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J ABBOUR DOUAIHY husband greeted everyone and even remembered some of their names. In the photo, Mustafa Hijazi is lost in the crowd of regulars at Olga’s apartment, standing in the back row with the elders, the American professor and his wife. He didn’t stand near Maysaloun as the picture was snapped because she had been preoccupied with Nizam from the moment they arrived. Mustafa looked uncomfortable, as if he was wondering why he was among this group of people, standing in rows like school students on graduation day, as if he was trying to parse the reason for their gathering and their friendship, and not merely looking into the lens of the camera. Rakhima was present in the food, which her hands had carefully prepared. Maysaloun, with Dima’s help, spread Houra’s food out on the table they had carried onto the balcony. As early as her second visit to Nizam’s apartment, Maysaloun had explored the contents of the fridge and pantry and had begun to act like the mistress of the house. They started eating, eagerly attacking the quince jam, dyed a deep red, and the bowl of grapes swimming in sweetened water, licking their fingers and exclaiming in delight with each discovery.They asked what everything was, and how it was made, but no one answered.They left nothing over. Nizam laughed in disbelief that the handmade savouries of Houra’s women – green tomatoes pickled in vinegar and salt and olive oil – so pleased these Beirutis.They pleased even Maurice, who arrived late, carrying his flute in its expensive case and wearing an eccentric black hat. Even in the photo, Maurice was holding both flute and hat. Maurice loved the bitter oranges dipped in sugar, closing his eyes to relish their flavour. Jonathan and Barbara Parker also ate with gusto, asking about the secrets of Rakhima’s cooking in their broken Arabic. Their curiosity was unbounded; they wanted Maysaloun to describe all the ingredients of the ready-made cake she had bought; they askedVasco about his religion with the same ease with which they had asked for his name; they wanted to know why the group did not consider Lebanon a democratic state. Jonathan took out his small notebook and jotted words down. In particular, they wanted to pick Maurice’s brain about the 1948 decision to divide Palestine, especially after they discovered that he was Jewish. But, as words flew about in Arabic and sometimes in French, they did not quite grasp the reason for the celebration that they had joined in the apartment, until comrade Furat began to light the candles with which he had decorated the cake. They all told Nizam to blow them out, then sang to him and covered him with kisses; he bent down to letVasco kiss him, and some of his neighbours came out onto their balconies in the buildings across the street to join in the party, for once not complaining about the noise. 106 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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2012 INTERNATIONAL PRIZE FOR ARABIC FICTION Then it was time for the picture. First, they made space for Vasco and his wheelchair, positioning him in the centre and gathering around him. Comrade Furat stood at the edge of the picture. He had not wanted to be in it, but they had insisted; he could not shake off his Iraqi fears. To his comrades, he described Mosul as a damp prison where people were dragged away at dawn, and he feared that the photo would be tangible proof, indelible evidence of his presence in Beirut. He relented under their pleas, though, and went to stand in a spot, which he estimated to be out of range; nevertheless, the machine snapped his furtive image. It took a number of repeated calls and invitations to complete their pose on the balcony. The photograph had been Vasco’s idea. He had brought a camera and a tripod that his companion, who took most of the pictures, had set up. Comrades Dima and Hoda smiled as though they were watching some entertaining event unfold before their eyes in the vicinity of the photographer.The bulb flashed in their faces several times before they scattered and returned to their drinks and the bowl of dolmas. As the evening progressed, Maurice moved to the centre of the group and carefully took his flute from its case. Everyone realized that he wanted to play. They were a bit surprised since they usually had to beg him to play and that night he’d spontaneously volunteered himself.They gathered around him and listened, as usual, in a silence so complete that it brought the sounds of the city to them. They clapped when he finished and he smiled, took his hat off and bowed deeply, hat in one hand and flute in the other. The smattering of applause that had followed his performance did not, however, quite justify his excess of gratitude and his sweeping bow. They ate everything and drank everything, especially the vodka. Their energy flagged as they listened to Maurice’s flute and sat, relaxing. Maysaloun cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. They were about to leave, but then Nizam proposed a night walk.The weather was beautiful, though a bit chilly. They made out flashes of lightning over the sea from time to time. It was the beginning of spring, not too late at night. They helped take Vasco and his chair out and took turns in the lift, assembling below in a complete night chorus. With no particular plan, they headed towards the nightlife of Ras Beirut, Nizam the most enthusiastic of them all.They were a motley-voiced chorus.They climbed up Phoenicia Street, switching between the soft French tones and existential lyrics of “The Song of Old Lovers” and the military rhythms and imminent victory of the revolutionary Italian “Bandera Rosa”. They didn’t stay on the pavement for long, but moved into the middle of the road, cars slowing behind them and waiting for them to make way, BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 107

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J ABBOUR DOUAIHY

husband greeted everyone and even remembered some of their names. In the photo, Mustafa Hijazi is lost in the crowd of regulars at Olga’s apartment, standing in the back row with the elders, the American professor and his wife. He didn’t stand near Maysaloun as the picture was snapped because she had been preoccupied with Nizam from the moment they arrived. Mustafa looked uncomfortable, as if he was wondering why he was among this group of people, standing in rows like school students on graduation day, as if he was trying to parse the reason for their gathering and their friendship, and not merely looking into the lens of the camera.

Rakhima was present in the food, which her hands had carefully prepared. Maysaloun, with Dima’s help, spread Houra’s food out on the table they had carried onto the balcony. As early as her second visit to Nizam’s apartment, Maysaloun had explored the contents of the fridge and pantry and had begun to act like the mistress of the house.

They started eating, eagerly attacking the quince jam, dyed a deep red, and the bowl of grapes swimming in sweetened water, licking their fingers and exclaiming in delight with each discovery.They asked what everything was, and how it was made, but no one answered.They left nothing over. Nizam laughed in disbelief that the handmade savouries of Houra’s women – green tomatoes pickled in vinegar and salt and olive oil – so pleased these Beirutis.They pleased even Maurice, who arrived late, carrying his flute in its expensive case and wearing an eccentric black hat. Even in the photo, Maurice was holding both flute and hat. Maurice loved the bitter oranges dipped in sugar, closing his eyes to relish their flavour.

Jonathan and Barbara Parker also ate with gusto, asking about the secrets of Rakhima’s cooking in their broken Arabic. Their curiosity was unbounded; they wanted Maysaloun to describe all the ingredients of the ready-made cake she had bought; they askedVasco about his religion with the same ease with which they had asked for his name; they wanted to know why the group did not consider Lebanon a democratic state. Jonathan took out his small notebook and jotted words down. In particular, they wanted to pick Maurice’s brain about the 1948 decision to divide Palestine, especially after they discovered that he was Jewish. But, as words flew about in Arabic and sometimes in French, they did not quite grasp the reason for the celebration that they had joined in the apartment, until comrade Furat began to light the candles with which he had decorated the cake. They all told Nizam to blow them out, then sang to him and covered him with kisses; he bent down to letVasco kiss him, and some of his neighbours came out onto their balconies in the buildings across the street to join in the party, for once not complaining about the noise.

106 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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