WHEN AMIR RETURNS TO his grandparents’ house, he’s exhausted from the three-hour mountain trek. He greets his grandparents then excuses himself and retires to the guest room. He almost misses the cot as he falls onto it because his legs are weak and he seems to have lost some balance. But as soon as his head meets the pillow, he drifts to sleep.
Two hours later, he wakes up to the sound of his mother’s voice. He feels he’s still dreaming but knows he’s not when Naji rushes into the room and flings himself on top of him. They wrestle each other. Amir is much stronger than his younger brother, so he manages to pin him with his knees. Only when their mother rushes in and pulls Amir by the collar do they stop fooling around. She slaps him across the head. He curls his shoulders inward when she strikes again. “Enough with these childish games! Beirut is falling to pieces and you think it’s funny to wrestle your brother. Amir, you’re twenty-four yet you still behave like a child!”
Amir says nothing. He tucks in his shirt and walks past his mother. When he enters the living room, his father is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, speaking in hushed tones with Amir’s grandfather. “There have been so many shortages of food and fuel. The divide between East and West Beirut is only getting bigger. I’m afraid for us to leave the apartment because I think someone might kidnap us. Many Christians are being kidnapped, tortured. My neighbour’s daughter was taken on her way from school. She’s only fourteen. They can’t find her. We’ve organized a search team but she can’t be found. We’ve even snuck into West Beirut to see if she’s there but no luck. It’s feared that she’s been raped and murdered.” Amir’s father now rubs his forehead in frustration.
Amir watches his grandfather’s wrinkled hand pat his father’s balding head; his shoulders rise up and down. He’s crying. Amir leans against the wall, presses his hands on it. And he wonders if his father would’ve cried like this for him if he knew Amir had been raped too. Finally, his father raises his head and stares across at Amir, who is still hugging the wall. “Amir," he calls out, waving his hand toward him. “Come here. I was so worried you had returned to campus. We have to stay here for a while until things settle down again.”
“But I have midterms in another week," Amir protests, sitting on the sofa across from his father.
“They’ll have to be postponed. It’s not safe.”
At this point, his mother returns along with Naji and sits on the sofa beside Amir, Naji between them. His grandmother carries a tray in her shaky hands. Amir rises and takes it from her, serves everyone some coffee and ma’amoul. Icing sugar dusts the corners of their mouths while they take generous bites into the shortbread pastry filled with walnuts.
For two weeks, Amir shares his cot with his brother Naji who always jabs his elbow in Amir’s face. He can’t wait to return to his small dorm room. His grandparents’ house is filled with his mother’s bellowing voice and her bickering with everyone, including her own parents. As soon as he finishes his breakfast, Amir slips out the front door and goes for a walk. Sometimes Naji joins him but for the most part he’s alone. He walks to the mainstreet, feeling the unevenness of the cobblestones under his worn leather shoes. Wooden doors of small shops open to another business day. Merchants pull out food stalls of figs, olives and nuts. Peering inside one of the shops, Amir witnesses an artisan melting a gold nugget and turning it into a small necklace. He walks to another store that sells silver jewellery and a man rushes out and clasps a thick silver chain around his neck. “Looks good on you. You buy, no?”
“No, sorry," Amir says, removing the piece of jewellery and shuffling off to another place. A smell wafts out of a tiny café: oven-baked cheese bread. Amir stands at the counter and orders one along with a cup of Turkish coffee and takes a seat at a small table. While he eats, he watches people stroll along the cobble streets and it feels as if there isn’t a war in this country. The stone buildings are sturdy here, not one mark of war on them. Their red roofs appear picturesque. A small town hidden behind large mountains. No one would suspect that a war was taking place if they sat here, enjoying some food and sipping warm coffee. The buildings are not decayed or decorated with bullet holes. For one moment, Amir feels he’s in a foreign country, maybe in a small café along a narrow Parisian street, but when he looks up and sees his mother and father, Naji trailing behind, he knows he’s still in Lebanon. She tugs on his ear and yells, “Why are you eating outside? Don’t I feed you enough?” She lifts the piece of cheese bread in her hands then lets it fall back on the plate. Amir doesn’t touch it again. He shoves back his chair; it screeches on the ceramic floor and the owner gives him a scowl. Following his family, he walks out of the café. His mother trips on the cobblestone road and nearly tumbles to the ground but she clutches onto her husband’s back and prevents the fall. Her heel is broken. She curses. Naji nudges Amir and the boys begin to laugh until their mother turns and glares at them. But as soon as she turns around and continues walking lopsided, they let out their laughter, which is drowned out by a passing aircraft.
When they return to his grandparents’ house, Amir notices suitcases by the door. He turns to his father, who says it’s time to head back to Beirut. “You’re coming home with us, Amir," he demands.
“I need to go to school, Babba," he says, his voice almost pleading.
They argue and his mother intervenes with a slap across Amir’s head. “Stop being so difficult! It’s not safe for you to live alone anymore.”
“But I’m not alone. There are hundreds of students who live on campus.”
“A perfect target for a bomb," his father explains. “I’m not risking your life for another year of school. You already have one degree. You don’t need to complete your Master’s.”
After a long pause, Amir says forcefully, “I’m going back to my dorm. You can’t control my life anymore.”
His father doesn’t challenge him, only stares at him one more time, his eyes resigned, and quiets his wife as she opens her mouth in protest. “He’s right. He’s no longer a child. Yallah, let’s go.”
Amir stands aside while his family picks up their suitcases and carries them to the waiting taxicab.