Haseeb Al-Zainy’s “The Blacklist” appears in the new anthology The Book of Damascus: A City in Short Fiction, out this month from Comma Press.
The Blacklist
By Haseeb Al-Zainy
Translated by Majd Abu Shawish
It is inside his slick black Mercedes, with its menacing security-green number plate, and right under his poisonous gaze, that the thought of getting rid of him once and for all first starts to form in my mind.
Somer: an inescapable work colleague, a companion that destiny has forced upon on me.
The only nagging question circling in my mind is: How? I’ve never even killed an ant before!
With the sounds of military helicopters circling overhead, and patriotic songs glorifying the leader blasting from the car stereo, the overwhelming desire to kill him suddenly grips me. Even though I don’t own a gun and have no skills with knives, I realise that my very survival depends entirely on his death. And, now is the best chance I’m going to get.
I’m sitting, squashed, in the passenger seat next to him; Damascus has turned into a giant prison.
He casts me a look that makes me feel suffocated; like I’m a prisoner of war.
It is the evening of 10 October, months after the escalation of demonstrations that shook the city’s neighbourhoods and turned the country upside down.
At the end of each day at the Ministry of Higher Education, he usually drives me to my apartment in one of the poor areas, behind the Iranian Embassy, called Basateen al-Razi, after which he drives on to his place. It’s a short daily trip that takes less than 25 minutes. Still, it has turned into an endless nightmare.
The worst part is he’s started invading my only free time at weekends. He bombards me with phone calls, announcing that he’s waiting for me at al-Razi Hospital junction, as he hates having to navigate the narrow alleyways leading to my place in his massive car.
Unwillingly, I go out to meet him each time, silently cursing him with every imaginable insult along the way. He takes me on his usual, leisurely rounds of the city’s fancy restaurants and cafés, along the Four Seasons Hotel Boulevard, where he devours his meals as greedily as he devours the waitresses.
Ever since being given a gun, his rounds have included flying visits to the security checkpoints scattered across so many neighbourhoods. He drags me with him as his shadow. I remain squashed in his car as he stands at each earthwork barrier, exchanging stories about security issues with his fellow officers. Sometimes he even joins in, slapping and kicking those detainees who’ve been arrested for protesting.
Today though, I feel like I’m suffocating, sitting next to him in his car like a prisoner. He drives recklessly, the top buttons of his shirt undone to expose his thick gold chain hanging over the jungle of hair on his sagging chest.
He continues his bragging about his uncle who has become an influential officer in the State Security Bureau, how faces turn pale and throats go dry at the very mention of his name. A breeze, mingled with the smell of car exhausts, gunpowder and burnt corpses, sneaks into the car, so he closes the window. Meanwhile I choke on the even worse smell emanating from his sweaty armpits.
I avoid his suspicious gaze, pretending to search for my phone charger, turning my face away to hide the look of hatred and fear on my face.
I trawl through my memory, reflecting on the immense harm that has resulted from my friendship with him over the years. To be fair, the one benefit I did receive was the time he unwittingly exposed to me the infidelity of Leila – my colleague at the ministry whom I loved and was about to marry – when he showed me pictures of her naked in his bed.
Every now and then, he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, wary of my silence. Finally, he lights a cigarette, blows smoke in my face, smiles and says: ‘Ha, tell me. What do you think of what I did today to those traitors?’
He pauses and adds: ‘They deserve it, don’t they?’
He means the wide-scale campaign of arrests at the ministry, coordinated by Somer himself, earlier on this fateful day, 10 October. More than fifteen employees were arrested this morning, accused of participating in a protest in al-Mazza neighbourhood. I still don’t know how they managed to convince me to join them on it, with all the risks facing us. We thought that wearing face masks would protect us from the clutches of the state security services.
*
I’ll never forget the sight of heavily-armed state security officers storming the Ministry offices, dragging employees from their desks and marching them out to the car park. Somer, who had suddenly transformed from a lowly Ministry employee into a terrifying security officer, was helping them as they kicked and beat them in the head with the butts of their machine guns, all while showering them with curses, before they were thrown in the backs of military vehicles and driven off.
I watched from my third-floor office window, realising that a similar destiny awaited me, given that they’d surely mention my name there in detention; they wouldn’t hold up long under torture.
I hoped to avoid Somer by slipping out of the office a little early, but his Mercedes was parked at the entrance of the building. He hooted twice and nodded for me to get in.
He pointed his index finger at me and said angrily: ‘Even the Blue Djinni would never know where they’ve been taken to.’
I stare out the window at the huge artillery positioned at the foot of Mount Qasioun, relentlessly shelling the rebel neighbourhoods, spewing grey clouds before the roar of each explosion shakes the city.
‘They deserve even worse,’ I reply, attempting to hide the tremor in my voice.
I look at his large head and flushed face, wondering how destiny ever brought us together at the Ministry of Higher Education. I have always marvelled at how he was promoted suddenly to Deputy Manager of the Media Office, getting double my salary! How he had suddenly acquired a luxury house in al-Mazza neighbourhood, the door handle of which I couldn’t afford! How he rapidly put on weight as if someone had pumped him with air through his anus!
*
He cranks up the volume on the radio, singing along to patriotic songs glorifying the leader, before turning onto the street leading to al-Baramkeh Square. There, at the Syrian Arab News Agency building, he will turn right, as usual, and go back to the street leading to al-Mazza highway, stopping at al-Razi Hospital. At that point, I will finally free myself of him, getting out of the car and walking past the Iranian Embassy for a few minutes until I find myself in the narrow alleyways that lead to my apartment.
Each day, after a shift at the Ministry, he would take me via al-Baramkeh Street very deliberately. ‘This street,’ he always says with a chuckle, ‘is the best hunting ground for prize catches’ – meaning female university students.
This is Radio Damascus. We have just received the following breaking news: Our courageous forces have eliminated eight gunmen who opened fire at a crowd-control unit during a peaceful protest in Jobar neighbourhood. They have also arrested a group of terrorists funded by a hostile foreign country in Rukn al-Din neighbourhood. We now go back to our music programme, but will keep you updated.
At this, he hits the brakes, indifferent to the loud honking from the queue of cars behind us. Angrily, he turns off the radio and the engine, hitting the steering wheel with both hands. Then he turns his big head towards me while his thick neck remains unmoving. ‘What do those scumbags want?’ he shouts. ‘What are they protesting about?’
His shocking question confuses me. For a moment, I assume it’s nothing but a rhetorical question but he keeps staring at me waiting for an explanation.
He exhales deeply and stamps his foot on the brake pedal, saying: ‘Sons of bitches. I’ll crush them under my foot.’
I’m in real trouble now, I realise; with this brute beside me, any attempt to escape would be futile. The road to my city, Homs, is closed these days due to armed clashes, and I’ve used up all my annual leave and sick days. Being absent from work at the Ministry for even a day, right now, would put me under serious suspicion.
He looks at me, grinding his teeth: ‘How dare they insult the president!’
I clear my throat a little, and search my brain for an answer that will satisfy him, but then he hits me with another loaded question:
‘Tell me. You, what do you think?’ ‘About what?’
‘Those scumbags at the protests?’
‘Scum indeed! They deserve even worse than what’s happened to them.’
He studies my face for a moment, then reaches over and opens the glove compartment in front of me, pointing at a white paper envelope inside.
‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘I have another blacklist here with the names of many traitors in the Ministry.’
A half-smile dances on his lips as he adjusts his gun, tucked into his waistband, and starts driving again.
I wipe sweat from my forehead, certain that my name is on that list and convinced that my being thrown into the state security dungeons is only a matter of time.
We are approaching the Syrian Arab News Agency building when he becomes distracted by the need to harass a passing student trying to ignore him. He pulls the car closer to the kerb and starts driving while leering at her backside. The student, finally, turns and shoots him a look of contempt, but he provokes her more by sticking out his tongue and playing with it in a lewd manner. She spits at him and carries on walking.
I don’t have the luxury of gloating at his humiliation. My heart pounds heavily and all my senses are focused on that white envelope in the glove compartment, inside of which sits a blacklist that will send me to a nice little torture party in the state security dungeons.
His fat face darkens and his eyes turn red. He grips the steering wheel and starts to pursue her, his broad jaw clenched. As soon as she crosses the road, he swerves into her, slamming the front of the car against her and causing her to fall. Then, he steps on the accelerator a little, while biting his tongue in satisfaction, deliberately running over her foot.
She screams and moans and in seconds a crowd has gathered around us. He slips his hand to his waist, and sticks his thick neck out of the window, brandishing his gun at everybody and hurling insults. Cleverly, he realises that, with his gun and his official car, no one in the crowd will dare touch him.
He turns right, laughing, and I beg him to stop for a moment so I can get out and vomit onto the base of a tree in the middle of the pavement, before quickly returning and gathering my strength.
The method for luring him to his death has now fully formed in my mind. It’s true that I will be the last person to be seen with him, but none of the security forces will discover his disappearance for days amid the daily chaos of senseless death in the city.
‘I don’t know if it’s the right time,’ I say, ‘but I’d like to tell you a secret.’
He turns and gives me his full attention as I continue: ‘In all honesty, I’d like to take advantage of your experience with women.’
He laughs. ‘Now you’re talking – this is my playground,’ he says arrogantly.
I tell him I’ve been seeing an extremely beautiful woman recently, a student in the Faculty of Fine Arts, who loves having fun, going on trips and patronising high-end establishments.
Pretending to be disappointed, I add: ‘As you know, I don’t have a car and I don’t earn enough for that kind of lifestyle.’
‘Do you want me to borrow your girl,’ he jokes, ‘or do you just want to borrow my car?’
‘To be honest,’ I say seriously, ‘I’d like to borrow you.’
He laughs raucously. ‘Borrow me? How?’
‘Well, you see, she has a younger, even prettier sister. I mean, maybe we could…’
He interrupts me, excited, rubbing between his thighs: ‘I get you. I’m in. Call her now.’
‘No need,’ I say. ‘She’ll come to my place with her sister in an hour.’
He rolls his eyes so I try to keep him onboard: ‘How about we postpone it to another day? Her sister is still too young for a sexual relationship and I think she will play hard to get.’
He keeps driving, mumbling under his breath. Then confidently, and without looking at me, he says: ‘I like that type of girl.’
‘But she might be in a relationship with someone her own age,’ I protest, ‘so maybe we should postpone…’
He turns down the radio and says to me firmly: ‘We’re not postponing anything. We’ll go now and wait for them at your place. In one hour, you said, right?’
As soon as he says this, I realise he’s taken the bait.
He starts driving at breakneck speed, passing through Umayyad Square and heading towards al-Mazza highway.
It is the first time he’s ever entered one of the alleyways behind al-Razi Hospital in this hulking great car. ‘Where is your stupid house?’ he asks impatiently as the narrow street forces him to slow down. ‘And where am I supposed to park my car in this dump?’
I lead him to believe that I’m thinking of a solution to this problem, scratching my head, before convincing him that the cactus fields near my place are the safest place to park his car – away from naughty boys who might scratch its shiny paintwork or envious poor people who might slash its tyres.
Once there, he turns off the engine, takes a bottle of aftershave out of a compartment next to him and sprays it round his neck and under his armpits. He grabs a small comb, adjusts the rearview mirror, spits into his hand and wipes it over his head. Then, he combs back his fringe while humming a popular song.
With a single, rapid movement, I pull out the charger cable, leap from the front seat to the back, grab both ends of the cable tightly, wrap it around his thick neck, and lean backwards with all my body weight, letting gravity do all the work on his neck.
Like a wild beast, he starts thrashing around instantly as I watch, through the rearview mirror, the bulging veins in his face and his swelling eyes as if they are about to come out of their sockets.
He reaches for his waistband to pull out his gun, so I lift my foot and press it against his armpit, which gives me more purchase and resolve. Meanwhile, he emits a strange whimpering sound from his mouth that resembles rustling paper. I lean back further, continuing to pull the cable with determination and persistence and only release him after all his resistance has faded, his arms slumping and his face frozen.
Without looking at his lifeless body, I reach forward into the front to open the glove compartment and grab the white envelope. I stuff it in my pocket and get out of there.
As I wander through the cactus fields, reading down the list of names, sweating profusely, a squadron of warplanes bursts out of a dark cloud above me.
I tear the paper up, laughing first, then bursting into tears, knowing my name was never on the list. I bury the pieces in the ground before heading back home.
There, as soon as I turn into my alleyway, I’m shocked to see Somer’s car!
It is parked in front of my apartment building, its sides scratched from driving through narrow alleyways!
It’s his car, the same shiny black Mercedes, with the same security plate and unmistakable green numbers.
Haseeb Al-Zainy is a British writer and journalist of Syrian origin. A graduate of the Faculty of Media at the University of Damascus, he has worked with local, regional and international media organisations. He writes fiction in Arabic and has received several local literary awards. His works include the short story collections Details That Concern No One and Dopamine, and the novel Ghosts of London. He is currently publishing a series of English-language short stories on Amazon.
Majd Abu Shawish is a translator and writer from Gaza. He has previously translated for The Guardian and several Comma Press anthologies, including Egypt + 100 and The Book of Sana’a. He has an MA in International Studies from Sheffield University.
Get a copy of the anthology and more at the Comma Press website.