“And how are you holding on?”
“Fine. I don’t know what to answer when I get asked that question.”
“Me neither. It’s strange isn’t it?”
“I didn’t know you were in France. Mother told me that you were due to fly
the day the hostilities broke out.”
“Yes, I managed to catch the last plane out of Beirut. I am not sure if it’s good
luck or bad one. But now I know what kept our parents from immigrating dur-
ing the war. This sense that it would soon be over. Had they known it would
last seventeen years the first time around, they’d have gotten there quick.”
“I see where you come from. I remember this one time father spoke about
how easily people were going to Sweden and getting immigration there, and
it fuelled up my mind. But then after his nap in the afternoon no one talked
about it anymore.”
“I feel like I am Sisyphus. Every time you go back to that gun barrel of a
country, rebuild everything from scratch and then when you’re way up, you
have to come back from the very beginning. And do it all over again, and
again. I am seriously contemplating establishing my practice here in France.
But I have to come back.”
“What for an encore? A final reverence? Me, I am like Ella Fitzgerald in that
department – I keep coming back to the scene a million times, hooked on the
adrenaline of the applause.”
“I think I would fly back to Damascus. Then take a cab back to Beirut.”
“Are you aware that Damascus-Beirut cabs are now charged at one thousand
Dollars. Paid in cash. In advance.”
“Really? Oh that seriously complicates things. Maybe I’ll fly by Cyprus and
take a boat back or something.”
“I think they stopped evacuating foreigners, so there’s no more empty cruise
ships coming back to Beirut to load up on foreigners. Heck, they even evacu-
ated the prostitutes of Ma’ameltein. All those blonde Moldavians, Russians,
Ukrainians – all gone. The rented apartments they used to fill are now filled
with Shiite women wearing their hijab. You know when I used to take the
cable car up to the village house, there was this furnished apartment residence
next to the base stations and the girls would all be topless on the balcony or
working on their tan near the pool. I can’t imagine what it’s like now with
women trying to put covers to prevent cable car riders to see them.”
“Speaking of the village, how are your parents holding?”

“They say they’re OK. Not in short of anything. Even the vans that sell bread
and vegetables are still coming. A “rabta” of bread still costs 1 Dollars my
mother says, and the only increase in price of vegetables was the potatoes
because they mostly come from the Bequa’a valley and there were no safe
roads. But instead of having eleven Arabic bread pieces in each “rabta”,
they’re now down to ten.”
“I heard that some political parties are confiscating the food rations and with-
holding them from displaced people who have been taken care of by a rival
party. Isn’t that a shame?... They’re refusing to distribute water, milk, rice
and other staple foods to anyone not under their jurisdiction. We know how
to be petty people when we want, that’s for sure!”
“Actually, some displaced Shiite people refused rations that were distributed
by a party that was openly with the disarmament of the Hizbollah. God!
These people stand by their principles. Isn’t it nice when people would rather
face hunger than to sell out to someone who doesn’t subscribe to their politi-
cal views?”
“Yes, all of this is truly commendable. But it doesn’t get us anywhere near
Beirut. I am still stuck in Paris, and you in Maryland. Listen, I have to go
now, but I promise to keep you in the know when it comes to my plans. I
intend to fly back next Sunday – to Cyprus or Syria I am not sure. But I will
let you know.”
“Maybe we can do this together.”
“I am afraid it will complicate the logistics.”
“OK, at least let me know what your plans are – maybe I can copycat the
plan and apply it a few days later.”
“Promise to do that.”
“Bye.”
“Kisses for everyone. Bye.”