Yasmina Khadra - The Sirens of Baghdad

Night veils Beiruts face again. If the tumults of the evening havent awakened her, that just proves shes sleepwalking. According to ancestral tradition, a somnambulist is not to be interfered with, not even when hes headed for disaster.

Id imagined a different Beirut, Arab and proud of it. I was wrong. Its just an indeterminate city, closer to its fantasies than to its history, a fickle sham as disappointing as a joke. Maybe its obstinate efforts to resemble the cities of its enemies have caused its patron saints to disown it, and thats why its exposed to the traumas of war and the dangers of every tomorrow. Its lived through a life-size nightmare, but to what end? The more I observe the place, the less I get it. Its so trifling, it seems insolent. Its affected airs are nothing but a con. Its alleged charisma doesnt jibe with its qualms; its like a silk cloth over an ugly stain.

I arrived here three weeks ago, more than a year after the assassination of the former prime minister, Rafik Hariri. I could feel the citys bad faith as soon as the taxi deposited me on the sidewalk. Beiruts mourning is only a facade, its memory a rusted sieve; I abhorred it at first sight.

In the mornings, when its souklike din begins again, Im overcome with silent loathing. In the evenings, when the party animals show off their gleaming high-powered cars and crank up their stereos to full blast, the same anger rises inside me. What are they trying to prove? That theyre still having a great time despite the odd assassination? That there may be some rough patches but life goes on?

This circus of theirs makes no sense.

Im a Bedouin, born in Kafr Karam, a village lost in the sands of the Iraqi desert, a place so discreet that it often dissolves in mirages, only to emerge at sunset. Big cities have always filled me with deep distrust, but Beiruts double-dealing makes my head spin. Here, the more you think youve put your finger on something, the less certain you can be of what exactly it is. Beiruts a slapdash affair: Its martyrdom is phony; its tears are crocodile tears. I hate it with all my heart for its gutless, illogical pride, for the way it falls between two stools, sometimes Arab, sometimes Western, depending on the payoffs involved. What it sanctifies by day, it renounces at night, what it demands in the public square, it shuns on the beach, and it hurtles toward its ruin like an embittered runaway who thinks hell find elsewhere the thing thats lying within reach of his hand.

You should go out. Stretch your legs, clear your head.

Dr. Jalals standing behind me, practically breathing down my neck. How long has he been watching me rant to myself? I didnt hear him come out here, and its irritating to find him hovering over my thoughts like a bird of prey.

He senses my discomfort and points his chin in the direction of the avenue. Its a wonderful evening, he says. The weathers lovely, the cafs are packed, the streets are full of people. You should enjoy yourself, instead of staying here and brooding over your problems.

I dont have any problems.

Well, what are you doing here, then?

I dont like crowds, and I detest this city.

The doctor jerks his head back as though a fist has struck him. He frowns. Youre mistaking your enemy, young man. Nobody detests Beirut.

I detest it.

Youre wrong. Beirut has suffered a lot. Its touched bottom. But its been miraculously cured. Although it seemed to be on its last legs not so long ago, now its starting to recover. Still groggy and feverish, but hanging on. I find it admirable. Whats to criticize? What dont you like about it?

Everything.

Thats pretty vague.

Not to me. I dont like this city. Period.

The doctor doesnt insist. Well, to each his own. Cigarette?

He holds the packet toward me.

I dont smoke.

He offers me a can. Would you like a beer?

I dont drink.

Dr. Jalal places the beer can on a little wicker table and leans on the parapet wall. We stand there shoulder-to-shoulder. His alcoholic breath strangles me. I dont remember ever having seen him sober. In his early fifties, hes already a wreck, with a purplish complexion and a concave mouth furrowed at the corners. This evening, hes wearing a tracksuit stamped with the colors of Lebanons national soccer team. The top is open, revealing a bloodred sweatshirt, and the laces on his new sneakers are undone. He looks as though he just got out of bed after a long nap. His movements are languid, and his eyes, usually lively and passionate, are barely visible through puffy lids.

With a weary gesture, he pats his hair into place on the top of his skull, camouflaging his bald spot. He asks, Am I disturbing you?

I say nothing.

I was getting bored in my room. Nothing ever happens in this hotel no banquets, no weddings. Its like an old folks home.

He raises the can of beer to his lips and takes a long pull. His prominent Adams apple makes each swallow visible. I notice, for the first time, a nasty scar running all the way across his throat.

My frown doesnt escape him. He stops drinking and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, nodding his head, he turns toward the hysterical lights of the boulevard below us.

Once, a long time ago, I tried to hang myself, he says, leaning out over the parapet. With a length of hempen twine. I was barely eighteen.

He takes another swallow and continues: I had just caught my mother with a man.

His words are disconcerting, but his eyes hold mine fast. I must admit that Dr. Jalal has often taken me by surprise. I never know what to make of his frankness; Im not used to confessions of this sort. In Kafr Karam, such revelations would be fatal. Ive never heard anyone speak like this about his mother, and the doctors casual way of spreading out his dirty linen confounds me.

Such things happen, he adds.

I agree, I say, hoping the conversation will move on.

Agree with what?

Im embarrassed. I dont know what hes getting at, and its tiresome to have nothing to say.

Dr. Jalal drops the subject. Were not cut from the same cloth, he and I, and when he talks to someone like me, it must be like addressing a wall. Nevertheless, solitude weighs on him, and a bit of a chat, however inane, will serve at least to keep him from sinking into an alcoholic coma. When Dr. Jalals not talking, hes drinking. Hes a fairly serene drunk, but he doesnt trust the world hes fallen into. No matter how often he tells himself hes in good hands, hes never convinced its the truth. Arent those the same hands that fire weapons in the dark, slit throats, strangle people, and place explosive devices under selected chairs? Its true that there havent been any punitive operations since he landed in Beirut, but his hosts have a record of bloodbaths, and what he reads in their eyes is unmistakable: Theyre death on the march. One false step, one indiscretion, and he wont even have time to understand whats happening to him. Two weeks ago, Imad, a young fellow assigned to taking care of me, was found in the middle of a square, squelching around in his own excrement. According to the police, Imad died of an overdose and its better that way. His comrades, who executed him with the help of an infected syringe, didnt go to his funeral; they pretended they didnt know him. Since then, the doctor checks under his bed twice before slipping between the sheets.

You were talking to yourself just now, he says.

I do that sometimes.

What was the topic of your conversation?

I cant remember.

He nods and goes back to contemplating the city. Were on the hotel terrace, a sort of glass alcove overlooking the main thoroughfare in this part of town. There are a few wicker chairs and two low tables; in one corner, theres a sofa, and behind it shelves with books and brochures.