What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  Ingrid said lightly: ‘Amanda has only been here two days, Samih. She is still learning about the way things happen here.’ Seeing that Amanda’s glass was almost empty, she got up and filled it. ‘Maybe you will be able to see this embassy woman when we come back from Damascus. How is your ankle? You are not limping so much tonight.’

  Amanda rolled up her jeans and stretched out her leg. A yellow line of bruising was visible above the bandage. ‘It looks even worse now the housing’s appeared. But it’s OK as long as I keep the bandage on.’ She helped herself to a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl on a side table.

  Ingrid explained to Samih: ‘Amanda hurt her ankle yesterday. I took her to Shatila and unfortunately she fell outside the Hezbollah office.’

  Amanda choked on a nut. ‘Hezbollah? You mean that place with the painting of a mosque?’

  ‘Yes, that is where they have their headquarters in the camp.’

  ‘God, and I was going to take a photo! You should’ve warned me.’

  Samih said something in Arabic, Ingrid responded and they both laughed.

  ‘I am saying Hezbollah would like very much to be in a British newspaper,’ said Samih. ‘Here in Beirut, they are trying very hard to become respectable — like your Liberal Democrats maybe. They are building hospitals, helping poor people — you will see them on the roads out of the city, collecting money.’ He grinned. ‘Unlike your Liberal Democrats, it is not wise to refuse, even if they are not carrying guns.’

  ‘So they are terrorists.’

  ‘For many people in Lebanon, they are the legitimate resistance... the only effective resistance. The government is weak, it answers to foreigners, not to the people. President Assad —’ He noticed Ingrid’s expression and chided her gently: ‘No, Ingrid, among ourselves, we must speak of these things.’ He turned back to Amanda. ‘You ask me about Hezbollah. I would say they are nationalists, but nationalists with guns in one hand and the holy Q’ran in the other. This combination is very dangerous, but people do not see it.’ He paused. ‘I am a poet, I believe that violence destroys the soul, but in the south they have a lot of support. No one forces the young men to become suicide-bombers.’

  Ingrid leaned forward. ‘In the camp, people are grateful because they have cleaned it up. I know you will find it hard to believe, Amanda, but once it was much worse.’

  Amanda pulled a face: ‘There’s barely a word about any of this in my guidebooks.’

  ‘For such subjects, you must turn to poets, not guidebooks.’ Samih waited a second and began to speak in Arabic, his voice low and sonorous. Amanda stared at him, thinking the language had a different cadence when spoken like this.

  ‘Did you write that?’ she asked when he finished.

  Ingrid answered for him. ‘No, Amanda, that is a famous poem by Adonis. You have heard of Adonis?’

  Amanda shook her head. Ingrid’s face was in shadow and Amanda realised that night had closed in almost while Samih was speaking. Ingrid reached to turn on a table lamp and they all blinked as their eyes adjusted to the yellow light. Ingrid rose and went to a wall unit which served as a bookcase, running her finger along one of the rows. ‘I have a translation here somewhere,’ Amanda heard her say, but she was watching Samih. He lifted his head, becoming aware of her scrutiny, and she held his sad brown eyes for a few seconds.

  ‘I have it.’ Ingrid drew out a paperback and returned to her seat, flicking through the pages to the place she wanted. She asked Samih a question in Arabic, listened to his reply and turned back a page. Clearing her throat, she read aloud in her slightly-accented English:

  The killing has changed the city’s shape — This rock

  Is a boy’s head

  This smoke people breathing.

  Everything sings of his exile/a sea

  Of blood — what

  Do you expect from these mornings other than their veins sailing

  In the mists, on the waves of the massacre?

  Amanda said nothing, not sure how she should react. She looked at Samih. ‘Has any of your poetry been translated?’

  ‘Into English? No, except in an American magazine. My French publisher brought out my collected poems last year, but the English-speaking world is not interested in a middle-aged poet who has spent much of his adult life in prison.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘In my country, Amanda, this is not unusual. Our President does not like poets, journalists, people who think for themselves.’

  ‘Which country? You’re not Lebanese?’

  ‘Syria. I was in prison for six years.’

  Amanda stared at him, remembering what Ingrid had said about Syrian prisons and revising her estimate of his age.

  ‘You are lucky,’ Samih continued. ‘You can go to my home town, Damascus, but I cannot, not while this family of gangsters is in power.’ He glanced at Ingrid. After a moment, he added almost shyly: ‘I am a communist.’

  There was a noise upstairs, something like an object falling, and they all looked towards the stairs. Anxiety creased Ingrid’s forehead and she spoke to Samih in Arabic. He replied, shaking his head.

  Ingrid said, ‘Riad’s ex-wife is moving to Brazil. She wishes to take their daughters, they have had many arguments... You must excuse him, it is very difficult.’ She looked at her watch and said in a different tone: ‘We should eat, we have an early start tomorrow. Come and sit down — Riad will join us when he can. Samih, could you light the candles?’

  With another apprehensive glance upstairs, she went to the other end of the room, switching on more lights. Amanda and Samih followed, taking seats at a table set for four. Samih took out a lighter and lit the candles as Ingrid spooned food on to three of the plates.

  ‘It is imam bayildi, Amanda, I saw that you liked eggplant.’ She put the plates in front of them and sat down. ‘You have not told me yet how you got on with Madame Boisseau. Was she helpful?’ She explained to Samih: ‘This is a French lady who has lived in Beirut for many years. She was a friend of Fabio Terzano, the photographer who was killed in the explosion.’

  ‘More her husband than her, though he’s dead now.’

  Ingrid paused, fork in mid-air. ‘So she was not able to help you?’

  ‘Oh yes, she was fantastic. Did you know she’s a masseur — masseuse? That’s how she met Fabio, or rather how he met Jean-Baptiste. They seem to have been drinking buddies, but that’s not what’s interesting.’ Amanda paused, preparing for her big revelation. ‘You’ll never believe this, Ingrid, but I know what Fabio and Aisha were doing in Nabatiyeh. Yes, really — it’s a great story.’

  She began to explain about Marwan Hadidi, and the stroke of luck that Séverine’s friend came from the next village and knew the family slightly. Ingrid listened, her eyes widening as Amanda’s enthusiasm ran away with her and her voice speeded up. As she was finishing her account, a door opened upstairs and Riad came down, grim-faced. Ingrid turned at once.

  ‘Habibi? Come and eat, we’ve just started.’

  She began to get up but Riad waved her back. ‘Stay, I’ll help myself.’

  ‘Did she —’

  ‘No — later.’

  He heaped food on to a plate, brought it to the table and stood for a moment, his hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. She lifted her own and clasped it before turning back to Amanda.

  ‘Please, Amanda, you were telling us about Madame Boisseau.’

  ‘Yes, well, this village Marwan comes from — I can’t remember the name, but I wrote it down.’ She looked around the room, trying to remember where she had left her bag.

  ‘And you think Fabio went to see him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Amanda wondered if Ingrid had been listening.

  ‘But there are no photographs of this — Marwan Hadidi, is that his name? Apart from the picture Fabio is holding, which I have seen.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t think of that.’ Amanda was crestfallen. ‘Maybe he’s got a job in Beirut or gone abroad to do a Master’s or something. People do, don’t they
?’

  ‘If they can find the money. I am not sure —’

  ‘Come on, Ingrid, even if Marwan wasn’t there, Fabio obviously saw the family.’ She looked down, realising how little she’d eaten, and heaped food on to her fork. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’ She ate quickly, her mind clearing, until she was able to push away an empty plate.

  ‘More?’

  ‘I couldn’t! Listen, Ingrid, we talked about going to see the car, remember? It’s all in the same area. I thought we could do it on our way back from Damascus.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  Samih said, ‘Damascus is a beautiful city, Amanda, very ancient. You will like it very much.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Take her to the Azm Palace.’

  Ingrid said, ‘If we have time. Amanda has a lot of people to see.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve read all about it, I really want to see, what is it, the Via Recta?’ She remembered what Samih had said earlier. ‘Would you — is there anything you’d like us to bring back?’

  ‘Thank you, that is a kind thought. Just your memories.’ Samih lifted his glass. ‘Let us drink to Damascus.’

  ‘To Damascus.’

  Even Riad’s expression had softened. Amanda gazed at the three faces in the candlelight, excited and a little bit drunk.

  Marcus glanced to either side, lowering his voice so that Stephen had to lean closer to hear what he was saying. Under cover of raucous laughter from four men at a nearby table, he said urgently: ‘You’re out of your mind, old chap. You’ve got a terrific marriage. I know she’s a bit s-sensitive, poor girl, but when the chips are down she knows how to behave — you’ve got to admit that. The word’s already out you’re a loose cannon, don’t go making things worse.’ He spluttered into silence for a few seconds. ‘Does her f-father — does he know about this nonsense? He’ll be after you with a horsewhip. Christ, I need another drink.’ His head swivelled to one side. ‘Stavros, two more brandies here, sharpish.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Make that one, Stavros.’ To Stephen he said, lowering his voice again: ‘Who have you told about this lunatic notion? I mean, leaving poor old Carolina, giving up your seat — you’re having an early midlife crisis.’ He sat back, satisfied with his analysis.

  ‘Carolina, obviously.’

  ‘Shit.’ Marcus made a show of putting his head in his hands, his dark hair falling into disarray. His cufflinks, Stephen noticed, had Palestinian flags on them.

  ‘And the boys,’ Stephen said shortly. ‘I had to tell them something. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything about divorce, just that their mother and I need a break from each other. It’s the school holidays, they’ve noticed we aren’t... getting on.’

  That was the understatement of the year, Stephen thought, not wanting to admit how bad things actually were. He and Marcus went back a long way, to when Stephen was first in Parliament and Marcus had been a sort of mentor to him, but gossip circulated in no time in the Westminster village. Stephen knew that if he turned his head, he would catch the eye of at least two colleagues from the Shadow Cabinet, one of them lunching with a notoriously indiscreet columnist, and a clutch of peers.

  Marcus was a kinder and more decent man than he appeared on the surface, happily playing up to his buffoonish image, but Stephen did not want news of his plans, if he could call them that, to leak out prematurely. With Angus away on a walking holiday, he had not been able to think of anyone else to talk to — apart from his sister, of course, but Angela was no use when it came to putting out feelers about ways of making money. It was just Stephen’s luck that his only sister was a psychiatric social worker, whose financial ambitions did not extend beyond a modest car and two weeks in Provence each summer.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Marcus, pulling an ashtray towards him and feeling in the pocket of his suit for his cigarettes. He smoked a strong Turkish brand, prompting frequent complaints in restaurants. Lighting one, Marcus continued, ‘The f-fewer people who know about this the better. That dreadfully ill-advised outburst of yours last month — perhaps we can play it to your advantage. Shock of losing the election, old friends out on their ear — including yours truly, of course. Young family.’

  ‘Not that young.’

  ‘Come, come, they’re at a delicate stage in their development.’

  ‘Marcus —’

  ‘S-stress, whatever the politically correct term is these days. Who’s your doctor? I know a good man, no trouble getting you a certificate. Harley Street, cost you a bit, but that’s the least of your problems. Have a couple of months off, go and enjoy yourself somewhere. Take a friend.’ He winked, making sure Stephen knew what he was talking about, and his hair flapped even more wildly. ‘Carolina knows the score, she won’t mind.’

  Struggling to keep his temper, Stephen said, ‘She would. And I’m not ill.’

  ‘Not suggesting you are, old boy. Trying to save your political bacon, which is another kettle offish altogether. Excuse the mixed metaphors.’

  Marcus gulped down the last of his brandy and lifted a fresh glass from the tray the waiter was holding out to him. They were eating at his club — one of his clubs, for Marcus’s entry in Who’s Who listed half a dozen. It wasn’t that he especially liked the food, but it was one of the few places left in London where he could smoke as much as he liked. He inhaled, blew out a cloud of pungent blue-grey smoke, and added: ‘By the way, did I tell you I’m holding out for a peerage? Bloody nerve, offering me a K.’

  Moving his head to avoid the smoke, Stephen summoned a weak grin, although he had heard the story before. He put a hand up, hardly aware of what he was doing, and felt the nick just below his ear where he had cut himself while shaving.

  ‘End of your prospects, you know, if you cause a by-election. Getting back to your domestic problem —’

  ‘Look, let’s not talk about my marriage, it’s something Carolina and I have to sort out ourselves. It’s the — the other business I want to talk to you about, just in case you happen to hear of anything.’

  Marcus screwed up his face. ‘A job, you mean? There must be some quango, they always need chairmen for this or that. Can’t what’s-his-face help — you know, your brother-in-law? Nice little executive directorship — he’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Georgie?’ Stephen stared at him, aghast.

  ‘No, I s-suppose not, in the circs. You see, old chap, you are digging a hell of a hole for yourself.’

  Stephen’s shoulders sagged. He looked down, avoiding Marcus’s gaze. ‘Maybe after this long I’m unemployable.’

  ‘You sound instit — what’s the word, institutionalised. Chap who came to my surgery, ex-con, claims he has GulfWar syndrome. Not sure he was ever in the army but he tells me if they don’t do something — it’s always they in these cases, have you noticed — if they don’t do something he’ll break a window and get sent down again. Can’t function outside an institution, he says. He’s got the jargon down pat. I told him, you have to do a lot more than break a window to get porridge these days. More likely to get yourself assigned a s-social worker, if there’s one left. Gather most’ve them are in the House, agitating for creches and all that. Can’t say it’s improved the ambience.’

  He pronounced the final word with an exaggerated French accent. Stephen wondered if his rejection by the voters still rankled, even though Marcus seemed to be collecting part-time jobs and directorships at an astonishing rate.

  ‘What did he do?’ he asked on cue.

  ‘Mmm?’ Marcus stubbed out his cigarette and delivered the punchline. ‘Held up a petrol station with an air pistol. Lucky he didn’t get himself shot, silly bugger.’

  They both laughed and the atmosphere lightened.

  ‘Another thing — got to think about the pension. Carolina’s going to get lawyers straight on to it, don
’t f-fool yourself about that. No such thing as an amicable divorce, take it from one who knows. Think of a figure and triple it, it’s bloody expensive. Who’s her father’s lawyer? Farrer?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘There you are then. Pension was the first thing I thought of when that little shirtlifter pinched my seat. Not that I’m prejudiced — army was full of them. Just wish they didn’t go on about it. That chap, the one who does at least talk a lot of sense about Mugabe, he never sounds very gay. In the old sense, of course.’ He laughed heartily at his own joke.

  Marcus had ordered two bottles of red with lunch, and drunk most of them. As soon as they ordered, he had launched into an unstoppable account of a party he had been to the previous night, where he had been introduced to Gwyneth Paltrow; a recent trip to Jerusalem, where he had met a group of students who were refusing to do national service in the Israeli Defence Force; and an invitation he had just received to sit on the board of an opera company.

  ‘By the way,’ he said suddenly, ‘what is your majority? Pretty s-safe seat, isn’t it?’

  Stephen was about to answer when a hand descended on Marcus’s shoulder. He started, almost knocked over his brandy, and recovered himself. ‘Michael. How are you? How’s things at Number 10? I hear you’ve got yourself a nice little number there.’ He paused. ‘You know Stephen Massinger? Stephen’s one of the lucky ones who managed to hang on in the May Day massacre.’ He gave Stephen a warning glance.

  Stephen said, ‘We have met,’ and received a nod in return. The man was a former ambassador, recendy returned to London, who was said to be unofficially advising the Prime Minister on foreign policy. He and Marcus began a hushed conversation that seemed to be largely conducted in code and Stephen unobtrusively pulled back his sleeve to check the time. Any moment now he would have to return to Charles Street, where he had taken his most urgent papers and a couple of changes of clothes, and start dealing with the problems caused by his decision to move out of the family home. He couldn’t help worrying about Carolina and the boys, whom he had had to leave with her; he suspected that she was becoming anorexic again, she had started to wear long-sleeved shirts as she had in the past, but what could he do? She refused to talk to him or see a doctor — and Marcus was right, Stephen thought grimly, Carolina’s father would bully her into going to a lawyer as soon as he discovered they were living apart. He supposed that was one of the things he should get on with, without any further delay.