Chapter 2199 - 882: War! (2)

Assad didn't turn around. "What about the 4th Armored Division?"

"Still in the camp. The division commander said his soldiers refused to deploy. They said the people holding up photos are not terrorists; they are Syrians. They don't want to shoot at Syrians."

Assad turned around and looked at the Minister of Defense.

"So, I have no army left?"

"Mr. President, we still have—"

"What do we still have? There's nothing left. The Big Bear can't move, the army doesn't obey orders, and the people are standing at the door waiting for me to go out. If I go out, they'll kill me. If I don't go out, they'll still kill me. I'm doomed."

He walked back to his desk and sat down. On the desk lay a newly delivered report. Golan Heights, the bridge at Lake Tiberias, Lieutenant Alvarez still has his coffee stand on the bridge. Every day he brews a pot of Chiapas coffee, pours two cups, drinks one himself, and leaves the other on the opposite side of the table, saving it for Hassan. Hassan is dead, but the cup is still there.

"Tell Lieutenant Alvarez I want a cup of coffee."

The Minister of Defense was stunned.

"Mr. President—"

"Tell that Mexican bridge-builder that Assad wants a cup of coffee. Not to drink in Damascus, but on the bridge. On the bridge over Lake Tiberias, between Syria and Israel, on the line there. Does he dare let me go?"

The Minister of Defense turned and walked away.

Assad sat there, looking out the window. The people holding up photos were still standing. He looked at them, looked for a long time. Then he stood up and walked to the coat rack, taking down the old uniform that had hung there for a long time. Worn during the 1973 Yom Kippur War, two stars on the epaulettes, a medal pinned to the chest. He put it on and straightened the collar in front of the mirror.

The person in the mirror was old, hair white, back hunched, eyes sunken. Yet those eyes were still there, very bright, like the winter waters of Lake Tiberias, frozen, but with fire beneath the ice.

...

Golan Heights, the bridge at Lake Tiberias, evening

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table, the coffee in the thermos freshly brewed. He poured two cups, one in front of himself, and one on the opposite side of the table.

A car arrived at the eastern end of the bridge. A black sedan, its body splattered with mud. The car door opened, and out stepped a man in an old military uniform, two stars on the epaulettes, a medal pinned to the chest. His hair was white, back hunched, eyes sunken, but those eyes were very bright.

Assad.

He walked onto the bridge, moving slowly, each step heavy. He walked to the middle of the bridge, standing in front of the folding table, looking at the cup of coffee.

"Lieutenant, is this coffee for me?"

Alvarez stood up. "It's for General Hassan. He's dead. The cup is still there. If you want to drink, just drink. He's gone, the cup remains empty anyway."

Assad sat down, picked up the cup of coffee, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

"Lieutenant, do you know why I'm here?"

Alvarez shook his head.

Assad looked at the lake's surface. The water was very blue, and the sky was also very blue, the distant city of Tiberias very white.

"Because I'm tired. I've killed people for thirty-one years, I'm tired. Tired of it, I don't want to kill anymore. If I don't want to kill anymore, I want to die. Wanting to die, I want to see a place I haven't killed anyone before I die."

He looked at the bridge, at the wooden boards on the bridge surface, at the string of lights on the bridge railing.

"Has anyone ever died here?"

Alvarez was silent for three seconds. "Yes. Many have died. The Golan Heights was fought for seven days, thousands died. Tiberias City was fought for three days, hundreds died. But no one has died on the bridge. On the bridge, there's only coffee, only water, only passersby."

Assad nodded. He picked up the coffee cup and took another sip.

"Lieutenant, do you know how many people are buried under those olive trees?"

Alvarez looked at him. "You don't know?"

"I don't know. Rifat killed them, Rifat buried them, Rifat remembered them. The list is in his hands, he died, the list is in your hands. You have the list, I don't. I don't know how many people I've killed. If I don't know, I don't have to acknowledge it. If I don't acknowledge, I don't have to take responsibility. If I don't take responsibility, I don't have to go to prison. If I don't go to prison, I don't have to die."

He put down the cup.

"But now I want to know. Tell me, Lieutenant, how many people are buried under those olive trees?"

Alvarez took out that piece of paper from his pocket, spreading it on the table. Forty names, twenty-three already buried, seventeen still alive. The living, some in Israel, some in Syria, some in places unknown.

"Forty. Twenty-three buried under the olive trees, seventeen still alive. The living, some in Haifa, some in Damascus, some in unknown places. They are holding up photos, standing at the gate of your Presidential Palace, waiting for you to come out. You came out, they didn't kill you. They didn't kill you because they don't want to kill anymore. Don't want to kill anymore because they've killed enough. If they've killed enough, they won't kill. If they don't kill, they'll live. If they live, that's good."

Assad looked at that piece of paper, looked at those names.

"Forty. Only forty?"

"Only forty. Cell 317 held for eleven years, only held forty. Rifat killed forty, only buried forty. How many have you killed? How many Syrians have you killed? Hamah in 1976, ten thousand. Hamah in 1982, twenty thousand. Hamah in 2011, thirty thousand. Sixty thousand. Sixty thousand people, sixty thousand faces, sixty thousand pairs of eyes. They're looking at you too. Not just at the gate of the Presidential Palace, they're looking at you from above."

Assad's hand began to tremble.

"Lieutenant, I—"

"Mr. President, you shouldn't have come here. The bridge is for people to pass, not for murderers. If you cross the bridge, the bridge will be dirty. If the bridge is dirty, the water will be dirty. If the water is dirty, people can't drink it. If people can't drink the water, they'll die. You've killed so many people, do you still want more people to die?"

Assad stood up, looking at the lake's surface. The water was very blue, and the sky was also very blue, the distant city of Tiberias very white.

"Lieutenant, I haven't crossed the bridge. I've just sat on it for a while. Sat for a while and had a cup of coffee. The coffee is bitter, but fragrant. Syrian coffee is also bitter, but not fragrant. Because Syrian coffee has the taste of blood."

He placed the empty cup on the table and turned to walk off the bridge. After a few steps, he stopped, not turning back.

"Lieutenant, keep the bridge. Let the water flow. People, I won't kill anymore."

He got into the car. The car door closed, the vehicle turned around, heading south. That's the direction of Damascus. That's the direction of the people holding up photos. That's the direction he came from.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the car disappear into the dust. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down beside it. The coffee in the thermos was still hot, he poured a cup, picked it up, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

He picked up the empty cup placed on the opposite side, placing it beside the table. Not opposite, but beside. Placed next to Hassan's cup.

"General Hassan, Assad has been here. Drank your coffee, sat on your chair, looked at your lake. He said he won't kill anymore. Do you believe him?"

No one answered. He looked at those two cups, looked for a long time.

Then he picked up the radio.

"Get me Mexico City."

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

"Lieutenant."

"Leader, Assad has been here. Sat on the bridge for ten minutes, drank a cup of coffee, said a few words, then left. He said he won't kill anymore."

The other side of the phone was silent for a long time.

"Lieutenant, do you believe him?"

"Leader, I don't know."

"I don't know either. But I know one thing—keep the bridge; let the water flow. Coffee, keep brewing."

The phone hung up.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone. The wind on the lake surface had stopped, the water was calm, like a mirror, reflecting the stars in the sky. The lights on the bridge turned on, a string of small bulbs lined up along the bridge railing, like two golden ribbons in the night.

He picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

"General Hassan, the coffee will brew again tomorrow. Will you come?"

No one answered.

He put down the cup, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

The wind blew from the lake's surface, warm and humid, carrying the scent of coffee.

He fell asleep in the wind.