I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  India laughed. “‘Uppity.’ I like your word better.’ But Jack Spear is English. The Brits should be used to us ‘uppy’ women by now.”

  “Don’t be too sure. However, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’ve lived here before, I understand. Know a little about how things work. Just do what you came for. Will you broadcast regularly?”

  “I’m here for when things happen. It’s pretty quiet now, or relatively. But we must do a real interview. I can send it in. They’ll use it when there’s a place. And it lets my boss know I’m not just playing.”

  “I’d like that. Every actress wants exposure in the U.S. The Foreign Film Oscar nomination was big for me. Perhaps this film I’m working on will be another Oscar nominee.” She laughed. “Maybe it would win.”

  “That would be a plus for both of us. I’ll set something up with Emile and get in touch.”

  “We’ll be wrapping up the picture in a few days and then I’ll be free. Would you like to look around the lot? There’s not much going on right now so we can ‘snoop around.’ Do I say that right?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’d like. Learn something about the industry here. Everything I learn is a plus.”

  “Come then. I’ll order a cart. Things are pretty spread out.”

  “I have time if you do.”

  “I’ve worked on films in Syria and Egypt. Movie lots are pretty much the same everywhere.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Le Chef Gemmayzeh Restaurant

  “I KNOW WHERE we’re going,” India said to Jed Ellsworth, the Information Officer. Or IO, at the embassy. “I remember the St. Nicholas Stairs.” India pointed to the procession of one hundred-twenty-five grayish steps that led to the St. Nicholas church, the Orthodox Bishopric of Beirut. “Miriam and I used to visit the art shows they had twice a year. And let me see. There used to be a pet shop and a pharmacy over there. I used to beg for one of the puppies in the window of the shop, but Mother always said no. We’re going to Le Chef. We always ate here during the art festivals. It’s fun.”

  Jed grinned. “I love the place. Everybody comes here and the food is great and cheap.”

  They entered the noisy restaurant as the chef yelled “Welcome,” and pointed to a long table where an obvious variety of nationalities mingled and conversed in a Babel of languages. Jed waved him off and said to India. “We want to talk a bit. The communal table is for meeting your fellow diners and making new friends.”

  They found a table by the broad windows. Jed glanced around. “Maybe I should have picked a quieter place, but I figured you’d like some local color.”

  “It’s fine. And smells just like I remember. A mix of spices and garlic and grilled meat. Yum.”

  He pulled out his chair. “I keep forgetting you lived here. Pops was the ambassador, huh? Then you went off to a fancy girls’ school in Switzerland. And here you are and I’m a hillbilly from southern Ohio. My horoscope says ambassadors’ daughters and hillbillies are a match made in Zodiac heaven.”

  India laughed. “I had you pegged as being from Iowa. And correspondents for television news organizations and Information Office Ohio hillbillies really need to have a conversation about what’s going on here in Beirut. Also I’m starved.”

  “Don’t even think of getting anything else but the moughrabiyeh and the mloukhiyeh. They make the moughrabiyeh with both lamb and chicken. Most places just use one or the other. A travesty.”

  After they’d ordered, India leaned forward. “Jed, I’m thrilled you agreed to talk to me. Even in the short time I’ve been here I’m getting undercurrents of something going on under the radar. I got this job rather quickly. I’ve been doing some reading, but I’d be grateful if you could catch me up.”

  “Fire away. You can tell me where to start.” He spoke briefly to the waiter about their order.

  “In nineteen-ninety-six…” India began, “the United Nations ceasefire broke down, Israel warships blockaded Beirut, Tyre, and Sidon. Then followed the massacre at Qana, when I left here. That’s when Israel fired artillery shells into the U.N. compound at Qana. At the time eight hundred Lebanese civilians had sheltered there. One hundred and six civilians were killed. Israel said they’d had reports it was a Hezbollah stronghold, which they denied. The U.S. and Israel accused Hezbollah of ‘shielding,’ or putting civilians in place to cover up military operations.”

  “Did you know,” Jed asked, “that the 9/11 terrorist Mohammed Atta committed himself to martyrdom over the bloodletting at Qana? And bin Laden declared his jihad against the United States because of it. Or that was one of his reasons.”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that. Interesting.”

  Jed nodded. “In ’ninety-six, Israel occupied southern Lebanon. There was a sixteen day campaign to end Hezbollah shelling of northern Israel. They flew eleven hundred air raids over strongholds in Beirut and Beqaa Valley, the Hez fired rockets back. Israel demanded the government repudiate Hezbollah, but because of the political activities of the preceding years, that didn’t happen. There was a year two-thousand-eight agreement signed by Israel, the U.N., U.S. France and Syria that, for all intents and purposes, allowed Hez to continue its military actions against the Israeli Defense Force.”

  “What a mess.”

  “Yeah, there was a lot of damage to Lebanon’s infrastructure. Major bridges, power stations. After that the government tried to disable Hezbollah’s communications network. They, Hezbollah, operated a fixed line telecommunications network in parallel to the government one. The government regarded it as a breach to its sovereignty. Hezbollah said the network was essential to its resistance to Israel.”

  “They would claim that, naturally,” India said.

  “Around the city pro-Hezbollah protesters were roaming around with machine guns and other weapons. By now the Hez militia had completely conquered the streets of West Beirut. The government announced a program of security decisions. Loyal militiamen retook several West Beirut neighborhoods and turned them over to the Lebanese Army. The army pledged to resolve the dispute and let Hez keep its telecommunications network.”

  The waiter arrived with the steaming dishes and the two momentarily forgot history and inhaled the rich aromas of caraway, cinnamon, allspice and cardamom.

  “I’ll embarrass you I’ll eat so much,” India closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrant spices. “I can’t imagine this without both chicken and lamb.”

  “The natives treat couscous like a grain. Well, I guess it is, sort of. Semolina is a wheat flour. What do you think?”

  “Kinda grain, kinda pasta. I tried to make this dish once. Takes too long for me, I’m not much of a cooking girl,” India said.

  “I’m a great cook. I’ll go southern when you come over…make you chitlin’s and fried squirrel.”

  “You’re joking. Sweet little squirrels with fluffy tails?” She scooped a portion of the stew onto her fork with a chunk of bread. “This is sheer heaven. Let’s talk about dumb things while we eat.”

  “Great idea. Come back to my digs later.”

  She laughed. “Now, that’s really dumb.”

  “It’s the most incredibly brilliant thing I’ll say all evening.” He raised his glass of wine.

  They made their way through the fragrant moughrabiyeh and the cardamom-laced mloukhiyeh, the green leafy vegetable resembling the texture of okra.

  “Ah, that was superb,” Jed announced, sitting back. “Now I suppose we have to get back to the business at hand.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes.”

  “You’re a hard woman. Had we reached the United Nations publishing a border demarcation between Israel and Lebanon called the Blue Line?”

  “Not yet. Go on.”

  “Israel complied. Then on October seventh, three Israeli soldiers were abducted by Hez forces and killed. Then Lebanon reported that Israeli jets violated airspace and broke sound barriers over several villages. Lebanon responded by firing at Israeli jets. They reported sixteen hundred violation
s since the year two thousand withdrawal.”

  “In the year two-thousand Hezbollah became a part of the government.”

  “Yeah. They forged a coalition and swept all the parliamentary seats allotted to Southern Lebanon. The two-thousand-four border conflicts with Israel escalated again, with each saying the other started it. Four years later Hez precipitated the thirty-four day Lebanon War when militants fired rockets at Israeli border towns as a diversion for an anti-tank missile attack on armored Humvees on Israel’s side. Five soldiers were killed, two wounded and two were captured and taken to Lebanon.”

  “Israel retaliated, of course.”

  “Not lightly. Israel responded with massive air strikes and a ground invasion of southern Lebanon. Israel was ill-prepared to fight what turned out to be a vicious house-to-house operation. Hezbollah was a psychologically determined enemy. They existed, and had for some time, to fight Israel.”

  “The Syrians were still here when I left and had been since the Civil War ended in nineteen seventy-nine. My father was worried about the future here and that’s why I eventually got sent away.”

  “It was after two-thousand, Syrian military presence had begun to face criticism and resistance from the Lebanese population. Following the assassination of ex-president Rabik Hariri and an alleged Syrian involvement a public uprising called the Cedar Revolution swept the country. Consequently, with the adoption of a U.N. resolution, Syria was forced to withdraw in two-thousand-five. Five years ago. The pro-Syrian government was also disbanded.”

  India sat, her eyes slightly unfocused, absorbed in all she had heard.

  “I can see I’ve sent you into a bored stupor,” Jed said.

  India shook her head. “No. No. Not at all. This is such a beautiful country and it’s been so jerked around.”

  “That it has. Used to be called the Paris of the Middle East. It feels a little like that now, but for how long?”

  “Why do I feel uneasy?’

  Jed reached across the table and took her hands. “That, my dear, is for another evening. I’m tired of talking about politics, wars, and revolutions. Let’s talk about you. That will be a fascinating subject.”

  She patted the hand that was stroking hers. “Another evening for that, too. You can tell me all the secrets the Information Office has and I will tell you about the not-very-fascinating India Fox and you can mesmerize me with details of how a hillbilly finds himself in an embassy in the Middle East.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Well, not quite. Call me. I’m thinking about visiting my old omah out in Beqa’a.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea in the world.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  India’s apartment, after dinner

  THERE WAS NO question, to India, that the facade of normalcy Lebanon put on was just that. Everyone she met, talked to, had seemed uneasy. Of course there was always that sense in the Middle East—an undercurrent of turbulence ready to break forth. A collective sigh of impatience just below the surface, waiting for another shoe to drop. She’d felt it when she had lived here as a teenager. Of course she was closer than most to the discussions among diplomats and dignitaries who trooped through the embassy when her father was ambassador in Lebanon. She wanted to have a more detailed discussion with Mariam. But would her former omah be forthcoming now that her friend appeared closely tied to Hezbollah. Because of Jamil?

  It would be interesting to have Youssef again as a driver. Was her “chauffeur” actually a terrorist? Wouldn’t it be a feather in her cap to get him to talk to her. Maybe it was time to alert New York. But if she hinted that things were shifting here, maybe Sumner would begin to regret sending his untried correspondent to a place that might blow any time.

  And why is everyone so eager to tell me every place I want to go isn’t a good idea? Is it because I’m young? A female? Would they say that to Jack Spear, for instance? I bet not. Of course not.

  She regarded her image in the bathroom mirror, frowned. I think it’s time for lil ol’ India to do something. What?

  India brushed her teeth, washed and creamed her face, then went to stand at the window, her mind circling around her thoughts of what she ought to do next. She wanted to be a knowledgeable and daring journalist; ergo, she should do something daring. The only thing that kept coming back to her mind was, she’d go see Mariam and she would drive herself. She’d find out soon enough if Beqa’a was “not a good idea,” as everyone continually warned her.

  As soon as India had decided to go she found herself getting excited. She’d get her car gassed up, dress more warmly than she had the last time, and take off for the valley. She’d leave a message for Sumner. Emile, too. Just a message. She didn’t want any second-guessing from either of them.

  On the two- lane highway off the Corniche toward Baalbec

  INDIA HAD A good sense of direction and a good memory. As the road gained altitude, signposts and structures looked familiar, as well as certain fields and vineyards. She had learned Arabic by ear, but she could read the language fairly well. Most road signs in Lebanon were in Arabic, plus French on the main roads. The day was clear, with high wispy clouds, but she was glad she’d bundled up a bit. The temperature hovered around the mid-forties and would not get much nippier as the road evened out to a steady elevation. Billowy clouds skimmed the mountains in the near distance, topped with snowy caps that glistened in the thinner air.

  She was making pretty good time on the two-lane road when she became aware that a dark car had been in her rearview mirror for some time. It didn’t surprise her much. If this was Hezbollah territory, there would be some notice taken of a lone late model car. She accelerated slowly. Her estimate was that she was about a half hour away from Mariam’s farm. She would hurry it up a bit, but not enough to challenge the car behind, if it indeed was following her.

  For the next five miles she checked the mirror, but in her distraction she must have passed what she had remembered as the turnoff to the farm.

  “Oh, dammit. Now what have I done. Pay attention, you idiot. I’ll have to turn around. This is all wrong here. I don’t remember those cows.” Her heart beat faster as she came to a wide spot in the road. Her turnoff was back around a curve she had passed. She didn’t see the dark car.

  But as she rounded the curve to go back, the dark car was stopped across the turnoff road.

  I could just head back to Beirut, fast. But of course I can’t. Whoever is in that car knows where I want to go. And isn’t this what I knew was ahead of me and what I wanted? What I came for?

  She slowed to a stop and watched as two men got out of the dark car. If she was hoping it was Youssef, she was disappointed. Not that she’d formed any kind of friendship with the dour man who’d driven her here before, but he knew her and her relationship with Mariam. No, she’d have to deal with what these men wanted.

  She rolled down her window and smiled. She spoke in Arabic as they came up to the car. “I missed a turn. I’m looking for the Hariri farm. I’m a friend of Mariam Hariri. I know her brother Jamil. I think this is the road I want. Do you know them?”

  The man who seemed to be the leader grunted, then motioned with his thumb for her to get out of the car.

  India felt a pang in her stomach, half thrill and half fear. This was what she had asked for as a professional. She whispered to herself, relaxing her grip on the steering wheel. “Smile. Big smile. Be reasonable. Don’t, don’t, don’t get out of the car.”

  Be friendly, relaxed. “I’m an American journalist.” Well, of course they know that. They probably know a lot more than that about me. “I’d be happy to go with you. I’d like to talk. If you want me to go somewhere, I’ll follow you. Americans would like to know what you have to say.” She smiled again, trying to look friendly, relaxed. But firm.

  A third man got out of the dark car and the three men began arguing, throwing stern glances at India. She smiled back. The man who had ordered her from her car gesticulated
wildly, throwing in a shrug from time to time. India wished she could hear what they were saying. Only fragments drifted her way, tossed into the breeze that came off the mountains.

  Who’s going to win this one? she thought. The thumb gesturer threw up his hands and stormed back to the dark car. The third man approached India’s car and stopped at her window. She smiled warmly at him.

  His smile was gracious. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Don’t mind my friends. They are impatient. I understand you wish to follow us and we agree to that. I think you will do as you say. My friends are not so sure. I would suggest that you will be wise to prove them wrong. Our destination is just over that hill about fifteen minutes away. There will be someone there who is eager to speak with an American journalist.”

  “I am glad for the opportunity. I am recently arrived in the country and I have much to learn. Mariam will be expecting me. Will you send someone to tell her I will go to her another day?”

  The man bowed and salaamed, then went to the dark car. India shifted the Audi and eased behind the dark car as it retraced the way back to Beirut, soon turning into a smaller, gravel road that climbed slightly into the foothills.

  India’s knees felt weak and her foot shook on the accelerator. Though adrenalin coursed through her body, she was triumphant she had faced down three hostile men. Whoever was waiting for her might or might not be so accommodating. With one hand she rummaged through her bag for her cell phone to call Emile, but there was no signal in the mountains.

  The gravel road became deeply rutted as the landscape turned more to pasture. Brown-eyed cows gazed at her car as she bounced along, hoping she didn’t get a tire punctured and find herself stuck in a remote place in the mountains. Ahead she spied a farmhouse very much like Mariam’s. The dark car ahead slowed and stopped. One of the men got out and motioned her to a spot beside a barn that opened on a corral where stood three shaggy horses, a muddy white, their tails swishing at flies as they dozed.