Free De Niro's Game by Rawi Hage

all the way down to the street filled with broken glass. A sudden loud, penetrating boom shook the building. I felt it pressing on my chest. I heard the noise of delayed glass falling; I saw a fog of smoke that tasted of old dust and cruel soil. The smell of powder and burned bread pushed me through the smoke and up the stairs where, breathless, I cried:
Mother
.

TWO

Beirut

7
    MY PARENTS, WHO HATED EACH OTHER IN LIFE, NOW rested together in wooden boxes under the same earth.
    They had fought and screamed at each other when my father came back late at night with alcohol on his breath and a pair of defeated gambler’s hands that slapped my mother’s face, and blackened her eyes, and chased her to the kitchen under flying saucers and above broken plates. Now still, two corpses devoured by slimy carnivorous worms, they were at each other’s throats under the moist earth.
    I threw the first grain of dust over my mother’s coffin, then turned and walked back toward the house, away from the repetitive chants, and white smoke of incense, and tears.
    FOR DAYS, NEIGHBOURS and friends came and knocked at my door, but I didn’t open it.
    I smoked. Somehow, the quiet of clinking pots, the silence of the radio, the absence of the subtle rustle of a broom, the solitude, gave me tranquility.
    The wind blew as it pleased through the two large holes in the house. Only the wind entered; only the wind could. Late one night when I opened the door on my way out to buy cigarettes, I found a plate of bread on the doorstep. The neighbours had left it there, after their knuckles had turned red and tired from knocking at my door.
    I walked the streets and found my way down to the cemetery. I smoked, then climbed over the fence and stood in front of a pile of soil. It was still not shovelled down. I stood and listened to my parents’ murmurs. Or was it the winds stroking the white stone crosses?
    Later that night, Nabila and George broke the lock on my door and entered the apartment. Nabila wore black. She rushed toward me.
    Skinny, she said. Look at you, how yellow and skinny you are. You have to eat. I brought you food. She sat at the edge of my bed and said, You have to eat. Please, Bassam, eat.
    George stood quietly, a little farther away. He strolled between the pieces of broken furniture, looked through the open walls. Then he pulled out a box of cigarettes and offered me one. When he struck the match, Nabila hissed at him, Enough cigarettes. He has to eat. Look how yellow he is.
    THE NEXT DAY, I went back to work at the port. Abou-Tariq, the foreman, walked slowly toward me. He gave me his condolences, and I thanked him. I could see he was waiting for signs of sadness or for me to shed tears like the salty waves that dropped below our feet and fractured on the concrete edges of the dock. But I had no sadness to spare or parade. If anything, the death of my mother had liberated me. Now Iwould leave nothing behind. Her death had made me closer to birds and farther away from humans. Birds fly, and I aspired to my own flight. I wanted to stray, with my head close to the ground, watching the passing pebbles, and smelling dust. Now I was a creature closer to dogs than to men.
    At the end of the day, I entered my apartment building and saw Rana sitting on the stairs. I walked past her without saying a word. She followed me up the stairs and into my bedroom. Then she walked around the house and began to pick up pieces of broken furniture and scattered stones.
    Leave it, I said.
    No! she shouted and started to cry. Then she held my hand and said, You have to fix the house. You hear? You hear me?
    She picked up objects, and shed tears, and shouted at me, Days pass and you hardly say a word.
    I kept silent.
    Enough! Say something! Say something! She pushed me with open palms.
    I tried to leave; she blocked my way. No! You are not leaving before you say something to me. No.
    I pushed her away; she bounced back and obstructed my way