White Masks by Elias Khoury Read Free Book Online Page B

wake up, she could hear a pin drop in her sleep. Her hearing was acute, as indeed were all her senses. He used to tell her that she was all senses, nothing but a bundle of nerves. But she slept on peacefully and everything was alright.

    Dr. Harout closed his eyes ... they were getting closer, they were bound to find something to take in the living room; now they were in the other bedroom. He could hear them, why were they talking so loud? Usually, robbers speak softly and wear rubber shoes so no one can hear them, but this was a reckless bunch. And then they switched on a light! He could see it, filtering in through the crack in the door from the room across the hallway . . . She’s going to wake up . . . she’s waking up now . . . and she’ll do what she’s always done during this war. I told the woman to keep quiet, but all she said was, “This is our home, they’re robbing our home.” So what? Doesn’t she understand that our home means nothing when our lives are in danger!
    â€œThey’ll kill us now, woman, be quiet.”
    â€œThis is your own home, what kind of a man are you!” she answered me and got ready to go and confront them. In the end she didn’t go out, though, it was the gunmen who made us leave.
    It was like this. We were home that day and there were a lot of explosions going off close by. I wasn’t frightened. I was sitting quietly listening to the radio, and she was reading in the dining room, when we saw them. They had appeared out of nowhere - as if they’d seeped through the walls - with sandbags to stack against the windows.
    â€œWhat’s going on here?” she asked.
    They didn’t answer her. They were scurrying around the house, bent over double under the weight of those sandbags. She went up to the window where they were stacking the bags.
    â€œWhat is this?” she asked.
    â€œShoo,” one of them answered. “Go on! Get out of here!”

    â€œWhat do you mean get out? No, Sir, this is our house. You get out.”
    The man speaking was holding a machine gun pointed at me. I did nothing, just stood there by myself in the corner of the room. He came toward me.
    â€œTake your woman and get out of here.”
    I did as I was told. I could feel their hands propelling me along from behind, then she fell into step beside me, and they shoved us both outside. They left us in the lobby of the building with a gunman and went back upstairs.
    The gunman came up to me and said, “IDs.” I gave him mine, and after examining it closely, he handed it back.
    â€œAnd what, if I may ask, do you do for a living?”
    â€œI’m a doctor. A surgeon,” I told him.
    â€œWell, good day to you, Doctor, and forgive us but it’s for your own sake we’re doing this.”
    â€œYou mean it’s for the sake of robbing our house,” said my wife.
    â€œAnd who is the lady?” He was looking at her irately.
    â€œMy wife,” I replied. “She’s my wife.”
    â€œYour ID, please.”
    â€œIt’s upstairs.”
    â€œGo get it.”
    To be honest, I was afraid for her at that moment. I told him she was my wife, that she was a little overwrought, because of the situation and all . . . that she meant no harm.
    He said nothing, maybe he believed me, I don’t know. Then he started talking, and telling me how they needed doctors, how they were fighting
on behalf of the poor and the dispossessed, and how it was my duty as a doctor to collaborate with them. He was genuinely trying to convince me ... imagine, me practically at death’s door and him rattling on about social justice!
    I told him I was all for justice and for their cause. But I’m a doctor, I said, and it’s my humanitarian duty not to make any political distinctions and to attend to anyone in need.
    Then he started telling me how their cause was similar to that of us Armenians . . . and how this and how that .