Only the dead have no dreams
George A. Salib
Copyright 2011
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This novel is the work of fiction based on true historical events.
All characters, names, incidences, organisations, corporations,
religious affiliations and places are used fictitiously
in order not to defame the departed souls
and protect the privacy of the living ones.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
events or localities is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Lebanon is a small and beautiful country located in the Middle East, amongst Arab nations. The Lebanese political and social dimensions have always been the result of conflicts amongst the Arab nations trying to impose their hallmark of political, cultural and traditional aspects on the Lebanese people. These struggles have led to political instability in Lebanon, and to confusion in determining the Lebanese true identity, that led to Lebanon’s recent identity crises.
The presence of Lebanon in the Arab World has been the source of constant uneasiness; having to cope with the interferences of the Arabs, America, Europe, Russia and Israel in Lebanese affairs. However, these interferences could not have happened if there were no willing parties. We cannot blame foreign powers for trying to have their influence in Lebanon as much as we blame the Lebanese political and religious leaders and warlords for being ready and willing to wheel and deal in return for personal gain.
The factors that affect the change of Lebanon’s true identity are influenced to a degree by the amount of money foreign powers are willing to inject into Lebanon to shift the public opinion in their favour.
It is not a secret that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Islamic Republic of Iran, Syria, Egypt and Israel each have their own agenda to decide Lebanon’s identity.
Any political analyst, who is aware of the Arabs’ agenda in the region, could not ignore the struggles between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the Islamic Republic of Iran for the control of Lebanon; and consequently deciding Lebanon’s identity.
Seeing the political turmoils, the struggle for religious supremacy and political affiliation, we know now that the battle for supremacy is drawn and remotely controlled by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia’s camp on one side and the Islamic Republic of Iran’s camp on the other side; and I wonder if all this will end up in favour of the Lebanese people. No matter which camp has the last dance, it will take a miracle for Lebanon to bounce back, and truly recover and find her true identity.
Chapter 1
WHEN I FINALLY woke at dawn to the sound of the wind pounding the balcony door, I felt sad and pessimistic. I was completely unsettled, feeling lonely, miserable and down in the dumps. I shall sleep it off, I said to myself, but I was tossing and turning in bed until I became exhausted, and I finally realised that sleep had deserted me. I tried to ponder, but I was unable to focus on one thing at a time. What is the matter with me? I had never had this feeling before. I was always energetic and full of life. I wondered why I could not shake off feelings of worthlessness and helplessness. All my ambitions and initiatives began to fall apart like dry autumn leaves being rattled and carried on the pre-storm wind away to an unknown destination. All my dreams were crumbling in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do. I am going to light a fag, it may help soothe my anxiety.
As I got out of bed, I experienced a terrible headache and my vision blurred. The room began to spin and I struggled to reach for the pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table. Finally, I tapped one out, lit it and inhaled a few puffs that I kept in my lungs long enough to soak up all the nicotine and chemicals I needed to relax, but I did not feel any better. I looked at the wall clock and it was 4:50 in the morning.
I sat on the edge of the bed, burying my head between my hands and squeezing it hard hoping to relieve the excruciating pain. My mood was low and I became disinterested, feeling exhausted and agitated. However, the sweet smell of marijuana, carried in the breeze from the apartment next door, gave me a new insight into the life I yearned for. I must roll a joint now, but where would I get hold of dope at this hour?
I thought of Jamie, the drug mule, the creepy man who would not give credit to his own mother.
I eliminated Jamie and resorted to a hard drink instead. I reached for a virgin bottle of Red Label and with a quick half turn, the seal cracked with an astonishing squeaking sound that echoed in the room and added to my headache. I looked around for a glass, a mug, or even a bowl, but there was none at hand. All were stacked dirty and mouldy in the kitchen sink that was teeming with ants that were forming a double line and excavating as much as they could to store away for rainy days.
I lifted the bottle to my mouth and swallowed long until my eyes bulged and my throat set ablaze, but my headache did not recede. Life was burdening me so much that I thought to end it now and save myself the pain of living. All my aspirations and plans began to vanish slowly and there was nothing I could bloody do to stop it.
I went outside to the balcony of my fourth level apartment. It was cold, dark and windy and the black clouds crisscrossing the grey sky with howling gales heralded the approach of a hailstorm. I felt as if it was the end of the road for me, and I contemplated suicide. No! I am not going to end it this way and leave this mess behind. I was always tidy and meticulous; people will talk bad of me.
I went back inside, put my white and blue checked smock on and began cleaning all the dishes, saucepans, mugs, glasses and pots. I dried them all and put them away where they belonged. Afterward I made the bed, arranged the chairs, drew the curtains closed, slumped on the couch face down and cried. I shed tears of despair, as I chewed over the horror of death and the trepidation of the unknown.
I pondered through my tears, as the images of my home started to knock on the door of my rusted memory. I was afraid that after half a century in alienation, my home might never recognise me. As this notion crossed my mind, I became fearful of the fact that I would never be well received at home, and all my efforts would have been in vain. The jumbling of my emotions created an atmosphere of uncertainty and I had neither the energy nor the willingness to do anything about it. I tried to get off the couch, but I was light-headed and fell back feeling numb, anxious and empty. However, the home that I had left at the tender age of twenty had called on me again and I longed to see it, to touch it, to inhale the laden air with the scent of pine, and to sleep in the open under the blue, clear sky counting the infinite number of stars. Those images became alive and lifted my spirit slightly.
The storm strengthened. It hailed marble-sized balls of ice that were pounding on the balcony door so hard they could shatter the glass. I heard a sudden bang as a gust of air unlocked the window and slammed it against the wall and a gush of cold, icy wind entered the room. This brought me back to my sanity, but it was not long before I lapsed again, and the urge to end it all became stronger and more tempting.
I must do it now. There is no going back. I got up and went to the balcony. The hail had relented, but the icy wind was still blowing, sending a chill that travelled fast to the core of my bones.
I tried to mull it over, but my ability to function or concentrate was diminishing by the minute. The sadness and the feelings of guilt, dominated all my thinking. I tried to climb onto the edge of the balcony wall, but I was too deadbeat. It was almost impossible for an old man riddled with arthritis to climb the three-foot wall with two extra feet of railing, which was added last year after my good neighbour Brett fell four stories to his death. After a couple of attempts, I gave up trying.
The thought of dying without seeing my home sent a shiver down my spine. I closed the balcony door, returned to my bedroom and slumped on the bed wondering, What is the matter with me? Am I going insane or is the thought of suicide becoming more appealing than life?
The hailstorm returned with awesome force, pounding the window with crushing strength that could shatter the glass to small pieces, and the dogs in the neighbourhood began to howl. I must end it now. I got off the bed, took my pyjamas off, folded them neatly and put them in the drawer. Then, I took off my red G-string underwear and gazed into the mirror for the last time. My reflection was not encouraging, so I decided to put it back on and take it with me. It was my favourite underwear. I opened the balcony door and went outside. I tried again to climb the five-foot wall but failed, as the wall was slippery and my energy was drained.
I went back into the room and, after searching for a moment, I found the aluminium three-step ladder and carried it outside. I positioned it beside the wall and scaled it to the third step that put me in line with the balcony wall, but not high enough to clear the railing. I smiled at my success and stood upright. I gauged the distance from the fourth floor to the street below. I thought it would be about three seconds freefall before I would hit the ground. It would be a quick and snappy way to finish things off with less pain and suffering.
I kept my balance well, standing on the third step of the ladder in the face of a strong wind and a slippery surface. I did not feel the cold despite being completely naked except for my G-string underwear. I raised my hands like a flying kite ready to execute the jump of my life, but a thought that flashed through my mind held back my action.
Life is full of trouble, but worth living. I saw it in my mind's eye and wondered why I was about to commit suicide, while others would give anything in return for a longer life. At that moment, I thought of death as a long nap of no awake, and an end of all troubles. Then, with the tenacity and the willingness to put an end to it all, I bent my knees and lowered my hands ready to spring and clear the metal railing of the balcony wall.
Chapter 2
AS I CLOSED my eyes and began to spring up, I felt a sudden and excruciating pain in my knees as they locked in position, and refused to move. Bloody arthritis, I am going to try again. I pushed harder against the step of the ladder, hoping that the extra push would unlock my knees and allow me to execute the jump successfully. Unfortunately, and to my bad luck, the ladder slipped back and I landed face first on the edge of the wall. My upper and lower dentures broke and cut through my gums. I felt a hot liquid seeping down my chest and soaking my underwear. I took a quick look at my chest as it was changing progressively to the colour of my red G-string underwear.
Bang …
Bang …
Bang …
“Who the hell is knocking on my door at this hour?” I yelled and tried to get to my feet, but failed. The pain was unbearable and the floor was so slimy that I could not even crawl.
“Open the bloody door or I'll knock it down.”
I recognised the voice of my friend and I yelled as loud as I could, “Justin...! I cannot reach the door. The spare key is under the doormat.”
Within seconds, Justin carried me inside and hurled me onto the bed, wet and shivering like a soaked chicken.
“What makes you come here this late?” I barked.
“I was woken by the storm and got up to close the window. As I looked across the road, I saw your light still on, and you were standing naked, trying to climb onto the balcony wall. I thought you were in some sort of trouble so I came here to investigate.”
“Thanks for spoiling my plan.”
Justin stared at me astonished and yelled, “What the hell were you doing? Are you getting stupid or what? Get up, clean yourself, and put your clothes on. You’re going to catch a cold.”
“I am not going stupid or mad. I intended to finish it off, because I cannot bear living anymore. Life is burdening me and is not worth living.”
“Are you really seriously contemplating suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am bored and if I do not act now, I will become eccentric, and that is the last thing I want.”
“What’s bothering you now?”
“My wife left me and the children are siding with her. Life is becoming purposeless and not worth living. Look at the neighbourhood. The fences are getting higher and people are becoming hostile and greedier, locking themselves inside doors and restricting their social activities and communications to visual media only. There is great disharmony and injustice in this world, and the deterioration in human character, and the sense of me and mine have become the norm of everyday living. Moreover, if you dare to greet your next-door neighbour, he will sight you with suspicion thinking you may be expecting something in return; otherwise, you will not bother greeting him. There is disharmony in our world due to greed, hate and selfishness. I am sick of it all, and I view this trend of living with hostility.”
“I think you need a break. You're always dreaming of going home. Now is the time to do it.”
“I am longing to go home to verify a rumour of a massacre, but I have learned that if I go, I will be arrested at the airport and taken to a secret jail as it happened to most of my friends who ventured home. Nobody knows what has happened to them, and if someone dares to ask, the reply is well short of the truth. Always the same answer. We never saw them.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear. These anecdotes are the formation of some people who are always willing and ready to spread rumours to give our country a bad name.”
“I don’t have to look far. You know our mutual friend Sami. He went there four years ago to visit his sick mother and he never returned. His children are still seeking an answer to the whereabouts of their father.”
“Well! Sami was known for his political beliefs, which could be one of the reasons for his disappearance.”
“This should not give them the right to be the judge and the jury and eliminate him.”
“In this sense you could be right. Trust me, I am very well connected and I can help you get there undetected.”
“How?”
“I'll smuggle you in.”
“You're not serious?”
“I am dead serious. Clean yourself up, gather whatever you need and make sure you're loaded with money. These people are in business to make money and if you try to bargain with them or be greedy, they will abandon you anywhere they can.”
I went to the bathroom and checked on my gums. The cuts were superficial and had stopped bleeding. I dropped the dentures into a glass of water for possible repair and wore my spare set. It was my first set that I had kept for sentimental value; not the kind of set you would like to wear to deliver a political speech, but it was handy even though old and badly fitted. I had a quick shower, put on my jeans, running shoes and a woollen jumper. I searched for my travel bags and selected a medium sized bag that was big enough to fill with what I considered necessary for my short trip. Then I made sure to collect all my credit cards and ten thousand dollars in cash. I returned to the room to find Justin sitting on the edge of the bed talking on the phone. He covered the receiver with his hand and asked me, “How many days do you need the Redbreast for?”
“What do you mean by the Redbreast?”
“I mean the vehicle that is going to transport you home.”
“You mean the Craft?”
“That is right thickhead.”
“Why do you call it Redbreast?”
“Haven’t you heard of the small bird with a red breast called Robin that’s hard to catch?”
“What’s the similarity here?”
“The front of this craft is painted red and it is very hard to track down like a robin.”
“Seven days at the most.”
“Their normal daily rate is one thousand dollars; minimum two days. Or you may choose the deluxe rate of two thousand dollars a day.”
“What are the conditions?”
“The normal rate is just drop off in the morning at one destination and pick up at eight o'clock that night.”
“How about the deluxe rate?”
“This is a luxury service. The craft will be at your service for twenty-four hours a day.”
“Book me the luxury service for one week subject to renewal.”
Justin put the phone back to his ear and spoke briefly, then picked up a pen and a notebook from the desk and began to write. “Right, it's all done. Talk to you later.” He hung up, tore the paper, folded it twice, and put it in his pocket.
“Better not lose it; we'll need it soon.” He stood up and charged towards the door. “Come on, everything is set. Let's go.”
“Take it easy Justin! I am like a blind bat with no sense of orientation. Give me the details.”
“I used to work for this mob before, and now I am referring customers to them and getting commissions, but in your case the commission will be credited back to you.”
“Tell me who the hell they are?”
“The company is called Global Tourism and Sightseeing. This is their cover name, but in reality, they are in the business of smuggling people where nobody can go – like your case – and in the business of delivering urgent medical human components all over the world. This is their main job; it is a lucrative business and requires the most advanced transport system. In fact, you will be travelling onboard the Redbreast Craft. This is their latest acquisition, and it is state-of-the-art. You will be very impressed.”
“It sounds like a shifty business. How am I going to trust them?”
“Take my word, they are very honest people. They never let anyone down if they are paid what they are worth. Be generous to them and you will be very happy.”
“Okay. I trust you. What do we do now?”
“We haven't much time to waste. Let's move on now and I'll tell you on the way.”
Chapter 3
BY THE TIME we reached the foyer, I was out of breath. “For God’s sake Justin, slow down, I am not as young as I used to be.”
“Come on Gerard, keep on practicing. You are going to an erratic country and you may need to make a run for it one day.” Then he carried my bag and we rushed across the road to his apartment building. It was six stories with a blue and white façade, small balconies and an underground car park.
The storm had eased, but the wind was nippy. We got in the car and as he hit the road I asked, “Aren't you going to brief me?”
“Sure!” He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and gave it to me. “Unfold it, memorise it by heart and give it back to me.”
I read the details and my heart sank as I anticipated trouble. “It seems like codes for a secret mission. I do not know if I should go ahead with this.”
“Don't be alarmed my friend. The success of this business depends on secrecy, but I can assure you that they are good people to do business with.”
“If it was simply a business providing services in return for prescribed fees, then why should I go through all these codes to simply introduce myself?”
“Learn the instructions by heart and give me the paper back. If you do everything by the rules, you have nothing to fear.”
I handed him the paper back. “Destroy it if you like; I have it imprinted in my mind.”
“Are you sure you got it right?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to listen very carefully to what I am going to tell you. I will drop you at the Blue Line Bus Service stop. The bus will be coming in ten minutes. Take the bus to Bordertown, and ask the driver to drop you at George's Cafe and Snack Bar. Someone will come to meet you. Introduce yourself as per the instructions and do not panic or worry, nothing will go wrong. You'll be fine, I promise you.”
“Why do you choose the Blue Line Bus Service? This is the oldest transport system in the world. It will be donkey’s years before we reach Bordertown. I am willing to pay extra money if the Redbreast Craft picks me up from here.”
“They do not operate in the metropolitan area.”
“Why not?”
“They need to have a special licence and pay State taxes, in addition to the payment of rents for a depot and administration offices as well as the salaries for employees. The cost of running this service would soar and they couldn’t remain competitive.”
“What about those fast crafts crisscrossing the sky every minute.”
“We don’t do business with them.”
“Why not?”
“Confidentiality ..! They ask too many questions.”
“Stop talking about concealment. You are scaring me and I might call this arrangement off.”
“This is the only bus service connecting the city to Bordertown that is not interested in competition.”
“Who the hell is going to compete with that old trash?”
“No one will, and they are happy the way they are conducting their business. They think they are keeping the old tradition alive.”
“Advanced technology will not harm the old tradition. On the contrary, it is fulfilling the human need for a good and comfortable living.”
“Well! That is not the way they see it.”
“Why do they resist adapting new technologies to improve their way of living?”
“Find out when you come across some of them and tell me when you come back.”
We drove in silence. Justin was calm while I was edgy and tense, imagining in my mind who I would be dealing with. Would this journey be as smooth as he promised, or would I be facing trouble from all directions? The thought of my predicament sent a shiver down my spine. I turned to Justin and gazed at him intently.
“If I don't come back, the apartment is yours.”
“You'll come back all right old chap. Cheer up and have a good holiday.”
“It is a mission.”
“Consider it a vacation with a purpose,” he said as he pulled over at the bus stop.
“Here you are, wait for the bus, it won't be long.”
I shook his hand warmly and thanked him for his help. He raised his thumb in a victory sign and smiled.
“May the eagle’s spirit be with you?” he said, as he made a U-turn and drove off.
I sat on the bench waiting for the bus and reflected upon my ill-fated destiny, when I was interrupted by the coughing sound of an asthmatic old engine. I turned around and was shocked to see an old diesel bus spouting black smoke from a rusted exhaust, inching its way around the corner and stopping beside the bus shelter with its side door opened. I boarded hesitantly and, before I had the chance to greet the driver, he snorted.
“Where to mate?”
“Bordertown.”
“Eight fifty.”
I handed him a Tenner.
“Sorry no change.”
“Keep it,” I said and took the vacant seat behind him.
The bus was almost full to its capacity. There were about twenty-two passengers. A man and a woman in their late thirties occupied the seat behind me and a boy and a girl aged about five and ten years occupied the seat next to them. Only the back two rows of seats were unoccupied.
The driver was in his late forties, five foot ten, lightly built, wearing blue jeans and a jumper. He was clean-shaven but his tinted brown moustache indicated that he was a heavy smoker. He was driving steady at thirty to forty-five kilometres per hour.
“Is this the best you can do?” I asked.
He checked me in the rear-vision mirror curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“I have a schedule to meet.”
“So do I, but if you think it’s quicker on foot, be my guest,” he grunted baring his yellow teeth in a plastic smile.
I did not like his attitude, but I chose to ignore his remark. Then I cleared my throat to attract his attention. When he checked me in the rear-vision mirror I asked, “Can you please alert me when we reach George's Cafe and Snack Bar?”
“You're a new addition?” he asked.
“No, an old timer.”
“How come you don't know?”
“Never been around.”
“Most unfortunate,” he commented.
“Why?”
“You'll find out.”
'When?”
“When I drop you off,” he yelled.
“How long?”
“Five hours,” he replied impatiently.
“Thanks.” I said it loathingly.
We had been driving for almost two hours when we came to a narrow road winding sharply at the bottom of a mountain. The driver shifted to third gear and began his ascent. It was not long before he changed to second gear and the motor started to cough. The smoke increased and the low speed forced the driver to shift back to first gear. The engine seemed to be choking as if it was having a serious asthma attack. We were all scared not knowing if the bus would complete the journey safely. The young lad began to cry, and his mother made an effort to console him, but the driver could not tolerate it anymore and yelled, “What is the matter with him?”
The woman gave the driver an angry look, took the boy in her lap and hugged him.
The driver seemed pissed off and barked.
“Keep him quiet, he is making me nervous.”
“He is scared,” she said.
“Why?”
“The way you drive.”
“Don't you like my driving?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you complaining?”
“The engine is making a terrible noise.”
“This is normal.”
“May be to you,” the woman protested.
The engine chuffed louder and the driver did not hear a word.
“What did you say?” he barked.
“Never mind.”
“What?” he enquired.
“Forget it.”
“You're welcome,” he grunted.
The woman was obviously annoyed but did not want to engage in any further dialogue with him and had decided to put an end to it.
“Don’t mention it,” she retorted.
“Keep him quiet,” he requested crudely.
“I will.”
“Thanks.” He said it with a faint smile that returned his face to its original yellowish colour.
It took us two hours to reach the top of the mountain and begin our descent. It was terrifying as the driver was struggling with braking and steering. Whenever he had to take a sharp turn, the bus fuselage would shake and produce a shrieking sound as if it was about to fall apart. I tried to switch off and busied myself looking through the window poring over spacecrafts buzzing at high speed. I pondered how the Blue Line Bus Service could compete with those crafts. I could not understand the reason behind their lack of interest in moving forward with the times. Maybe they considered it too risky to expose their customers to a new technology and, ultimately, they would lose control over them. Maybe it was better for them to use conventional concepts to stay at the helm of power and maximize their profits at the expense of unwary people. I hope one day I’ll find out the reasons behind all that.
I looked back and moved my gaze amongst the passengers, and I saw on their faces the extent of their concerns about their safety, and the fear of not making it home. They – including myself – did not ask the driver why he was not in full control of the vehicle, nor did they question his erratic driving manner. We surrendered our right to be driven safely and arrive at our destination with comfort and ease. We put our lives in the hands of an incompetent driver and an un-roadworthy vehicle, thinking nothing would happen to us. Fortunately, we reached the flat land safe and sound, and veered to Highway 6, a newly sealed and smooth highway connecting Mount Hope with Bordertown, but the bus could not clock more than eighty.
The driver felt at ease and switched the radio on. At first, I was forced unwillingly to listen to some Rock garbage, but it was not long before I was rewarded by Celine Dion's most loved song The power of love. Suddenly the announcer interrupted, “There has been a sudden rainstorm and a mudslide has closed Highway Six. Drivers heading to Bordertown are advised to use the alternative route at Eastern Creek.”
“Fuck,” the driver said as he announced, “an extra half an hour drive, which will cost another dollar each.”
All passengers obliged except the man and woman sitting behind me with the two children.
“Why should we pay? You get your fees,” They said.
“You don't pay, you can walk.” He slowed down in an attempt to pull off at the side of the road.
“I am in a hurry,” I begged.
“Don't care.”
“I'll pay the difference.”
“Show me the colour.”
I searched my wallet for five dollars; four dollars for the man, his wife and two children and one dollar to cover my extra fee.
“I don't have change.”
“What do you have?”
“Ten dollars.”
“That'll do,” and he snatched the note.
“What about my five dollars change?”
“I do not have it.”
“Keep it crafty.”
“What did you say?”
“I said have a good day.”
As we arrived at the Eastern Creek route, a highway patrol officer parked his car sideways in the middle of the road and directed us to take a narrow side track. It was an unsealed and slippery road, and the ride was extremely exhausting. The driver went berserk and demanded cleaning the seat, as the young lad had become woozy and had vomited twice. It was half an hour from hell. My stomach objected a few times, and I almost vomited too, but I managed to soothe it down by drowning it with a sniff of whisky, as the driver was watching me aggressively in the rear-vision mirror.
“No alcohol,” he ordered.
“Why not?” I queried.
“It's illegal.”
“I am sick.”
“You should have stayed home.”
“I am homeless.”
“Don't drink anymore.”
“Fine.”
I felt that I should kick that dickhead in the balls, so he won't be rude to nice people. However, I changed my mind as he announced “George's Cafe and Snack Bar.”
I carried my bag and was about to get out, when he woofed.
“Have a good day, you're a good tipper.”
“I regret it,” I said.
“Why?”
“You didn't earn it.”
“You don't mean it,” he objected.
“I do.”
“Fuck off,” he barked.
“You're an oddball,” I said and slammed the door. However, I heard him yelling as he drove off.
“And you're a weird bloody wog.”
I ignored his rude remarks, and crossed the road to George's Cafe. It was small with a setting of three small tables under the veranda. There were three customers; two men and a woman sat at one table drinking coffee, and two girls and one boy occupied the other table. They all seemed to be in their teens; smoking and making a nuisance of themselves. I walked past them and smiled as our gazes locked. They returned my smile and rewarded me with, “It’s a nice day, make the most of it.”
“Thank you and have a good day,” I replied. I continued to the far corner and occupied a table for two. My sight swept quickly the surrounding lush hills and settled on a large board just beyond the Eucalyptus tree shadowing the northern part of the building. The board was painted in light blue with a sign written in white:
Welcome to Bordertown.
This is where the West meets the East