Arden

by Nick Corbett

  “So Sadik, is this where you live, here in the camp?” asks Mike.

  “Yes, this is where I live, but on the other side.”

  Mike smiles. He looks as if he could handle any situation. Joe, on the other hand, looks nervous, bulging eyes darting this way and that, occasionally looking over his shoulder. He is overwhelmed by the need to find Elias. Added to this, the armed guards stationed at intervals down the street make him feel edgy. He keeps thinking about those harrowing stories of the British, Irish and American hostages. He takes little comfort from the blue sky and the warm sun on his face.

  Sadik instructs them to stop. They’ve reached the end of the street. They all gather together and stand beside the mouth of a dark, narrow alleyway.

  “Are you all okay?” Sadik asks.

  There are nods, strained smiles.

  “We must all stay together,” Sadik warns them again.

  Everyone agrees. They follow Sadik into the dark, ominous alleyway. Joe walks at the end of the line. They are walking down a narrow crevice. Towering breezeblock walls and metal sheets rise to either side. It’s almost like a tunnel; a dingy, dark, secret underworld. Joe pats Mike on the shoulder, jokes about claustrophobia. He’s looking for some reassurance, but Mike just presses on. It’s hard to believe they are still in Beirut, or even in the modern world. It’s as if they’ve stepped back in time. They pass a doorway, a window, a soil vent pipe, another doorway; recesses with clothes left out to dry in tiny spaces, surely they will never get the sun. There are signs of life in this heap of habitation, but no people. The silence is menacing. They walk upon concrete, broken in many places, dark puddles and dubious deposits besides holes in pipes. The ground is littered with dead cockroaches. Mike points out an especially large one to Ingrid and she shudders in disgust. They keep walking, slowly, anxiously. Suddenly three small children come running around a corner, like little dancers. They look up at Ingrid, expectantly. Ingrid quickly rummages in her bag to give a gift, but the children run off again, laughing. The sight of the children momentarily lifts their spirits. They’re sad to see them go.

  Sadik leads the group onwards. They turn another sharp corner, head down an even narrower blind walkway. Then they have to press themselves against a wall, to make way for three women. They are wearing long colourful floral clothes and headscarves; they smile nervously but don’t stop. When the women have passed, Joe turns to Hannah.

  “This is the weirdest place I’ve ever been in. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I know what you mean,” replies Hannah. “It took me ages to get used to it.”

  The two of them stand for a moment, looking down the dark, cold passage.

  “Look up there,” says Joe pointing skywards. “People are actually living up there. Every bit of space is used.”

  “I know a family that lives up there,” replies Hannah.

  The place they are looking up at has an upper storey that juts out irregularly into the passageway. Two people in homes on either side of the passage could easily shake hands. Joe marvels how every inch of space is put to use by someone. He is impressed, bewildered, appalled. It’s so human and yet so inhumane.

  “Where are all the people now?” he asks.

  Before Hannah can answer, Ingrid appears beside them. She speaks sternly.

  “Come on you two. Sadik wants you to keep up!”

  They follow on like scolded school children.

  Hannah and Joe resume their conversation.

  “There’s a sense of community in the camp, but the refugees don’t live here by choice,” says Hannah. “They aren’t allowed to live outside of the camp. They don’t have rights, can’t travel, don’t have passports. They can only do certain jobs. Manual things, like cleaning, waiting on tables, the things other people don’t want to do. They have to be back in time for the curfew.” They stop walking. Hannah stretches out her hands to emphasise a point.

  “I just wish they could be assimilated into Beirut society.”

  Joe looks her in the eye.

  “I guess they’re too politically useful as they are. They’re pawns in a bigger game aren’t they?” He shrugs his shoulders, “I’m sorry Hannah.”

  Hannah scratches the back of her neck. She’s agitated.

  “Refugees in the Netherlands and Britain don’t live like this, do they?”

  “I doubt it very much, but didn’t you say ‘don’t do politics’ in the camp?”

  “That’s true.”

  The group continues to walk through a maze of passageways. Apart from Sadik and Hannah, they are all disorientated and lost. They continue in silence. Joe imagines how he would get out of the place, if he really had to. He has to admit to himself, he is utterly dependent upon the local knowledge of Sadik and Hannah. They’ve been walking for what seems like ages. How big can the camp be? Every now and again Sadik shouts words of encouragement from the front of the line. They turn a corner. At last, they can see an open area, bathed in sunshine. The passageway widens out. On either side are little shops, crudely cut out of the concrete walls. A woman, colourfully dressed, appears at a shop entrance; she is speaking to a little boy. Ingrid recognises the child, it’s the one who looked up at her earlier. Sadik leads the group into the little square. Their eyes sting as they adjust to the bright light. Like confused moles they emerge from the dark earth, enter a new world. The sounds of life are all around, children playing, people talking, sparrows chirping. There is the smell of cooking.

  The square has the same reddish-brown earth surface as the main street. Breezeblock buildings define the space, varying in height from three to four storeys. Only a few bullet holes have reached this far into the camp. At ground floor level, some of the buildings have garage doors with closed roller shutters. Incongruous, as no cars can get down here. There are little offices and shops. Old men and children sit in front of them, under colourful plastic umbrellas, shielded from the sun. People’s homes are on the upper levels. The staircases leading up to them are hidden, in dark passageways, off the square. Projecting bay windows jut out from the upper levels. The windows all have metal shutters on them, decorated with Arabic patterns. Long curtains hang out of the windows; their red stripes make the square like an oriental bazaar. Political posters and statements written in Arabic are plastered everywhere. There are signs of new building work in the far corner of the square; a group of men position some scaffolding. This is the community centre. The visitors are going to help paint it.

  Joe and Mike stand beside each other, hands on their hips, surveying their surroundings. Ingrid and Hannah chat. They all look happier now they are in open sunshine.

  “The school’s just up there, Ingrid,” says Hannah. “They’ll have lunch ready for us now, so we’d better press on.”

  “Yes, of course, let’s go right away.”

  Hannah leads the group across the square, up a narrow connecting street. It’s covered in muddy puddles, but to their relief, it’s much wider than the alleyways they’ve walked along. Hannah strides purposefully towards the school. The street becomes wider, wide enough for a car, but none can be seen or heard. The others follow, taking in their surroundings. Ingrid waves at a group of children, they wave back cautiously.

  They arrive at the school entrance. It’s as if they are back in modern times. They are still within sight of the little square down the street, and the dark alleyways, but this is a very different place. The school is the most cherished building in the camp. It looks as if it might actually comply with modern building standards. It is painted in cheerful bright colours. Hannah pushes open double doors, leading into a reception area. The others follow. They walk along a wide, blue-painted hall; smells of cleaning bleach. The blue walls are covered with children’s paintings. They could be in a school anywhere in the world. Ingrid admires the children’s artwork, before a stark reality hits her.

  “Oh dear, this picture’s by a child that’s been through some kind of trauma,” she says.

&nbs
p; Hannah shouts a greeting down the hallway, in Arabic. Immediately, there are squeals of delight from deep within the building. Three Arabic women run down the hallway towards her. They are all wearing cooks’ aprons over their clothes. One of them carries a large kitchen knife. Joe is relived when the knife is put down, before the woman greets Hannah. Two of these women are aged in their mid-thirties. One of them wears a yellow headscarf that falls down over her shoulders; she’s strikingly pretty. Another wears a one-piece headscarf; her dark round face shines through it. The third woman is much younger. She is dark, radiantly beautiful, with long black hair; no headscarf. She is dressed in a long black robe. Her name is Rubina.

  The three faces are aglow. After hugging Hannah, the three women exchange greetings in Arabic with Sadik. Hannah introduces the women to Ingrid, Mike and Joe. The two older Arabic women smile shyly and then look away quickly. The younger woman, Rubina, shakes hands. There is a flash of eye contact with Joe.

  Hannah enters into a brief conversation in Arabic with the three women.

  “Lunch is ready!” she announces.

  The group follows her down the blue hall, through another set of double doors. They enter into a large courtyard. It is a children’s playground. A large canopy, held up on poles, shelters the main part of the open space from the sun. Enough natural light penetrates for plants to grow along the borders. It is a pleasant space. Walt Disney paintings decorate the walls. The school is strangely quiet, no children because of the holiday. Under the canopy, in the middle of the playground, is arranged a banquet, with a dozen or so dining places. Positioned upon the tables are many foil-covered platters.

  Four young adults, in their twenties, are already seated; two European men and two Arabic women. When they see their guests have arrived, they break off from their intense conversation; rise to their feet and stand beside the table. The cooks busy themselves pulling off the foil from the platters, revealing a feast of rice, chicken, lamb, stuffed peppers, mixed nuts, dates, bananas, oranges and unleavened bread. The quantities are overwhelming. Joe’s face lights up.

  Hannah introduces the two men, Benoit and Johan; they work with her at the aid agency. Benoit, very smiley, is from France. Johan, rather geeky, is from Germany. Joe instantly warms to Benoit. They start chatting. Hannah introduces the two Arab women, Mashkura and Noha. They’re both teachers in the school. They are initially rather cautious, but Ingrid is very gracious and the ice quickly melts. Everyone is smiling. Introductions made, they take their seats and tuck into the food. Hannah has to drag the three cooks out of the kitchen to join them.

  The meal is jovial. They overcome the language barrier surprisingly well. Hannah and Sadik translate for some of the time, but most of the communication involves an array of facial gestures and hand signs. Joe gets carried away with his gesticulations, which entertains the others. Ingrid whispers to Hannah.

  “Doesn’t it feel as if everyone’s known each other for ages?”

  “Yeah, that’s the great thing about eating together, isn’t it?”

  Rubina, the youngest of the cooks, positions herself next to Joe, keeps flashing a smile at him. Hannah notices and she needs to warn him.

  “Joe, come here a minute, will you?”

  He gets up from his seat. “What’s up?”

  “Are you impressed with the food?”

  “Yeah, it’s great.”

  Hannah continues, more covertly. “I think you’ve made a friend with Rubina, be careful.”

  “Really? Don’t worry.” Joe is rather chirpy now. He returns to his seat and tucks into another piece of chicken.

  After the meal, there is time for relaxation and digestion. Ingrid nudges Mike, asks him to give a word of thanks. He gets up to his feet, clears his throat, gives a cordial speech befitting of a diplomat.

  “… and I hope one day we’ll be able to welcome you in Holland and England,” he says in closing. Mike directs his words towards Sadik, expecting him to translate, but he just smiles and nods. Ingrid turns to the cooks, who are staring at their feet.

  “The fresh fruit and vegetables really were the best I’ve ever tasted,” she says. Then she turns to Hannah, surreptitiously. “What about all of the food that’s left over?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, nothing goes to waste.”

  Now that Joe has finished eating, his brain gets into gear. There is an anxious flow of thoughts about finding Elias. The meal has been an island of calm, but he knows he can’t be too relaxed. They need to move on. Hannah looks at him.

  “Do you know where Sadik’s disappeared to?”

  Joe shakes his head. The double doors suddenly burst open. Sadik’s heavyset frame lunges through them. He is carrying what looks like a candelabra, with a metal dish on top. A long rubber pipe is attached to it. He waddles over to a corner of the yard, sets up his appliance. He arranges a little group of chairs around it. Everyone has broken off from their conversations; they stare at Sadik intently. His preparations complete, Sadik gestures for Joe and Mike to join him. Mike gets up first, sits on one of the chairs next to Sadik, who’s mumbling instructions under his thick moustache. Joe also joins them. The appliance that Sadik has set up is his smoke. He puffs away at the tube attachment, takes a long, deep drag, emits wafts of smoke. More, deep drags, then he solemnly passes the tube to Joe. Joe smiles nervously, whispers to Mike.

  “It’s nothing dodgy is it?”

  Mike checks what’s being burned in the dish.

  “It’s nothing to worry about. This is a shisha pipe, a nargila. It’s just burning something fruity. Here, let me have a drag.”

  Mike takes hold of the pipe, inhales, twice.

  “What about Ingrid?” says Joe.

  “I don’t think she’ll want any,” replies Mike huskily.

  “I mean, won’t you get into trouble with her?”

  Mike ignores this further questioning. His whole molecular structure appears to be transformed into a more relaxed state. Joe takes the pipe, takes a single short drag. It tastes sweet. He takes another drag. He is soon smiling dreamily. A moment later, he feels giddy, makes his excuses, heads back, unsteadily, to the table. Hannah looks at him quizzically.

  A few minutes later, Hannah is on her feet, making an announcement.

  “We need to say goodbye now I’m afraid. It’s time for us to go and do our practical work.”

  “How far is it Hannah?” asks Joe.

  “It’s just down to the little square again, not far at all. The community hall’s the building with scaffolding in front of it. That’s what we’re going to paint. We’re running behind schedule though, we’ll have less than two hours.”

  While everyone is busy getting ready to leave, Hannah pulls Joe aside. Her face is flushed.

  “Elias will be in the community centre.” Suddenly, Rubina, the young cook, interrupts them.

  “Here, my address, write to me,” she says, handing Joe a piece of paper.

  “Eh? Oh, yeah, okay. I’d give you my address, but… I haven’t got a pen.”

  Rubina’s face drops. Joe isn’t sure what else to say. It’s been such a successful lunch; the last thing he wants to do is offend their hosts. He gets his wallet out.

  “Here, my business card, my work address is on it.” He immediately regrets giving this.

  What will work colleagues think of her letters?

  Rubina’s face lights up. The Dutch guests are lingering, reluctant to leave. They know they are never likely to see these people again. Their goodbyes are fringed with sadness. Ingrid turns to Mashkura and Noha.

  “Can’t you come with us to paint?”

  “No, sorry,” replies Mashkura, who speaks excellent English. “We’re going to help with the clearing up here. Benoit and Johan are going with you though.”

  “Can I leave some gifts for the children with you. They’re only little tokens.”

  “Yeah, thank you. I’ll give them to the children.”

  Hannah has to practically drag the visitors across the
schoolyard; through the double doors, along the blue corridor, then they are all standing on the muddy street. The sun is failing, shadows lengthening. There’s more noise, bustle, people returning from work in the city. Family groups stroll towards the square, carefully avoiding the puddles in the bare earth. Joe turns to Benoit the Frenchman.

  “Benoit, does Hannah have a boyfriend?” he asks, quietly.

  Benoit grins, shrugs his shoulders. “She’s nice isn’t she? I think there’s someone back in England. Actually, I thought it was you.”

  Hannah walks beside Ingrid, who looks very graceful in her flowing white clothes. Given Ingrid’s height and her long blonde hair, she looks very conspicuous in the camp.

  “I’m afraid we’re running well behind schedule now,” says Hannah.

  “I’m sorry we took so long over lunch. I hope it doesn’t create any problems.”

  Hannah turns around to check on the others. She sees the ungainly frame of Sadik, jogging down the hill towards her. When he catches up, he’s breathless.

  “It took me a while to pack everything away,” he gasps.

  “Oh, Sadik, I’m sorry, I’d forgotten all about you!”

  Hannah gathers the group together outside the entrance to the community hall, just off the little square. The sun has disappeared behind the buildings; air feels cooler. Birds warble and whistle from their roosts, high on the roofs. Light shines through the windows of the community hall, giving it a comforting glow. Sadik pops his head through a half-open doorway, gives a greeting in Arabic. After a moment a tall, dark, clean-shaven man, aged in his mid-thirties, steps out. He has thick black hair, smiles nervously, wears decorating overalls. He is holding a roller brush covered in white paint. Cautiously, Sadik shakes the man’s free hand. They speak together in Arabic.

  “This is Ally,” announces Sadik to everyone.