Abou Mazen’s home is not what Anas had expected. In the half-dark, as they step out of the car and walk through a tall metal gate into a garden with the sound of running water nearby, even as he sees only the shadowy silhouettes of a gazebo, of a trellis covered with climbing plants and further on a dwelling with a low, flat roof and wide wooden doors, he is aware of the scene’s ramshackle beauty, of a healing stillness in the air that makes him want only to close his eyes and sleep.
Once inside, he turns to Abou Mazen and thanks him again.
—But you will think me rude now, Anas says quietly, because all I want to do is to go to bed.
—Surely you’ll want something to eat first, replies his host.
Peter places a hand on Anas’s forehead.
—You know, you might be running a temperature, he says in halting Arabic.
He reaches for Hannah’s handbag and rummages inside it.
—Here are some tablets to bring that temperature down, Peter continues. They’ll also help you sleep.
Abou Mazen smiles.
—If the doctor thinks you need to go to bed, then let me show you to your room right away, he says.
Anas places a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
—Thank you, habibi, he says, and then, looking at Hannah, continues: I’ll see you both in the morning.
He follows his host through a dark passage and into a small room at the end of it.
—The bathroom is next door, Abou Mazen says. There are towels in there and a bottle of drinking water. And if you feel cold, there’s an extra blanket in the closet.
Anas is glad the temperature has turned cool since it will make falling asleep easier. Alone, he swallows the tablets, strips down to his underwear and gets in under the covers. He should shower but he cannot bring himself to do anything that will require too much effort, that will allow thoughts of the indignity he has endured, of his family so far away and of his own indecision to infiltrate his mind when he has spent this day just past trying to empty it of them. There will be enough time for thinking tomorrow, he knows.
*
He wakes at dawn, to a rooster’s call and the sound, distant and faint, of a muezzin in prayer. Getting quickly out of bed, he showers, puts on his dirty clothes once again and tiptoes down the passage to the main door and out into the garden where two men dressed in work clothes are already tending to the trees and plants.
The air is fragrant so that Anas, his heart inexplicably leaping, takes a deep breath before making his way to the seating area under the gazebo where a tattered sofa and several chairs covered in chintz are arranged around a wooden chest. He is surprised to find also what looks like an old carriage propped up in one corner, velvet curtains, once red, pulled back to either side of its door to reveal, as Anas looks in through its window, not seats, but bowed and dusty emptiness.
He decides to explore further and finds, raised on to a concrete platform, a swimming pool and around it pots of a variety of shapes and sizes filled with geraniums that are still in bloom. He dips his hand in the water and shivers at its iciness, yet smiles too because there is something so fresh and true about this blueness that, in the absence of sunlight, is pure, unsullied by external warmth, a colour perhaps impossible to replicate though the artist in him wants to try to do just that.
—I miss my studio, Anas finds himself saying out loud, and he is surprised at the sadness that suddenly engulfs him and at the tears he begins to shed.
When his son was still an infant, Anas would sometimes take him to the studio and sit him in his baby chair on the table where he worked, and Marwan would watch as his father painted or sculpted, occasionally calling out for attention with a quiet grunt or an indignant baby screech that made Anas look up. As he met his child’s eyes, to grin back at him and cluck his tongue with acknowledgement, he would feel a rush of something unnamable, not just of love, which he had in abundance for both his children, but also of a kind of recognition of how far they had come together and where they were likely to go, their lives forever partnered as father and son.
—Anas? Is that you?
He quickly wipes a hand over his eyes and looks up to find Hannah walking towards him.
—You’re up early, she says. Isn’t it beautiful here?
He only nods, afraid that if he tries to speak she will hear a tremor in his voice.
She slips a hand through his arm and leans against his shoulder.
—I want to look around, she says. Will you come with me?
She leads him down some stone steps to the right of the gazebo and towards a grove of olive trees, their leaves and trunks glinting silver as the sun, now making its early-morning appearance, leans into them.
—Abou Mazen told us last night that this place was farmed for the first time by his grandfather nearly eighty years ago, says Hannah. He was the son of Lebanese immigrants to Mexico who came here in the nineteen thirties, just before the war, and spent his life savings on this land and on building a home for his family.
She stops and looks around her.
—Apparently, Hannah continues, he couldn’t speak Arabic when he first arrived but ended up remaining here for the rest of his life. And he made sure it was a working farm from the very beginning. There’s this olive grove, a fruit orchard, a vegetable garden, a chicken coop and even a stable.
Anas smiles, looking at the trees that, in their completeness, seem settled here for life also, their unseen roots as much a part of the tableau before him as their trunks and branches are.
He imagines exactly what it must have been like so long ago, a man seeing in what would have been a barren patch of valley the green and bounty to come, a picture in his mind’s eye that grew even as the vegetation did, that built itself into a home and into lives, into future generations who would hopefully love and nurture this place as he had.
He is aware of Hannah pulling at his arm, leading him all the way around the grove, through a gate and to a fenced paddock where sheep, a couple of very old-looking horses and several deer are feeding on the grass.
Hannah lets go of Anas’s arm and walks over to the fence.
—Aren’t they beautiful?
She reaches an arm out and almost immediately one of the horses ambles over to her, nuzzles her hand and, finding nothing there, lifts his head up and snorts with disdain.
She looks at Anas and they burst out laughing.
—Are you going to tell me what you’re feeling? Hannah almost whispers this question to him a moment later. You’ve been so quiet.
He shrugs.
—You might feel better if you talk about it, Anas.
He likes the smell of the animals here, the musty scent of manure and grass mixed in with the whiff of damp fur and hide. He is pleased also at the spectacle of hundreds of insects buzzing through the expanding sunshine and the specks and spots suspended forever in it. But he is unsure what he can say to explain himself because it seems to him now that there is really nothing he wants to say to Hannah or anyone else.
Speaking to Brigitte had proven even more difficult than he had anticipated. Their conversation days earlier had been stilted and formal, with her not expressing regret for having taken the children away and he unwilling to take responsibility for driving her to it. But both had agreed that Marwan and Rana’s welfare was what was uppermost in their minds and that he should go out there to see them before any major decisions were made.
After talking to his wife, Anas had decided to go to Damascus to check on his family without letting Hannah and Peter know since they would, he was certain, try to stop him. He would return to Beirut after a few days to apply for a visa for Germany, while Brigitte, in turn, put a request in at her end for him to be granted a visa as soon as possible.
A few days later, when the bus that carried him and a dozen or so passengers on the highway to Damascus was stopped at the checkpoint, he had not been unduly concerned. It would be another routine perusal of identity papers, he was certain, and he would soon be on his way.
The soldiers demanded they all step out of the vehicle and then subjected them to individual searches. Anas had opened the small suitcase he’d brought with him and watched as one of the soldiers tipped out its contents on to the ground. Still, he had been convinced that, having found nothing, they would be allowed to gather their belongings, board the bus and be on their way. But only those with Lebanese identity papers were released.
Two hours later and the remaining men were standing against a wall on the side of the road, having been forbidden from moving around or sitting down. When Anas had attempted to approach the soldier standing guard over them, he was told to shut up and return to the line. Relief came only when an officer arrived, had them moved to a shaded area where they could sit down and bottles of water were handed around.
It was then that Anas had had the opportunity to talk to the men being held with him, the majority of whom were casual labourers from Syria who regularly sought work in Lebanon.
They had told him that up until Islamic State extremists began to gain ground in the civil war at home, it had been relatively easy to move between the two countries. The local authorities had become suspicious of migrant workers after battles in the border town of Arsal between the Lebanese army and extremist fighters had led to the deaths of a number of soldiers and to the kidnapping of dozens of others. Four of the soldiers, like a number of Western captives being held by the same militia in Iraq, had been beheaded so far, with the threat of more to come if demands were not met.
Anas had sighed and watched as one of the men pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one and then handed the packet around. Surprised at himself, Anas lit up a cigarette and breathed in the smoke with relief. He had stopped smoking years before, soon after he and Brigitte were married and decided to start a family.
—You can’t blame the army here for wanting to get back at those bastards, one of the labourers said after a pause in the conversation. But it’s people like us who have to bear the brunt of it when all we’re really trying to do is make sure our families somehow survive this mess.
—Yallah, another man said, shaking his head. If this is God’s will for us, then there’s nothing we can do.
There was a murmur of agreement in the group as Anas had looked more closely at them, at their haggard faces, their clothes faded with washing and shoes worn pathetically thin. He saw outsized hands roughened with work and bowed shoulders and it occurred to him then that although he had always prided himself on knowing of the plight of fellow countrymen and -women, he had never shared it. Their reality was exactly what he tried to depict in his work, as well as the greed and corruption of the governing classes that had led to it, the oppression of any kind of opposition, the humiliation in poverty and powerlessness. Yet, although he had thought himself familiar with all this, he did not really know what it was to be trapped by circumstance, to be broken by fear. He realized that in being a member of a relatively privileged minority he had been protected from the excesses and cruelty of dictatorship, had – once his work was recognized internationally – even been used by the regime in its effort to present a more civilized face to the outside world. He had instantly felt ashamed, not because these truths were new to him but because he had hidden them from himself so well for so long.
He thinks now of Fatima and her dream of being reunited with her family, how unlikely her chances are of returning to a home she will recognize or feel safe in. He wonders again if there is something he can do for her, for the infant she seems so willing to abandon, for a child made superfluous just by virtue of being born. The baby, he knows, will need valid identity papers if it is to have any hope of a secure future, and he is the only person Fatima can count on to provide them. He realizes he will have to return to Damascus and bribe officials to falsify the necessary documents, even if he has to put his own name down as the child’s father. What would Brigitte’s reaction be to that, he wonders?
An image comes to him of his wife rocking one of the children to sleep in infancy, of a bundle in the crook of her arm, her head bent towards it so that her golden hair, dishevelled because she has just roused herself from sleep, covers most of her face and all he can see as he lies in bed, with eyes half closed, are her lips whispering a traditional Arabic lullaby, the melody haunting, almost sorrowful, her rendition hesitant at first and then filled with love. And in that moment, he is certain Brigitte will feel the same compassion for Fatima’s little girl that he has, will welcome his decision to save her from a certain fate.
—Anas?
Hannah, standing away from the fence now, is looking fixedly at him.
He smiles.
—You know, he says, I’m feeling a little tired all of a sudden. Can we sit down?
—Yes, of course. You must be hungry too. You went to bed without dinner last night. Come and sit under the gazebo and I’ll go and get us some coffee and something to eat from the house.
When they get to the seating area they find that a typical Lebanese breakfast has already been laid on the old trunk in front of the sofa, yoghurt and labneh, plump black and green olives, a plateful of cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh mint, grape molasses covered with a layer of tahini, and loaves of what look like fresh mountain bread beside them.
—Oh, Hannah says. Oum Mazen has been busy this morning.
A young woman carrying a tray with a pot of Arabic coffee and cups comes towards them. Behind her, Anas surmises, is Oum Mazen, looking fresh-faced and smiling.
—Good morning.
—Good morning, Oum Mazen, Hannah replies, this is our friend Anas.
The older woman puts down the tray and shakes Anas’s hand.
—Welcome, she says. I hope you slept well after your ordeal.
—Thank you, yes.
—Ah, here are Abou Mazen and the doctor, Oum Mazen continues. Let’s all sit down and eat.
The food is delicious in the way that fresh food eaten outdoors is bound to be. Anas helps himself to a bit of everything and, once he has finished, sweetens the cup of coffee that Oum Mazen hands him with two teaspoons of sugar and sits back in his seat to drink it.
Peter and Hannah seem relaxed and happy and, for a moment, he thinks of telling them what he knows he must now do but just as quickly dismisses the idea because he is sure they will try to dissuade him. Instead, as soon as breakfast is over and he and Abou Mazen begin to get ready to leave for the police station, he takes Peter aside to talk to him.
—Peter, I didn’t get a chance yesterday to thank you and Hannah for what you did for me. I hope you know how much I love you both, how much I appreciate everything you’ve always done for me and for my family.
—There’s no need to thank us, Anas, Peter replies. You would have done exactly the same. Just go get your papers in order and we’ll wait for you here.
—That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, says Anas. Please don’t wait. It may be hours before it’s all sorted out so you two should go ahead to Beirut without me. Abou Mazen will organize my return.
—Are you sure?
—Positive, Anas says emphatically.
He hesitates before continuing.
—I also wanted you to know that I understand now.
—Understand?
—I mean why Brigitte did what she did. I know that she was just thinking of the children and their safety, that I am the one who has been unreasonable. I … It gives me great comfort to know that all three of them are well and safe where they are because that is really what matters most, isn’t it?
Peter smiles and Anas is suddenly struck by the gentleness in his friend’s face.
—I’m glad, Peter says. Once you’re back in Beirut, we can focus on getting you to Berlin as soon as possible.
Anas places his hands on Peter’s shoulders.
—You have been a very valuable friend to me, he says. I hope you realize that.
Peter’s eyebrows lift as if he is surprised at what Anas is saying but does not have a chance to reply because Abou Mazen interrupts their conversation.
—Let’s go, Abou Mazen says in a loud voice. The sooner we get there, the sooner it will all be over and we can get back here.
—Give Hannah my love too, Anas says as he walks away.