He takes a taxi because he’s in a hurry to get there and also because, if he’s lucky, it might make the chances of his being stopped again less likely. The car is an old American model, ungainly on the road but comfortable enough on the inside, and the driver, a fellow Syrian, is discreet enough not to try to strike up a conversation.
At one point, as they are getting closer to the border with Syria, they see a man and woman ahead of them standing on the side of the road, gesturing for them to stop.
Anas turns to the driver.
—You’re not thinking I should stop for them, are you? the man says, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look back at him.
—Well, they do appear to need a lift.
—They can wave down a passenger van when it comes by, the driver says. It’s not a good idea to pick strangers up along this road these days. They could get us into trouble at the checkpoint ahead.
Anas glances at the couple as the car drives past them and feels a momentary shame at the disappointment in their faces.
This war is turning us into callous bastards, he thinks to himself.
Days earlier, when he went off in search of Fatima’s baby, he had felt similar embarrassment: he’d found himself hesitating at one of the entrances to the Palestinian camp, as if the option of turning back, of giving up and abandoning his mission was perfectly acceptable. Perhaps, he had told himself, I am too caught up in my own troubles to really care. Perhaps that is understandable.
Still, he had entered the camp, asked for directions and walked through a maze of bare concrete construction, two- and three-storey structures stacked on top of each other with a narrow dirt path winding itself between them, vertical villages, pretences of homes. As he walked beneath ugly, swathed tangles of electrical wire that skimmed the top of his head, blocking out the light, the lack of air, the sense of being slowly stifled, threatened to overwhelm him. He had stopped and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was a familiar-sounding clunk coming from nearby and, looking to his left, he saw a wide doorway through the gloom and within a pool table, two boys, cue sticks in hand, playing in silence. For a moment, he stood transfixed, until a moped came to a sudden stop behind him, its horn tooting for him to move aside. He thought of the waves of Palestinians who had sought refuge here, first in 1948 when the Zionists attacked their towns and villages and drove them out of their homes, again when the Israelis occupied the West Bank and Gaza after the 1967 war, and now when many who were living in refugee camps in Syria had fled the fighting there. Over time, the refugees had built haphazard structures they were not permitted to own on land leased from Lebanese landlords, installed basic infrastructure, opened sheds that masqueraded as shops and which catered to the refugee population, set up schools and clinics with the help of local and international non-profits, married and bore children, and lived and died waiting for the day they would be allowed to return to Palestine.
Is it possible, Anas wondered as he finally arrived at the house he had been directed to, that those fleeing the violence in Syria would suffer the same fate as the Palestinians had decades before?
A middle-aged woman opened the door and nodded when Anas introduced himself.
—Fatima phoned and told me you would be coming, she said. Come in.
She showed him into a small ground-floor sitting room crammed with heavy furniture upholstered in green velvet. There were no windows, no light and little air. An elderly man, wrapped up in blankets, sat in one of the armchairs. He looked up at Anas’s greeting but said nothing.
—Please sit down, the woman said, gesturing to the sofa.
It was only after he had agreed to drink a cup of the coffee she made on a stove in the corner of the room that she finally told him what he wanted to know.
—The baby is not here, the woman said, but I have been checking on her every day and she’s doing well.
—Where is she? Anas asked, unable to avoid a note of accusation in his voice.
The woman looked uncomfortable.
—I have children of my own, you see, lots of responsibilities of my own. When Fatima said she would not be able to return for the child for a while, I put it with a family staying not far from here. They’re relatives of mine, an older couple who haven’t been here very long.
Anas looked around in confusion.
—But I need to see her, he said. I promised I would.
—Fatima didn’t say anything about that. The woman hesitated. But I suppose I could take you round there. The children won’t be home from school for a while so I have some time to spare.
—Thank you.
After checking on the old man, the woman led him out of the door and in the direction of the southern perimeter of the camp, Anas taking note as the dwellings became steadily shabbier, the alleyway still narrower and less clean and an unpleasant smell began to fill the air. When they arrived at a battered doorway, she gestured for him to step into a room empty of furniture, where the concrete floor was only half covered with straw mats, thin cushions lining one wall and barefoot, unwashed children crawled and wandered and stared at him. Before disappearing into another part of the apartment, the woman asked him to sit down and wait for her.
He looked around at the damp, peeling walls, felt himself losing hope; earlier determination left his body and seeped into the floor beneath him, and he began to wonder if he should not have taken Hannah and Peter into his confidence before coming here. As it was, he had found himself suggesting to Fatima when they spoke that he might be able to find a good family to adopt the child. What was I thinking? he asked himself. What if, in the end, I can’t help and I’ve just built her hopes up for no reason?
The woman came out with a small bundle and handed it to him. He looked down at the baby loosely wrapped in a dirty cotton blanket, the tufts of dark hair sticking out of its head, the tiny features and delicate, flaky skin.
—She was asleep, the woman said, her loud voice startling the infant awake, but you insisted on seeing her so here she is.
The baby began to squirm, its little hands, fingers and palms drawn like paws, moving up and down with its body.
—You woke her, Anas said, feeling suddenly irritated with the woman.
He began to swing the baby gently to and fro, and watched her blink several times before she finally settled. When he looked up again, the woman was frowning at him.
—What’s her name? he asked.
She sniffed loudly.
—You’ll have to ask Fatima, she said. She didn’t mention a name to me.
Hearing the disdain in her voice, he wanted to shout at the woman, berate her for her obvious indifference, but stopped himself.
—I don’t know when the mother is planning to return, she continued, but I won’t be able to look after this baby much longer. The money Fatima gave me has run out and I simply can’t afford it.
—Don’t worry, Anas said, realizing she was expecting some sort of payment from him. I’ll help you with that but you need to take care of the baby yourself. I’m not happy with the conditions here. I’ll also tell Fatima to come back for the child very soon so she won’t be on your hands for much longer.
He pulled out some notes from his pocket and handed them to her.
—God keep you and yours safe from harm, inshallah, she said in a placating tone. I’ll take her home with me right now, if you like. You’re right. She’ll be much better off with me.
The baby whimpered and Anas looked at her once again. What I’d really like to do, he thought, is take you away from here, turn your fate around and give you the life you deserve. He tickled her under the chin and she smiled up at him.
—I’ll be back, he whispered. I’ll be back soon.
He is woken from his reverie by the tooting of the car horn and realizes they have arrived at the Lebanese border crossing. They get through without incident this time, thanks to the documentation Abou Mazen helped him acquire, and Anas settles back in his seat. Soon he is looking out at the barren and dusty landscape that forms the no man’s land between the two countries. From this angle, the road, wide and smooth, appears endless, and the surrounding terrain of yellow dirt and rocky hills, the starkness, reflects the emptiness he is feeling. He senses that in this brief interlude between the past and the present, he has been granted pause to reflect and an unexpected clarity of vision.
As soon as he gets to Damascus, he will telephone Brigitte and tell her he wants to make amends.
I’m sorry, he will say. I want to come to Berlin to see you and the children, to talk and sort things out. I love you.
—Sorry?
He is suddenly aware of the taxi driver addressing him.
—Did you say something?
—No. I … I must have been talking to myself.
—We should be there very soon, the driver continues. Glad to be home?
Anas laughs nervously.
—Yes, I suppose I am, he says. Yes, I am.