White Masks by Elias Khoury Read Free Book Online Page A

scared-I knew the man was at the end of his rope and might even harm himself. But there was nothing I could do but wait, he never came home, until that day when they showed up with him inside a wooden coffin and that overpowering smell . . . Dear God, may we be delivered from evil ... The Day of Judgment was upon us, the final reckoning . . .
    Actually, I didn’t do a thing with his belongings. While I was waiting for him I didn’t do a thing with them. I left everything - the shredded paper and the whitened heads and limbs - just as it was. I thought he’d be back and might get upset.
    And now, I don’t know why, but I don’t dare enter the room. It smells of blood . . . blood and cat! Maybe the blood is from the pictures . . . Oh, Lord . . . I don’t know what’s happening to me . . . But it smells of blood.
    After he died, I threw everything away. I scrubbed the room with soap and water and had it whitewashed. But it still smells, and that frightens me. No, I don’t go in now. You can go in if you like, but I won’t.

CHAPTER II
    Perforated Bodies
    Mr. Ali Kalakesh, architect at the National Architecture Company in Beirut. Born in Saida, in 1940, married with three children, resident of the Mar Elias district of West Beirut. Known for his social activism - he headed a “popular committee” for the distribution of flour to local bakeries - and for his good-neighborly relations with everyone. The only blemish in this otherwise perfect picture is the rift with his wife, which, for reasons unknown, almost resulted in divorce. However, they patched things up after she returned from a brief stay with her parents. By his account, he leads a happy family life. He has often visited the home of Khalil Ahmad Jaber to offer his condolences to the victim’s wife. He has volunteered to forward any information he gleans to her and to the security authorities concerned, but he is convinced his efforts will be for naught. He recounts quite spontaneously all that he knows about the deceased, to whom he refers at times, with some reservation, as “the martyr.”
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    What is happening to us is very strange . . . One wonders if it is the result of unexplained mental disorders . . . No one is able to control all the crime . . .
It’s grown into an epidemic, a plague devouring us from within . . . I suppose that is what is meant by social fragmentation in civil conflicts - I’ve read about it, but somehow this seems different ... you’d think they positively savored murder, like a sip of Coke. Poor Khalil Jaber! But it’s not just him . . . he, at least, has found his rest . . . what about the rest of us, the Lord only knows how we will die . . .
    Imagine, that Armenian doctor, Dr. Khatchadourian, a seventy-year-old man with nothing, or very little, to his name . . . You can’t be a doctor and have nothing . . . but, as I was saying, nothing of any consequence. They broke into his house . . . What for? . . . Probably to rob him, which they did, but listen to what else they did . . . Apparently, he had heard them, he heard their footsteps and the sound of their voices, and he decided to pretend that he was asleep, since there wasn’t much he could do anyway. But he was afraid of his wife, she wouldn’t stand for it. It had been that way ever since he’d married her, she wouldn’t stand for anything. And now, if she heard their voices she was sure to get up and start wailing. So Dr. Harout Khatchadourian lay there in bed shivering with fear, not just because of them, but because of her. She had already caused trouble with them at the beginning of the war, strange woman that she was.
    She was lying beside him in bed, breathing rhythmically, as he tried to peer into the dark. But he couldn’t see a thing; all he could distinguish was their voices. He tried shifting his position slightly, but his limbs felt leaden. Then he turned to her - she was sure to