—Before they took me back to the camp in the south, she says, he promised to help me.
—What camp?
—When my son and I fled Damascus and came to this country, we joined members of my husband’s family in an encampment in the south.
—But how did you come to be here, in Beirut?
—I left her here. Fatima points to the baby. I’ve had to come back for her because the woman looking after her no longer wants her.
Brigitte does not know what any of this has to do with Anas.
—I told him about the baby, you see, Fatima continues. She was born long after my husband died. He understood why I couldn’t keep her.
—You’re not keeping her?
—You’ll need to burp her now, Fatima says, ignoring the comment.
Brigitte lifts the baby on to her shoulder and pats her gently on the back.
—You think I’m heartless, I know, Fatima says.
—No. I—
—But I have to think of my son. I have to think about his future. There’s no place for a sister with no name in it.
The baby lets out a soft burp and Brigitte smiles despite herself.
—But I don’t understand how Anas was able to help you, she says, and in that moment, looking at the young mother, the child’s breathing aligned with her own, Brigitte understands. He told you he would find a home for her, didn’t he? she asks quietly.
The young woman continues to look at her, saying nothing.
—He didn’t suggest we would take her, did he?
When Fatima nods in reply, Brigitte feels shaken and is not sure whether or not to believe her. Maybe Anas didn’t have a chance to tell me about it, Brigitte thinks. Peter had said that, just before leaving, Anas told him he had finally understood why she had decided to leave with the children. But when he had gone on to Damascus despite that, Brigitte concluded that he might have changed his mind. Oh, God, she wonders, what had Anas really been thinking when he told this woman he would be prepared to take her baby?
She looks down at the child in her arms again, the wide-open eyes and that stillness in them that one sees only in infants, a kind of quiet knowing, and for an instant it is as though Anas is standing beside her, also looking on in wonder.
—Habibi, Brigitte whispers to herself, dare I believe that you died loving me still?
She is aware moments later of the little boy standing up and going over to his mother. Fatima takes him on to her lap and kisses the top of his head.
—This is Wassim, she says.
—Hello, Wassim.
The baby begins to hiccup and Wassim screws up his face.
Brigitte looks at him.
—What’s the baby’s name? she asks him.
He turns his head to look at his mother but Fatima only shrugs.
The baby begins to squirm in Brigitte’s arms.
—I think she needs changing, she says. Would you like me to do it?
Fatima lifts the little boy off her lap and puts him back on to the floor.
—Go get the nappies from the kitchen, she tells him. The ones Hannah bought for us. Then she places a rectangle of cloth on the carpet and turns to Brigitte. You can lie her down here, she says.
But Brigitte is unwilling to let her off so easily.
—What is the baby’s name? she asks again.
Fatima sighs.
—She doesn’t have one.
—Doesn’t have a name? she asks with disbelief. Why not?
Wassim comes in with the bag of nappies and Fatima hands her one, a look of resignation passing across her face.
—If I give her a name, I’ll have to keep her.
—But she’s your child …
—Mine? What use do I have for a girl? She’ll just be another burden for me – and for Wassim as well, eventually. And once she gets older, what chance will she have without a father to protect her?
—You cannot abandon your child, Brigitte says as she changes the baby. Surely you realize that much?
Fatima stands up.
—I’m not abandoning her, am I? she says, her voice rising. You’re all good people here. You can take care of her. And why do you keep saying she’s mine? I never said she was, did I?
—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you …
Fatima sits down again and begins to sob.
—You know, when I heard about your husband being killed, she finally says, looking up at Brigitte, the first thing I thought of was how difficult it would be for you, like it was for me. She shakes her head. I mean I know you’re much better off and everything, but the feelings are the same. I cared about my husband too and he loved me back in his own way, just like yours did. I could tell he did, the way he talked about you and everything. It wasn’t just about the children for him.
Before Brigitte can reply, the front door opens and Peter and Hannah walk in.
—Oh, you’re here already. Hannah comes up and gives her a hug. Squeezed between them, the baby lets out a little yelp. Hannah laughs.
—So you’ve met Fatima and the children, she says.
—Peter kisses Brigitte.
—Sorry we’re late. We were held up at Maysoun’s.
—Fatima, Hannah says. We have good news. It’s all arranged for the day after tomorrow, for you and the children.
The young woman looks anxious.
—Don’t worry, habibti, Hannah says. Brigitte is a close friend. She won’t say anything.
—I’ll go in and start supper, Peter says.
He turns to Fatima and Wassim.
—You two can come and help me, he says with a smile, and they follow him into the kitchen.
Brigitte looks at Hannah.
—She met with Anas when he was here, spoke to him …
—Yes, I know. He was the only one of us she would talk to in the beginning.
—Would you believe I’m feeling jealous? she says, close to tears. About their conversation, I mean. It’s much more than he gave me in the end.
—Come here, Hannah says gently, taking her friend into her arms.
Perhaps what I need to do, Brigitte tells herself, is to grieve without hope of comfort and without aim, with no view to the future, no expectation of resolution, to wallow in the guilt of my own survival and imagine, uselessly, frenziedly, what might have been. She wants to smile at these thoughts but feels herself cave in instead, her chest and all her insides turning in on themselves so that she is reduced to one, beating centre.
*
On the balcony with Hannah and Peter, Brigitte feels a chill in the air. It is late enough for the streets to be relatively empty of traffic but many of the windows in the buildings across from them, beyond the now dark courtyard and on a level with the unseen sea, still flicker with light.
—She has no intention of taking the baby with her, Brigitte says, her voice a little too loud. I hope you two realize that.
—What do you mean? asks Peter.
—I mean exactly that. Fatima is planning to leave the baby here.
—How do you know that? Hannah asks.
Brigitte shifts in her seat.
—I had a chance to talk to her before you arrived earlier this evening and she told me that’s what she was going to do. She says she spoke to Anas before he left for Damascus and he promised to visit the baby at the Palestinian camp and help her arrange for someone to take it.
—But he never mentioned anything about that to us, Hannah protests, leaning forward in her seat.
—She probably made him promise not to, Peter says. She was much more comfortable talking to him than she was with us.
—But I still don’t believe she would abandon her baby if no one agreed to take it.
—I think she’s desperate enough to do it, Brigitte continues. She is absolutely adamant that she cannot take that child with her to join her family.
Peter frowns and reaches out to touch his wife’s arm.
—I think Brigitte’s right, Hannah, he says. We
need to sort this out.
—But what can we do? Just hand her over to the authorities here and forget about the whole thing?
They fall silent for a few moments, mulling over their thoughts in the dark.
—I want her, Brigitte blurts out. I’ll take her.
—I’m sorry?
—If Anas promised he would help her, then it’s my responsibility now to do that. She also told me he told her he would be prepared to take the baby himself.
—And you believed her?
—It doesn’t matter if I believe her or not, Brigitte says emphatically. The important thing is that this child needs to be saved from an uncertain fate.
Hannah and Peter remain silent.
—Why are you looking at me like that? she asks.
—Do you realize what you’re saying, Brigitte? Hannah finally asks.
—Of course I do.
—You’ve had a big shock, habibti. This may not be the best time to make such a big decision.
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I didn’t have to think about leaving Damascus when I did, she says.
—But will you take her back to Berlin with you?
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I’m not sure we’re going back there.
—What? You’re not planning to go back to Damascus, are you?
—No, of course not. But the children and I love it here. So did Anas. We could stay on in Beirut. Look, it may seem crazy to you, Hannah, but I know in my heart it’s the right thing to do. Please don’t look so shocked. I’ve already spoken to my in-laws about this and they’re very happy we’ll be close by. This is where we belong, Hannah – or where my children and I can at least learn to belong.
—All I’m saying is that you should give yourself more time to think about it. Don’t let it be an impulse decision like this.
Brigitte presses her lips together.
—How can I explain? she asks quietly. To you, my kind and loving friends. But something is compelling me to do this, some instinct …
—Do you know what has just occurred to me? Peter suddenly intervenes. And then, without waiting for an answer, he continues: I’ve just realized that this is exactly the kind of thing Anas would do – you know, resolving to save this child – absolutely the kind of decision he would have made, given the circumstances. I’m sure of it.
He looks at Brigitte and smiles.
—It’s almost as if, he tells her, it’s almost as if in taking this child you will be making up in some way for the loss of Anas. This is what ‘a life for a life’ really means.
Brigitte’s heart, which had begun to drop moments earlier, suddenly lifts and floats towards him. He has given her the answer she needed. She feels that Anas himself has spoken to her through Peter, as if he made the decision long before she could have been aware of it and all she needs to do now is receive it with grace. She mouths a silent thank you to Peter, sits back in her chair and closes her eyes to the Beirut night.
Chapter 33
It is raining hard, though it is not cold. Hannah waits for Peter to come around to her with the umbrella and steps out of the car. Standing now, she can see the open doorway of the gallery and the people inside, bright lights and fluid movement, shelter from the deluge.
She holds on to her husband’s arm and they walk slowly beneath the umbrella, looking down to try and avoid the puddles that are appearing in ever-expanding circles at their feet. Peter is tall and sturdily built. She leans against him as if she might benefit from his height, from the larger space he occupies in this world, and in becoming aware of their bodies, close and cautious as they move together like this, she realizes how much she has depended on him during this past and difficult year, wonders how she would have coped, given the turmoil around them, without this man who now walks in step with her with such ease.
The exhibition has attracted more people than she could have imagined and it is difficult to move around once they get inside. She lets go of Peter’s arm and moments later when she looks behind her he is no longer there. Unable to see Brigitte and the children, Hannah decides to peruse the paintings and sculptures that had been scattered haphazardly around the gallery when she came here with Anas weeks ago and which are now beautifully displayed. As she does so, despite all the activity around her, she can sense Anas’s presence, his critical artist’s eye.
From him, she had learned to see works of art from a new perspective: how to look beyond the obvious and assess an object’s relationship with its surroundings; how colour and light are one and the same; how the observer and the thing being observed continually shape one another; and, perhaps most importantly, that beauty is not merely a reflection of taste but is, on some level, an absolute. It seems to her, looking at these works of art that keep safe so much of what was precious about Anas, that art is also a purveyor of truth. If his violent death is a symbol of the betrayal of the popular revolts that brought down merciless regimes all over the Arab world, then Anas’s art is the antithesis of that treachery, an indication that life will always find ways to assert itself, no matter the circumstances. She feels sudden anguish that had he lived, Anas would surely have achieved still greater recognition for his work, and that with his loss, the region had lost not only an artist but a man whose awareness and insight had brought grace and clarity to an otherwise dim and despondent environment.
She spots Brigitte in the far corner of the gallery and makes her way over to her. Marwan and Rana, dressed in their best clothes, are standing beside their mother and baby Hayat sleeps in a pram next to them. Brigitte is busy greeting well-wishers so Hannah bends down to talk to the children.
—Everything OK here? she asks cheerfully.
—Shhh. Rana places a finger over her mouth. You’ll wake the baby, Aunty Hannah.
—I’m sorry, sweetheart, Hannah says quietly. I didn’t mean to do that. Amazing that she can go on sleeping with all the noise around her, isn’t it?
—I’m not letting anyone come near her, that’s why, Rana replies. You’d better move away too now.
—Yes, yes, of course I will.
Hannah takes Marwan by the hand.
—Will you show me around, habibi? Since you know your father’s work so well, you’ll be the best guide.
Although he does not say anything, Marwan follows her to where one of Hannah’s favourites, a clay sculpture, is displayed on a column that has been painted in white. The setting makes the figure appear even smaller than it actually is, its head round and disproportionately large, its diminutive arms sprouting from either side of its torso, its eyes hollow indentations that appear to have been pressed – as one would press fingers into dough – on to the front of its skull.
—What do you think of this one? she asks Marwan.
He drops her hand and does not look at her. In the days since his arrival, he has maintained a pretence of nonchalance, of feigned indifference, that has alarmed Hannah. When she expressed her concern, Peter told her that Marwan might simply not be ready to face his grief. ‘Give him time, Hannah. Give them all time to come to terms with what’s happened.’
—I think, Hannah says now, this is a fun piece, kind of quirky. Just like your dad was. Know what I mean?
Marwan lifts his hands up towards her, and gives her the thumbs up. She raises her eyebrows and waits for what will come next.
—Who do you think made those eyes look like that? he asks her.
When she finally understands, she laughs out loud, grabs his thumbs with her hands and shakes them hard.
—Ah, it was you, she says, and is delighted when Marwan grins back at her. That’s why it’s so good. No wonder I loved it so much when I first saw it. Then, more quietly, she asks: You really liked working with your father, didn’t you?
Marwan nods.
—He took me to his studio lots of times, he says. He always wanted to know what I thought of what he was working on and let me work with him on some stuff too. I mean, I don’t know if
I would ever want to be an artist like he is but it was fun to play around with paint and clay. I don’t know, maybe I should become an artist now and sell my work too.
—You know, Marwan, Hannah says gently, he always told me how proud he was of you, said he wanted you to do whatever would make you happy.
The boy looks at her anxiously.
—But now that he’s dead, it’s up to me to take care of everyone – my mother and my sister … my sisters, I mean. Somebody has to earn a living to keep this family going.
Hannah tries not to smile.
—You’re right, habibi, but you know your mother is very strong and very capable. I’ve always admired her for that. She’ll take care of things, I’m certain of that. Besides, Uncle Peter and I will always be here for you if you need us.
As if on cue, Peter appears.
—Hello, he says. Marwan, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you. He gestures to the young boy to follow him. Come with me. There’s a young man who wants to meet you, the son of a great friend of your father’s. Let’s grab some juice and take it over to him.
—And this is why I love you, Hannah whispers into the air as she watches them walk away.
A waiter with a tray of tiny canapés comes by. She grabs a few and is munching on them when Maysoun, dressed in a long green dress that brings out the colour of her eyes and makes her skin glow, comes up to her.
—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so beautiful, Hannah tells her friend as they embrace. Something wonderful must be happening in your life.
—I do have some news. I’m leaving at the end of the month. Finally going to New Zealand.
—To see that friend you told me about? I know you’ve spoken about it before but I didn’t think it would be so soon.
Hannah finishes the last morsel of food, wipes her mouth with a napkin and looks for somewhere to throw it out.
—If I like it there, continues Maysoun, he says he wants me to stay on.
—You mean you’ll get married?
—I’m not sure about that but it’s a possibility, I guess.
—Will your mother go with you?
—She’s refusing to so far, but she might be persuaded if I decide to stay.
Unsafe Haven, An Page 18