to read, he limped out of sight.
Hassan sat on a stone in the now midmorning sun and opened the paper. There were the usual deaths and births, news of the British rebuffed at Gallipoli, and a long review of a book about a Syrian immigrant in America. He skimmed the review. Turning the page he read the title: “Eleven Nationalists Crucified in Beirut.”
In the middle of the list was the name of his friend, Fuad Murad. Murad was already dead! And his own name was listed, with a photograph—Hassan Hammad was a wanted man. The photograph was two years old and showed him clean-shaven. He touched his beard and rose to leave. He found his driver relieving himself against a tree, and at the sight of him felt another spasm of panic. The driver had made a poor choice of tree and was struggling to avoid the splatters as his piss cascaded down the knots, and while he was occupied Hassan made a quick decision. He mounted the driver’s seat and whipped the horses into action, ignoring the yelps of confusion behind him.
He crossed the Litani River by a crumbling bridge, only letting the horses stop to drink on the other side. From there he drove east, away from Beirut but otherwise in no particular direction. Whenever he saw a village he took a circuitous route—he could not risk being noticed as the only stranger in the souq that day.
After an hour and a half of eastward meandering he came upon a Turkish soldier alone by the side of the road, his ankles white with dust. The soldier stood and hailed Hassan. Gold buttons shone down his front, and a bayonet glinted by his side. His large moustache was waxed in the Ottoman style and a box of oranges lay on the ground by his chair. Hassan stopped the horses and dismounted, and the soldier demanded in accented Arabic to see some identifying papers. His eyes narrowed, taking in Haj Hassan’s attire.
“Is this your carriage?”
“Yes,” said Haj Hassan. He continued, in fluent Turkish: “I’m looking for a place to eat, do you know of anywhere nearby?”
Apparently delighted by Hassan’s flawless Turkish, the soldier clapped his arm and offered him an orange. Haj Hassan accepted and began to peel it; the zest spat at his dust-covered hands. The soldier added the rind to a small pile in the box, and as they each ate a segment Haj Hassan decided it was necessary to damp any suspicions he had already aroused. He told the soldier that he had in fact set out with a driver, intending to visit his family in Beirut. But when he asked to stop at a caravanserai, the driver had robbed him and escaped. Taking pity, a kind old shopkeeper lent him this carriage, on oath that he would return it.
“I have no papers, nothing,” he added, watching the soldier’s face for a reaction.
“My lodgings are nearby,” replied the soldier. “And I have a telegraph machine, if you would like to send a message to your family.”
Hassan hesitated. The man might appear trustworthy, but he was still a Turk. And if he had guessed Hassan was on the run he might be hoping for a reward. Hassan considered his options. He could run fast. He would leave one of the horses unharnessed in case he needed to flee.
The soldier led him to a small hut downhill from the road, above which the zigzag of telegraph wires swung gently in the wind. As the soldier entered, Hassan unbuckled the tugs from one of his horses and fastened the saddle strap with a length of rope to the carriage frame, presented a handful of seed to the big lips, and rubbed the warm muzzle. Inside, the soldier was already boiling water on the stove. In the corner stood a table covered in electrical equipment: an upright box resembling a radio, its sides crowded with differently sized knobs and copper tubes; another box beyond covered in more knobs, with coils and armatures bracketed to every perpendicular plane and gleaming.
“Do you know how to use it?”
Hassan said nothing. The soldier laughed.
“Don’t worry. Write down what you want to say and I will send it for you. Please.”
Hassan accepted a piece of paper and wrote an elliptical message in Turkish. It was not for his wife, however: it was addressed to his friend Haj Taher Kamal.
The soldier sat and began to tap it out on the transmission key. The water boiled and the