Koolaids by Alameddine Rabih

until she got farther away from the barricade. Right now, it looked like the same city. She told the taxi where she wanted to go. She even told him exactly how she wanted to go there. This was her city.
    The taxi stopped at the next checkpoint. The militiaman asked for her card. He scrutinized the card. He asked her to get out of the car. Instinctively, she asked if there was anything wrong. “No, ma’am,” the youngster said. “We would just like to ask you a few questions.” The taxi driver was visibly shaking.
    She controlled herself as she got out of the car. Another militiaman led her towards a dilapidated building. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the youngster telling the taxi driver to move on. She walked erect, holding her purse close. Just before she entered the building, she saw the white Range Rover.
    On the second floor, she was led to the only room which still had a door. All the others, one could actually see into from the corridor due to shell damage. The militiaman knocked on the door softly. When the reply came, he opened the door, let her in, and closed it behind her.
    He was sitting on a Louis XIV chaise lounge, watching her intently. He gestured for her to sit down on a low ottoman. She looked up at him.
    â€œMay I have your card, please?” he asked in French. She gave it to him. He pretended to scrutinize the card. “What are you doing in these parts, Mrs. Marchi?”
    â€œI am going to lunch at a friend’s house.”
    â€œWhat is your friend’s name?” he asked.
    â€œMarie-Christine Ashkar.”
    â€œAh, an interesting woman,” he said. She was not sure what he meant by that remark. Was he using a prurient tone? He was smiling. She was nervous.
    â€œThis is the first time you’ve come to East Beirut, isn’t it?”
    â€œI was born here.” Defiance.
    â€œBut you are no longer from here,” he insisted. “It is your first time.” He looked at her, still smiling. “Things have changed a great deal,” he went on.
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œYou speak French very well. You could fit here real well.”
    â€œI am from here.”
    â€œWhy did you marry that fat faggot?” he asked suddenly.
    â€œI beg your pardon.” She tried not to show her shock.
    â€œYou heard me. Why did you marry that fat faggot?” He was still smiling, laughing almost.
    â€œI will not sit here and he insulted.” Indignation.
    â€œYes, you will,” he said joyfully. He was having a good time. “I am not insulting you. I am insulting your husband.”
    â€œI don’t know behind which herd you were raised, but in a civilized community, when you insult a woman’s husband, you insult the woman.”
    â€œIt’s a different world, Samia.”
    â€œDon’t call me by my first name. You have no right.”
    â€œI have every right, Samia. I can do whatever I want. I am the one who gives rights in this part of town.” He said it all in a good-natured manner, as parent lecturing a favorite child. She was terrified. She controlled herself. His eyes asked her to join in the fun.
    â€œNow, back to my original question,” he continued. “Why did you marry that fat faggot?I really would like to know.”
    â€œHe is not a homosexual,” she insisted. He finally roared with laughter.
    â€œThat’s right,” he joked. “They bring him the boys every night, and he plays Chinese checkers with them.” His brown eyes twinkled continuously with eager affability.
    â€œThere are no boys. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
    He moved closer. “Your driver, Jihad, brings him a boy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night at six p.m . like clockwork.” He was looking intently at her.”Did you know about that?”
    â€œNo,” she replied. She was still controlling herself. “It’s not true. Where would Jihad bring