Little Mountain by Elias Khoury Page B

prisoner, one of them said.
    —And I’m a prisoner like you.
    —But you’re carrying an automatic rifle.
    —Tomorrow, I’ll give you one.
    One of them drew back, crestfallen.
    —You’re making fun of us.
    — I’m not making fun of you. I mean it. Tomorrow, I’ll give you weapons. But why? Why are you here?
    — It’s a bit complicated. They said they were worried about me. I’m from a remote village, and you know what the atmosphere’s like there.
    Talal and Nabeel and some others came. Talal seemed concerned.
    —Look, tomorrow, I’ll take you to your village. There are no prisoners here. We’ve abolished prisons once and for all.
    —Tomorrow, I’ll give you a rifle and you’ll come and fight with us. Do you accept?
    — But I know nothing about fighting.
    — You’ll learn to fight as you’re fighting. Are you scared?
    — Of course he’s scared. I’m scared. We’re all scared. Courage is a fallacy. There’s no such thing as courage. Fear comes before or after. We’re always scared, whether before or after. We’re scared of prison before going there. We’re scared of death before dying. We’re scared of war after the battle starts. We’re scared of women before getting married.
    — No. We’re scared of women after getting married.
    The prisoners huddled around the prisoner who was scared, and we gathered around Nabeel who wouldn’t scare. In the end, we had to sleep. The sound of shells grew around the prison as my sadness grew. Talal grew sad and his sadness clouded the three prison days we spent waiting for the release of the prisoners. Talal in a corner, counting the shells and waiting for his turn. Then the unit commander came and told us we were going back because the operation had been canceled. But what shall we do with the prisoners? Talal asked. The commander said it was a complicated matter, needing time and contacts. We cant act on our own. Well leave them for the time being. They’ll no doubt be released in the end.
    Everything is temporary, she said, holding her picture. Look at my picture. You’re prettier than the picture. Talal lifted the camera to his shoulder. The lithe young African boy ascended, blending into the sand and the raindrops.
    — I’m talking because I’m sad. We’re dying like flies. Ever since the Mongols, maybe just before or after them, we’ve been dying like flies. Dying without thinking. Dying of disease, of bilharzia, of the plague, in childbirth or the absence of childbirth. We’re dying like flies. Without any consciousness, without dignity, without anything.
    — And yet you call for war. And war means the death of even more people.
    — Revolution means life.
    — But they’re dying.
    — They’re dying with consciousness. Consciousness is the opposite of death.
    We can abolish death only with consciousness. Then we’ll be over with dying like flies and start into real death.
    —Death abolishes consciousness. Death abolishes consciousness, do you hear?
    She ran, put sand on her hair and began shaking her head.
    —You’re a bourgeoise and I don’t love you.
    She ran off and I didn’t run after her. I carried my shoes in my hand and slowly walked to the car. Where to? she yelled. Aren’t you going to take me prisoner and put me in the box? I opened the car door, turned on the ignition and left.

    The snow was rolling over our heads. Fog, and the big mountain bowing at our feet. The enemy was advancing—trying to advance —but we stood at the top, immovable, as gods. We were advancing slowly and the white mules slowly advanced with us. The sound of gunfire fusing into our voices. Swollen, our feet had become gray splotches, part of the snow. We ourselves remained. Going back over our memories. Recounting the prison story. Remembering the four prisoners. Each one telling the story the way he liked, the way he remembered it, or the way it was. Shots rang out in the vast expanse where the sun was rolling, the snow falling, and colors