Beirut Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A

so did the beautifuldesign, the different stone, all throwbacks to the past, which greeted us on his floor.
    The engineer welcomed me. As if he understood the effect of his home on his visitors, he gave me time to look at the big leather sofa next to the piano, the bed, and the table football. The floor was tiled with slabs of stone with fish fossils in them. Then the mosaic. A naked woman is opening out a towel while a hawk, as big as her, is snatching the towel away in its beak. Around them are date palms, birds, and four containers with flowers and vines trailing between them.
    He apologized for not taking me to the mosaic dealer, but explained how to find him. I set off straightaway and to my surprise he was in. His wife opened the door and greeted me as if she’d always known me. Her daughter came in with glasses of lemonade. The smell of gardenia pervaded the house, which was furnished in a mixture of gold Louis Quatorze and marble pillars and statues. The husband appeared shortly and held out his hand to shake mine, impregnating it thoroughly with his cologne. Then he led me to the workshop. If it hadn’t been for his loud voice and his son’s scooter parked there, I could have imagined I was somewhere in Byzantium or Canaan. Despite the damp and cold which hung about the room, the statues imparted a strange warmth. The dealer had guessed I was an amateur; every time I asked him about a statue I liked he pointed out that it was an imitation. He touched a foot made of marble and slapped it playfully as if it were his own or one of his children’s. “For example, this one’s genuine. But it’s sold.”
    We left the workshop only when I asked about the mosaic. As we went out into the garden, a man got to his feetand followed us. The sound of shots rose in the air. We didn’t pay any attention to them, but it made me wonder what would happen to the mosaics if a rocket landed on them. I felt dislike for the man, but his open smile and honest manner made me think I was too hasty. A piece of mosaic was lying at the garden gate. I paused to look at it and he remarked immediately, “They cheated us with that one, damn them.”
    He opened a door into another workshop and I saw pieces of mosaic lying everywhere. My feelings of dislike flared up again as I watched him walk over the fragments scattered on the floor. “What’s the situation with these women?” he asked his assistant, gesturing downward.
    “I really don’t know!” replied the assistant. “We’ve tried to put them back together but it’s very hard, because of the bunches of grapes between them.”
    Then the dealer started to tell me how beautiful this mosaic had been before it was spoiled. I crouched down to look at it. A woman’s face was visible in the middle. Her neck, her hand, a goblet she was holding, part of her breasts. Then she broke into a random assortment of little colored stones where ants and other insects had taken up residence. “Someone must do more work on it. You should get someone from Syria,” I said firmly.
    “It’s the glue they’ve used on the face to pull it out whole,” replied the assistant. “They’ve obviously been trying to economize and they haven’t used enough, or else they’ve used a cheap brand.”
    The dealer grew tired of me squatting there, but I was concerned that the three women would be destroyed, theirgoblets, faces, breasts, pulverized underfoot after surviving for centuries. Here they were, dying on the dirty ground, walked over by men in sneakers, in a room whose walls were regularly rattled by explosions. Nearby lay a Pepsi bottle, empty except for an inquisitive cockroach, and a picture of a well-known singer which made her look like a monster in a nightmare. I suggested to the man that I could try restoring it myself.
    “It’s difficult. Like sweeping up salt with your eyelashes.”
    I ignored his reply and asked him impatiently if he had a picture of the mosaic. He looked as if he