Peter buys a string of flowers from an old man on a street corner, a necklace of jasmine blossoms that emit a sweet-smelling fragrance and which he places in his jacket pocket before walking slowly on.
On his way to work, across a bridge and further towards the city centre that was rebuilt after the end of the civil war, he contemplates the sights and sensations of Beirut, the subdued activity of early morning relieved by unexpected instances of beauty: the flower man raising a trembling hand in thanks as Peter turns away; the arc of outstretched arms outside a bakery kiosk; hurrying feet on uneven pavements that move in line with his own; and here and there, a fleeting impression of possibility, a glimpse of the city that once was.
He stops to cross the street and looks up at a 1920s building built in the period when Lebanon was still under French rule and the city’s architecture reflected that: balconies that cut elegant curves into the near air, wooden shutters and balustrades painted in a glossy green against a quiet façade of unruffled stone.
When he first arrived in Beirut, sometime before he and Hannah married, he had lived in a building similar to this, though it had not benefited from renewal like this one has, was, in fact, in a state of undeniable decay: crumbling stairwells and paint peeling off its interior walls, the front doors to most of the apartments chipped and unsightly, and a pervading smell of damp or worse coming from the plumbing. He had tried to improve the state of the one-bedroom apartment he rented, made the best of its high ceilings and well-proportioned rooms, spent most mornings on the tiny balcony overlooking the main street drinking coffee and learning patience.
The first time Hannah visited him at the apartment, she had told him with a smile that he was turning into a true Lebanese.
—How so? he had asked, bemused.
—Well, for most of us, the world stops just outside our doorstep.
—I’m not sure I understand what you mean.
Though they knew one another well by then, he could still be surprised by some of her comments.
—During the civil war, when there was so much chaos going on around us, our homes became havens of peace, she said. Apartments were usually immaculate, their furnishings in good repair and a general air of comfort about them. Battles could be raging on just a few streets away and people would still come home after work and sit at their tables for meals, make conversation or watch television and generally get on with their lives as though being indoors was protection enough—
—Which it often wasn’t, of course, he interrupted, because so many apartment buildings were hit by rockets and riddled with gunfire. Many inside them were killed.
She shook her head.
—Maintaining the illusion that one was safe inside one’s own home was vital, Peter. It’s what kept most people going despite the madness that was outside our control anyway.
—I guess it’s impossible to be in a continuous state of fear for one’s life.
—Exactly. It’s not that you allow yourself to become indifferent to the violence but you tell yourself the shield you have built around yourself and those you love somehow makes you invulnerable to it.
But things are very different now, he thinks. There is no war going on but the sense of despair is evident. Perhaps also the presence of hundreds of thousands of refugees has exposed the fragility of the situation even to those Lebanese who would rather ignore it, revealed the incompetence and corruption of the country’s politicians and the indifference of other Arab countries as well as the West to its plight. He stops in mid-step and takes a deep breath.
When did my days, Peter asks himself, begin with a burden of weariness that weighs me down as soon as I wake, plagues all the hours that follow and eats away at my resilience?
Hannah had told him, on their return from the Bekaa only days ago, that she sensed an unfamiliar distance in him.
—What is it, Peter? she asked.
—I’m not sure.
—Is it this whole thing with Anas?
—I suppose it’s partly that. I don’t know.
—Has something happened to upset you? Surely we can talk about it, whatever it might be.
He shrugged.
—Maybe I’m just tired of everything, Hannah, he finally said. I don’t know.
—It feels – she hesitated for a moment – it feels almost as though you’ve lost faith in this country, in all of us …
—Don’t be ridiculous, Hannah, please. Let’s just stop talking about it.
But is that what has, in fact, happened? he asks himself. Do I no longer believe in Lebanon, in being here, and if so, what should I do next?
He spends the next few hours at his desk making calls and meeting in conference rooms with administrators like himself who have lost heart in the causes they once espoused. He does not telephone Hannah to ask how her day is going, does not go out for lunch, does not indulge in conversation with colleagues and feels his spirits steadily drop until, finally deciding to return home, he realizes even standing up is an effort. Perhaps, Peter thinks, I am coming down with something.
Stepping out of the office and moving towards the lifts, he stops at the reception desk to announce his departure; absently putting his hand in his jacket pocket, he finds there the wilted necklace of flowers he bought earlier in the day. He lifts it out of his pocket and leans forward, but finding no rubbish bin to throw it into, holds it up towards the receptionist.
—Oh, is that for me? the young woman asks him. I love jasmine!
He is startled by the obvious excitement in her voice, looks more closely at her and sees a pretty face, soft eyes and clear skin. He cannot now tell her, he realizes, that he had only meant for her to throw the flowers away.
—Dr Peter, how sweet, she says, her voice very soft now.
She knows my name and although I see her every day, I cannot remember hers, he thinks, feeling instantly ashamed.
—It’s a bit tired now, he says nervously. I forgot it in my pocket from this morning.
She sniffs delicately at the flowers and then stretches her hand out to him.
—It still smells wonderful, though, she says. Here!
But he is only aware of the aroma of her perfume, a clean, sharp scent that is suddenly very appealing.
She is pretty, he thinks, but what is her name again?
—Are you OK, though? she continues. You’re not feeling well? Is that why you’re leaving early?
She giggles before continuing.
—We would really miss seeing you at the office if you fall ill. We count on you being here every day.
And then more quietly, she adds:
—I count on you being here.
He feels himself blush at the implication in this last remark.
—No, no, I’m fine. I … I just wanted to go out for a bit of fresh air. Would you like to come along?
As soon as he says these words, he immediately wishes he could take them back.
—Well, I’m just about due for a break, she replies, looking up at the wall clock. Can you give me a couple of minutes and I’ll meet you downstairs?
He nods, feeling suddenly helpless.
—OK.
Waiting for her at the building’s entrance, Peter is feeling calmer now. He has decided to take her to the café around the corner and eventually use some kind of excuse to leave. What harm could a cup of coffee do, after all? He would tell Hannah all about it later and she would agree that he had done the right thing. But he is surprised, nonetheless, at how easy it had been to charm the young woman into accepting his unintended invitation. Had she been waiting for it all along? Had he at some point given her the wrong impression?
He watches her come out of the lift, notices for the first time how tall and slim she is, and the graceful way she walks. Up close, he realizes that she has taken the opportunity to brush her hair and there is a glow to her cheeks that had not been there before. This makes him smile, despite his nervousness.
—I’m so glad, she says, that we’re finally getting the opportunity to get to know one another. She reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. Where shall we go?
His telephone rings before he can answer.
—Hello?
The young woman does not look very pleased at the distraction. He mimes an apology and steps away.
—Hannah? Are you all right?
He listens for a moment and, looking at the young woman beside him, frowns and closes his eyes. At the anguish in Hannah’s voice, he feels tension in his chest. What had he been thinking?
Then, walking away without looking back, he tells Hannah he will be right there.