There is a hint of autumn in the air. Walking home from work in the early evening, Maysoun smells rain, successfully ignoring the lingering pall of diesel fumes from building generators that run regularly because of the electricity shortages.
The coming thunderstorm, she thinks, will relieve us of dust and drought and this too-long summer.
She looks up at the sky and smiles at the sight of dark clouds looming. If she hurries, she will get home just in time, although there is something in her that delights in the thought of being caught in the cleansing rain.
As she opens the door of the apartment and calls out to her mother, a clap of thunder makes her jump. She runs to shut the living-room windows and take in the washing she put out on the balcony that morning. She calls out to Nazha once again but gets no reply and, though not unduly worried, Maysoun wonders where her mother might have gone and whether or not she had thought to take an umbrella with her.
She takes off her shoes, goes into the kitchen to make herself a glass of lemonade and sits down at the dining-room table to check her emails. This is a good time, she thinks, to take advantage of the quiet to catch up on all the unanswered messages she has not had time to attend to at work.
It is raining hard now and Maysoun is beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t go out to try and find her mother and bring her home when she notices that she has received an email from a colleague in Turkey. He writes that he has finally been able to locate Fatima’s family in one of the refugee camps, that they are all alive and well and had heard of her flight to Lebanon. ‘As to whether or not we can arrange for her to join them at the camp,’ the colleague continues, ‘I cannot be sure. The government here is adamant about keeping refugee numbers down. I will, however, do my best seeing as she’s a widow and has a young child, and will let you know as soon as I’ve found out if there’s anything we can do to help her.’
Maysoun reaches into her bag for her telephone to call Hannah and Peter and give them the good news when she hears her mother come through the door. Nazha walks in, soaked but smiling.
—Mama, what were you thinking going out in this weather?
Nazha sniffs.
—Hello, sweetheart. It wasn’t raining when I went out.
She takes off her shoes and shakes her head hard so that Maysoun is spattered with water.
—Mama!
Nazha laughs.
Maysoun turns away from her computer and looks at her mother more closely.
—You’re in a very good mood this evening, she says. Where exactly have you been?
Nazha sits down opposite her.
—The people living in our house in Baghdad are leaving and going to America. Isn’t it great news?
Maysoun lifts her eyebrows in surprise.
—I can go home now, Nazha continues. In fact, I just went and booked my ticket, paid for it too.
She reaches into her handbag and pulls out an e-ticket and shows it to Maysoun.
—Oh, no, it’s damp with the rain, she says with alarm. Quick, hand me a tissue.
—It’s all right, Mother. We can print out another one if we need to.
Nazha’s face clears.
—But that’s not the issue here, Maysoun continues. Your going back to Baghdad wasn’t contingent on those people leaving. We’ve talked about this often enough, Mama. It simply isn’t safe for you to go back there now.
Maysoun watches as Nazha pushes back her chair abruptly and stands up to face her. There is something almost comical about her appearance, hair dripping, clothes soaked so that her spare frame is clearly visible through them and her feet splayed out to stop her slipping in the puddle she is making on the floor. But there is nothing funny about the look on Nazha’s face.
—Maysoun, she says quietly but firmly, we have a few more days together before I leave. We can either enjoy them as we should or you can spend that time trying to argue with me about the wisdom of a decision over which I will not waver. It’s your choice, my love.
She pauses for a moment, as if to make sure her daughter has understood that she means what she says.
—Now, I’m going to get out of these wet clothes, have a nice hot bath and then see about dinner, OK?
Maysoun says nothing and, while her mother makes her way gingerly to the bathroom, fetches a mop from the kitchen and tries to wipe away the trail of water Nazha has left behind, slapping the mop down hard on the floor and then pulling it slowly towards her. The swinging movement, the rhythm of it, calms her and she is surprised at no longer feeling the anger and frustration that have overshadowed these last few weeks of her mother’s visit.
She leans the mop against the wall and looks out of the living-room window. There has been no easing of the rain and in the street below people move quickly on the pavement and in and out of the slow-moving traffic. She thinks of this time of year in Baghdad, of sunny days, blue skies and, at night, cooler weather infused with the scent of blossom and damp dust. She remembers how all this changed after the Gulf War, when the heat of summer began gradually to linger, stretching itself into autumn, until the seasons, like the people experiencing them, descend into confusion.
The telephone rings and Maysoun rushes to answer it.
—Marhaba, Maysoun, says Hannah.
—Oh, habibti, I was just about to call you.
—I … I just thought you might have heard from Anas. He said he was going to call you at some point to say thank you for all your help. I just thought he might have done, that’s all.
—Anas? I thought he was staying with you.
Hannah tells her of Anas’s arrest and release, of how he managed to convince her and Peter to return to Beirut, promising that he would follow when all along he had intended to make his way back to Damascus.
—Now he’s not answering my calls and I’m getting worried about him. I’m not sure what I should do.
—It can be difficult to get through to Damascus sometimes, Hannah, because of the troubles. I’m sure you’ll hear from him as soon—
—We should have brought him back to Beirut with us and sent him off to his family in Germany where he would have been safe, Hannah interrupts.
—Hannah. Maysoun’s voice is gentle but firm. Anas is an adult and can make his own decisions. Where he goes and what he does is not your responsibility. Surely you see that?
She hears her mother step out of the bathroom and turns to see her stop for a moment to tie her towelling robe more tightly around her waist. Standing now with her back to the window, Maysoun observes Nazha without being seen – the slight bend in her shoulders, her deliberate movements and the quietness to her demeanour – so that her mother’s otherness, her essential self, appears more sharp-edged, more real to her than it ever has before.
—I guess you’re right, Hannah says, but I can’t help worrying. What if something has happened to him?
—Let’s not fear the worst, Hannah, not until we have more information.
—Anyway, Maysoun adds, I wanted to tell you that I’ve heard back about Fatima’s family. Her parents and siblings are safe and well and living in a refugee camp in Turkey.
—Oh, Maysoun. That’s wonderful.
—They’ve already been told that she’s here and we’re going to work on getting her out there to join them.
—I can’t wait to let her know, Hannah says with excitement in her voice. She’ll be thrilled.
—I’m not certain it can be done, Hannah. So let’s not promise her anything just yet.
—I’ll just tell her you’re working on it, shall I? I think she’ll be so relieved that they’re OK she won’t worry too much about whether or not she’ll be able to join them. Not at first anyway.
Hannah pauses before changing the subject.
—How’s your mother, Maysoun? We’ve been so preoccupied with Anas and his situation that we just haven’t had a chance to come and see her. I feel so bad about it. We must all go out to dinner sometime soon.
—Thanks, habibti. She’s fine, really. I can’t get her to stay here much longer, though. She’s decided to return to Baghdad next week.
—What? Surely it’s not safe for her to go now? There was another suicide bombing there just the other day, wasn’t there?
Maysoun sighs.
—When I try to dissuade her from leaving, she tells me things aren’t much better here so she might as well be in her own city and in her own home. There is something to what she says, I suppose.
—How are you coping, Maysoun? It must be so worrying for you.
A car beeps its horn in the street below and Maysoun, noticing that the rain has stopped, reaches over to open the window. A rush of fresh air comes in as she turns her attention back to the conversation.
—I keep thinking that all these conflicts haven’t stopped people from getting on as best they can, if they have no choice but to stay. It’s the same situation in Iraq. People do what they can to maintain some sense of normality. That’s probably what keeps them sane.
For a moment, the thought that what has so far seemed to be stubbornness on Nazha’s part might actually be determination crosses Maysoun’s mind.
—Perhaps what we need to do is to look at the situation from our own perspective, Maysoun comments, rather than from the outside looking in.
Hannah laughs.
—Not through Western eyes, you mean? There’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying, habibti.
—Absolutely. So perhaps there is courage in what my mother and Anas have chosen to do – rather than recklessness, I mean. Perhaps that’s the way we’re meant to look at it.
She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up to find Nazha smiling at her.
—Anyway, Hannah, if I do hear from Anas I’ll let you know right away.
Maysoun puts the telephone down and then reaches out to hold her mother as close as she can.