Peter is not prepared for the call, is working at his desk when he receives it, when he hears a familiar voice, though he cannot quite place it.
—Peter?
—Yes, yes, I … Oh, Brigitte, it’s you!
He shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath.
—How are you, Brigitte? How are the children? I’m at work and Anas isn’t here with me …
—I called to speak to you, Peter, she says.
Peter frowns and waits for her to continue.
—How is he? she asks. How is Anas coping?
—Well, he’s obviously had a bad shock. But shouldn’t you be asking him that question rather than me?
—I had to do it, Peter. I had to get the children out.
She pauses.
—We understand, Brigitte, Peter rushes to say. Hannah and I understand why you would have wanted to leave. It’s the way you did it. Disappearing like that was … But what’s more important now is that you’re OK. How are the children?
—They’re well. We’re at my parents in Berlin.
—Yes, we thought that’s where you would have gone. I’m glad to hear the children are doing well.
—If the children are fine, Peter, it’s because I took them away from Damascus. I begged Anas to allow us to leave. I wanted him to come with us, but he kept refusing. No matter how bad things got, he wouldn’t leave. Then that car bomb was the last straw. It was terrible.
He hears the frustration and anger in her voice.
—Were you hurt, Brigitte? Was anyone hurt? Anas said his mother told him you were all fine when he phoned.
—All the glass in the apartment shattered. I got a bit cut up but it’s the children, Peter, they were absolutely terrified. I couldn’t stay another moment after that and I knew if I called and told Anas that he would just come rushing over and try to persuade me not to leave.
—It must have been very difficult for you, Brigitte, but it’s important now that you get in touch with Anas and let him know what’s going on, allow him to talk to Marwan and Rana.
—Yes, I know. It’s just …
—Look, Anas is at the gallery working on the exhibition. He said he’d be home later tonight. Call him on his mobile phone then. I won’t tell him that I heard from you.
He hears her take a deep breath.
—Brigitte, Peter says. It won’t be easy but talking to Anas is the right thing to do. I can’t tell you how he might react to your call, but that’s a risk you’ll have to take.
*
Making his way home, Peter feels slightly uneasy, wondering if he might have made a mistake in trusting Brigitte to telephone and talk to her husband. An image of her standing in the doorway of Anas’s studio in Damascus the last time Hannah and he had visited comes to him like an old black-and-white photograph: her fair hair stark against the varying shades of grey that surrounded her, the outlines of her body slightly faded too so that she seemed almost unreal, vulnerable, with Anas, standing with an arm around her shoulders, appearing more solid, growing rather than fading with the light.
If she decides not to call back as he asked her to, how will he be able to justify himself to Anas and Hannah? Surely, he continues to muse, the situation is largely out of his control and he couldn’t have said more to persuade her? But had he betrayed his friend by not being more insistent?
Before he can reassure himself on this point, however, he senses what Hannah’s objections to it might be. You may not be able to decide the outcome of this situation, Peter, he hears her say, but you are still required to do your part.
He eventually finds himself in Ras Beirut’s main shopping district, on Hamra Street, and decides to go into a café for coffee and a sandwich.
Sitting alone at an outside table, Peter observes what is going on around him: people coming and going, cars moving in the cross street, numerous sounds filling his ears and a kind of fast-paced hum underlying everything. He recognizes the advantage in anonymity, the opportunity a city as large and busy as this provides for him to watch while remaining unnoticed. He is aware too of the speed with which he always manages to make himself comfortable in this detachment and wonders how much it still defines him as a man, how deep beneath the surface it really lies. In the eye of the tempest that is living in the Middle East, it is not so much the pace that often leaves him breathless but rather the intensity of life, the necessarily concentrated state of being that at once tosses and tames his soul. Within this turmoil – or at least with the constant threat of it – he has often felt himself lost with only Hannah as his anchor. And although he had once thought it would, work provides little comfort. He was never meant to be a bureaucrat, he tells himself. He became a physician because he wanted to work directly with those most in need. He is suddenly aware of a deep dissatisfaction rising in him, a longing to escape these thoughts, though he knows it might be impossible to do so now that they have occurred to him.
He puts the remains of his sandwich down and stands up to go.
If there is a possibility of living somewhere between the two extremes of being, of disconnection from or a sinking in reality, he finally asks himself, then where am I to find it?
*
In the morning, Peter joins Anas on the balcony overlooking the building courtyard. It is so early that quiet reigns, the breeze coming from the sea behind them tempering the air. Below, the landscaped garden is beautiful too so that the two men, sitting together in silence now, acknowledge release from what lies ahead.
—Up early, Peter says after a while.
Anas nods.
—Brigitte phoned me last night, he says.
—Oh, Peter says, feigning surprise, that’s great. How is she? How are the children?
—The children are well, very well. I spoke to them too. They’re at her parents in Berlin.
— Oh, so she did go there. What did she have to say for herself?
Anas shrugs.
—We didn’t speak for very long before she put the children on.
Peter waits for him to continue.
—I’m beginning to think that it’s over between us, Peter. I don’t know what to do to put things right again. I’m not even sure I want to sort it out because part of me is still very angry with her.
Peter senses that his friend is feeling too hurt to listen to reason, though he is certain Anas’s willingness to compromise will come in its own good time.
—But, Anas, you want your children back, don’t you?
—Yes, of course. I’ll just have to find a way of getting them home, that’s all.
—And how do you think you’re going to do that? protests Peter. Kidnap them from their mother and return them to a country at war?
—My mother was right, Anas continues, ignoring Peter’s remark. I should have married someone from my own culture, someone who would have fit in better with the family. They just don’t understand us, these foreigners.
Then, looking at Peter and realizing what he has just said, Anas laughs.
—I’m sorry, my friend. It doesn’t apply to you.
—Why do you think that is, Anas?
—What do you mean?
—What is it that makes me belong more, makes you think of me as one of you, and excludes Brigitte?
—That’s a strange question. I’m not sure what to say to that.
—I’ll answer it for you, shall I?
—You sound upset.
Peter frowns.
—I came to this part of the world for the same reason Brigitte did, to be with the person I love, and, like Brigitte, I took that huge step in good faith. It’s true there are times when things haven’t been easy but I’m convinced I’ve been very lucky.
—Lucky?
—Well, for the most part, I haven’t been made to feel that I have to struggle against my true self to gain acceptance. But it’s only very recently that I’ve realized why that is.
He leans forward to emphasize his point.
—It’s not just because of the kind of woman Hannah is, Anas, and because of how much we love each other. You and Brigitte have these things in your favour too. But I really believe it’s been easy for me because I’m a man. For women like Brigitte, there are any number of conditions and rules they have to abide by before they’re recognized as worthy of being the wives of Arab sons and mothers to their children.
Peter leans back in his chair.
—Brigitte left her home and stuck by you all these years because she cares about you and despite the rejection she faced. Can’t you give her credit for that, at least?
—Of course I can, but she ultimately chose to leave me, didn’t she? You would sympathize with her, of course, because you’d like to get away from here as well, just like you said the other night.
Peter feels hurt at his friend’s mocking tone.
—This conversation isn’t about me, Anas, he says. I’m just trying to make you understand your wife’s point of view.
Peter is suddenly aware of Hannah standing in the doorway of the balcony but he does not look towards her. Anas seems flustered and unsure of himself now, the determination visible in his expression earlier fading.
—I found her in tears when I got home one night not long ago, Anas says after a pause. It took a while before I got her to tell me what had happened, but she finally admitted that Marwan had said something very hurtful to her.
Anas shakes his head.
—She had been trying to get him to do his homework and he refused, telling her she was an incompetent mother and should just go back to where she came from.
I tried to comfort her by saying that all children say hurtful things to their parents but she insisted it was much more than that. ‘I can cope with disapproval from everyone, even from you, Anas,’ she said, ‘but my own child thinking that way about me is just too much.’
Hannah moves to stand behind Peter and places her hands on his shoulders.
Anas looks up at them.
—What do I do now? he asks.
—You have to phone her back as soon as possible and arrange to go there, Peter says softly. People are what’s important, Anas, not places.