Piecework

“In New York?” he said. “Are you Jew?”

“Irish,” I said. He blinked.

Then the first one found my money clip. It contained some Lebanese pounds, some Italian lire, some dollars: a perfect roll for a spy. He showed it to the second one. They spoke quickly in Arabic.

“If you want to see migrants, you need to help them,” the second one said.

“With money?” I said. My hands were at my side now.

“Yes. Money,” the second one said. A huge truck groaned along the boulevard and the first man stepped to the front of the lobby and looked out. He kept moving the machine gun from one hand to the other.

“Of course,” I said, nodding at the money. “Take all of it.”

The second one had slung his gun over his shoulder, with the barrel pointing at the floor. He seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to take a shot to get the money. He jerked his head, indicating I should follow. He said something to the first young man, who went back into the shadows. The elevators weren’t working, so we walked up two flights. He produced a flashlight from some where.

“You’re Palestinian?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Were you in the south during the fighting?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

He shrugged. “Soon we go back.”

We stopped on the second floor and he led the way down the hall. He knocked on a door: bop-bop, bop-bop, bop. Something heavy scraped on the tile floor behind the door and then it opened. I could smell dampness and human beings and babies. The door frame was shredded where it had been smashed open. A chain hung from a sprung lock.

I couldn’t see anything in the apartment, but the young man said something in Arabic and a small oil lamp was lit.

“No electric,” he said to me. “They stopped all electric.”

My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then there seemed to be people everywhere. An old man, with a beaked nose, a dirty white shirt, and a dark vest came forward. Behind him was a girl about 18, a woman in her 60s, and others: two boys about 10, a boy about 14. Somewhere in another room a baby was crying.

“Ask them how long they’ve been here,” I said.

“Three days,” the young man said, without asking. He said something in Arabic, apparently explaining who I was. They all started talking at once. I could see now that we were in a living room area, and people were asleep on two couches and on the floor.

“They want you to write about them,” the young man said. “They have been in a bad time for a week. They come from Burj al Shemali. They were bombed by airplanes. The Jews destroyed all their homes.”

Yes, there were some PLO commandos in the village, but they had all left for the south the night before the bombing. The Israelis bombed them a second time and four people were killed, including the husband of the teenage girl. That was when they decided to leave. No, they were not all related. They had joined the other refugees on the main highway for the north, and crossed the Litani River. It took them two days to walk to Beirut. They had left everything behind, cows, clothes, food. On the way north, they lived on oranges taken from plantations.

The old man said something, a long and complicated complaint, and the young man with the machine gun nodded.

“He said that when they came here there is no house to stay in. Too many people everywhere. He said that it was so cold here and they were all afraid because there was shooting in the street. He said that is why he came to this building.”

The young man looked around the dimly lit apartment.

“We took this place for them,” he said proudly. “Why is it empty when people are cold? So we come here and took it. The rich don’t care if people die.”

I asked if the people here would be going back to Burj al Shemali. The teenager started shouting, getting nearly hysterical, then suddenly kicked at a glass-topped table. It tipped over and glasses fell to the floor and smashed.

“She says that there is no more Burj al Shemali.”

Then he turned to me. “Are you finished?” The girl was crying now and the young machine gunner seemed embarrassed. I offered him a cigarette.

“No, you go now,” he said. “Not safe. You go.”

I said goodnight to the people in the room and followed the young man to the door with the baby still crying behind me. In the lobby, the first kid came over, more jittery than ever. His hands were on the gun and he pointed it at me, saying something in high-pitched, rapid Arabic, the barrel of the gun bobbing as he emphasized his points. The second one made a disparaging expression and casually touched the barrel, pushing me aside slightly, and tapping me on the back in the same motion. He was saying goodnight, and telling me to go while the going was good.

The cabdriver was still there and seemed surprised to see me. The rain fell steadily. I got in the back and lit a cigaret and tried to control the shaking of my hands.

II.

TYRE, LEBANON