—Now he’s not answering my calls and I’m getting worried about him. I’m not sure what I should do.
—It can be difficult to get through to Damascus sometimes, Hannah, because of the troubles. I’m sure you’ll hear from him as soon—
—We should have brought him back to Beirut with us and sent him off to his family in Germany where he would have been safe, Hannah interrupts.
—Hannah. Maysoun’s voice is gentle but firm. Anas is an adult and can make his own decisions. Where he goes and what he does is not your responsibility. Surely you see that?
She hears her mother step out of the bathroom and turns to see her stop for a moment to tie her towelling robe more tightly around her waist. Standing now with her back to the window, Maysoun observes Nazha without being seen – the slight bend in her shoulders, her deliberate movements and the quietness to her demeanour – so that her mother’s otherness, her essential self, appears more sharp-edged, more real to her than it ever has before.
—I guess you’re right, Hannah says, but I can’t help worrying. What if something has happened to him?
—Let’s not fear the worst, Hannah, not until we have more information.
—Anyway, Maysoun adds, I wanted to tell you that I’ve heard back about Fatima’s family. Her parents and siblings are safe and well and living in a refugee camp in Turkey.
—Oh, Maysoun. That’s wonderful.
—They’ve already been told that she’s here and we’re going to work on getting her out there to join them.
—I can’t wait to let her know, Hannah says with excitement in her voice. She’ll be thrilled.
—I’m not certain it can be done, Hannah. So let’s not promise her anything just yet.
—I’ll just tell her you’re working on it, shall I? I think she’ll be so relieved that they’re OK she won’t worry too much about whether or not she’ll be able to join them. Not at first anyway.
Hannah pauses before changing the subject.
—How’s your mother, Maysoun? We’ve been so preoccupied with Anas and his situation that we just haven’t had a chance to come and see her. I feel so bad about it. We must all go out to dinner sometime soon.
—Thanks, habibti. She’s fine, really. I can’t get her to stay here much longer, though. She’s decided to return to Baghdad next week.
—What? Surely it’s not safe for her to go now? There was another suicide bombing there just the other day, wasn’t there?
Maysoun sighs.
—When I try to dissuade her from leaving, she tells me things aren’t much better here so she might as well be in her own city and in her own home. There is something to what she says, I suppose.
—How are you coping, Maysoun? It must be so worrying for you.
A car beeps its horn in the street below and Maysoun, noticing that the rain has stopped, reaches over to open the window. A rush of fresh air comes in as she turns her attention back to the conversation.
—I keep thinking that all these conflicts haven’t stopped people from getting on as best they can, if they have no choice but to stay. It’s the same situation in Iraq. People do what they can to maintain some sense of normality. That’s probably what keeps them sane.
For a moment, the thought that what has so far seemed to be stubbornness on Nazha’s part might actually be determination crosses Maysoun’s mind.
—Perhaps what we need to do is to look at the situation from our own perspective, Maysoun comments, rather than from the outside looking in.
Hannah laughs.
—Not through Western eyes, you mean? There’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying, habibti.
—Absolutely. So perhaps there is courage in what my mother and Anas have chosen to do – rather than recklessness, I mean. Perhaps that’s the way we’re meant to look at it.
She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up to find Nazha smiling at her.
—Anyway, Hannah, if I do hear from Anas I’ll let you know right away.
Maysoun puts the telephone down and then reaches out to hold her mother as close as she can.
Chapter 20
He takes a taxi because he’s in a hurry to get there and also because, if he’s lucky, it might make the chances of his being stopped again less likely. The car is an old American model, ungainly on the road but comfortable enough on the inside, and the driver, a fellow Syrian, is discreet enough not to try to strike up a conversation.
At one point, as they are getting closer to the border with Syria, they see a man and woman ahead of them standing on the side of the road, gesturing for them to stop.
Anas turns to the driver.
—You’re not thinking I should stop for them, are you? the man says, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look back at him.
—Well, they do appear to need a lift.
—They can wave down a passenger van when it comes by, the driver says. It’s not a good idea to pick strangers up along this road these days. They could get us into trouble at the checkpoint ahead.
Anas glances at the couple as the car drives past them and feels a momentary shame at the disappointment in their faces.
This war is turning us into callous bastards, he thinks to himself.
Days earlier, when he went off in search of Fatima’s baby, he had felt similar embarrassment: he’d found himself hesitating at one of the entrances to the Palestinian camp, as if the option of turning back, of giving up and abandoning his mission was perfectly acceptable. Perhaps, he had told himself, I am too caught up in my own troubles to really care. Perhaps that is understandable.
Still, he had entered the camp, asked for directions and walked through a maze of bare concrete construction, two- and three-storey structures stacked on top of each other with a narrow dirt path winding itself between them, vertical villages, pretences of homes. As he walked beneath ugly, swathed tangles of electrical wire that skimmed the top of his head, blocking out the light, the lack of air, the sense of being slowly stifled, threatened to overwhelm him. He had stopped and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was a familiar-sounding clunk coming from nearby and, looking to his left, he saw a wide doorway through the gloom and within a pool table, two boys, cue sticks in hand, playing in silence. For a moment, he stood transfixed, until a moped came to a sudden stop behind him, its horn tooting for him to move aside. He thought of the waves of Palestinians who had sought refuge here, first in 1948 when the Zionists attacked their towns and villages and drove them out of their homes, again when the Israelis occupied the West Bank and Gaza after the 1967 war, and now when many who were living in refugee camps in Syria had fled the fighting there. Over time, the refugees had built haphazard structures they were not permitted to own on land leased from Lebanese landlords, installed basic infrastructure, opened sheds that masqueraded as shops and which catered to the refugee population, set up schools and clinics with the help of local and international non-profits, married and bore children, and lived and died waiting for the day they would be allowed to return to Palestine.
Is it possible, Anas wondered as he finally arrived at the house he had been directed to, that those fleeing the violence in Syria would suffer the same fate as the Palestinians had decades before?
A middle-aged woman opened the door and nodded when Anas introduced himself.
—Fatima phoned and told me you would be coming, she said. Come in.
She showed him into a small ground-floor sitting room crammed with heavy furniture upholstered in green velvet. There were no windows, no light and little air. An elderly man, wrapped up in blankets, sat in one of the armchairs. He looked up at Anas’s greeting but said nothing.
—Please sit down, the woman said, gesturing to the sofa.
It was only after he had agreed to drink a cup of the coffee she made on a stove in the corner of the room that she finally told him what he wanted to know.
—The baby is not here, the woman said, but I have been checking on her every day and s
he’s doing well.
—Where is she? Anas asked, unable to avoid a note of accusation in his voice.
The woman looked uncomfortable.
—I have children of my own, you see, lots of responsibilities of my own. When Fatima said she would not be able to return for the child for a while, I put it with a family staying not far from here. They’re relatives of mine, an older couple who haven’t been here very long.
Anas looked around in confusion.
—But I need to see her, he said. I promised I would.
—Fatima didn’t say anything about that. The woman hesitated. But I suppose I could take you round there. The children won’t be home from school for a while so I have some time to spare.
—Thank you.
After checking on the old man, the woman led him out of the door and in the direction of the southern perimeter of the camp, Anas taking note as the dwellings became steadily shabbier, the alleyway still narrower and less clean and an unpleasant smell began to fill the air. When they arrived at a battered doorway, she gestured for him to step into a room empty of furniture, where the concrete floor was only half covered with straw mats, thin cushions lining one wall and barefoot, unwashed children crawled and wandered and stared at him. Before disappearing into another part of the apartment, the woman asked him to sit down and wait for her.
He looked around at the damp, peeling walls, felt himself losing hope; earlier determination left his body and seeped into the floor beneath him, and he began to wonder if he should not have taken Hannah and Peter into his confidence before coming here. As it was, he had found himself suggesting to Fatima when they spoke that he might be able to find a good family to adopt the child. What was I thinking? he asked himself. What if, in the end, I can’t help and I’ve just built her hopes up for no reason?
The woman came out with a small bundle and handed it to him. He looked down at the baby loosely wrapped in a dirty cotton blanket, the tufts of dark hair sticking out of its head, the tiny features and delicate, flaky skin.
—She was asleep, the woman said, her loud voice startling the infant awake, but you insisted on seeing her so here she is.
The baby began to squirm, its little hands, fingers and palms drawn like paws, moving up and down with its body.
—You woke her, Anas said, feeling suddenly irritated with the woman.
He began to swing the baby gently to and fro, and watched her blink several times before she finally settled. When he looked up again, the woman was frowning at him.
—What’s her name? he asked.
She sniffed loudly.
—You’ll have to ask Fatima, she said. She didn’t mention a name to me.
Hearing the disdain in her voice, he wanted to shout at the woman, berate her for her obvious indifference, but stopped himself.
—I don’t know when the mother is planning to return, she continued, but I won’t be able to look after this baby much longer. The money Fatima gave me has run out and I simply can’t afford it.
—Don’t worry, Anas said, realizing she was expecting some sort of payment from him. I’ll help you with that but you need to take care of the baby yourself. I’m not happy with the conditions here. I’ll also tell Fatima to come back for the child very soon so she won’t be on your hands for much longer.
He pulled out some notes from his pocket and handed them to her.
—God keep you and yours safe from harm, inshallah, she said in a placating tone. I’ll take her home with me right now, if you like. You’re right. She’ll be much better off with me.
The baby whimpered and Anas looked at her once again. What I’d really like to do, he thought, is take you away from here, turn your fate around and give you the life you deserve. He tickled her under the chin and she smiled up at him.
—I’ll be back, he whispered. I’ll be back soon.
He is woken from his reverie by the tooting of the car horn and realizes they have arrived at the Lebanese border crossing. They get through without incident this time, thanks to the documentation Abou Mazen helped him acquire, and Anas settles back in his seat. Soon he is looking out at the barren and dusty landscape that forms the no man’s land between the two countries. From this angle, the road, wide and smooth, appears endless, and the surrounding terrain of yellow dirt and rocky hills, the starkness, reflects the emptiness he is feeling. He senses that in this brief interlude between the past and the present, he has been granted pause to reflect and an unexpected clarity of vision.
As soon as he gets to Damascus, he will telephone Brigitte and tell her he wants to make amends.
I’m sorry, he will say. I want to come to Berlin to see you and the children, to talk and sort things out. I love you.
—Sorry?
He is suddenly aware of the taxi driver addressing him.
—Did you say something?
—No. I … I must have been talking to myself.
—We should be there very soon, the driver continues. Glad to be home?
Anas laughs nervously.
—Yes, I suppose I am, he says. Yes, I am.
Chapter 21
Peter buys a string of flowers from an old man on a street corner, a necklace of jasmine blossoms that emit a sweet-smelling fragrance and which he places in his jacket pocket before walking slowly on.
On his way to work, across a bridge and further towards the city centre that was rebuilt after the end of the civil war, he contemplates the sights and sensations of Beirut, the subdued activity of early morning relieved by unexpected instances of beauty: the flower man raising a trembling hand in thanks as Peter turns away; the arc of outstretched arms outside a bakery kiosk; hurrying feet on uneven pavements that move in line with his own; and here and there, a fleeting impression of possibility, a glimpse of the city that once was.
He stops to cross the street and looks up at a 1920s building built in the period when Lebanon was still under French rule and the city’s architecture reflected that: balconies that cut elegant curves into the near air, wooden shutters and balustrades painted in a glossy green against a quiet façade of unruffled stone.
When he first arrived in Beirut, sometime before he and Hannah married, he had lived in a building similar to this, though it had not benefited from renewal like this one has, was, in fact, in a state of undeniable decay: crumbling stairwells and paint peeling off its interior walls, the front doors to most of the apartments chipped and unsightly, and a pervading smell of damp or worse coming from the plumbing. He had tried to improve the state of the one-bedroom apartment he rented, made the best of its high ceilings and well-proportioned rooms, spent most mornings on the tiny balcony overlooking the main street drinking coffee and learning patience.
The first time Hannah visited him at the apartment, she had told him with a smile that he was turning into a true Lebanese.
—How so? he had asked, bemused.
—Well, for most of us, the world stops just outside our doorstep.
—I’m not sure I understand what you mean.
Though they knew one another well by then, he could still be surprised by some of her comments.
—During the civil war, when there was so much chaos going on around us, our homes became havens of peace, she said. Apartments were usually immaculate, their furnishings in good repair and a general air of comfort about them. Battles could be raging on just a few streets away and people would still come home after work and sit at their tables for meals, make conversation or watch television and generally get on with their lives as though being indoors was protection enough—
—Which it often wasn’t, of course, he interrupted, because so many apartment buildings were hit by rockets and riddled with gunfire. Many inside them were killed.
She shook her head.
—Maintaining the illusion that one was safe inside one’s own home was vital, Peter. It’s what kept most people going despite the madness that was outside our control anyway.
—I guess it’s impossible to b
e in a continuous state of fear for one’s life.
—Exactly. It’s not that you allow yourself to become indifferent to the violence but you tell yourself the shield you have built around yourself and those you love somehow makes you invulnerable to it.
But things are very different now, he thinks. There is no war going on but the sense of despair is evident. Perhaps also the presence of hundreds of thousands of refugees has exposed the fragility of the situation even to those Lebanese who would rather ignore it, revealed the incompetence and corruption of the country’s politicians and the indifference of other Arab countries as well as the West to its plight. He stops in mid-step and takes a deep breath.
When did my days, Peter asks himself, begin with a burden of weariness that weighs me down as soon as I wake, plagues all the hours that follow and eats away at my resilience?
Hannah had told him, on their return from the Bekaa only days ago, that she sensed an unfamiliar distance in him.
—What is it, Peter? she asked.
—I’m not sure.
—Is it this whole thing with Anas?
—I suppose it’s partly that. I don’t know.
—Has something happened to upset you? Surely we can talk about it, whatever it might be.
He shrugged.
—Maybe I’m just tired of everything, Hannah, he finally said. I don’t know.
—It feels – she hesitated for a moment – it feels almost as though you’ve lost faith in this country, in all of us …
—Don’t be ridiculous, Hannah, please. Let’s just stop talking about it.
But is that what has, in fact, happened? he asks himself. Do I no longer believe in Lebanon, in being here, and if so, what should I do next?
He spends the next few hours at his desk making calls and meeting in conference rooms with administrators like himself who have lost heart in the causes they once espoused. He does not telephone Hannah to ask how her day is going, does not go out for lunch, does not indulge in conversation with colleagues and feels his spirits steadily drop until, finally deciding to return home, he realizes even standing up is an effort. Perhaps, Peter thinks, I am coming down with something.
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