StalemateStalemateEveryone needs a place to fall back on, a place to go where you can really feel at home, just somewhere where life seems so much more real. To me, this was something to which I could never make a claim, not for a long time. I spent most of my early life travelling. My father, a British diplomat, enjoyed moving, and his career helped him in his treks. Until I was eight I had lived in well over twenty countries, and easily fifty different houses. So much for a stable home.
But the point being that when I was eight things started to change. My dad, though only in his late thirties, was not well, despite the fact that the travel had been good to him, and not a single infection had attacked him. What did get him was cancer. I, being young, didn't understand what was so dangerous. To me it was just a star sign, something I didn't believe in. I kept saying to myself that if I didn't have faith in astrology he wouldn't die. Consequently every time my mum read the horoscopes I would leave the room. When that wasn't possible I would stick my fingers in my ears and talk wildly about anything so I couldn't hear the words. Furthermore I convinced myself that to save my dad I couldn't tell anyone why I was doing this. Looking back I think how lucky that my parents didn't seek help for me. Something I would do if I saw my kids doing likewise.
Surprisingly my plan didn't work, and dad slowly got worse, his final posting was Beiruit, Lebanon. Which was, not coincidentally, where I was born, in my parents first time there. He lived for a couple of years there before he traversed the windy road back to the factory (strange euphemisms were his trademark, I guess I picked some of them up). My mum and I never really felt the need to live anywhere else, we liked Beiruit, ironic when you consider it now, it's present situation, but once. Once it was a proud city, a city I loved, a city I really could call home.
All this explains why when I finally graduated from Oxford, and worked my way up the BBC hierarchy, into the position of a foreign correspondent, I asked for Beiruit. To be quite honest, it was really well sought after, despite, and probably because of, all the troubles. But I persuaded them I was the best man for the job. Which in a way shocked me. Living in many countries, you would have thought I would pick up languages easily. Alas, I found that living only in my parents company I only ever heard English. And so a posting in a predominantly arabic speaking country, was perhaps foolhardy. Despite that stumbling block, I found my feet there readily. Delivering reports all through the troubles, mainly the politics, I'm a coward at heart, I left the war correspondence to the thrill-seekers. It's ten years now I've been here. I never thought I'd last so long, but I have, or, should that be, am. To be honest...
There was a knock at the door, 'Ian?'
'Massahn!' I had to admit I was in dire need of company, life can get a little lonely, sometimes I feel like I'm going mad . Massahn struggled with the door, it was one of his daily chores, I'd noticed, it was always stuck. But then like most of the city, it was old and built to last. Finally I saw his head. A wide smile over his face, which was decidedly arabic, he wore a thick bushy moustache, not well-kept, but distinct, it managed to give the owner some extra authority, and with Massahn, kind Massahn, that was essential. Quickly the rest of his body followed. It's strange, but every time I see him I expect him to be wearing the traditional tea- towel and head band. No, not my Massahn, he always opted for the builder approach, jeans and a plain t-shirt. Walking in he motioned to the contents of his left hand, his chess board, the bag of pieces wrapped round his middle finger, the taut plastic shining like a ring. With a single swift movement he was on the ground beside me, setting the pieces up. I started to help, as always, and again, as always, I got side-tracked, the detail on the pieces was incredible, every time he'd added more. It might not be much more, say an extra necklace on the queen, or a few manic grins on the pawns, but it was something I knew he was proud of. So far he'd spent nearly two year working on it, and he still tried for perfection. When we first started playing, they were just 32 cylinders of wood, each with a symbol on them. I'd seen them progress over those years, and I couldn't remember once not admiring the effort he had put in.
But he was waiting. Clenched fists outstretched, I picked the left one. White. Going first. I started as usual, cautiously, one of my pawns. From then on things proceeded slowly. I will be the first to admit it, neither of us were any good, but the company was pleasant. Which was really strange when you consider the fact that Massahn couldn't speak more than a handful of English, and my Arabic was vastly inferior. Generally we just talked, listening, but not understanding. Being a journalist, some of the people I have met seemed to have a similar idea.
'I was just thinking about here, Beiruit, how much I like it. Strange really, that I have such a fondness. Crater covered hell-hole of a place, some could say, and to be truthful, they're right. But you must, really, go deeper than that, you must see the truth behind the lies, or in this case, the truth behind the press. For it is mainly the media, myself, obviously, excluded, that compound that belief. And when you have, as you and I have, seen the truth, it is reassuring, even enlightening to realise that this is one of the few real cities still in the world.
'This may seem strange to some, not to you, I know,' I could feel him hearing the words and even absorbing the emotion in them, 'but to others who don't know it the way we do, the sounds, the smells, the tastes, the feel of the city. When you really know that, you can truly love the people, because, by definition, it is the people that make up the city, and the Lebanese are a people, or should I say, a group of peoples, that have lived more than most. They make the city seem so alive and real, vibrant almost.
I paused, that sudden realisation, 'It's funny the things you notice, the constant way I describe Beiruit as real. In effect, there is little else you can say. But surely that is enough for a city. For it to be real, have real people, to, in itself, be a living thing. That is the Beiruit I know. And no matter what other people say they can't deny it.' I stopped, that was my final crescendo. I was pleased with it. I'd got it off my chest. It was Massahn's turn next. He spoke quickly and confidently. I only got a few of the words, but to me that was irrelevant. It was the fact it was somebody else, someone to listen to. Something...
It was one of the few words I noticed, just one that really got to me. Children. It was like that one word carried with it solid emotion, it almost overwhelmed me, I felt myself give way to a slight tear. And then it was gone. And so was the light. We'd only been playing an hour, and it was time to stop. I raised my hand to my king, and pushed it over, Massahn did likewise, a generous gesture, I thought. But then he left, I was alone again in the dark.
The moon not yet risen, no light entered my cell, a single clock somewhere struck midnight. I scrabbled on the floor for my rock, feeling my way to my 'calendar', I scratched another day of my life away, heaven in hell, or hell in heaven. I never can decide.
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