I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  From the driver’s seat. “Ah.”

  “It’s ever so kind of you to let me tag along today. Ever so? I never talk like that. I’m getting snippy, like him. We’ve stayed in touch, though the last I heard from her was over a year ago and I’d like to see if she’s still here.”

  “Any reason she wouldn’t be? These farm people don’t move around much.”

  “I don’t think so, but I’d like to find out. Her people were from the country around the Beqa’a Valley that I visited from time to time. They had a farm that was extensive by local standards. A herd of goats, some sheep. Chickens. A few vineyards.”

  A “Hmp.” from the front seat as Spear floored the accelerator to pass a slow moving string of trucks spewing diesel fumes.

  Jack Spear isn’t terribly impressed with me. Seems to think I’m some sort of spoiled brat. Supercilious English prick. Maybe I should just play along with that. Fulfill his low expectations. Might be fun. But maybe more fun to prove to an arrogant Brit that American women aren’t as dumb as he seems to think.

  Emile broke in, his voice betraying he was aware of tension in the car and was eager to smooth things over. “India did morning news for WBN in New York.”

  “Early, early morning news, Emile. But I was waiting to get an assignment overseas. This job opened up sooner than I expected. And there wasn’t any shooting going on. They thought I couldn’t get into too much trouble.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Spear commented. “Your embassy’s right up ahead. We’ll see what we can find out. Does your Mariam have a last name?”

  Nicely now, India. “Oh yes, her name’s Mariam Hariri.”

  “Must be a couple million Hariris in Lebanon.”

  They came to the embassy entrance road. And as the car slowed, India rolled down her window.

  “The ambassador said I was to tell the guard at the gate that she invited us. They’ll call in then let us through.”

  “Righto.”

  Spear pulled into a parking space at the embassy, built five years after the riots and flag burnings. It was next to what had been the old bombed embassy that had been torn down after the troubles began in 1985. The rubble had been made to stand for eleven years before the United States decided to rebuild.

  A pair of immaculately decked-out Lebanese policemen stood at attention in front of the guard gate as they approached, their green berets bearing a badge of the native cedar tree.

  She hadn’t expected Spear and Emile to go with her, but they followed her up to the entrance. All showed their press credentials to the U.S. Marine guard and were directed to check in at the front desk.

  A Lebanese woman in a business suit welcomed them. “Yes. Miss Fox, I mentioned your visit to the ambassador after you called. She told me to welcome you and let her know when you arrived. She wanted to say hello. Your father was a colleague of hers at one time. She may be able to help you find your former omah.”

  “That’s very gracious of her. May my friends come, too?”

  “By all means. I’ll let her know you’re here. You can be seated over there.”

  India smiled to herself at the look that crossed Spear’s face. She could assume he’d been in the embassy. Receptions usually included many members of the press. But maybe he hadn’t had a private kind of visit. She’d have to find out.

  Office sounds seeped through from the working area of the embassy. Telephones rang, people came and went with business faces and portfolios. Moments later the smartly-dressed Lebanese woman crossed the reception area and escorted them to an elevator then whisked them to the third floor living quarters of the embassy.

  “I hadn’t wanted to take Ambassador Masterson from her duties. I just wanted to ask her about my former omah. See if she could tell me where she is now.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. The ambassador was delighted you called.”

  The elevator door slid open into a quiet, opulent marble foyer that led into a large living room on one side and smaller library on the other. The rooms were furnished with formal, western-style furniture and draperies, with touches of Middle Eastern objets d’art. The secretary directed them into the library, a comfortable ambience, with bookcases, leather chairs, and dark green lacquered walls hung with paintings of Mediterranean seascapes. Long floor to ceiling windows looked out on a blue expanse of the sea.

  The ambassador, Mary Masterson, bustled in, a tall, buxom woman, her silver hair pulled back in a chignon. She went to India, her arms outstretched. “Hello, my dear. My, you have grown up. I remember you as a little girl at the embassy in Cairo. Your father and I were lowly attachés together. And how is your dear mother?”

  “Daddy is fine, finds Washington a bit stuffy.” Her smile faded. “Mother is…well, Mother.”

  The woman nodded in understanding. “Well, let’s sit. We’ll have coffee and you can ask me about your Mariam. We’ll find her for you.” She crossed to the men. “Jack, good to see you.” She turned to India. “My dear, how did you get hooked up with this rascal?”

  “Now, Mary…” The Reuters man chuckled. She patted his cheek.

  So he has been here, looks like often. Mary, hmm? “I’ve only just arrived. Emile was nice enough get me settled, then take me to dinner. We ran into Jack last night at the restaurant, Mounir. He invited Emile to run up to Tripoli and I’m just tagging along.”

  “Ah. Emile, I just saw your father not too long ago at some affair at the university.”

  A waiter wheeled in a cart with a silver coffee urn, with porcelain plates of sugary delicacies.

  India watched as the ambassador chatted with the two men. Well Spear can certainly charm the ladies, judging by the delight the older woman is taking in their conversation. Her toes are practically curling. Anything there, I wonder? It’s a bit puzzling, why he’s so backed off with me. Not used to that and don’t like it. He’s certainly attractive enough. Probably it’s just English irritation at an American.

  After the coffee was served and additional pleasantries, the ambassador turned to India. “What can you tell me about Mariam?”

  “Her last name is Hariri. She’s from the Beqa’a Valley. Her family has a farm there. I corresponded with her on the holidays, but this last Christmas I didn’t hear from her. It’s worried me.”

  “Hariri is a common name, but it shouldn’t be difficult to check. I’ll make some inquiries. Perhaps someone on the staff here will remember her and know where’s she’s gone.”

  “That’s very kind of you. When I get a car I’ll drive out to the farm. If you can’t find her maybe they’ll be able to tell me where she is.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Bequ’a Valley is a hotbed of Hezbollah and its minions and has been for a while. You know Hezbollah has always painted itself as a modern liberal organization, but our government has officially designated it as a terrorist outfit. They’ve got a number of seats in parliament and make no bones about working for the annihilation of Israel. Their favorite weapons are suicide bombers. The toll of dead and wounded has mounted up. It keeps Israel on edge, though it makes more than the Israelis nervous. I don’t know what you expected, my dear, but Lebanon is not a peaceful place.”

  “I never remembered it so. I got packed off to school in Switzerland because my father was uneasy about me staying here. I’ll work something out. And be careful.”

  After some minutes of conversation the woman said, “Please come back to the embassy any time, India. There have been some changes since you were here, of course. You might want to see what’s been done. It’s quite comfortable, though a bit of a fortress, understandably. After the former embassy was destroyed in ‘eighty three, the ruins sat for eleven years, until finally in ‘ninety-four the State Department decided to just bulldoze the wreckage and start over next door. I wish we were more in the center of town,” she shrugged, “…but that’s just me. I’m having a reception in a couple of weeks. You gentlemen are welcome to come. I’ll put you on the list.” She stood. “I�
�m afraid duty calls. Delighted to see you, India. My regards to your father. And mother. ” She left the room as briskly as she’d come in.

  Later, along the corniche, north to Tripoli

  THE TRAFFIC DIDN’T thin out much after they left the embassy and the suburbs of Beirut. New construction was evident everywhere along the corniche—huge cranes and scaffolding, office buildings, shopping centers, apartments. After the civil war much of the city had been damaged, but it appeared to be thriving now. There were late model cars and a well-dressed populace, but the ambassador’s warning was clear enough.

  India watched the newly-modernizing urban landscape roll by. So it isn’t peaceful. Perfect. I didn’t plan on making my career in some place with woolly sheep, meadows, wildflowers and Sound of Music gemutlichkeit.

  Spear, looking in the rearview mirror remarked to India, “Since you lived here, I assume you’ve been to Tripoli.”

  She spoke to the mirror. “Why, yes, quite a few times. Mariam used to bring me. Her brother would drive us. We used to love to go out to the Island of Palm Trees and look for the baby green turtles to hatch.”

  “Turtles now. Exciting,” Spear commented.

  “It was exciting.” You know-nothing. “People came and yelled, banged pots and pans to chase the big predator birds away from the infant turtles as they struggled down to the sea. But we’d bring scraps of bread and food for them, too, and the rabbits. Of course the birds, too. Flocks of them. The island is a big flyway, especially for all the exhausted migrating storks and raptors that have just crossed the Mediterranean from the northern countries. They rest up on the four coastal islands on their way to the Nile Valley for the winter. Then they do it all over again the next spring.”

  There was a pause before he commented, “Is that so?”

  She looked out the window. Smartass. The green turtle babies and the tired storks were news to you, huh? What do you know about Lebanon.

  ***

  Tripoli, Lebanon

  TRAFFIC CLOGGED THE streets as they entered Tripoli. India rolled down the back window of the SUV to get a better look at the ancient Mamluk-designed city, characterized by masonry bases and surface decoration of calligraphy and blazons—medallions indicating the owner or builder of the structures.

  It was a clear, coolish January day, around 65 degrees at noon. The Mediterranean was a cobalt blue, dotted with fishing boats and an occasional yacht farther out to sea. The air smelled of salt and fish.

  Spear, she thought, drove with an obvious destination in mind. So they weren’t just going to test the temperature of the area. He was meeting someone?

  The city had grown. The second largest in Lebanon, it had been damaged during the civil war, but was being rebuilt as a shipping and banking center. Many of the ancient structures built from the indigenous sandstone were still evident. Ruins of the Citadel Raymond St. Gilles hovered over the city, glowing a butterscotch cream in the bright sun.

  They turned down a narrow street of small businesses and cafes. Drying laundry stretched on lines between buildings, snapping in the crisp breeze that blew in off shore. Spear squeezed the vehicle into a parking space. They were immediately surrounded by boys wanting money to watch the car. Spear paid a couple of eager teenagers, with stern admonitions that they were to be vigilant.

  “We will wash windows for extra,” one said and Spear produced another fifty piastre coin. The kid caught it deftly with a grin and pulled out a rag and bottle of some blue liquid from his tattered shorts and began to strenuously smear the windows.

  The inside of the small café was dingy and smelled strongly of coffee, stale cigarette smoke, spices and roasting meats. They crossed a floor of dingy black and white tiles as their eyes adjusted to the gloom. The proprietor gave them a desultory wave and jerked his head toward the back of the room. Spear nodded and headed to a table where a lone diner was tucking into what looked like and smelled like a steaming plate of goat curry. Spotting Spear he waved him to a seat.

  “Ahmed, I’ve brought friends. They are with news organizations. You may wish to enlighten them as well.”

  The man eyed India with skepticism, shrugged and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He shoved his plate aside, leaned back in his chair, belched, and pulled out a brownish cigarette, snapped a Zippo lighter and inhaled deeply. A spicy smoke curled out his fleshy, pocked nose and greasy lips. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth again and asked, in the Arabic of Lebanon, “Do they speak Arabic?”

  “The man does, the woman does not.”

  Ahmed continued, speaking in Arabic. “I have begun getting whispers of unrest in the region. Many complaints on the internet, scraps on Twitter.”

  Spear spoke. “This grocery vendor in Tunisia who set himself on fire and sent five thousand people into the streets in Sidi Bouazid yesterday, what’s up with that?”

  Ahmed pursed his lips and blew a perfect smoky O. His eyes followed the floating O before he answered. “I think you will hear perhaps as early as tomorrow that Tunisian President Zine el-Abidinde Ben Ali is in transit to Saudi Arabia. Demonstrators in Tunis have forced the ruling party’s parliament to replace him with their Speaker.”

  “Ben Ali is on the run?”

  “It would seem so. I think, my friend, it might be a good time for you to go to Egypt.” He chuckled. “Demonstrators there are suggesting to Ali that he tell Mubarak there is a plane waiting for him, too. This contagion will spread to Algeria, Jordan, and Syria as well.” He continued, with references to Tunisia, and Yemen.

  India felt a thrill pass through her vitals. The Middle East was seething beneath the surface and she was here! Obviously Spear didn’t think she understood Arabic. Let him think so for a while longer. And if Ahmed thought Spear ought to go to Egypt, that’s where she’d go.

  Spear said to Ahmed, “Tell my friends what you’ve told me.”

  Ahmed, speaking in English recounted his earlier words, leaving out some of the details he’d shared with Spear.

  Finally the meeting pulled to a close. India addressed the Lebanese in English. “Ahmed, when I lived here before, I had an omah named Mariam Hariri. I’ve lost track of her. She was a good friend. Her family had a farm in the Beqa’a Valley. Is there any chance you might know of her or her family?”

  Ahmed studied India for a few moments, then answered. “Yes. I know them. I believe she is with her brother, Jamil. He is a lieutenant with Hezbollah.”

  India felt a pang of surprise. Mariam was with Hezbollah? Jamil? Without thinking she spoke in Arabic. “What you tell me is a puzzle. Mariam was not political when I knew her.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then answered in kind. “When did you leave Lebanon? Things have changed here in the last ten years. People have changed.” A smile hovered around his mouth. “Perhaps you did not know your Mariam as well as you thought you did.”

  India leaned across the table. “That could be true. But still, we were good friends and I would like to see her. We shared happy times together. Can you tell me how I could get in touch with her?”

  His eyes shifted before he answered. “It would not be for me to say. I could perhaps send word to her brother. If she wants to see you, she will get in touch with you. It may be several days, weeks maybe, before your wishes can be known.” His voice was smooth, his expression vague. “I am not sure where Jamil is at the moment.”

  He’s lying, but what can I do? “I will be in Beirut for a while.” She tore a page from her notebook and scribbled her cell phone number and email address. “Tell her…never mind. I will tell her myself. You do me a great kindness to forward my message.”

  The man grunted and pulled his unfinished plate over, picked up an unfinished pita and began to sop up the cold drippings.

  SPEAR TIPPED THE kids watching the car again. As India settled into the back seat, he turned. “Let’s go have lunch overlooking the sea. There’s a good restaurant not too far with a nice terrace if it isn’t too cool. Anything anybody wants to check out before we head b
ack to Beirut?”

  “If you’ve got the time, I’d love to make a stop at the Khan Al-Saboun. There are soaps made there that I can’t find in the U.S. It isn’t too far, in the middle of the grand souq.”

  “I know it. Sure. Good idea. I’ll send some to my mother.”

  India’s head turned. He’s got a mother? Wonders never cease. Oh, knock it off, India. He’s thawing out a little. Because I spoke Arabic? I wanted to keep that to myself for a while, then I slipped when I asked Ahmed about Mariam.

  Jack turned the ignition. “C’mon, Emile, how about it? You can take some pictures and we’ll take the lady shopping. But first, we eat.”

  Shopping! Oh for God’s sake. Like some airhead twit.

  THE RESTAURANT’S TERRACE was sheltered from the stiff breeze from the sea, so they took a table outside. The dining room was crowded with a mix of nationalities, but a few diners had also elected to sit outside and admire the view of the Mediterranean, today so blue it seemed a vast blue precious stone.

  “Homer’s ‘wine dark sea’ today, wouldn’t you say?” Spear commented as the waiter poured a local red into their glasses.

  “Stretching it a bit, wasn’t he?” Emile held up his glass filled with a rich ruby red.

  “Not really,” India said. “There was no word for ‘blue’ in ancient Greek.” Spear’s eyes settled on her with the same look he’d given her when she had forgotten and spoke Arabic.

  She looked out at the water. Cut it out, India. You’re showing off. Why does he think the network sent me here? He thinks I know nothing. But he did bring up the Homer thing. Spear, sweetie, I practically majored in Homer.

  They decided on a mezze menu, small plates to be shared. Soon the table was filled with dishes of hommus; kibbeh, cracked wheat in a potato shell; falafel; fatayer, a pastry filled with pine nuts and spinach; faul mondannas, fava beans in lemon, garlic and olive oil; hindebeh, scallops and dandelion greens; calamari; arayes, charcoal grilled Lebanese bread with minced lamb and tahini.

  India surveyed the spread. “I’m starved, but can we eat all this?”