“You’ve done your homework I see, Mr. Ansari.”
“Always, Mr. de Crecy. Invariably Muslims look at all the elements of a puzzle. It is part of our ethnicity, the awareness of ourselves. We evaluate everything in others so that we know more about ourselves. Trust is not always earned and thus not freely given. We have a saying, I’m sure Mr. Shallal remembers too, ‘If your enemy is my enemy then we are friends.’ I bid you a good afternoon. Come my dear. You must make our home ready for our honored guest.” And turning towards Tony Shallal, he added, “Until eight this evening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Shallal arrived wearing the robes of a fashionable Iraqi. His looks were so totally different from that of her husband that Emily could not help smiling appreciatively. Where Ghulam looked almost feminine and bore a strong resemblance to Sal Mineo the American film idol of the fifties, Shallal compared to the more masculine Omar Sharif and much to Emily’s amazement, even the housekeeper fluttered around him as if he really was the Egyptian actor.
Ghulam took this all in his stride, greeting Shallal in the olive grove and leading him to the rose-laden patio where they sipped mint tea and began their traditional mezze. Emily had planned the entire meal, much to the astonished Jarbour, who looked downright intimidated as Emily stuffed vegetables with lamb, pine nuts and almonds and skewered chicken with fruit to make kebabs, leaving only the preparation of the fattoush, and salads to her kitchen staff. The finale was fresh fruit served with Lebanese cheeses and thick, sweet coffee with Middle Eastern baklava, more savory than the sweet Greek variety. They played records that Emily had brought with her from Germany and England. The Zombies, Dylan, and War, all of which made Emily feel very homesick and by the time they had drifted into The Beatles “Hey Jude” she was on the brink of tears. A series of telephone calls interrupted her reverie and finally the housekeeper summoned Ghulam urgently. She was obviously in a state of panic.
“What on earth has happened?” Emily asked Ghulam when he returned.
“I’m afraid I have to leave for a little while. Our groundsman, the husband of the housekeeper is being held by the police. As you know Shallal, it has been bad here since the incident last March when Palestinians escorting a convoy of cars to Damascus through Kahhaleh, a Christian town. The Christians fired on them. No doubt you remember, it became quite an international incident and we have accomplished nothing since in trying to get the people to calm down. The Christians are threatened by the presence of the Palestinian Camps at Dikwaneh and Harit Hreik and they’re tired of being harassed by the Palestinians. It seems that the local office of the Kataeb Party has been raided by Palestinian guerrillas and Pierre Gemayel’s son Bashir has been kidnapped. I think our man was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I must go and sort this out. Please stay here until I return. It should not take long. Jabour never leaves the house without papers, but what he was doing anywhere near Hamra Street is beyond my comprehension but I’m sure the authorities will release him to me. Many of them know me, or at least have heard of my father.”
“Let me come with you. I have diplomatic immunity here.”
“No, Shallal, you must stay with Amina in case there’s a problem and I am detained for some reason. You’re both British citizens and that still counts for something here, I suppose.”
After Ghulam’s departure, Tony Shallal explained to Amina the rudiments of Lebanese politics. “After the 1967 war,” he began, “this country was quite vocal about its support of the Arab struggle against Israel, but it did not endorse it by sending in troops. Instead there was an unofficial condoning of Palestinian terrorists in Lebanon by the prominent Islamic community. Israel repeatedly accused Lebanon of refusing to control the Palestinian refugees who were flooding in here by the thousands and by 1968 Israel began raiding the border towns and tackling the now heavily armed Palestinian strongholds themselves. In many ways I understand that because the Palestinians have pretty much taken over some border areas. That poses a big security problem for all of us. Last year heavy fighting broke out between Israeli commandos and the Lebanese Army. This thing with Gamayel could be very dangerous indeed. Pierre Gemayel is the founder of the Social Democratic Party. Not only is he a very affluent man but he is also a very influential politician. This could get out of control.” Shallal went to the phone to ring the British Embassy.
“Are we at risk here Tony?” Emily asked as he concluded his telephone conversation with Archie Beresford.
“As Muslims or Arabs m’dear, we’re at risk everywhere.”
“We’re British!”
“Are we?” he replied. “Sometimes, I wonder. I sound English, I have an upper-class accent, but put me in a pair of bell bottoms or a leather jacket, or even fatigues and I could be anything. I’m the Universal Soldier. My point is that I have been brought up as a wealthy Englishman as you have been brought up to believe you’re a typically privileged Brit as well. But the reality is, you’re a wog, a coolie, an invader, a half-caste, paki, nig-nog, whatever they want to call you, but not really English. It might take decades before our kind are acceptable.”
“Christ Tony, and you’re the voice of the new Civil Service? Heaven help the Empire,” she laughed.
“Emily, one day we might have to take sides. Which one will you choose and where will you go?”
“America,” she replied without a second thought. “A country built on diversity. There is no other choice.”
“You know, I’ve thought of that too.”
“Well my lad, I hope the walls aren’t bugged or you’re, as our American cousins would say, in ‘real deep shit’. But Tony. I do need to tell you something and I just don’t know who best to alert. I saw Ulrike Meinhof and Gudrun Ensslin. They’re here in Lebanon.” Quickly she related her meeting with them in the church yard. “They’re going to Jordan and then to Syria to a training camp.”
“They’ll find no welcome in Jordan,” Shallal stated emphatically. “They’ve been overrun with Palestinians who are being kicked back here. At some point the countries who are pro-Israel will insist on the Lebanese taking a firmer approach against these camps. You do need to have an escape plan just in case. When is the baby due?”
“August 4th.”
“Good heavens Emily. That’s just little over a month away. My suggestion is, albeit late and you are close to term, leave for Afghanistan and have the baby there.”
”You’ve got to be kidding Shallal” she replied in astonishment “This baby will be born on British soil. If I have jump up and down on the embassy steps to bring it on, That’s the way it’s going to be. He will never be an Afghani.”
“Don’t you understand Emily? That’s who the child is. And besides that, how do you know it will be a boy?”
“Isis,” she replied with a grin.
“That’s all I need Em. What did you do, moonlight ritual?” He sniggered, “Replenishing mud bath under the full moon. Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink?”
“Very funny Shallal. My aunt gave me a book about ancient rituals to Isis and I did one,” she admitted, giggling. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m not a Christian and I’m an even worse Muslim. Besides, Isis was a woman of substance. I’m sick of patriarchy. Look at the world. Look at the mess the big three have gotten us into. If I ever get through this, I swear I’ll never enter a house of any warmongering God again. It’s belief in the feminine for me. I’ve seen enough downtrodden women to rebel against the lot of it. It’s all bloody sexist rubbish!” She circled her ample belly with her hands as if in some kind of protective ritual.
Looking at Emily with the soft light of the moon on her face, Tony Shallal realized just how fond he was of this woman. He promised himself that nothing would ever happen to her or her child as long as he was alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ghulam returned within two hours, his worst fears confirmed. There had indeed be a confrontation between the Kataeb party supporters and Palestinian guerrillas and Bashir, the youngest son of
Pierre Gemayel had been taken hostage, then released a few hours later. The police were rounding people up as a precaution against any further fighting. “As long as the government threatens to limit the Palestinian activity here, the people who want a United Islamic nation will resist them” Ghulam raised his voice sanctimoniously “We have no choice.”
“We? Ansari, I want no part of such hostility.” Emily looked at her husband astonished at his tactless outburst in front of a British official.
“Why beat around the bush, as you English say? Besides Amina, it is your role to support me and one that you should begin to learn very quickly. We have work to do here. No doubt you, Shallal, are already aware of this and are here because you are prepared to help us, right?” he asked excitedly.
“I’m here because you kindly invited me. On the other hand, exactly what are you proposing Ansari?”
“Opposition against Israel, opening the southern borders.”
Shallal paused “Our government cannot back such a move.”
“You don’t make those decisions Shallal; you just follow the orders once they have been made by others! Let me explain what has happened here tonight. Bashir Gemayel, the son of a very powerful man was abducted with two of his companions from a Kataeb office on Hamra Street. This boy was not really involved in politics, but he will be as of tonight. The guerillas may have released him but they have made an enemy. You know as well as I do Shallal that the Christians in this country have already started to form a solid militia and will have to fight against what they perceive as an invasion. The Christians do not realize that all we want is to make Lebanon free from western control.”
“Ghulam, exactly what is your involvement with these people? You sound like you’re supporting them,” Emily interrupted her husband forgetting the respect he expected she should pay him, “The Palestinian guerillas are constantly hassling Lebanese Christians. They’ve set up road blocks around their camps. This isn’t an extension of Palestine, this is Lebanon. It’s not their country. Arab, Jew and Christian have always lived in peace here. Lebanon acknowledges Israel and it always has done. The Palestinians have no right to come here and divide a people who have gotten along relatively well for over a thousand years.”
“Woman, you are brainwashed!” Ghulam’s voice rose and he glared at his wife outraged at her breach of traditional decorum “Do you not understand that this is revolution? Demonstrations are being held everyday to protest the policies being set by this government. This government will not openly support the Palestinian revolution against Israel. Most of the people are in support of Palestine.”
“Ghulam, that is total bloody rubbish!” Emily knew as she spoke that she had crossed his newly imposed respect line “The Palestinian guerillas are trying to force the issue and take over a country that is not theirs. They are holding the people of Lebanon hostage by terrorism. What is so sickening is that Lebanon took in these refugees, gave them shelter, food and jobs when everyone else turned them away. Look at what has happened. Look how Lebanon is being repaid. Instead of trying to make peace with Israel they’ve let a group of rabble shit-heads take over and set up training camps here. It is a hostage situation. There’s no good in this. They’re terrorizing civilians in their own villages, which is exactly what the Israelis have done to them! Look at the onset of Nazi Germany. What’s happening now is the same as what the Fascists did to the Jews!”
“Don’t you see?” Emily was getting louder now, pointing her finger at her husband, “Remember what happened with that Minister of the Interior, Whatsit, oh what the hell was his name, Jumblatt, that fellow, the good public speaker, a few weeks ago, Ghulam? He tried to bring all the factions together. The poor bugger spoke with the Palestinians in their camps at great risk to himself. Then he tried to negotiate an arms truce with the city politicians at Kahaleh where all the trouble broke out after the villagers who had had enough of the guerillas began firing at that convoy surrounding that Palestinian commando’s burial procession. Jumblatt really tried to get people to talk and this bloody battle is still going on. I heard that there was fighting as far as Dikwaneh and Harit Hreik. And now they’ve abducted the son of Pierre Gemayel. They’re fucking crazy and if you support that shower of bastards then you’re just as bad as they are.”
In seconds, Ghulam had leapt across the room and struck her face. “Leave this room NOW!” he screamed.
“My apologies to you Mr. Shallal,” he said in a calmer tone to his guest. “These English women have foul mouths better suited to the backstreets of Beirut. I have indulged my wife’s opinions long enough. It is perhaps best that you leave now.”
Knowing that he was powerless to intervene, Shallal looked sympathetically at Emily whose reddened face now smeared with blood from her lip made a startling contrast against the paleness of her neck and shoulders. He hoped she would not suffer too much. She was after all pregnant and Ghulam would have to make allowances for that.
She fled upstairs, bolting her door. In minutes, he had kicked it open and was folding a rough knotted cord in his hands, flexing then slackening it. Finally holding both of her thin childlike arms in one large hand he whipped her sides, legs and lower back repeatedly.
She screamed in pain, until the room spun around her and her throat burned, hoarse with her cries. She fell, hitting the side of her head on a large oak French dresser on which stood pictures of her family. They fell to the floor in pieces, glass shards falling everywhere. A sharp pain, like none she had ever felt began in her lower back, sending coils of fire around her belly. She screamed again, “The baby! You bastard! You’ve killed my baby!” Then she blacked out lost in the anguish and darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY
For hours, Emily slipped back and forth into the twilight zone. She remembered screaming with pain then being placed on a stretcher, everything else was a total but agonizing blank. The torment of labor continued for what seemed like hours. She lapsed in and out of pain and then found herself staring a large brass crucifix on the wall, briefly identifying with the suffering of Christ being nailed to the cross before slipping into the darkness again. She vaguely remembered a female doctor who spoke English with an Irish accent. She couldn’t remember what the woman had said; only that she seemed kind. Emily vaguely remembered being surrounded by women in white robes with headdresses, they were all smiling. Believing this was the afterlife, she was sad until she heard a child cry. It was a strong healthy cry. What would happen to her baby? she wondered, and then she surrendered to sleep.
Emily had no idea where she was. She had been taken by ambulance to the private Sacre Coeur Hospital outside of Beirut. She stayed there for two days, drifting in and out of consciousness. The first thing that she noticed when she finally came around was that she could actually see her feet, which Emily took to mean she’d had the baby. It hadn’t been a dream. She pressed the buzzer at the side of her bed. Within a few minutes a white robed nun appeared. Non-angelic, a real person in white robes…no dream this time.
“Ah Mon Cherie. You are awake. Thirsty too no doubt,” the vision in white spoke softly.
“My baby, where’s my baby?”
“He is fine, a little small perhaps but well. He is in our nursery. Your son was about four weeks early I understand and weighed only five pounds. But healthy, my child. Very healthy. After you have had something to eat and drink, we’ll take you to him.”
“A son? Thank the blessed Mother!”
“Our Lady has heard your thanks.”
Emily laughed to herself, thinking of the ritual. It had actually worked, all thanks to Isis.
“Where am I?”
“This is a convent hospital,” the nun said in a thick French accent. ‘Sacre Coeur’. And I am Sister Marie-Bernadette. I am, you would say, the Staff Nurse. This is my ward and you are my special patient. I will ring for lunch and you will eat now, yes?”
Within minutes a tray was brought in by an olive skinned Algerian nun. “I am Sister Odile, Madam Ansari. Pl
ease eat slowly,” she said, placing the folding tray carefully on the bed. It was full of cheeses, warm Lebanese bread, cucumber and tomato salad and some shredded chicken with a glass of pomegranate juice. She handed Emily a steaming mug of coffee.
“Caffeine free, Madame, so you will not harm your son when it is time to feed him. Now he is on fluids while we monitor him, but in a few days you can maybe feed him yourself. We will store the milk until then.”
When Emily had eaten, the nurses returned. One took the tray and the other began palpitating Emily’s breast to induce the flow of milk. She groaned with the initial discomfort as her breasts were as hard as rocks. Finally with a little effort the milk flowed and within minutes Sister Marie-Bernadette brought in a breast pump and several small bottles on a tray in which to store the pallid looking liquid.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Flowers arrived the following day, the card reading simply, “Congratulations and every good wish.” It was signed ‘The Staff at Her Majesty’s Embassy to Beirut’. Emily knew it was from Tony Shallal. Her parents telephoned. They were coming to Cairo to stay with Aunt Jack where they would wait for Emily and the child. It had been Tony Shallal had telephoned her aunt who in turn contacted her brother and sister-in-law
Within a week Emily was comfortable breast feeding her son. The screaming bundle suckled the sweet smelling breast without difficulty, patting it with tiny hands, nuzzling her for comfort. Even premature he was a healthy boy, with pale cinnamon skin and eyes as black as coal. He was utterly beautiful and the living image of his father. “My son,” she declared out loud to the world, “My son, Masud Ibraham Desai,” protesting his father’s lineage by denying the custom of giving her son the last name of his father. It was her first strike back at her husband.
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