But right now, there is no noise.
“Can you hear any sound coming from there Shwikaaaaaaar?”
“Nope.”
Freedom!
Shwikar walks in the middle of the street—a desire every citizen fulfills on a Sunday morning or on a curfew. No cars. She jumps giddy, trilling, “la, la, la, la.” We automatically head to Zumurrud’s place nearby. We all live in the same area by the sea. We didn’t grow up next to the sea, but we met thirty-two years later near it, and it became our lifestyle.
Knock knock knock.
“No one’s answering.”
“How will we get in?”
“With a key.”
“Where can we get a key?”
“From Ali.”
“Where’s Ali?”
“At his place.”
“Let’s go.”
Ali lives in a house with a patio that used to overlook the sea of Beirut. A skyscraper, probably owned by a businessman from the Arab Gulf, rose up in front of his house one day and turned its back to him. So, part of the view from his patio became that of kitchens, laundry rooms, and clotheslines, a view that can’t compete with that of the sea. What view can, anyway? But hang on, why can’t it? Be positive and think for a second: this part of the building is where the housekeepers live, and not the “residents.” Seeing a person struggle to make a living, or a foreign lady go about her daily chores, encourages a person to be productive and motivates him to work. And Ali is a productive person; he would love to share his working hours with neighbors who don’t interfere with his privacy or ask anything of him but a smile bonjour.
But what’s heartbreaking about this story, I suppose, is that his house, which once overlooked the sea, now overlooks darkness. The new building is harsh in its height, luxury, and marble veneer of various shades, so no simple, sensitive people are going to be living in it. There might be some nice and respectful people living there, but I’m sure that many of them are the kind of low-quality, unfair people who mistreat others, imprison them, cut the workers’ vacation time, skimp on their benefits, connect their work days with their work nights, and bitch as their mode of speech. I’m also sure that the percentage of these shitty kinds of people is higher than that of the good kind. I’m sorry I always expect the worst and might be making stereotypical preconceived judgments, but come on! The building is ugly. And it looks down its nose at the buildings around it. In fact, it’s even taller than the hill next to it. And it’s covered with so much marble upon marble that a person could make a fortune just from selling the marble. Then there are the prison-like bars that cover it from the back where the housekeepers live. There were big palm trees that had covered both sides of its front gate by the time the underpaid construction workers were done building it. But then the trees died, because palm trees don’t flourish in construction sites. Maybe they had planted the trees early so the investors would see them when they came to check the site they’re investing in. But after the trees had died, they replaced them with new trees that looked exactly like the old ones. They will die soon, I’m sure of it, and new trees that look exactly like them will replace them. As if nothing had happened. Who would miss them, anyway? Who would bond with them? They appear and disappear; they aren’t built up slowly, so no relationships are formed with them. They appear and disappear, as if they’ve never been.
It’s been years since the building was built and I still haven’t bonded with it. In fact, I can’t stand it; it’s like its cement was poured over my chest.
But Ali’s apartment still overlooks the sea, from the corner. And if we forget the view it once had, this one wouldn’t be so bad. His house is still charming.
Shwikar and I climb up to the roof of Ali’s house and jump down onto his terrace. I open the door of his porch, go into his bedroom, and think of ways to wake him.
Shwikar is still with me. She’s thinking, too.
What to do?
We think.
She thinks. I think. We think.
But, why?
Why all this thinking?
Can’t I just leap all of a sudden and end up with Shwikar, Zumurrud, Zeezee, Balqis, Ali, Remi, Georgios, Mona, Tony, Hassan, Sofia, François, Matthias, and all my friends? All of us together in the street while Beirut sleeps.
Actually, I can. I do . . .
We’re all there now, in Hamra Street. Zeezee wants to go to Monot Street, Ali wants to go for a swim in the sea, Shwikar wants ice cream, Zumurrud is up for anything, and I want to sit back and watch.
We go to Monot, we roam Beirut, we look at it as if we’re seeing it for the first time, we swim at the Sporting Beach Club without paying the fifteen-dollar entrance fee. (It was just twelve last year!) We each swim in a corner with hardly any clothes on. We would undress completely considering that we’re the only ones at the beach, but the water’s visibly polluted, so
