Chapter 2176 - 876: Peace, Why Is It So Hard to Come By! (2)

"Where's the gravestone?"

"In my pocket."

"Keep it. Use it when needed."

The call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The fog over the lake dispersed, the sun rose, shining glaringly on the water. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. 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 looked at the east end of the bridge. It was empty, except for the tractor tire tracks, leaving two deep grooves in the muddy ground. He looked at those two grooves for a long time.

Then he stood up, picked up the thermos, and walked down the bridge. At the bridgehead, the Mexican Army's off-road vehicle was still parked there, the engine running. He got in, closed the door. The car turned around, heading south. Not in the direction of Haifa, not towards Tel Aviv, but towards Hamah.

He wanted to see those trees. See those gravestones. See the man who carved the gravestone.

Damascus, Presidential Palace.

Hafez Assad stood by the window, looking at the garden outside. The roses bloomed, red, white, pink, vivid in the morning light. The gardener was watering, the hose dragging on the ground, splashing water on the petals, sparkling.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him.

"Mr. President, Hassan is not coming back. He said the 5th Division is yours to command, he's done with it. He wants to carve gravestones on the mountain. Carve one for everyone. When finished, set them under the trees. Then he will live on the mountain, watching those trees, watching those gravestones."

Assad didn't turn around. "How many has he carved?"

"Twenty-three. Seventeen left to carve."

Assad nodded. "Let him carve. When he's done, tell him when the stones are set, people will come alive. When alive, they'll come back. The 5th Division is waiting for him."

The Minister of Defense hesitated. "Mr. President, the soldiers of the 5th Division—they are also on the mountain. Helping to dig pits, helping to carve gravestones, helping to set them. They say they will not return until they finish digging, carving, and setting."

Assad turned, looking at the Minister of Defense. His eyes were cold, like the water of Lake Tiberias in winter.

"Then let them dig. Let them carve. Let them set. When done, inform me."

The Minister of Defense nodded, turned to leave.

"Wait." Assad stopped him. "Where's Rifat's body?"

The Minister of Defense halted. "At the airport. In the freezer. Not dealt with yet."

Assad was silent for three seconds. "Send it to Hamah. Give it to Hassan. Let him bury it under the olive grove. Don't set a gravestone."

The Minister of Defense was stunned. "Mr. President—"

"He is a beast. Beasts don't deserve gravestones."

He turned, continuing to look at the roses. The gardener was still watering, the hose dragging on the ground, splashing water on the petals, sparkling. He looked at the flowers for a long time.

Hamah, at the northern foot of the mountain, olive grove.

When Lieutenant Alvarez arrived, it was already dark.

He drove the off-road vehicle along the dirt road for three hours, his bottom aching, his waist sore. The car's headlights shone on the road ahead, pitted like it had been bombed. On both sides were bare hills, with snow still unmelted.

The car stopped at the foot of the mountain. He got out, standing in front of the olive grove. There were many trees, hundreds, lined up, rustling in the night breeze. Beneath each tree, there was a newly set gravestone.

Gray, irregular, varying in size, but each with inscribed words.

Names, dates, and a line of small text. He squatted, touching the nearest gravestone. It read: "Malik Hassan. Imprisoned for nine years. When released, died at his doorstep. His mother waited for him nine years, also died."

His hand paused on the name. Malik Hassan. Hassan's nephew. The young man who walked across the bridge. Walked slowly, each step heavy. Stopped in the middle of the bridge, touched the wooden planks. Stood up, looked at the lake. The lake water was very blue, the sky also very blue, the distant Tiberias City very white.

Now he lay beneath this grove. Entwined with the roots, mingled with the soil, with the leaves of those olive trees, rustling in the wind.

Alvarez stood up, walked deeper into the grove. Every few steps, there was a gravestone. He looked at each one, reciting names one by one. Some he knew, some he didn't. Those he knew, he recalled their faces. Those he didn't, he remembered their names.

He walked for a long time, reaching the center of the grove. There was an empty space, with bundles of white cloth stacked. Twenty-three. Arranged neatly in three rows, waiting to be buried in the pits. The pits were already dug, twenty-three pits, one pit for each, arranged in three rows. An old man stood by the pits.

Hassan.

He wore an old military uniform, his hair completely white, his back severely hunched, leaning on a cane. He stood before those pits, looking at the white cloth bundles, not turning his head.

"You came," he said.

Alvarez stood behind him. "General, I came."

Hassan turned to look at him. The face was aged, lined with wrinkles, eye sockets sunken, cheekbones protruding, like a tree bent by the wind. But the eyes remained, bright like the winter water of Lake Tiberias, frozen, but beneath the ice, the water still flowed.

"Did you bring coffee?"

Alvarez took a thermos from his pocket. "I did. Beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, the kind you like."

He unscrewed the lid, poured a cup, handed it to Hassan. Hassan took it, sipped it. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant. Holding the cup, he looked at the pits, at the white cloth bundles.