Little Mountain by Elias Khoury Read Free Book Online

full of surprises. And after the fall of Maslakh and Qarantina * to the Fascists, the war itself became one big surprise. Vast numbers of fighters and militiamen, with their weapons, their boots, their clothes, filling the streets of Wadi Abu Jameel in ceaseless attempts to reach the sea. Practically speaking, coordination wasn’t possible. Joint and disjointed forces ** from all over the country coming here to fight. The commander going from position to position, trying to coordinate — not an easy task. And we, fighting from position to position, from wall to wall, dust filling the air.
    Butros comes running from the church. Panting, he tells us: some of the pews have been taken. A whole lot of them came and covered the walls with their slogans. The two priests are very upset (by the way I forgot to mention that the two priests stayed in the church and struck up a firm friendship with Talal).
    — What shall we do?
    — Nothing. Protect the church and the two monks. Then there were shouts and explosions everywhere. Fighters shooting and looting. Competing with the children for the small items. A new group arrived, fighting savagely in the middle of the street. Looking for war, amid the cries and the cold.
    Seeing them darting about in the middle of the street, screaming, I didn’t understand. I watched them. Rage trickled through their fingers and their teeth. They got to the music shop and broke down the door. Seizing trumpets, drums and cymbals, the musical procession set off down the middle of France Street, full of percussion, shouting, and gunfire. Another martyr. The streets made way for them and the war opened its doors to their tears.
    I reached the church and went on watching them from the window. Butros was sitting in a corner all by himself, humming his Latin melody. I sat down beside him and heard the footsteps of the two priests upstairs going up to the window and watching.
    My voice began to rise, Butros beside me correcting the rhythm of the funerary chant I sang.
SCENE THREE
    The two Capuchins are still here. Father Marcel, about 80, and his companion whose name I couldn’t remember and whose age I couldn’t tell, for old age seeped through his fingers like water. They stayed in their room above the church, not mixing with the comrades. I knew that they viewed us with extreme suspicion and alarm. We doubted their motives for staying and they feared us and our intentions. That’s why I was surprised when the commander asked me to go out and buy them some food—milk, cheese, canned things, meat, coffee. … I went, bought the stuff, and on my way back got hold of a bottle of French wine through a friend. I told myself we’d celebrate with the two priests. They were delighted with the present but objected to the cheese.
    —We want French cheese.
    —That’s not possible, Father. All the shops are closed or ransacked. I nevertheless went and bought them some vile French cheese which used to be sold everywhere—that same cheese my mother would force me to eat though I could never see that it had any taste. We went up to their room, Butros, Talal and I. They were eating.
    —Why don’t you taste the wine?
    —I’m waiting for you, Father Marcel answered me. We’re going to celebrate together with this wine. We went back down the stairs. Father Marcel was aghast; he trembled with dismay and grief.
    —What’s all this? What is it? This is a barbaric war.
    —All wars are like this, Father. It’s nothing.
    — No, no. Not all wars are like this. I’ve been in a war too. I was an officer in the French army during the First World War. That war wasn’t like this. We respected places of worship and we didn’t harm civilians.
    — But this is a civil war. It’s the civilians who’re fighting.
    We were walking side by side. Father Marcel bending down silently, fearfully, over the statues strewn on the ground. Picking up bits of debris, muttering words I couldn’t make out, prayers, or curses, or a