Samir laughed. “They’re not arguing, they’re negotiating. It’s a custom in the Middle East. Unlike the States where prices are fixed, here they are fluid. Bargaining is a way of building relationships. A person who negotiates well is respected. At the end of what seems like a heated argument to you, if both the buyer and the seller are pleased with the price, the relationship deepens.”
“But that’s not fair. What if you don’t know what a reasonable price for an item should be? You could get screwed.”
Samir’s dark eyes watched him. “If you learn anything from your year in Lebanon, Matt, it’s that life isn’t fair. You’re blinded by the American concept of all people being created equal. The truth is, people aren’t equal. Some are more gifted than others, some are born to rich families, some to poor shepherds, some are lazy, some dishonest, some kind, some cruel. It’s the same the world over, only in the Middle East the differences are starker.”
Matt said nothing.
“Is everybody in the US as naive as you?” grinned Samir.
“I just assumed the whole world thought like we do, only they were a little behind in technology…”
“My father has a saying: If you don’t understand your enemy, you can’t defeat him. Ignorance of one’s enemy is a fatal weakness.”
Matt was about to ask why everyone in the Middle East seemed to talk about enemies rather than allies, but a shop caught his eye.
“Wow, this is a cool stall,” Matt said, changing the subject. They squeezed into the tiny space where leather-bound volumes of all sizes and colors were piled high on brightly colored carpets. “I’d like a journal to record my experiences this year.”
“Now you are talking more like an Arab-we are great believers in keeping journals to record our thoughts and our conversations with God. The written word is sacred, and learning to read and write is an important milestone in the life of young Arab men.”
Samir greeted the shopkeeper in Arabic. “Here,” he whispered to Matt, “I’ll help you negotiate a price. Pick out two journals, one you like and the other you don’t like. It’s the way to get the best price, by negotiating for one against the merits and defects of another.”
Matt never knew anyone could talk as fast as Samir and the shopkeeper while they were haggling. It was the verbal equivalent of a long, intricate wrestling match, with the two opponents in close contact, circling and shoving and pinning each other, and when it was finally all over, they stood back, shook hands and smiled. While the shopkeeper poured tea, Samir handed the journal to Matt, beaming at the reasonable price he had wrangled.
On the third day, Matt met Maha on the AUB tennis courts.
“Whoa. I’ve never played on clay courts before. We don’t have many back in the states. It’s slippery.” Matt chased a return from Maha, slid on the ochre surface and tumbled into a heap at the baseline. Her giggle reached his ears and he began to laugh as well.
They abandoned the court and spent the next three hours sitting under a large banyan tree overlooking the Mediterranean. “Isn’t this a beautiful campus? I just love it here, so different from Jordan. So peaceful.”
“Tell me about your life, Maha.” Matt listened as a whole new world was revealed to him.
During Matt’s first week at AUB, he and the fourteen other American students were invited to the College Hall offices of the President of the University, Dr. Samuel B. Kirkwood, for a reception marking the official start of their junior year abroad. The students were from all over the States, from elite universities like Harvard and Stanford, to small choice colleges like Oberlin and Sweet Briar.
“So why are you here?” A lanky, sandy-haired student sat next to Matt at the back of the reception room at College Hall. Matt stared at the expensive Nikon camera around his neck, complete with a professional flash attachment.
“It’s a long way from Seattle and my father. Besides, isn’t this the most exotic place you’ve ever seen?”
“It certainly is. All the ruins, the Cedars, the snow covering the mountains. And those dark alleyways in the bazaar. I’ve already shot ten rolls of film and it’s only the first week.” His voice had a nasal quality. “By the way, my name is Theodore Janus, from Ohio State. But everyone just calls me T.J. What’s yours?”
“Matt Richards. Harvard.” Matt immediately noticed the limp handshake.
“That’s a pretty expensive camera you got there.”
“I’m a Geology major, but my real passion is photography. Dr. Mitchell is the head of the Geology Department and he already said I could use the darkroom any time. I’m looking forward to touring the entire country and taking pictures of the land and the people.” He caressed his camera. “You into photography?”
“Not really. But I’m looking forward to seeing your pictures.” Matt moved away slightly, uncomfortable at how close T.J. was sitting. “Think I’ll get a beer from the refreshment table. See you around.” Matt moved quickly across the room, nearly bumping into another student.
“If you can dribble a soccer ball and crash into people at the same time, then you’re just the guy I’m looking for.” He juggled his drink without spilling it. “My name’s Brian Walker, Berkeley.” Their handshake was firm and each recognized the other’s athletic abilities.
“Pele came to Harvard once, but saw me dribble, score from 75 yards out and he caught the first plane back to Brazil.” Matt grinned. “Name’s Matt Richards, from Harvard.”
“Okay, big shot. We’ve got a tryout with the AUB soccer team on Saturday. It should be fun. What’s your major?”
“Biology and Medicine. My dad’s a heart surgeon, and my older brother’s already in med school. So I’m next. What’s yours?”
“Political Science and official Berkeley radical. My dad’s a big corporate lawyer helping the fat capitalists exploit undeveloped countries.”
Matt threw up his hands. “I’m ready to play soccer and drink some beer. But if you want to talk politics, I’m the wrong guy.”
“Deal.” During the next several months at AUB, Brian, in spite of his outspoken political views on Vietnam and American ‘imperialism’, became an integral part of Matt’s school and social life.
“Who’s the gorgeous blond over there?” Brian asked, pulling Matt’s sleeve and pointing in the direction of three female students huddled together.
“Only one way to find out.” But his mind quickly centered on the thought of Maha, her red hair and green eyes. “I’m not a blond man. She’s all yours.” They walked up and introduced themselves, holding out fresh Amstel beers for the three women.
As they found out later, Susan Miller, a tall, blond-haired beauty from Michigan State was escaping an abusive boyfriend and indifferent parents and thought it would be interesting to spend a year in Beirut. She reminded Matt of the spoiled daughter of rich parents-he had met plenty of them during his two years at Harvard- but he liked her nonetheless. And Brian liked her even more. She and Brian became inseparable and formed a part of Matt’s regular group for weekend trips and skiing in the mountains above Beirut.
“Hi, my name’s Anne-Marie Khoury, from Boston College. We shared a taxi our first night, remember?” A dark-haired Middle Eastern looking young woman reached out for one of Matt’s cold beers. “Any man bringing cold beer is either a mind reader or a saint.”
“He’s neither,” said Brian, laughing. “He’s a Harvard man.”
Matt called over Todd Cummings, and they all sat down together. The official activities weren’t scheduled to start for another twenty minutes.
“Are you Lebanese, Anne-Marie?” asked Todd.
“Sort of.” She put down her beer. “My grandparents immigrated to America from Lebanon in the late 1800s. Thought I would come over here for my junior year. Curious I guess. I’m studying medicine and hope to become a doctor.”
“Me too. Guess we’ll be in several classes together.”
They exchanged light talk for a few minutes, then Anne-Marie began an emotional discourse on the plight of Palestinian refugees who had been relegated to living in squalid camps in southern Lebanon. “It’s a grave injustice. Their homes, their homeland, given to the Israelis by foreign decree, for God’s sake.”
“Ah. Sorry folks. Beer goes right through me. See you later.” When Matt looked back, Todd and Anne-Marie were deep into an animated discussion. He headed for the refreshment table. T.J. intercepted, his Nikon and flash swinging.
