered her village and all the people who had fled, her husband who used to beat her, she remembered all that and spat loudly on the asphalt, then got up and staggered forward.
Miss Beauties was the name by which the shabbih called her when he first noticed her. He had been popping pills all day long, and had drunk a few bottles of strong beer, until he was so drunk a rooster looked like a donkey to him, the pills caused him to see this world all beautiful, sunny, and rose-colored, and he fell into a deep sleep in which the world would never change. But when he awoke, he could feel that the pills were wearing off, so he quickly swallowed another one. His body was starting to relax once again when he noticed her at the entrance to the tent smirking at him in all her glory, wearing pants and a blouse unbuttoned down to her chest, her bronze hair, and spittle shot toward her as he shouted, “Where have you been, Miss Beauties?”
“I’m right here,” she replied.
As she collapsed into his lap, he kissed her, then got up to shut the door, unfurl the tent canvas and switch off the light. Only faint streetlight leaked into the room. In rhythm with the sound of the explosions their bleating moans of pleasure started to swell.
The shabbih was named Jassim, but he slurred a bit when he spoke, pronouncing it as Qassim; he had made a living selling smuggled tobacco ever since he was a little boy, that is to say, from the age of seven or eight. His brother would deliver the haul of tobacco and then cower behind him; if they ever encountered the authorities his older brother would disappear, leaving him in tears, which would typically cause the officials to do no more than seize a few cartons of tobacco and then let him go.
When he got older he was sent off to prison, graduated from that institution with the rank of informant, and no longer smuggled tobacco, darting from cafe to cafe instead, anyone who needed the stuff coming to a kiosk he set up selling many varieties. He’d sit behind the counter, conducting his business, and when the authorities came around, he’d hand them eight thousand lira so they would continue on their merry way. The auxiliary police patrol would also come by to take their cut and then disappear. He never threw his weight around to intimidate anybody, and the truth of the matter is that he was quite well-mannered.
But events got the better of him, and soon he was stashing a machine gun under his counter, and anytime there was some kind of an incident in Saadallah al-Jabiri Square, we’d see him holding up his weapon and insulting everyone, preventing anybody from going anywhere.
Qassim—whose name had once been Jassim, before he started to slur—used to take pills, he was a pill-popper, his brother had gotten him hooked, it wasn’t miscreant kids or those who spread rumors about him. For a long time he wouldn’t partake because he saw what befell his brother whenever he got high. One time he went to the pharmacy and just asked for some pills straight out, and when the pharmacist refused he immediately threatened him with a knife, which was enough to persuade the pharmacist to hurriedly hand over what he wanted without taking any money.
His brother dropped the pill into a cup of tea, drank it down, and felt no pain. He became a king, giving out orders and always being obeyed. “Do this,” he barked, and everyone would do it, and he would laugh at himself and all the people, and from that day forward he couldn’t live without that feeling, until he got addicted to sticking a needle into his left arm and his right, and you’d always see him playing the sultan like that. From early in the morning he’d sit against the wall of the cafe, his movable counter replete with cigarettes of every make and color laid out in front of him until it was time for his afternoon fix, and he’d get up and carry his kiosk to the adjoining wall where he would lie down until nighttime, when exhaustion overcame him, and he would roll up his wares, fold the kiosk in on itself, and go off to sleep in the tent, scrounging whatever he could find to eat, and if he didn’t find anything then he’d totter off for a bit and come back with two sandwiches from the falafel seller, voraciously wolfing them down, and then falling asleep . . . until she showed up to see him that night, and everything that happened happened.
Meanwhile Miss Beauties, who was all messed up that night, had gone to visit a couple of intellectuals who took turns having their way with her, fed her some bread and eggs, and then gave it to her a second time. A singer came over later and had a turn with her, then a washed-up actor from some television serial showed up and had his way with her, too. When everyone had had their turn, they kicked her out, and she was neither sad nor happy as she left, utter bewilderment written all over her face as she traipsed around the garden and then started singing out loud. When they heard her over at the security station, they ordered her to keep it down, and when she refused they conceded to let her keep singing on the condition that she not let them see her face, and so she walked off in the direction of Saadallah al-Jabiri Square.
The square was as quiet as marble, darkness enthroned all around: no movement, no sound except for her singing voice. Snipers’ sights peered down from the rooftops, and when they heard her sorrow-soaked voice they were dumbstruck, wishing their two-hour shift was over so they could go get some sleep. Some of the men were moved to think of their wives, some remembered their brothers and sisters, others thought of their friends, the way they used to be when they were together, whether they were in a serious or a joking mood, or something else altogether. But in that moment most of them thought of their own mother, some of them teared up and marinated in those memories, as if she were right there with them, suspended in their imaginations, visible as if in front of their eyes.
When Miss Beauties cried out the flowers all around responded to her, along with the trees swaying in the park and the plants under the monument, and the breeze gliding over the water, and the leaves that started to turn all dewy with the first tidings of dusk, and the monument itself that had been solid until that very moment, and how the tears streamed down Abdel Rahman’s face for a moment, and the cry e
rupted from Miss Beauties’s mouth, as if she were breathing fire.
Before the intellectuals had their way with her and then sent her packing, a woman whose name I forget came into the city. She didn’t know the first thing about what was going on. The army and the security forces had invaded her village that day. She fled to the left and her husband ran off to the right, and their two children Hassan and Naimah went to hide in the cave on their neighbor Bikro’s property. She kept walking, the bombs falling all around her, until she reached the main road, where she saw convoys of tanks and armored cars. She was frightened and shivered, then turned back the way she had come. She took shelter under an olive tree, burying her head against her knees, remaining like that until nightfall, then she lifted her face to consider her situation. Day broke, slowly illuminating the night, at first she just laughed, laughed a second time, then frowned. She stood up tall, gazed into the pitch-black darkness, shielding her eyes with her hand, and swiveling her head. Unable to make out anything, she took a few confident steps until the road became clearer and she kept on walking until she made it to the city. She sat down in the middle of the street until an intellectual happened to find her, take pity on her, and take her home with him.
This particular intellectual had a deaf and blind mother who didn’t have a clue about what was going on, especially the fact that he was having friends over every night. His mother went to sleep early and they would stay up late into the night, and when he kicked Miss Beauties out, they all got to work cleaning up the house, stripping the bed, and washing the sheets.
Miss Beauties—and this was all before that name had been affixed to her, mind you—used to walk through the streets and the squares, until what happened happened and she slept with that shabbih, who as soon as he had finished his business let his mind drift off until he fell asleep. Seeing as how there were two beds inside the tent, he lay down on the second one, and she picked up his pack of cigarettes and lit one. Pants were strewn underneath the bed, and she picked up her underwear and put them on, buttoned up her shirt. She finished the cigarette, started to remember everything that had happened to her, and gradually she too floated out of wakefulness amid thoughts of the peaceful village she had left behind, her husband and her children, but then she forgot about everything, forgot her husband and her children and her village, and the women who used to sit with her every night, forgot her own memory even, now could no longer remember what had happened to her or who had done what with her, until finally she fell asleep.