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J ABBOUR DOUAIHY the drivers honking their horns in salute.The Parkers were behind them, though they had, at first, hesitated to join the group.They said early nights were an important part of their routine.They tried to leave at the lift and head down to their own apartment, but everyone insisted and so they ended up joining them. Perhaps they felt their age, even though they smiled sympathetically as they followed the singers walking past cabaret entrances, singing louder whenever someone paid attention, their voices rising to counter the dampening effects of wine on their vocal chords. Doormen in traditional outfits tried to wave them into their clubs, and the patrons of KitKat smiled at them when they walked in. They took turns pushing Vasco’s wheelchair, and comrade Dima remembered the songs, the most popular of which she always memorized. She would recite the first few words, approximating the tune, then the others would come in and take over, each one making up the words as he or she saw fit.The others were drawn in one by one; comrade Furat burst into a Baghdadi song, and the rest of them did their best to repeat the lines after him. Maysaloun walked close to her husband so that he wouldn’t feel awkward – she didn’t because Nizam was her brother. She was surprised that Mustafa was joining in, adding his voice to the chorus. Eventually, he took advantage of a lull to shout out in a throaty tone: “Oh you travellers along the Nile, I have a friend in Egypt”; as the ensemble repeated his lines, he raised his voice higher.Vasco led the procession, which was joined from time to time by bystanders infected with the bug of this wandering night music; they would walk along with them for a few hundred metres before separating and continuing on their way, an unfamiliar joy twinkling in their eyes. Nizam kept the beat, walking at the head of the line, his arm raised. He recalled the leader of the funeral band in Houra. He and his friends used to make fun of the man’s excessive flailing of the baton as he stood, on tiptoe, in front of the trumpeters and drummers, and they laughed when he stopped his random waving while the main trumpet began to play its funerary solo. And now, Nizam found himself also walking on tiptoe, although he wasn’t short, as he beat out the rhythm of songs with his arm; some of the songs he was hearing for the first time and he was laughing the loudest at his performance. They walked along Hotels Street and passed the Phoenicia Hotel, which was crowded with guests and people out for the night. The band members fought the questioning glares by singing louder; the revolutionaries among them felt that, as their voices sang out revolutionary songs ever more loudly and strongly, they were threatening the privileges of the fur-clad women stepping out of Jaguars onto the arm of their husbands – or their lovers, as comrade Furat inter- 108 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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2012 INTERNATIONAL PRIZE FOR ARABIC FICTION jected – who puffed on fat cigars and stuffed silk handkerchiefs that matched their ties into the top pockets of their blazers. They continued towards the souq district, their voices scattering along streets shuttered for the night.They walked back along the seafront.When they got to the statue of Abdel Nasser, they were taken aback by the crowd of local youth standing at the pedestal of the statue, and began to tease them, making fun of their usual comments and innuendoes, and inviting them to drink sugar cane juice. At the intersection, they mingled with the crowds leaving the Théâtre de Beyrouth after a performance of “Mr Puntila and his Man Matti”, as the light of trace bullets flared soundlessly across the city sky, bullets no-one questioned or cared about. They continued their wanderings towards the Avenue des Français, and then took the Corniche, where they were applauded by people leaning back on the railings. They sang and sang until the effects of the red wine and vodka wore off in the cool night breeze and their voices and legs tired. Then they returned towards Manara, where they began to separate, each to his home, completing the last of Dima’s songs, “We all live in aYellow Submarine”, their voices ringing out across Beirut’s darkened streets. EZZEDINE CHOUKRI FISHERE Embrace on Brooklyn Bridge AN EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL, TRANSLATED BY JOHN PEATE When Rami saw the conductor open the carriage door, he quickly straightened his shirt collar. He was always afraid his undershirt was showing and tugged his jacket collar over to make completely sure it wasn’t.The conductor passed by without looking at him, even though he’d been sitting there for two hours. However, he did stop by the young girl at the end of the carriage, check her ticket and then head back to the dining car. The train was full of people going to BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 109

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J ABBOUR DOUAIHY

the drivers honking their horns in salute.The Parkers were behind them, though they had, at first, hesitated to join the group.They said early nights were an important part of their routine.They tried to leave at the lift and head down to their own apartment, but everyone insisted and so they ended up joining them. Perhaps they felt their age, even though they smiled sympathetically as they followed the singers walking past cabaret entrances, singing louder whenever someone paid attention, their voices rising to counter the dampening effects of wine on their vocal chords. Doormen in traditional outfits tried to wave them into their clubs, and the patrons of KitKat smiled at them when they walked in.

They took turns pushing Vasco’s wheelchair, and comrade Dima remembered the songs, the most popular of which she always memorized. She would recite the first few words, approximating the tune, then the others would come in and take over, each one making up the words as he or she saw fit.The others were drawn in one by one; comrade Furat burst into a Baghdadi song, and the rest of them did their best to repeat the lines after him. Maysaloun walked close to her husband so that he wouldn’t feel awkward – she didn’t because Nizam was her brother.

She was surprised that Mustafa was joining in, adding his voice to the chorus. Eventually, he took advantage of a lull to shout out in a throaty tone: “Oh you travellers along the Nile, I have a friend in Egypt”; as the ensemble repeated his lines, he raised his voice higher.Vasco led the procession, which was joined from time to time by bystanders infected with the bug of this wandering night music; they would walk along with them for a few hundred metres before separating and continuing on their way, an unfamiliar joy twinkling in their eyes.

Nizam kept the beat, walking at the head of the line, his arm raised. He recalled the leader of the funeral band in Houra. He and his friends used to make fun of the man’s excessive flailing of the baton as he stood, on tiptoe, in front of the trumpeters and drummers, and they laughed when he stopped his random waving while the main trumpet began to play its funerary solo. And now, Nizam found himself also walking on tiptoe, although he wasn’t short, as he beat out the rhythm of songs with his arm; some of the songs he was hearing for the first time and he was laughing the loudest at his performance. They walked along Hotels Street and passed the Phoenicia Hotel, which was crowded with guests and people out for the night. The band members fought the questioning glares by singing louder; the revolutionaries among them felt that, as their voices sang out revolutionary songs ever more loudly and strongly, they were threatening the privileges of the fur-clad women stepping out of Jaguars onto the arm of their husbands – or their lovers, as comrade Furat inter-

108 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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