Free White Masks by Elias Khoury Page B

the gun they held against my neck was practically boring through my skin.
    â€œFollow the car in front of you!”
    As I switched on the engine and started the car, the gunman in the back seat hit me across the head with his pistol. “Faster,” he screamed. “If you try to escape we’ll kill you. Not a word out of you. Come on, faster than that!”
    I stepped on the accelerator and, as the car picked up speed, they spat out directions, and I tried to follow the speeding car in front of me. It came to a sudden stop and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. As soon as we stopped they fell on me, kicking and punching.
    â€œYour money . . . everything you’ve got!” I gave them everything I had: one thousand lira in cash and a check for another fifteen hundred. “More. Come on now!” And they took my watch, my wedding band, my papers - my ID card, passport, and address book - as well as the car keys.
    I stood there, with the roar of the sea and the rain all around ... and nothing, just me, the roiling sea, and the raining sky . . . and them . . .

    When I tried glancing over toward the sea, one of the gunmen - the one with the gold tooth, I think - grabbed me by the collar, practically strangling me.
    â€œWe’re letting you go,” he said, “but only because you’re a coward and an idiot. You be very, very careful, now . . .”
    I told him I hadn’t done anything and that the car was new, I hadn’t even finishing paying for it.
    â€œVery careful, you hear,” he said. “Not a word ... Next time, we’ll kill you!”
    â€œPlease, the car . . .”
    The gunman got in, turned the ignition, and the two cars sped off. I ran shouting behind them, while they were probably looking out the back window and laughing.
    Nothing but rain and that surging, black sea. I leaned against the railing of the Ouza’ï Corniche and let the water soak my hair and disheveled clothes. I felt sorry for myself at the thought of walking all the way to Mar Elias through the rain, and I was on the verge of tears. There wasn’t a taxi for miles around.
    I don’t know where I found the strength to do it, but I walked all the way home. And as I did so, I could hear the surging of the sea, and I felt myself surge and fall in unison with it, floating in the air one instant and plunging into the depths the next. Then I began to run, crying and laughing at once, like someone in a dream. When I reached the intersection, I took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a building and started thinking about my daughter.
    â€œYour Aida’s a real problem,” her teacher, Madame Helen, had said. “She’s seven and still wets herself in class.”

    The teacher had pursed her lips tight, fixing her lipstick, and claimed the problem had started when Aida refused to sit at her desk, preferring to crouch underneath and bark, like a dog. I had noticed that she’d taken to sitting under tables pretending to be a dog at home, but I hadn’t given the matter much thought.
    The problem was serious, Madame Helen said, and it was no longer possible to take such a thing lightly, because the habit had begun spreading to the other students. One of the nuns had instructed her to call me to discuss the problem, she said. I told the teacher that I would take care of it ... but really, what could I do? When I broached the subject with my wife, her reply was, “It’s completely normal, the child is frightened.” And she said I was to blame; she claimed that it was my way of racing down to the shelter under the building whenever the shelling started that was causing the child’s anxiety.
    So what was I supposed to do? Still walking in the rain, I thought maybe I should go and see our doctor, and I resolved to call him the following day. And ever since, Sitt Inaam - my wife - hasn’t been the same.
    First of all, she phoned all her friends