June Rain (5 page)

‘. . .’ Silence.

‘That path won’t lead you anywhere, Farid.’

That same manly silence.

Farid often sat alone in his house in the room with no view. He would sit there in the afternoon facing the white wall, which aside from an out-of-date calendar, was completely bare. His mother would leave him to visit the neighbours and there he’d remain, sitting by himself, for an hour, two hours.

Likewise, in the coffee shop he sat away from others, choosing his wicker chair carefully. It had to be sturdy and clean, but even then he would wipe off what little dust was on it. People knew that about him. They knew how he liked to sit. When he sat in the chair, he always turned it around and rested his elbow on the chair back; he’d sit up straight, his back exposed, quietly toying with his amber worry beads, seeming to enjoy his own silence.

His hair was always neatly combed and shined with Brylcreem. That Farid sure was infatuated with himself.

Pictures of candidates began showing up on car windows and people’s caps. Some of the more fanatical supporters put them in gilded wooden frames and hung them in their homes next to pictures of the bleeding heart of Jesus. Farid loved his family’s headman, their ‘
zaeem
’, but he didn’t like the pictures. If ever he spoke, he called all that ‘mere appearances’.

Farid didn’t like appearances.

He was still concerned with himself, however, with his own appearance. Male fashion was going through uncertain times, the essential elements yet to emerge, since high boots, riding breeches and thin handlebar moustaches had gone out of style. He hesitated before buying an American hat, and only wore it tipped to the side, on Sundays. He started paying attention to details: plucking the hair from his ears, taking showers, choosing appropriate colours – acquiring the minute details of elegance a little at a time.

And then there was the revolver. Its Arabic name,
musaddas
or ‘sixer’, came from the six barrels the first models had when they came out. Then it spread like an epidemic, as did the terms for it and its varieties.

There was the
fard
or personal revolver, maybe meaning the weapon for one person, the kind you tucked into your belt on your right side, unless you were left-handed, and if it was too tight and you were worried it might dig into your skin, you could put it in your big jacket pocket and keep your hand on it. That is, before you discovered from watching American movies that you could keep it within easy reach, near your heart, or even tied to your leg for a quick draw when you needed it. You pulled it out, and if it was loaded or cocked, you shot point blank (at close range) or quick-draw (without taking aim through the crosshairs), otherwise your adversary would beat you to it and something regrettable might happen. They used bird metaphors such as
al-deek
(
the cock) for the trigger, and called you
ayn al-doury
(sparrow’s eye) if you had good aim. They used plant metaphors such as
al-qamha
(the wheat kernel), the part on the top of the barrel used for aiming; animal metaphors such as
al-booz
(the snout); body parts such as
al-qabda
(the fist) for the handle,
al-zifr
(the fingernail) for the metal protrusion that distinguished old revolvers, and
al-misht
(the palm of the hand) for the cartridge clip.
Al-bayt
(the house) was the leather holster which in turn had two little ‘houses’ for the two clips. And from somewhere or another they came up with the term
al-nishan
(the medal) for the target. You insisted on getting several types of bullets to go with it – the kind that burned, the kind that penetrated, the kind that exploded – and you loaded it carefully, making sure none of the bullets went in crooked, which would cause it to jam when you tried to shoot. There were the nickel-plated (white nickel) or plain revolvers, the
Abu Ukra
(barellette), the 9-barrel, the Czech, the 12 and the 14 (referring to the Belgian Herstal make), and the American Colt, the best you could buy before the Smith & Wesson came onto the scene.

‘A Colt-9!’

‘But that one is too expensive for you, Farid. And besides, your gun is still new, hasn’t shot more than two cartridges. I would know. I’m the one who sold it to you.’

‘A Colt-9!’

‘The Herstal-12 is better than the Colt.’

Farid tapped his finger against his temple. ‘My mind’s made up.’

End of discussion. ‘You’ll have it tomorrow.’

‘How much?’

‘540 liras. I swear on my honour I’m only making a profit of 40 liras. I’ll split it with you. 520. My final offer.’

Farid smiled. He knew the man was a liar, but he liked him.

‘I’ll pay you half now. Give me another month for the rest.’

He wasn’t rich, Farid, but he always paid.

They always gave him time to pay.

His friends found out about it. They demanded to see the Colt-9. They enjoyed flipping it over in their hands and wrapping their palms around its wide handle and closing their fingers around it. Some of them would take aim at an imaginary target and then lower it, shaking their heads admiringly, without explaining the reason for that admiration. Farid never took his eyes off of the gun as it moved from one of his buddies’ hands to another, for fear it might get scratched or fall to the ground. He didn’t relax until he got it back and slipped it into the holster attached to his belt.

His toy. His work of art.

Badwi al-Semaani, Farid’s father, had
made
his work of art, with his own hands. With the help of two mules, he dragged the stone out from the Ayntourin quarry and plopped the stone down in front of his house, beneath the eucalyptus tree. He chiselled it after getting home from work on the construction sites or on rainy days and holidays. A whole year it cost him, chiselling and refining it. A mortar that was meant only to be seen with the eyes, as he used to say. He didn’t allow his wife to pound and tenderise meat in it, not even once. He made another mortar for her to pound meat and make
kibbeh
.

Farid, on the other hand, bought his work of art. The Colt-9. He deprived himself of everything for three whole months. Master Boulos gave him 200 liras a month, which Farid withdrew early, one lira after another, long before the end of the month.

Farid never tired of feeling the revolver at his hip every time he found himself alone behind the measuring table. It distracted him from his work. He would stop putting buttonholes in the shirt he was working on in order to polish the gun. He would take hold of the handle and raise the gun up above his face, letting it shine in the light coming in through the open window that overlooked the street. He wanted to make sure there wasn’t a speck of dust clinging to it. He would puff on it repeatedly only to shine it up again with the lining of his jacket, just as people do to clean their glasses.

Master Boulos was worried about him. When he entered the shop, signs of worry were all over his face. He grabbed the trousers away from Farid again, put the iron aside, and prodded him in the chest. ‘You were at Sheikh Melhem’s funeral at the Church of Our Lady yesterday, weren’t you?’

‘I was. He was one of my mother’s relatives.’

Master Boulos knitted his eyebrows in reflection. With a faint smile, Farid added, ‘Nothing happened at Sheikh Melhem’s funeral. People exaggerate. Who told you about it?’

Master Boulos simply sighed.

Nothing happened . . .

They had shown up with their family
zaeem
. No one knew who invited them to the funeral. Twenty men came, not more. They surrounded the
zaeem
the whole time, never taking their eyes off him for a second. They frowned as they walked, casting fiery looks at the others. Their elegance caught Farid’s eye immediately. The youthful
zaeem
was a lawyer who had recently graduated from the Jesuit University in Beirut. They said he had met with Sir Anthony Eden when he came to Beirut the year before as part of a tour of Middle Eastern capitals to drum up support against Abd al-Nasser. Farid had seen pictures of him pasted on the walls before, but this was the first time he had seen him up close. He never imagined him to be as short as he was standing there before him, wearing those brown and white shoes Farid hadn’t yet been able to afford. Farid would order a pair of those shoes one day, after the Colt-9 and the pure silk tie. Farid could recognise real silk from its sheen. Three or four of the young
zaeem
’s attendants sported
sherwal
trousers and wore fezzes on their heads. The weather was hot. It was the middle of May. Everyone was wearing a jacket. Some, who may not have owned a summer jacket, came wearing their winter suits, intensifying the heat and the nervous tension.

And so, upon every hip there was a gun.

Under each jacket, a gun.

And tucked into every
sherwal’s
cummerbund, there was a gun, too.

The same was true in the case of Farid’s cousins and their supporters. The Semaani clan outnumbered their enemies and were in their own neighbourhood, on the road to their church. If only those congregating around their young lawyer
zaeem
would make one mistake. If only they would.

The pushing and shoving started when the procession entered a narrow street. Shoulders bumped shoulders. All that was heard was the sound of feet hitting the newly applied asphalt on the church road. The
zaeem
’s attendants seemed to be trying to clear a path for him by shoving back all those bodies pressing against him in the narrow passageway. They were insisting on keeping a cushion of space around him.

People’s faces appeared more and more worried. Farid saw a number of men, those who were not relatives and had no need to be there, leave the procession. They scurried down the small narrow streets that branched off left and right from the main road. They ran off without looking back; peace-loving types who preferred to go back to their homes. The only thing that could be heard during that time was the singing of the hymns by the religious brotherhood as they carried the Cloth of Divine Mercy at the front of the procession.

Farid’s gun was loaded. The Colt-9. As soon as he felt threatened, he identified a target for himself. He knew at whom he would shoot and he planned out specifically how he would act – in which direction he should charge, what he would do with his left hand, and how he would not even give the young lawyer’s attendants enough time to protect him with their bodies. He would shoot him in the head. Three times at least, and the remaining shots he would use for cover as he withdrew. The
zaeem
was almost pushed along by them rather than walking unaided. The brothers finished their hymn as they led the way to the door of the church. There was a silence in which all one could hear was the heavy breathing of the men and the bustling of bodies. The crowd reached the church’s wide courtyard, which allowed people to spread apart, though the threatening looks continued even at a distance.

No, nothing happened at all.

Some of the women in the back rows had not even been conscious of the pushing and shoving; they carried on with their usual chatter as the procession spread out bit by bit along the road leading to the church.

Sheikh Melhem’s funeral was merely a rehearsal for what was going to take place in less than a month, in June, at another funeral in another village perched over one of the commanding heights of the nearby mountain.

Master Boulos had almost lost hope of putting Farid on the right path. The only thing left for him to do was to encourage him to emigrate.

‘Why don’t you go to Australia, Farid? You have lots of relatives there who are doing well, don’t you?’

The sewing pins in Farid’s mouth prevented him from answering.

‘Look at your brother Shafiq. He doesn’t get caught up in all of that.’

Farid smiled mockingly. No, Shafiq was not someone Farid wanted to emulate.

Master Boulos did not have any illusions concerning the future of the tailoring profession. It was not going to provide for any future generation after his own. What had happened to the shoemakers would happen to the tailors, too. The shoemakers went and destroyed the contents of the new ready-made shoe shop that opened on the main street of the town and the police escorted them to jail. But what good did that do? The shoemakers showed some bravado, but the tailors were much more cowardly. Master Boulos knew every single one of them. It was a difficult profession and Farid was not good enough at it.

‘They say Australia is really nice,’ Master Boulos added.

Many of Farid’s generation emigrated. Some of them suffered a lot. They went alone, putting their faith in God, without a single relative there to greet them. Some of them slept under the open skies during the first days, on church benches or in public parks. As for Farid, his trip would be guaranteed from A to Z. The program was all set:

He would leave Lebanon at the beginning of summer, or in October, as he wished.