Chapter 2195 - 881: The Fire Rises (Part 2)

Alvarez looked at them. Twenty-three people, the oldest over seventy, the youngest just eighteen. Some still had wounds, bandages peeking out from under their clothes, dirty, some already scabbing, some still bleeding. He turned around, walked to the middle of the bridge, and raised a white flag. The wind was strong, the flag flapped loudly in the wind.

"Cross the bridge. The coffee is on the table, help yourselves."

Twenty-three people stepped onto the bridge. They walked slowly, each step heavy. In the middle of the bridge, someone stopped, looking at the lake's surface. The lake water was very blue, and the sky was also very blue, Tiberias in the distance was very white. Someone squatted down, touching the wooden planks of the bridge. Someone cried, someone laughed, someone did nothing, just stood there.

Alvarez stood at the end of the bridge, watching them walk past one by one. At the west end of the bridge, the old man Moses Levi stood there, holding a cup of water in his hand. He poured a cup for each person, saying, "Have a sip, it's sweet."

When the twenty-third person walked past, the old man looked at him. "What's your name?"

The person took the cup, drank a sip. "Khalid. Khalid Abdul-Karim. From Damascus University."

The old man nodded. "What happened to your chest?"

Khalid looked down at his own chest. The bandage peeked from the collar of his shirt, stark white with blood on it. "I was shot. The National Guard did it. The bullet went in from the front, came out the back. An Israeli doctor stitched me up. He said, if it had been two centimeters over, my heart would be gone."

The old man was silent for a long time. "Then why are you still holding the photograph?"

Khalid took a photograph out of his pocket. The photo was of a young man, in his early twenties, wearing a gray tracksuit with the "Damascus University" logo on it. "This is my cousin. Imprisoned for eleven years, released, and died at the doorstep. Rifat's men killed him. General Hassan dug him out from under an olive tree, buried him, and erected a tombstone. The tombstone bears his name. Below it, an inscription: 'He waited eleven years. Never got inside the door.'

He looked at the photo. "I held his photo, stood in front of the tank. I wanted to ask him—wanted to ask him why he killed my cousin. The tank didn't answer. The tank's cannon was pointed at me, the muzzle a dark hole. I didn't run. I stood there, holding the photo, looking at the muzzle. Then the gun fired. I didn't die. I survived. Surviving means continuing to hold it."

He put the photo away, returned the empty cup to the old man, and turned north. That was the direction of Haifa. He took a few steps, stopped, turned back, and looked at the bridge. The lights on the bridge were already out, turning into a string of transparent beads in the sunlight. In the middle of the bridge, Lieutenant Alvarez stood there, holding the white flag.

Khalid looked at him, looked for a long time. Then he turned around and continued walking. He left.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching that silhouette grow smaller and finally disappear into the alleys of Tiberias. He turned around, looking at the twenty-three people. Some had already left, some were still standing on the bridge, looking at the lake's surface. He walked back to the folding table, sat down. The coffee in the thermos was still hot, he poured a cup, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang once, then picked up. Victor's voice was on the other end. "Lieutenant."

"Leader, the people from Damascus have arrived. Twenty-three. Holding photographs. The army opened fire, they fled. They fled to the shore of Lake Tiberias, crossed the bridge, drank water, and walked north. Some are going to Haifa, some are going to Tel Aviv, some to Jerusalem. The Israelis are taking them in. Hospitals are taking them in, schools are taking them in, churches are taking them in. They are taking in the Syrians."

The other end of the phone was silent for a long time. "Lieutenant, tell those people, that the bridge in Mexico is always open for them. The coffee in Mexico is always brewing for them. The white flag in Mexico is always raised for them. When they cross the bridge, they are going home. When they don't cross, they are waiting for home. Where is home? Home is in a peaceful place. Where is peace? Peace is on the other side of the bridge."

The call ended.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The wind on the lake's surface had stopped, the water was calm, like a mirror, reflecting the clouds in the sky. He picked up the cup of cold coffee from the opposite side, poured it into the lake. Then he poured two cups again, one placed in front of himself, the other placed on the opposite side of the table.

"General Hassan, the people from Damascus have arrived. Twenty-three. They drank your coffee, crossed your bridge, and walked north. Do you know them? Do you know their families? Do you know the people who died under the olive trees? You know them. You know them all. You dug them out, buried them, erected tombstones. The tombstones bear their names. Below the names, the inscription: 'He waited eleven years. Never got inside the door.' Now those holding photos are also waiting. Waiting for an answer, waiting for an apology, waiting for the truth. Can they get it?"

No one answered. He looked at that cup of coffee, looked for a long time.

Then he stood up, walked off the bridge.

Damascus, Presidential Palace. Afternoon.

Assad sat behind his desk, in front of him lay a newly delivered intelligence report. In the Damascus urban area, at least three hundred thousand people have already taken to the streets. They held the photos of the deceased, shouting Assad's name. "Assad step down! Assad step down!" The sound seeped in through the window cracks, muffled, like distant thunder, getting closer, louder, clearer. It was not "Assad step down," it was "Assad is dead."ℴ