Arden

by Nick Corbett

  Hannah has one other item of post, it looks official. She opens it carefully. After reading the letter, she sucks in her lips. Joe is back from the bathroom;

  “What’s up Hannah?”

  Ingrid breaks off from Mike’s discourse. “Not bad news, I hope?”

  Hannah sighs. “Oh, the authorities are making life difficult. I don’t want to bother you with this.”

  “Please, Hannah, tell us, if you can, what’s wrong?” says Ingrid.

  “It’s from the British Embassy. It says the Lebanese Foreign Office isn’t going to renew my visa. It’s bizarre; it says if I want to appeal I have to go to the Lebanese Embassy in London. How much is that going to cost? It’s ridiculous. I had to go to their London Embassy for an interview a few weeks ago. They’re getting rid of us. Other aid workers have already been told to go.”

  “Do you want to leave, Hannah?” presses Ingrid.

  Hannah finds it difficult to answer. She sighs again. She’s understandably upset. Ingrid places a hand on her shoulder. Hannah continues.

  “I’ve been in Beirut for a long time. A lot of workers have come and gone in the last three years.” She looks down the cobbled street, towards the gleaming clock tower, bites her lower lip. “England seems like another world sometimes, so far away. I haven’t seen my parents for ages.”

  “Tell me Hannah, what do you miss most about England?” asks Ingrid.

  “Mum, Dad, friends, the woods.”

  Hannah turns away for a moment, surreptitiously wipes a tear from her eye. She turns back, forces a defiant smile.

  “Most of all, I long for a hot bath. They’ve only got showers here, and the water’s rationed!”

  Joe looks very concerned. Hannah tries to give him a reassuring smile, but then she has to look away again. Tears are streaming down her cheeks now. She apologises for crying.

  “I’m sorry, I just love the kids in the camp.”

  Ingrid nods sympathetically, rubs Hannah’s shoulder. Hannah pulls herself together.

  “Anyway, there’s no way I can pay for another return flight to London, so that’s that.

  They are interrupted by the sound of a car horn. A hefty top-specification black Range Rover, with blacked out windows, pulls up. It purrs on the cobbled street beside their table. It is the Ambassador’s car. The driver, Philippe, jumps out. He is aged around forty, dark skinned, casually dressed with an open-necked shirt. Philippe is a local man, employed by the Dutch Embassy as chauffeur and guide. Hannah, Ingrid, Joe and Mike get up from their seats; all put on sunglasses. Ingrid whispers to Hannah.

  “You must appeal the visa decision. I’ll pay for your air fair. It’ll be my pleasure to pay for that.”

  “Oh, no, no, definitely not. Ingrid, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Ingrid’s stern look suggests that she’s not a woman to be argued with.

  “I won’t take no for an answer. Even if they don’t renew your visa, enjoy the trip to London; go shopping, see your parents.”

  Joe is already in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover, looking very pleased with himself. Hannah, Ingrid and Mike share the back seat.

  The car glides over the pristine streets in Beirut’s regenerated downtown area. Hannah points out the local landmarks. They pass classical, Italianate buildings with graceful arrangements of windows and balconies. The streets are stunning, gleaming with new and restored stonework. Gaps between streets reveal views; distant hills dotted with white buildings and far away villages that merge into a hazy blue horizon. They drive past green, lush peace gardens, palm trees, heroic flights of steps, the restored cathedral. The chatter in the car is all about the city, how beautiful it is, how French it feels. For the moment, they have forgotten all about their mission, it’s like a holiday. The people they pass on the pavements appear wealthy and attractive. Every third car is a Mercedes, but many are old and battered.

  Their driver, Philippe, turns to Mike.

  “We’re going to have to take a slight detour along the coast road.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a demonstration being held in one of the squares. A protest about the assassination.” The others listen carefully.

  “I saw people with flags earlier,” says Hannah. “They must have been going to the protest.”

  After driving down a few more streets, they approach the edge of the city centre. Ingrid suddenly gasps, swears in Dutch. Beirut’s war torn remnants are now all too evident. A veil has been lifted to show a pockmarked face.

  “Every building in this neighbourhood has bullet holes in it,” says Hannah.

  Joe is speechless. Ingrid repeats another Dutch expletive, apologises. The others continue to stare out of the windows. They drive along a main road, lined with concrete tenement blocks. Dirty curtains are draped across open balconies, blowing mournfully in the breeze. All of the buildings have been sprayed with bullets. Chunks of masonry are missing where missiles have hit. This part of the city is almost a ruin and yet many people are living in it.

  “It’s difficult to imagine what it must have been like isn’t it?” says Joe finding his voice.

  “It was bloody terrible, believe me,” replies Mike.

  To their relief, the car pulls out into a much wider palm tree boulevard. There is less traffic. To their left, the Mediterranean Sea comes into view, bright aquamarine, calm and inviting. It looks exotic, like the Caribbean Sea. The mood in the car lightens a little.

  “Philippe, does this button make the windows go up?” asks Joe.

  “Yes.”

  After the window is raised, Joe turns around from the front passenger seat to face Ingrid. She nods encouragingly; it’s time for him to speak up.

  “Hannah, there’s someone we need to meet in the camp, a young lad.”

  “Oh yeah, who’s he?”

  “He’s sixteen, he’s a virtuoso on the violin.”

  “Oh, you mean Elias. He’s lovely. He plays the violin beautifully. He’s playing for the Deputy Prime Minister at the cathedral on Friday. So how do you know about Elias? Why do you need to see him?”

  Joe replies cautiously. “We’ve got something to offer him.”

  “What?”

  “An opportunity to study in England, at the best music college.”

  “That would be amazing, but it’s impossible. He’s a refugee. He doesn’t have a passport. He can’t leave the camp for a night, let alone leave the country to study. He doesn’t officially exist.”

  “Elias has got friends in high places in the UK. They’ll pull out all of the stops for him. They can make it happen. If he’ll agree to go with us.”

  “That’s ridiculous, you can’t just take him,” replies Hannah.

  A silence follows. Hannah tries to understand what she’s just been told. After a while she speaks.

  “Elias is already in a symphony orchestra you know? If he went away, his grandfather would be devastated. The shock would probably kill him. Who are these friends in high places?”

  “I can’t go into all the details. I don’t know all of the details. We need to get Elias out for his own personal safety, but also for the peace of Lebanon. His life is in danger, that’s why I’m here. Will you trust me on this Hannah?”

  Hannah stares into space, remains silent for what feels like an eternity. Joe speaks again.

  “If we don’t get Elias out, the consequences don’t bear thinking about, not for the lad and not for Lebanon. Will you help us Hannah?”

  Hannah looks agitated. “I’ve just thought, is this connected to me being called back to London?”

  There is another long silence. Now Hannah sounds cross.

  “Right! Can we pull over please? I want to get out of this car.”

  Philippe the driver glances in the rear view mirror to see what Mike’s reaction is. Mike nods at him. The car pulls over, on the seafront beside the ruin of an old crusader castle. Philippe jumps out first, opens the rear passenger door. Hannah’s already out the other side, st
omping off along the promenade. Joe catches her up. He holds onto her arm.

  “Look Hannah, we’re all taking a risk here. I’m taking a risk for a lad I’ve never even met. Even if this does mean that your job comes to an end, isn’t that a sacrifice worth making, if it saves his life?”

  Hannah stands still, turns aside, gazes out to sea. Joe breathes deeply. The sea air is refreshing. For a moment, he rests his eyes upon the warm, glowing stones of the castle. Hannah turns to Joe.

  “If you aren’t going to tell me exactly what’s going on, that makes things very difficult for me Joe. It feels like a betrayal.”

  “I’d never betray you Hannah.”

  There is a long silence. Eventually, Hannah breaks it.

  “I have been worried about Elias, actually. He’s being watched, I’m sure of it. Look, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. Of course I trust you. I’m sorry.”

  Joe embraces her.

  “Thanks Hannah, you’re a star. Do you know where we’ll find Elias?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so relieved. We need to be extremely cautious, about what we say. This is really sensitive.”

  “I know.”

  They join the others. They are all standing together, beside the car, anxiously awaiting Hannah’s response.

  “Everything’s okay,” says Joe. “We continue as planned.”

  Ingrid embraces Hannah.

  “Well done, this is the right thing to do.”

  For a moment the group relax. They enjoy the wonderful view of the castle and the tranquil green sea; they breathe the air. Except, that is, for Hannah, who’s confused and agitated. She takes a few steps away from the group, looks at the horizon, alone.

  “Hey, that wasn’t there last time I came here,” says Mike to Ingrid, pointing to a dazzling, glass tower block, beside the sea front.

  Joe points out to sea.

  “There’s a big shoal of fish out there.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re right,” replies Mike.

  “How can you tell?” asks Ingrid.

  “Look at the ripples.”

  “Oh yes, I can see now.”

  The surface of the sea is glistening with ripples; the water is teeming with fish. Gulls take to the wing, circle the shoal.

  Hannah makes her way back to the car, she is still cross. Joe watches her with some concern. Mike nudges him, he points down the coast.

  “Do you see the harbour in the distance, the glistening white masts?”

  “Yeah, I can see it,” replies Joe.

  “You remember the name of the yacht, don’t you?”

  “Liberty.”

  “A good name.”

  “Very apt.”

  Ingrid makes an announcement.

  “It’s time to return to the car! Philippe are you ready to go?”

  Philippe jumps into the driver’s seat, turns the ignition on; the Range Rover purrs. The passengers climb aboard. They’re off again.

  They continue along the wide, bright, seaside boulevard. After a while, they turn off, enter a maze of narrow, shady, streets. Hannah leans forward, calmly gives directions to Philippe. They are navigating through a poor, densely built-up area. They soon arrive at the modern concrete building where Hannah works. She also lives in this building. All of Joe’s postcards have pride of place, on the mirror above her dressing table. The Range Rover pulls up. Hannah jumps out, uses the intercom attached to the entrance gates. The gates open. The car descends into the underground car park.

  A few minutes later, they are all chatting together on the pavement in front of the gates. Hannah gives them a last-minute briefing before they set off for the refugee camp. Standing on the opposite side of the street, beside a café, an Arab man is watching them. He is middle aged and stocky, has a bald head, thick moustache and black glistening eyes. Hannah turns to Philippe.

  “While you’re waiting for us, you can get a decent coffee in the café over there.” It’s then she spots the bald man. “Ah, Sadik, there you are! Come over!” she yells.

  Sadik crosses the street. He greets Hannah with a handshake and an earnest smile. Hannah explains to everyone that Sadik is a resident of the camp and he is an employee of the aid agency. He is to be their guide for the day.

  “The camp’s a short five-minute walk away. Is everyone ready to go?” asks Hannah.

  There are nods of agreement. Philippe, their chauffeur, leaves them, heads for the café. Everyone else walks down a narrow street, negotiating a path around street traders. The place is full of life, noise and bustle. Local people turn and stare at Ingrid and Mike; they are so tall and striking. An old, battered Mercedes suddenly pulls up. The driver is beeping his horn frantically. Joe jumps, looks alarmed. The driver waves his arms wildly at him.

  “Ignore that car, Joe! It’s just an illegal taxi, touting for business,” warns Hannah. This incident with the Mercedes is repeated many times. They always pull up beside Joe. He jumps every time. Kids on scooters, three on a saddle, are also whizzing by constantly. Their engines sound like exploding hairdryers. No crash helmets are worn. Sadik walks beside the Dutch visitors. His confidence growing, he engages them in conversation. He is singing Hannah’s praises.

  “She’s helped us to build a new football pitch. It’s just outside the camp. You’ll see it in a minute.”

  “Do the children like football?” asks Ingrid.

  “Oh, yes, they love it. We get the kids from the camp to play with those from outside. Good for mixing.”

  Hannah’s overheard what’s being said. “It wouldn’t have happened without you, Sadik.” She turns to Ingrid. “The thing is there’s no space in the camp for football. The new pitch is very rough but it’s a great way for our kids to get integrated with the outside world.”

  They turn a corner and there it is. A dusty red-earth football pitch, created out of an old bombsite. High netting surrounds it. There’s an informal game going on. Sadik points towards the players, like a proud father.

  “Look! My boys are on it right now!”

  The delegation takes a few minutes to watch the game. Beside the pitch is a single storey breezeblock changing room. Here a group of teenage girls stand, watching the match. Joe spots the girls, nudges Hannah.

  “Look, footballers’ wives.”

  Hannah laughs. There is a broad mix of ages playing in the match. Ingrid turns to Mike.

  “Look, one of them is as old as you!”

  Mostly they are teenage boys, but there’s a couple of middle-aged men too. Several little boys are also chasing around, oblivious to where the ball is. Several of the players wear Manchester United shirts.

  Ingrid approves of what she sees.

  “Sport’s good for building confidence,” she says.

  Hannah’s relieved. “Your aid money has helped to pay for this.”

  “Can I take some photos?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay here, but not in the camp.”

  Hannah turns to Sadik, he nods in agreement.

  “I’ll catch you up,” says Ingrid. She dashes across the street, miraculously missing a speeding moped. The others walk off, slowly. They are very close to the camp now.

  Ingrid returns. Sadik speaks to them in a very serious tone.

  “Please don’t take any photos in the camp. The guards have guns. Stay close to me all of the time.”

  Hannah reiterates the warning.

  “Stay close together as a group. It’s very easy to get lost in the camp.”

  The others nod dutifully. At the end of the street is a large, ramshackle gateway made from breezeblocks and salvaged timber. There is a rough sign above the gate. It’s just a plank of wood. The name of the camp, in Arabic, is carved onto it.

  “Okay, this is it everyone,” says Hannah. “Stay together, we’ll go into the camp now.”

  They’re going to head straight for the school hall, where lunch will be served.

  Joe looks pensive. The seriousness of the mission has really sunk in now.


  Why on earth have you got into this situation?

  The responsibility feels crushing. He isn’t sure he can go through with it. Ingrid looks at him, senses his anxiety. She smiles at him reassuringly, although she has butterflies in her own stomach. Together the group walk over to the gateway. There is a sentry post with three armed guards, who enter into a discussion with Sadik. Everyone is ushered into the camp. Ingrid and Mike smile nervously at the guards. Joe just looks at the ground in front of him.

  They walk down the main street of the refugee camp, leaving behind the everyday world of Beirut. Everything is unfamiliar and strange. The buildings are almost derelict. Their walls are covered, literally, with bullet holes. Each building has undergone many repairs, using random materials. The walls are finished in breezeblock, concrete, salvaged timber, bits of plastic. Each structure looks as if it’s the culmination of many separate building projects. Somehow, they’ve come together to form somebody’s home or a shop. They walk past workmen. Timber roof trusses are being positioned on top of rubble walls. One of the men waves, he shouts at Sadik, who responds by waving back, laughs, yells something in Arabic.

  “They’re friends,” says Hannah to Ingrid, who nods and smiles back.

  Sadik says something to Hannah in Arabic; she laughs.

  “Ingrid, they’re asking if you’re Sadik’s new girlfriend.”

  Ingrid gives a half smile and quickly changes the subject. “Will the children be in school today, Hannah?”

  “No, sorry Ingrid, not today. It’s a holiday for them. We’ll see them at the community centre though.”

  “Oh, good, it’s just that I’ve got some gifts in my bag.”

  “You can always give them to their teachers to pass on. We’ll meet a couple of them at lunch.”

  They continue to walk down the short, main street. There are a few shops selling rudimentary items. The surface of the road is rough, reddish-brown earth with large potholes containing murky puddles from last night’s rain. A few old cars, a van, and several motorcycles are parked along the edge of the street. A jumble of rickety buildings and dark alleys mark the end of it. The place is surprisingly quiet. There are just a few shoppers, people undertaking daily tasks, and children playing in the puddles. It’s eerie compared to the bustle outside the camp. The sound of traffic is already a distant murmur.