White Masks by Elias Khoury Read Free Book Online

was true that Jameel Hamdan had disappeared during the war and his body was never
found - the young men said he’d disappeared at the Aadliyyeh checkpoint. He was executed, for sure, but he wasn’t hanged. In any case, no one was hanged during this war, there wasn’t ever any time: you were kidnapped, tortured - there was a lot of talk of torture, but I never believed a word of it - and then you were shot. And you know how fast a bullet is. But it had nothing to do with me, or my husband, it wasn’t any of our business. So why was he talking like that and cutting off those heads? He always said it had nothing to do with us and he was against killing.
    Then he set to the hands: he painted them white, cut them out in small rectangles, and stacked them in a pile. Then it was the thighs, until gradually, all that was left of our family photographs was this huge collection of white photo fragments, stuck to each other with nail polish.
    Once he was finished with the family photos, he again had nothing to do - so he just sat silently, and hardly walked around the house even. I tried to clean up the white fragments strewn across the room, and to tidy up a bit, but he wouldn’t let me. I suggested that he shave, since he hadn’t in ages, and after hesitating for a long time, he agreed. I heated up some water for him and laid out his razor, shaving cream, and brush. When he went into the bathroom, however, he was holding the scissors.
    â€œWhat are the scissors for?” I asked.
    He stood in front of the mirror and began snipping at his beard. As the hairs fell into the washbasin his face was slowly transformed, but he didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he barely glanced at the mirror.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œWorking, working.”
    He carried on trimming his beard like this, with the tap turned on all
the way; the hairs cascaded down, while he sprinkled the sides of the wash basin from the cup of hot water he held in the other hand. Then he took the brush, smeared on some shaving cream, and started shaving with the razor, while whistling a Fayrouz tune. I stood watching him.
    He finished, and dabbed some aftershave on his cheeks. Then he coated the brush with more shaving cream and began smearing the mirror. As he covered the mirror with foam, little gaps would form, so he kept going over them again and again to make sure everything was covered in white, all the while whistling that little ditty Ya Dara Douri Fina, if I remember well.
    He was at it for two hours, and still the gaps kept on appearing, while I stood there watching him without knowing what to do.
    â€œIt’s over, everything is over,” I thought I heard him say.
    â€œWhat’s over?” I asked.
    â€œNothing, nothing ... I’m working,” he replied.
    Then he grabbed a red towel and, after drying his face with it, wiped the mirror clean. He covered it with the towel and then just stood there, as though looking at his reflection.
    Then he went to his room and began to rearrange all the bits of paper, the dough, and the severed limbs that were scattered over the floor. After laying them all out neatly in a corner of the room, he opened the wardrobe, took out his suit, got dressed, knotted his tie, and went out.
    No, before he left he told me he was hungry. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen in his suit and tie and said, “I’m hungry.” I noticed how thin he’d grown, and that he looked older. So I sat him down in the kitchen to a plate of fried eggs, which he ate in complete silence.
    â€œI’m going,” he said, getting to his feet.

    â€œWhere to?”
    â€œWork.”
    â€œBut it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. You’ll go tomorrow.”
    He stepped out of the kitchen, got his overcoat from the wardrobe, opened the front door, and hurried down the stairs. I never saw him again.
    Initially, we thought he’d been kidnapped. I was really