35

ABOVE ALL, MARIA TRIED to preserve her sense of time. She forced herself to note outside noises, lengthening shadows, cooking smells, even the biological clock of her own body. She was in a dank basement, locked in a small room with walls of cinder block and a metal door. It was, she knew, an unfinished building, one of the many in West Beirut, its construction long ago abandoned.

She pressed her body against Joey. He slept, but it was a troubled dream-filled sleep. Occasionally he cried out, "Mama," and she kissed him on the head. "It's all right, sweets. Mama is here."

They had moved three times since yesterday. Or was it yesterday? Except for the blond boy, the others had vanished. It was her own euphemism. She had no doubts that Ahmed had killed them. It was only a matter of time before the blond boy met the same fate. Then her. They had dispensed with chains.

For food, they had given her stale bread loaves, chocolate bars, and a canteen of water. At first, in this new place, she had assumed that they had left her alone and she had pounded on the metal door. It had been opened by the blond boy, who had put the muzzle of his gun to Joey's head.

The knowledge that Ahmed's boy had been taken from his home in Jordan had been a surprise. It was impossible to believe that this man, a killer, had fathered a son. That possibility granted, it was still impossible to believe that he could be so emotionally moved.

After he had absorbed the shock, he had gone on a rampage, breaking the television set, pounding the walls with his fist, shouting, and cursing. Oddly, he had refrained from any violent action against her or Joey. This omission was a source of hope.

Weeks before, in the comfort of her home, her son playing on the rug before the television set, her husband sitting in his favorite chair reading a book, she might have characterized these acts as despicable. Violence begets violence, she might have said, turning off the set.

Suddenly the metal door opened. Ahmed's figure was silhouetted against the light from a flickering bulb jerry-rigged on a strand of wire. Beside him she could make out the outlines of the blond boy. They walked into the room. She sat up quickly, releasing the boy, who continued to sleep.

"Again?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

She could not make out his features, but his tone was flat, tired. She rose from the bare mattress and straightened her clothes. They had given her a pair of men's jeans, a denim shirt, and a wool sweater. He handed her a package of material held together by string.

"Put this on," he said.

She looked at it.

"Disguise?"

"Galabia."

He stood over her as she rose. The blond boy next to him moved. She could hear the click of metal, perhaps the sound of his gun clashing against the cartridge case around his shoulder. For the first time since her captivity, she felt, somehow, less intimidated. They needed her to be obedient, to play her role.

Up to then they had manipulated her by threatening her child. Above all, she decided, they needed him. Machismo, she decided. The male disease. Her father, too, would be its victim. She felt more trapped, more entangled in that idea than in this web of physical captivity.

"Who are we running from?" she asked.

She saw him look toward the boy.

"All sides," he said.

"Why don't you just exchange us for your boy?"

"I don't trust them," he said. His attitude alarmed her.

"Who is them?" she asked cautiously.

"Your father."

"But look at the lengths to which he has gone. He wants us back. What could be more obvious." She knew what he meant. Certain assumptions had already been accepted by both of them. Whatever was happening, both knew that it was her father's work.

"The Saudi boy is dead," Ahmed said suddenly.

"I'm very sorry about that."

"They are releasing all the others taken hostage by our people."

"So there it is. It's all over. Just release us and they'll release your boy."

"You don't understand," Ahmed sighed. He tapped his forehead. "The mentality."

"Considering my blood lines, I wouldn't be so sure."

"A man like your father will want to leave his mark. He will extract vengeance. It is his nature."

"Yours, too," she said.

"Everything must be paid for."

"What are you saying?"

"These Syrians and Libyans. They are demanding all hostages be released. But they are secretly promising that things will start again as soon as their people are sent home. Nothing will change with the others as well. They have offered me all kinds of money, all kinds of bribes."

"Well then, take them, for crying out loud, and let us go."

"First, I must get my boy." His voice quivered with emotion. "It is the only thing of real value I have."

"Put me in touch with my father. I'm sure it could be arranged. I will make him promise. He will also provide money, as much as you need for a lifetime."

"I won't believe him."

"I'm his daughter. He won't lie to me."

"I will not believe any promises made to women."

She turned away from him with disgust. She began, with slow deliberation, to put on the black galabia while her mind groped back and forth in time, searching for a way out.

"The veil, too," he said, watching her.

"Ridiculous," she said, holding the veil in front of her, trying to make sense of how it was to be worn. By then Joey had awakened and stood up. He was watching them with fear and curiosity. However things turned out, his scars would be deep and lasting.

"We have a little costume for the boy as well," Ahmed said, signaling to his companion, who produced a small package from under his arm. Ahmed took off the wrappings. It was striped pajamas and a Kaffiyen, the Arab headdress. He started to reach out for the boy.

"No," she cried. "Don't touch him."

Ahmed hesitated, glared at her, then stepped back. He tossed the package on the floor. Something in his gesture suggested the thread of an idea. For the moment she put aside the veil and dressed the boy.

"Why do I have to wear this, Mommy?" Joey asked.

"It's a new kind of game," she said. "A masquerade."

"I don't want to play." Joey pouted.

"Neither do I, sweets," Maria said. She stopped dressing him and gripped him by his thin, bony shoulders. "You've been the bravest most wonderful boy a mother could ask for." Her eyes misted and she made no effort to hide them from her son. A tear rolled over her eyelid. His little hand reached out and touched it.

"You mustn't cry, Mommy," Joey said. "Remember what you said."

"Not to cry," Maria said with effort. Her lip trembled. She nodded and tried to smile. "Damned right," she said, brushing away her tears. "We won't show them."

"No we won't, Mommy," the boy said emphatically, with a tone that belied his years. The experience had aged him. She gathered him in her arms and crushed him against her breast.

"I love you, my dear little boy."

"And I love you, Mommy."

"We must leave immediately," Ahmed said.

"It's gotten out of hand, hasn't it?" she asked, looking up at him. He did not answer.

She finished dressing him. "There," she said. "You look like a little Arab boy." Then she turned to her captor.

"Suppose I don't cooperate?" she asked cautiously. It was, she realized, a carefully measured speculation of defiance. He must know that she was testing the waters.

"Believe me..." he began, but he did not finish the sentence, leaving her to interpret. He glanced toward his blond boy, then back at her. "Death means nothing to me," he said. "I have lived with it all my life."

In the next moment time lost all meaning. A minisecond or a lifetime. It played out simultaneously before her eyes and in her mind in very slow motion. She saw the muzzle of the gun move, like the baton of an orchestra leader, pointing suddenly downward, then, like an unexpected drumroll, it tapped out a fiery message. Color and sound overwhelmed the semidarkness, a surreal sight as the blond boy's head disappeared in the sparkling shower of light.