Late in the afternoon, Issam the taxi driver was leaning against his Peugeot with its red license plate, waiting for the family who were moving. It was time for them to go; the father had decided to leave Beirut and head off into the mountains, far away. It had been no mean feat, packing up everything from their little house to bring with them. One car wouldn’t be enough, which was why they had called Issam to help them. He parked in front of the house and honked his horn. “Out of the way you lot, move it!” the father said to his six children, who were playing hide and seek between the vehicles. It was time to load up the cars. The father wanted to bring everything with them. His wife assured him everything was there: their clothes, their lockbox and a few provisions.
“There’s no more room on the cars!” the father groaned. “What are we going to do now?”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Issam laughed. “There’s plenty of space left! I’ve done this same journey with a family twice as big. Fine, so they had an extra car as well, but there’s still plenty of space in mine. The more you ask for, the more you get. Don’t worry about space. The mattress, for example — I have ropes, so we can tie it to the roof of the taxi. What else have you got? Another mattress? It can go on the roof too. You saw how many seats there were...”
“What about the kids?”
“No, the kids can’t go in the boot, but my back windshield got shot in last week when I was on my way home, and I made sure I picked out all the shards of glass that fell in the back seat.”
“You’re sure you got them all?”
“Certain,” Issam replied with confidence.
Travelling by taxi in a time of war wasn’t always the most practical choice, but most of the drivers knew which roads had the fewest mines, the least dangerous and quickest ways to get to the mountains. It would be a hell of a task getting through Beirut, but once they were up there the family would be safe from the gunfire, the bombings and the war itself. The children had never known anything but their house in Beirut. There wasn’t much left in it now: empty photo frames, a few hangers with no clothes on them, iron bedframes with no mattresses, and broken dishes. The children were sad; leaving this home meant they might not find another.
“And now?” the father demanded. “What do we do now?”
“Would the little girl like to ride up front?” Issam asked, observing her.
“No papa, I want to sit on the trunk,” the girl begged.
“Don’t worry papa, we'll all sit on the back,” said her brothers.
It was decided. Four children sitting out of the back windshield holding the mattresses, and two on the back seats. The seat beside the driver was piled with bedlinens, curtains and rugs. Issam started the ignition; the car stalled. He tried again, with no luck. “Everything OK? Are we going?” the father asked from the other car. “Not yet!” Issam opened the oil cap and checked the dipstick, then the spark plugs. Everything seemed OK. Could the battery be dead? Surely that couldn’t be the case, with the hot sun shining down on them all day. He got back in the car and turned the key in the ignition, harder this time. The car started. He stomped on the accelerator.
“Alright, let’s get going!” he said with pride.
“Woohoo!” the little daughter squealed.
The two cars pulled away, making their way gradually out of the city of Beirut. They drove fast; at least with Issam they’d be sure to make it to the mountains and to leave all this behind. The machine guns, the far-off sound of gunfire, the shells, the bombs, the panic and the riots. They’d be sure to sleep in peace, without worrying about their house being ransacked. They’d be sure to sleep not under a roof, but surrounded by the scent of the pines and the song of cicadas.
Alan Alfredo Geday