Mao II - Don Delillo [87]
He’d removed his pants, or someone had, without taking off his left shoe. What serene traces of queerness spelt out across the night. He wanted this smoke to last about four more drags and saw it didn’t have but two and felt a mood come upon him of soulful loss.
He slept for some hours. It appeared to be early evening when he got up. He called downstairs and they gave him the name and address of a doctor he might talk to. He got dressed, feeling altogether fine, ready to forget the doctor, then thinking better of it, then ready to forget again, feeling hungry, always a sign of resurgence.
He decided he would see the doctor. Before walking out the door, he called the shipping office on an impulse. They told him the ferry was running again.
He patted himself down for passport, wallet and traveler’s checks. He dropped his things in the bag and went down to check out. At the shipping office he stood in a line of exactly three people, himself included. He looked at posters of sunsets and tawny coasts. A man came in with cups of coffee and glasses of cold water on a round metal tray that was suspended from wire struts. It felt like a moment with a history. The clerk made a gesture and they each took a cup and stood around talking.
“Now how far is it to the port of Junieh?”
The clerk said, “Roughly in kilometers maybe two hundred forty. ”
“And from Junieh to Beirut, what do I do?” Bill said.
“Taxi distance. Take a taxi.”
“Will they overcharge me?”
“Of course. ”
“What about the holes in the boat? All repaired?”
A round of amusement here, the others sharing some joke without a word or glance.
“Don’t worry about the holes.”
“All repaired?” Bill said.
“The holes are well above the waterline.”
“We don’t speak about the holes,” another customer said.
“The holes are but details,” the clerk said.
Bill sniffed the grounds at the bottom of his cup, trying to outfox the pain, maneuver past it.
“Now what about the truce? Does it look serious this time?”
“They’re all serious. You can’t look at a cease-fire and say this one lasts, that one has no chance. They’re all serious and they never last.”
“But does the truce affect the safety of the ferry? Do the terms of a truce include gunboats at sea?”
“The sea is nothing,” the clerk said.
“We don’t speak about the sea,” the other customer said.
“The sea is a detail compared to the land.”
He paid for his ticket with traveler’s checks and the clerk asked him if he had a visa. Bill did not. The clerk asked him if he had a waiver from the State Department and Bill had never heard of such a thing.
“Never mind. There is always a way.”
“What’s the way?” Bill said.
“When you get to Junieh you go to passport control and you will see a man from the Lebanese Forces. Always there is someone. He has a uniform, a rubber stamp and an ink pad. Tell him you’re a writer.”
“Okay, I’m a writer.”
“Tell him you would like press credentials. Maybe he suggests some money will change hands. Then he stamps something on a piece of paper and you are now under the protection of the main Christian militia.”
“And I don’t need a visa to get into the country.”
“You are completely free to enter.”
“And how much money is changing hands?”
“If you are willing to pay to get into a city like Beirut, I don’t think you care how much.”
He stood on deck and was surprised to see them come aboard, easily a hundred people, some with children, with infants pouched in sleep across a breast or shoulder. The gulls rocked high in the burning light. He thought it was touching and brave and these people were dear to him, families, cartons, shopping bags, babies, the melodious traffic of a culture.
He thought he ought to formulate a plan, maybe something along the following lines.
Take a taxi from Junieh to Beirut. Bargain with the driver. Pretend to know the area and the fastest route and the standard price for the trip. Find a hotel