Beirut Blues by Hanan al-Shaykh Read Free Book Online

touch and deserting me. I took refuge in a nearby building, but only when I saw a bomb landing in the distance, and people were calling to me to take cover. I wandered over to the building and was dragged in by a family gathered together in a bare concrete room. My first thought was that they were prisoners, especially the children, who were sprawled in a dejected heap in a corner. Then I wondered if they’d abducted the children from their playgrounds, which were devils’ territory these days. Their faces were corroded with fear.
    I must be like the hostages. I no longer think about life outside the place I am, and I even stick with the other hostages. Despite the regularity of the routine, I can’t concentrate. I keep reliving the shock of my kidnapping and I shall never be free of it even if I’m released. I know I’ll always be like a kidnap victim and the bitter memories will haunt me. I no longer think about life outside. Even the existence of other countries seems like an illusion. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to walk around at night, looking at the stars, hair flying, a muslin shawl draped around my shoulders. The only world that exists is in this room, this house. So I have no aspirations. In fact, I grow more and more used to being lazy and irresponsible and can no longer read newspapers.
    I’ve abandoned myself to the notion that I am not responsiblefor my fate, and I allow those closest to me—Hayat, my mother, other friends outside Lebanon—to wonder whether I’m alive or dead every time the battles rage. You must know how they feel.
    I admit, Jill Morrell, that I thought more than once of staging my own kidnapping. That was several years ago when I was abroad, and some power must be having its revenge on me now for those thoughts.
    The first time, I was convinced that as soon as Naser and I had been reunited for a few moments and he had held me close, he wouldn’t be able to let me go back to Beirut, and he would abduct me. I smelled him, as I always did when I thought of him, and he embraced me. The warmth settled around us, but I couldn’t see him. I waited for him on the beach in Tunis, burning like a hot coal with the sun and longing. My craving for him made a fool of me, and I kept lying there, deluding myself that he was watching me from a distance, enjoying the sight of me waiting for him, that he would jump out on me any moment and throw sand over me, and I smiled. I went on harboring these illusions for days, just as I did while I was waiting for him in Port Said and Alexandria. Always on beaches, as the tide ebbed and flowed. Anyone listening to me now would think I was a dreamer. Of course, otherwise how can I explain my great love for Naser and Beirut?
    All the same I threw myself at a Spaniard and tried to make him like me enough to kidnap me and keep me at his country estate. The idea of settling there for good had slowly taken hold of me as I stood with a friend of Naser’s and the friend’s wife, Asya, on the edge of a Spanish road, surroundedby almond trees covered in snowy blossom. The sight of the plains stretching to the horizon gave me a feeling of pure contentment and peace. We arrived at a big house with cactus plants bordering the drive, bearing flowers like coral, and I envied whoever lived there.
    The car turned along the drive and stopped at the broad sweep of gravel in front of the double door, which stood wide open. At the noise of the car’s brakes a plump, balding man came out to greet us, distracted temporarily from his solicitous welcome by a huge dog which suddenly appeared from nowhere. Then he led us through his ancient house onto the balcony, where I sighed deeply, hoping he would feel sorry for me.
    The yellow plains, the cultivated terraces, even the cool breezes, all seemed to emanate from the red sun, enveloped now in a pink and violet haze. The sounds of sheep and cattle being driven home from pasture were clearly audible even though they were still far