Beirut, Beirut by Sonallah Ibrahim

Author:Sonallah Ibrahim
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: BLOOMSBURY QATAR FOUNDATION PUBLISHING
Published: 2014-09-10T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Antoinette returned my “Good morning” without taking her eyes off the scattered papers on her desk. When I sat down in front of her, I discovered that her eyelids were swollen, and that she had put on a good deal of eyeliner to conceal that fact. I sensed that she was extremely nervous.

She headed toward the small kitchen next door, saying: “We’ll have some coffee, and then we’ll begin.”

I picked up the newspapers off her desk, and cast a quick glance at their headlines. Attempts were still ongoing to rescue the Arab summit conference slated to be held next week in Amman. In Muscat, Sultan Qaboos had declared that the Soviet Union was responsible for the instability in the Gulf region, and he demanded that the nations of the West counteract the Soviets’ expansionist policy. In Khartoum, a US official was looking into Sudanese defense requirements. And in Washington Menachem Begin declared that his government would not relinquish Syria’s occupied Golan Heights. In Paris, Le Figaro said that Syria had become another Ethiopia in the heart of the Middle East, after ratifying a treaty of peace and cooperation with the Soviet Union.

Antoinette came back with the coffee, and she noticed I was yawning.

“It looks like you were up late last night,” she said.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I went to bed early, but I didn’t sleep through the night. Perhaps it was because of the climate here, one thing happening after another.”

“When the fighting was at its most intense,” she said, taking a sip of coffee, “I used to sleep soundly. It’s a question of habit. You can easily get used to the sound of bullets. Unlike other things.”

“Such as?”

She looked down into her cup. “Sitting down to eat after witnessing a group of rotting corpses,” she replied. “Fires blazing and rockets launching while the radio is playing pop music. Several gunmen standing in your way and asking to see your identity, so they can find out your religion, although you don’t know what theirs is. Or spending Sunday by yourself inside four walls.”

“I’ve often had that same Sunday experience.”

She put the cup back on its saucer and, picking up her purse, led me to the editing room without saying a word. I helped her carry the film canisters from the storage space and then thread into position the film we would be watching. Then I got my pen and paper ready, and took my place in front of the Moviola screen.

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