No Way Out

Abstract

The city, that appeared from a distance to be peaceful and acquiescent, unfurled endlessly beneath Mahmoud's feet. Imprisoned by his confusion, driven by his anxiety, he felt panic slithering through his exhausted limbs. Like an ill tempered and randy bitch, it sniffed at his heels and clung to him like a horrible fever, leaving him trembling and disoriented at the encounter. At night, in the desolate wastes of his sleeplessness, he heard the city groan reluctantly, like a wounded beast at bay. And this cry, desperate and moving, struck him like a cruel blow, full in the chest. The salty tang of the air, gift of the ocean, the coolness of the night sky perhaps they could heal the wounds, the ravages of war. But, inevitably, the sea, and the sky with its stars that seemed so close that he could almost touch them with his hand or lips, slipped away from him, through heedlessness, negligence. I could only wish then that the city would take care, having abandoned her beliefs, to cultivate a less generous faith, a less rigid morality. So staunchly did she trust to her crumbling stones, her soil, her fate, that she did not let herself die more easily, and settle into dust. Each time Mahmoud held firm, binding himself to the city, in the midst of gunfire and the howling sirens of the ambulances. He would tighten his laces and return repeatedly, short of breath and terrified, searching for the seemingly unattainable center, always aware of the panicked pulsing of his blood, the sound of footfalls hounding his own steps. Drowned, dissolved, he would watch the walls explode like panes of glass, the sidewalks rise to meet him in a frantic dance of earth and other debris. Blindly, he felt his way along any walls that were still standing, the still warm corpse of the city, as if searching for a way out. This futile madness which continued without pause to split the city apart, to grind it to powder, drove him at dawn to stop instinctively before one of the many city gates. A hesitation which perhaps could save him. With the madness of desperation he let himself believe that this gate, if indeed it were real, might this time disclose a true and lasting peace. Behind it, he hoped that, as some sort of jealously guarded secret, another city, established in the hinterland might grow, shining with promise and brotherly love. If he could gain entrance, he would be able to rediscover with joy the spring to his step, the smell of the sea, and the fabric of his memories. Transported by another form of madness he might briefly escape from the machinegun fire and the black terror which would eventually again catch up with him and effortlessly engulf him from all sides. Walking there, Mahmoud might at last cast off his obsession with laces, his mania for choosing the strongest, pulling on them until they broke, and even of replacing them sometimes with strands of steel. Unshackled, his stride would be wide, generous and bold. Returned to the everyday peace and quiet of familiar streets, he would wander happily along the piers of his childhood days, cheerfully he would salute the sea and the stars and the war torn city beneath his feet would live again in peaceful and trusting order. The city would embrace him, offering a peaceful harshness that tugs at the heart and brings with it a healthy state of clear-mindedness. And finally, allowing himself to sleep, he would nod off in his hidden city, lovingly moored to its port. As he wheeled about from side to side in the midst of the crashing and crazed rumbling of war, I could only wish that he was able to be at one with his dream, secret and private. Strengthened by her resurrection, the city would rise again from the sea, virginal, indestructible, bathed in blood, and the dull sheen of silt. And this time, without fear or hesitation, she would confront the blinding nakedness of the heavens, and abandon herself to the rhythm of time and respiration. …