Free Beirut Blues by Hanan al-Shaykh

growing in our garden, its branches hanging over the wall into the street. But this time it was mixed with the smell of the gunpowder which had turned the purple bougainvillea black. The buildings around us were pockmarked by bullets, immense leopards with their spotted skins. A room in a nearby house had no outside wall. It was still painted blue with a dining table and chairs in the middle of it. It looked beautiful, as if it were suspended between heaven and earth. “Ali, what happened to those people?” said my grandmother. “They were so nice.”
    “I don’t know,” shouted Ali. “Get in, for God’s sake, can’t you?”
    The neighborhood was quiet, as if it was resting after yesterday’s rowdy party, when fireworks had flashed and sparkled in the sky for hours on end. A building hung its head wearily, its water pipes like coiled black snakes. A lamppost leaned over as if it were trying to kiss the ground. Smoke continued to rise in the air and hung there like a blackcloud in spring. A red tile lay like a child’s toy waiting to be built into some forgotten palace. The huge metal door of the shop was like a Chinese fan with its folds pressed out. The balconies tottered on broken legs.
    The tank stood waiting for us with its radio blaring. We climbed in. The last thing my eyes fell on before I entered its hidden world was the posters of martyrs and religious leaders, peeling off as if they had been scared of the fighting and tried to get down from the walls.
    My grandmother addressed the youth who was closing the hatch on us without a word of greeting. “Thank you. We’re grateful for the trouble you’ve gone to.”
    Zemzem didn’t seem to like the solemnity of my grandmother’s thanks, and hastily took up where my grandmother left off: “God preserve you for your families. God keep you from harm, wherever you go.”
    Only then did the youth glance quickly in our direction, saying carelessly before he vanished, “You’re welcome.”
    I must have stopped being attractive. He hadn’t responded to my smile. Actually he’d ignored me. I put it down to the tense situation. I wanted to look in the mirror. My appeal, even my normal liveliness, must have deserted me. This continued to bother me until the vehicle started away. When I grew used to the constant rumble, I began to study my surroundings. The tank resembled an ambulance, its seats like short narrow iron beds. I noticed the roof, like a steel hedgehog. Ali got to his feet, looking towards the driver, who was only visible from the waist down. Ali banged on the side of the vehicle as if it were a horse that had just won a race, then tapped the driver’s feet. I could picturethe driver surveying the street, ready to fire. He ducked his head in, smiling broadly at us and addressing himself to Ali: “What do you want?”
    Ali raised himself up until his head vanished through the aperture. A few moments later it reappeared and he shouted, “Come here, Miss Asmahan. Come and see.”
    The tank came to a halt as he bent lower, stretching his head towards me, repeating eagerly, “Miss Asmahan, please come. Come and see the Red Cross pulling people out.”
    He held out his hand to me. He was so insistent that I stood up in the end, although I had grown to like my cozy retreat. From the opening I could see the sky and earth with their contents strewn far and wide. I saw myself too in the midst of this destruction, and a building still standing, then there was a resounding explosion and my head was shoved down inside the tank and the two youths were struggling to close the hatch without success. Ali pushed them out of the way and struck all the buttons ferociously. One youth did his best to restrain him. Suddenly it was dark inside the vehicle, and they turned on Ali with mounting annoyance. I began to think that we had been too quick to agree to travel this way. Anxiety gnawed at us all. I knew plenty of stories about people who in their attempts to escape