The road to Damascus begins in Beirut, a two-hour journey that climbs eastwards from the city’s suburbs, through the towns of Aley and Sawfar and then to a highway that leads down to the Bekaa valley and on to Syria.
Peter witnesses moments of extraordinary beauty as he looks out of the car window. There is the point at which drivers make the descent either side of the mountain, to the left for the northern Metn, or right and towards the border, where the landscape on one side is green with trees and bush, villages appearing here and there on the mountainside, and on the other lie the barren lands of the jurd. This dry countryside, covered in snow in winter, now looks stark and dazzles in the sun as cars carefully make their way above the one-thousand-foot drop; it is impressive in the way that only seeming emptiness can impress, rock and dirt as far as the eye can see, and every now and then a herd of goats picking its way through the sparse vegetation.
Then suddenly, round a bend in the road, the patchwork basin that feeds the Lebanon comes into view: fields of wheat and corn, of green and gold and rich red earth too. This valley is home to dairy farms and vineyards, to the Roman ruins of Baalbek and the remains of an Umayyad palace in Aanjar, to nomadic tribes that pitch wide tents of animal hide on the sides of roads, in and out of which run children, barefoot and dirty, and somewhere also, to tributaries of the Al-Aasi river: fragrant waters that are born in the belly of Lebanon’s highest mountains and emerge here to nourish the land before continuing northward into Syria and Turkey.
The first time Peter had come across this view, years ago when Lebanon was for him only a passing interest, he had looked upon it all with a healthy detachment, as a scene that pleased his senses but did not touch his heart. Now, as the car dips downwards and into the busy market town of Chtoura, stopping at countless army checkpoints set up to try to stop the free movement of arms and extremists, it occurs to him that in loving this country, he has also become burdened with disappointment in it, with frustration because separating its splendour from the cruelty and indifference that abounds in it is now impossible for him.
You are no longer fooled, Peter, Hannah said to him recently, by the natural beauty of Lebanon or the effortless warmth of its people. He thinks that she is absolutely right, that in expecting more than this country can give, he has truly become one of its people.
—It’s taking a lot longer than I thought it would, Hannah says, reaching out to touch Peter’s hand.
They are sitting in the back seat of a hired car and she looks less than her usual self, tired and anxious and her hair in disarray. They had rushed out of the house very soon after receiving the call once a car and driver had been arranged. Peter is still unsure what they will be able to do to help Anas, who was apparently arrested by Lebanese security forces while on his way to Damascus the day before. The man who phoned to let them know had been a passenger on the bus with Anas. ‘He asked me to speak to you, said you would be able to help him,’ the man had said. ‘He’s worried he’ll be deported and won’t be let back into Lebanon.’
At first, they had been too upset about Anas’s sudden departure and news of his arrest to work out what to do but Hannah had had the presence of mind to ring her father and he had arranged for a friend of his, the mayor of a village near Zahle, to meet them there and help to get Anas released.
—Baba says this man is very well known in the area, Hannah tells Peter, and has connections with the army as well as the local militias. It’s a good idea to have him with us.
They meet the mayor at a café on the main Zahle road. He is almost as tall as he is round, has a black-and-white kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, and a moustache that he periodically smoothes over with one hand. He greets them and begins the conversation by praising Hannah’s father and their long friendship.
—Your father is an exceptional man, says Abou Mazen, and I owe him a great deal. I am glad of the opportunity to be of help.
Clearly not intimidated by the situation, the mayor shakes Peter’s hand firmly and reassures them that everything will be all right.
—Tell your husband – he leans over to speak to Hannah in a loud voice – tell him we are proud to have him here. Foreigners are most welcome in our town.
—Peter understands everything you’re saying, Abou Mazen. Hannah addresses the mayor by his name. He’s just not very good at expressing himself in Arabic.
At this, Abou Mazen slaps Peter on the back and laughs out loud.
—That’s wonderful, he says. Now let’s go get your friend out of the mess he’s got himself into. Tell your driver to follow me. That’s my car over there.
They arrive at an army barracks and Abou Mazen instructs Hannah and Peter to wait for him outside.
—I’ll let you know if I need you, he says, his expression suddenly serious. I think it’s best if I take care of things because I know them here. Things will take time to sort out so don’t worry if you don’t see me for a while.
Peter and Hannah return to wait in the car while the driver steps out for a cigarette.
—Don’t look so worried, Peter says. It’s going to be all right, I’m sure.
He sees her raise a hand to her chest and take a deep breath.
—Are you all right, Hannah?
She smiles at him.
—I’ve probably had too much coffee today.
—Palpitations?
She nods.
—Nothing serious. I’ll be fine, hayati. I just hope Anas is OK, that he’s being treated well, that’s all.
The infiltration of Islamic extremists from Syria and the subsequent search for them by Lebanese authorities have resulted in instances of discrimination against and abuse of the Syrian refugee population and Peter recognizes that Hannah is not wrong in being concerned, but he does not want her to worry further.
—I don’t know why Anas took a bus to Damascus, Hannah continues. He would have been a lot better off going in a taxi.
—Not necessarily, sweetheart, Peter replies. They’re stopping almost everyone these days, trying to enforce the new laws on refugees from Syria. The army has lost a lot of good men to the battle with the militants and they’re being vigilant. The real question is why Anas decided to return to Damascus in the first place. He should have been on a plane to Germany instead.
Only two days earlier, Hannah and Peter had returned home to find no trace of Anas. He had tidied up the room he had been sleeping in and left with all his things.
—I just hope they won’t use this arrest as an excuse to stop him coming back into the country, says Hannah.
Peter shrugs.
—Maybe what’s happened will finally persuade him to go to Berlin and be with his family. Maybe he’ll realize now that there’s no future for any of them in Damascus.
—Who knows what he’s thinking right now or what the consequences of this situation are likely to be? Hannah seems uneasy.
—Are you sure you’re all right? Peter asks again.
She dismisses his concern with a gesture.
—I’ve been thinking, Peter, wondering really …
—Yes?
—You keep saying you wish you could get away from here. Are you serious about wanting to leave?
—Keep saying? I mentioned it once in anger.
—Once or twice – it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s enough that the thought has actually crossed your mind. What if you decide to do what Brigitte did?
—You mean disappear like that? Peter protests. Are you insane, Hannah? I would never do that to you.
—Because you know I could never leave this country, she continues as though he hadn’t spoken. I told you that from the start. It was your decision to come here to live. I didn’t ask you to do it.
He wants to tell her she is wrong, that leaving her would be impossible, but all he can do is stare as she clutches once again at her chest and begins to gasp for breath. For a moment, he is unsure if what he is feeling is indignation at what she has said or shock that there might actually be some truth in it. He jumps up from his seat, stands behind hers, wraps his arms around her and stays there until she is breathing evenly again. He takes a tissue out of his pocket and wipes her eyes.
—Hush now, Peter says. You’ll be fine, sweetheart. It was just a panic attack.
Moments later Abou Mazen returns to find them sitting side by side in silence.
—They’ve agreed to release Anas into my custody for tonight and we’ll come back tomorrow to finalize the paperwork, he says.
—That’s great news, Peter says. Will he be able to stay in Lebanon now?
—As long as he doesn’t get deported, he should be fine. Once someone is deported under these new laws, it’s very difficult for them to return.
—But did they tell you why they arrested him in the first place? Hannah asks.
—We don’t have open borders between this country and Syria any more so they check all Syrians leaving Lebanon to make sure they have valid papers under the new regulations.
—Weren’t Anas’s documents in order?
Abou Mazen shrugs.
—It seems they weren’t. Look, I’m just going to go with one of the officers to pick him up at the checkpoint.
He puts an arm around Hannah.
—We’ll talk more later. I’ll meet you back at the café. Have your driver take you there and tell him to return to Beirut. There’s no point in keeping him on since you’ll be staying at the farm for the night. We can arrange for someone else to take you back tomorrow.
He starts to walk away and then turns around again.
—And don’t try to call me. They’ve taken my mobile away for the moment. Just be patient, OK?
They return to the café in Chtoura, order lunch and then spend what seems like hours waiting and wondering if Abou Mazen will indeed return with Anas before nightfall. In the half-light and as conversation fades into a comfortable silence, Peter looks at Hannah and smiles. She too, it seems to him, has been calmed by patience, her eyes following the movement of the canopy above them stirring lightly in the evening breeze. He reminds himself of a lesson he learned early on in his life and work in this part of the world: that acceptance and endurance are one and the same, that in passions receding lies the promise of tranquillity.
Hannah jumps up.
—It’s Abou Mazen’s car. She points at a vehicle coming to a stop alongside the café.
Anas steps out and walks towards them and Hannah runs to embrace him. Peter waits for her to let go before greeting his friend. To his relief, Anas looks dishevelled but otherwise all right.
—It’ll take a good half-hour to get to the farm from here so let’s go straight there, says Abou Mazen. I’m sure everyone’s tired and needs a good meal and a rest.
On the journey, Anas, who is sitting in the front passenger seat, remains silent. Peter touches Hannah’s shoulder and shakes his head when he sees her lean forward to speak. She sits back and sighs and, suddenly aware that she is weeping, he knows he loves her now more than he has ever done.