The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Flirting – what do you mean by that? It felt like an insult.’

  ‘Making toasts with strange men, for example,’ said Jamal quietly. ‘Don’t do that. You seem a little tipsy.’

  ‘Jamal, for one thing, he was the one who toasted me. Secondly, I’ve had one beer. Thirdly, you said that I was flirting before I … before he toasted me.’

  ‘You’ve had almost two beers. And you haven’t eaten a thing. You’re working hard, exercising hard and you’ve had peanuts for dinner. You should expect that to have an effect.’

  ‘You still haven’t explained to me this thing about flirting. I think I can touch you without you thinking I’m trying to get you in bed. We’ve known each other for a hundred years, for Christ’s sake. Touched each other for just as long.’

  Jamal motioned with his hand to calm her, but this only stirred up more emotions.

  ‘So why did you want to come out with me?’ she continued, in a lower voice now. ‘I wasn’t in the mood, but you were. So you got me to come and here we sit talking and having a nice time and suddenly you get all moody for no reason. Of course I’m hurt, don’t you get that?’

  Jamal turned his eyes away from her and let them rest for a moment on a vague spot above a security guard who was leaning against the wall behind the bar. Then he turned back towards her and took her hand in his. He looked at her for a while with a dejected look in his eyes before he started talking again.

  ‘Okay, Petra. I take back what I said about flirting. I apologize for that.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  She was not sure where this was going, if it would be better or worse, but she did not want to be considered a flirt. Especially not by Jamal, who with his brown velvet eyes, the charming little dimple on his chin and his well-built thirty-year-old policeman’s body could have knocked any woman off her feet before he got married.

  ‘Seriously. But you are a little tipsy,’ he said, revealing his perfect white teeth in a smile as he let go of her hand. ‘That’s okay. I guess that’s why we’re here. You’re fine, so don’t think any more about that either.’

  Jamal sighed and Petra waited attentively for what would come next.

  ‘Now you might think I’m a little sensitive,’ he continued, ‘but sometimes I get so damn tired of all the allusions to my origins. I know the intentions aren’t bad, and I know that in most cases there’s no prejudice behind it. But it’s just so damn tedious. I am who I am, regardless of my Lebanese roots, which I’m proud of by the way. Sometimes I get the feeling that you all don’t see me behind all that Arab stuff you imagine in me. I’m Swedish, damn it! Just like you. I’ve been living in Sweden since I was six years old, for twenty-four years.’

  Petra looked at him with a kind of uncomprehending sympathy in her eyes.

  ‘And I don’t like that look either,’ Jamal pointed out. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t spend my time feeling sorry for you.’

  Petra straightened up and tried not to look too sanctimonious. Instead, she gulped down the last of her drink and, without asking Jamal, ordered two more beers. Jamal, too, emptied his glass.

  ‘And where do I fit into the picture?’ she asked. ‘What was it I said that made you … grumpy?’

  ‘It goes on all the time. You don’t notice it, because you don’t mean anything by it and you know that I know that you like me and respect me. But it’s “Ramadan” this and “Mohammed” that, one thing after another. Just little things, but it all adds up … What was it you said before … ? Something about my “big, fat Lebanese family”? I just get so tired of that.’

  Suddenly Petra knew what he meant. She recalled that she had jokingly asked him whether it ‘offended his Arabic manhood’ that he sat while she stood. She realized how annoying it must be to get such comments about everything you said and did.

  ‘It’s as though in every conversation with me you had to insert a little comment about … my big ears or something,’ said Petra, suddenly feeling that she was blushing.

  Jamal’s face broke out in a scornful smile. Petra covered her face with her hands and drew up her shoulders.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything!’ She peeped out from behind her hands.

  ‘Now you’re flirting, Westman,’ said Jamal triumphantly.

  ‘I am not, I really am embarrassed.’ Petra looked up at him imploringly. ‘I should have made something up, not revealed my sore spot.’

  Jamal took her head between his hands and pulled her hair behind her ears with his blunt fingers. Then he said, with a suddenly serious expression, ‘I think you have nice ears. Do we understand each other?’

  Petra nodded.

  ‘Then I think we should leave this topic of conversation.’

  Petra agreed, feeling suddenly stone-cold sober. It was often that way for her. After one beer, when she hadn’t had any for a long time, things could really start spinning. After two she felt sober again.

  They sat and talked for a while longer. Petra asked what plans Jamal had for the weekend, but he answered evasively and looked at his watch. He asked her about her weekend, but because – as usual – she hadn’t planned anything, there was not much to say about that. She ventured to ask what he thought about the war that was once again raging in Lebanon. Jamal sighed and Petra anticipated him.

  ‘I’m asking because I’m interested, not because I want to stir anything up.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s cool. It’s just that it’s something you can talk about endlessly. Of course I’m against the war. Lebanon was flourishing when the war broke out.’

  ‘Have you been back?’

  ‘A few times. We were there on our honeymoon. It’s an amazing country. Was an amazing country.’

  ‘But the war will end sooner or later?’ Petra asked.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. It’s all very complicated. And very simple, seen from any particular perspective. Everyone wants what they think they have a right to. And everyone is right in their own way.’

  ‘But who should you support? Who do you support?’

  ‘It isn’t a football match, with two teams. You don’t even know what teams are playing, do you?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Petra admitted.

  ‘There are more than two teams. The situation in Lebanon is even more complicated than the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. Just as impossible to resolve, but harder to get a sense of. Most people in Lebanon don’t even know what it’s about.’

  ‘But tell me which side you’re on,’ Petra tried ingenuously.

  ‘I’m sitting here in Sweden, just hoping for peace. A peaceful solution, with everyone getting their share of the pie. But that’s easy to say when you’re not in the middle of it. If I was still living in Lebanon, it would be a lot harder to view the conflict from any perspective other than my own.’

  ‘So where in Lebanon did you live?’

  ‘In a village in the south. Then in Beirut. Dad was a schoolteacher.’

  ‘And now? What does he do here in Sweden?’

  ‘He drove a taxi until he retired a year ago. When he came here he was very determined that we would all become Swedes, and that we would not isolate ourselves in some suburb among a lot of other immigrants. That has advantages and disadvantages, of course, but it turned out well for me and my siblings, so we’re extremely grateful to our parents. But they have never really managed to be accepted in Swedish society. They live for us.’

  ‘Is your dad happy with your choice of occupation?’ Petra continued stubbornly.

  ‘He’s very proud of all four of us.’

  ‘What would you have become if you’d stayed in Lebanon, do you think?’

  Jamal emptied his glass and glanced at his watch again. It was eight-thirty.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ he said, jumping down from the bar stool.

  He reached for his leather jacket and put it on without zipping it up. Petra had just started on her third beer, so she decided to stay and enjoy the lively Friday atmosphere ar
ound her. Jamal took his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out two hundred-kronor bills, which he placed on the bar in front of her.

  ‘See you,’ he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Petra.

  He looked at her for a few moments, a look that did not reveal what he was thinking.

  ‘Hezbollah,’ he answered curtly, and then left.

  Petra remained sitting there for a long time with her hands around the beer glass, staring vacantly ahead of her. What could that mean? Hezbollah – wasn’t that a terrorist group?

  ‘It sounds like you may need a little refresher on the political situation in Lebanon.’

  Petra looked up in surprise. It was the man on the neighbouring bar stool, the man who had raised his glass to her earlier in the evening. He was nicely but casually dressed in a light-blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a dark-blue blazer and a pair of well-fitting jeans held in place by a Johan Lindeberg belt. When he smiled the skin around his eyes wrinkled in an attractive way under a lock of hair that tended to fall down over his forehead.

  ‘Yes, that’s putting it mildly,’ Petra sighed, responding to his smile with a little laugh.

  ‘Please excuse me, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I happened to hear fragments of your conversation and I am quite well informed on the subject, so I couldn’t help myself. Would you like to talk, or perhaps you’d rather sit by yourself?’

  The man gave a genuinely pleasant impression, and the fact that he actually admitted eavesdropping somehow added to his credibility. He had blue eyes and a thick mop of hair that she thought must make any man his age a little jealous.

  ‘No, we can talk a little,’ said Petra. ‘But I’m heading home soon,’ she added to be on the safe side.

  ‘Yes, me too,’ said the man. ‘I’m working tomorrow, so it will have to be an early evening for me.’

  He made no effort to move closer, but continued instead.

  ‘Lebanon is a marvellous country. Did you know that you can swim in the Mediterranean and go skiing in a resort with an amazing lift system all in one afternoon?’

  ‘I think I’ve heard that, but I didn’t know it was so close,’ Petra admitted.

  ‘Yes, in Faraya-Mzaar there are something like forty slopes and the view from there is amazing. On one side you have the Bekaa Valley, and if the weather is clear you can see all the way to Beirut.’

  ‘So that’s the place to go, if you can’t decide between a skiing and a swimming holiday,’ Petra laughed.

  ‘Absolutely. But not now. Cheers.’

  Petra responded to his toast with a nod and took a sip of her beer.

  ‘So, do you know anything about the war?’ said Petra.

  He nodded and set his glass down in front of him.

  ‘Then you’ll have to brief me. It seems I have a gap in my education.’

  ‘Sure. In the beginning of time – which was not all that long ago …’

  Petra suddenly realized that they were sitting there shouting at each other at a distance of several metres, and asked him to move closer. The man laughed at the ridiculous situation, took his wineglass and jacket and moved over to the stool where Jamal had just been sitting.

  ‘Peder,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Peder Fryhk.’

  ‘Petra,’ said Petra.

  ‘Well, both of those trouble spots – Israel and Lebanon – were pet projects for a few European fools in the 1920s who got the idea they should stake a claim to areas with major archaeological value. After the division of the Ottoman Empire, Syria became a French League of Nations mandate.’

  ‘After the First World War?’ said Petra.

  ‘After the First World War. The French colonialists took particular care of the Maronites – who were Catholics – in the Lebanon Mountains, the old Phoenician coastland in Syria. Then in the early 1920s, the French drew a few lines on the map and, just like that, Lebanon became a Christian, European country in the middle of all the Muslims. Then, when Lebanon became independent in 1943, political power was divided between Christians and Muslims and a few others. That was a balancing act, but it worked until the Arabs decided to invade the new state of Israel.’

  ‘When was that? 1947? ’48?’

  ‘It was 1948. Then Palestinian refugees poured into Lebanon, while hundreds of thousands of Christians fled and made their way to South America. Since then there has been no Christian majority in Lebanon, in fact, quite the opposite.’

  ‘And so the French and Israelis back the Christian minority and the Arab world supports the Muslims?’

  ‘Something like that. Although it’s even more complicated than that. You probably can’t bear listening to me droning on any more.’

  He emptied his wineglass and waved to the bartender.

  ‘Try me,’ said Petra.

  ‘Okay. Two glasses of house red, thanks,’ he said to the bartender and then continued his account for Petra, who was doing her best to memorize what he was saying.

  Once again she saw the features of Sjöberg in this man. He had really warmed to his subject, and he was so passionate that sparks were flying around him. And the enthusiasm was contagious.

  ‘None of these Palestinian refugees have any rights as citizens in Lebanon, so right there a certain discontent started to grow. Israel, for its part, feared the Arabs who surrounded them in all directions, so they made pacts with any non-Arabs who could be mobilized in the vicinity, including those Maronites in Lebanon. At that time Egypt’s President Nasser was promoting Arab nationalism and in the late 1960s he forced the government of Lebanon, which had no say in it, to open up the southern part of the country to the PLO to attack Israel. South Lebanon became a Palestinian enclave. That was when the spiral of violence took off, you might say. And then there was Syria, which had never acknowledged the invention of the French Lebanon as a separate country. So in 1975, when the civil war got going, Syria first helped the Palestinians to kill Christians, and then the Maronites to murder Palestinians. Finally they got what they wanted. With Israel’s consent, Syria occupied Lebanon, on the basis that they would keep the PLO in check in South Lebanon. Do you follow?’

  ‘So everyone was dissatisfied and everyone had pretty good reason to be that way too,’ said Petra, emptying her beer glass.

  Peder Fryhk scooted a wineglass over to her.

  ‘That’s just how it was. And it only got worse. Did he say he came from South Lebanon, your friend?’

  ‘Yes, but they moved to Beirut,’ Petra confirmed.

  ‘The powers-that-be in Israel got the idea that they should eradicate the Palestinian enclave in South Lebanon, so they invaded, drove the Syrians out of Beirut and installed a Christian regime in Lebanon. Syria then had the new Christian president assassinated, and in turn the Maronites started slaughtering civilian Palestinians in refugee camps. The PLO moved its headquarters to Tunis, but as you might guess, there were foot soldiers still in South Lebanon and they naturally had major support from all the “old” Palestinians in the country, who had been living under a kind of apartheid since 1948. It was then, in the absence of the PLO, that Hezbollah was formed.’

  ‘And that wasn’t so strange,’ Petra interjected.

  ‘No, not at all. And so now there was a drawn-out war between Hezbollah and Israel playing out in South Lebanon.’

  ‘But the Lebanese in South Lebanon, what did they do?’

  ‘They were peaceful Shia Muslim farmers who tried to keep out of it. Many of them fled to south Beirut, which developed into a Hezbollah enclave, where their sons were trained to be fully-fledged child soldiers ready and willing to sacrifice themselves.’

  ‘Because they had lost what they had and could see no future. Yes, good Lord,’ Petra sighed. ‘It’s never-ending. When was this?’

  ‘Hezbollah was formed in 1982,’ said Peder. ‘Cheers.’

  Petra sipped the wine and suddenly it was clear to her why Jamal’s father had taken his family and left L
ebanon. And what Jamal meant by what he had said as he was leaving the bar, and why he was unable to explain. And what a badly educated idiot she was. Twice she had been through a course in world history, at primary and secondary school. Neither time had they got further than the First World War. She knew more than she cared to about the Stone Age and the Viking Age, and she knew the list of Sweden’s monarchs, but they had never even touched on the conflicts in the Middle East. Or any other trouble spot in the modern world.

  Peder continued to explain about the involvement of the United States and the rest of the world in Lebanese politics, Syria’s retaking of and later departure from Lebanon, the murder of Rafic Hariri and the current situation. Petra listened with great interest. She hoped that all this useful information would not be completely gone tomorrow, and convinced herself that the essentials would stick in her mind anyway. Two hours later, when yet another glass of wine was put in front of her, it occurred to her that she was in desperate need of a toilet break. She had been so consumed by the sympathetic man’s monologue and – she believed and hoped – her newly won knowledge about her colleague and his background, that she had been oblivious to all else.

  ‘How do you happen to be so well-informed about all this?’ she asked when she returned.

  On her way back from the toilet she had determined that she was not particularly intoxicated, but she decided that it was time to go home after this glass anyway. Three beers and two glasses of wine in five hours was not a problem, but it was more than enough.

  ‘I’ve worked down there,’ Peder answered. ‘True, it was a long time ago, but I love that country and so I keep up with what’s going on.’

  ‘What did you do there?’ Petra asked.

  ‘I worked as a doctor for an organization called Doctors Without Borders.’

  Petra laughed at his modesty. ‘Are you kidding me, you’re a Nobel Prize-winner! Let me congratulate you.’