Hannah meets her father on Hamra Street and they walk slowly towards their destination. Although Beirut usually experiences four distinct seasons, the weather is hot again and as they walk, her arm holding tightly on to his so that she is lifting him slightly, he tells her of an old saying his mother used to repeat at this time of year: Between October and November is another summer.
Hannah is amused at the idea of seasons concealed behind the months that bear them, repeats the saying to herself and thinks again how much she misses being with her parents and her brother at home, of Arabic being passed along from room to room and from one day into the next, of the uncommon ease in which they lived before the civil war and the sense of safety they enjoyed in having no idea that things would soon change for them forever. She thinks also that even now, in this new and harsher Beirut where people and places have changed to accommodate the pressures they live under, there remain gentle impressions of the city’s more reliable past, reminders that come to life from time to time and which provide comfort.
Faisal comes to a stop and jerks Hannah towards him as he does so.
—All right, Baba?
He shakes his head.
—Just taking a breather. You walk a little too fast for me.
—I’m sorry! Let me find somewhere for you to sit down.
—No, no, Hannah. I’m all right. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.
It is early afternoon and the streets are quiet before commuters begin to make their various ways home. Still, there are enough cars driving past to give the impression of movement and in the shops along the street on which they walk a few customers linger. Standing so close to her father, Hannah imagines herself part of a larger, more steadfast whole.
—OK, let’s go, Faisal says moments later, and they do, past the Commodore Hotel which previously housed much of the international media covering the civil war; across Lyon Street that runs parallel to Hamra – though its traffic moves in the opposite direction – and which eventually leads to the city’s central business district and further to East Beirut; down Labban Street, past a pharmacy in which Hannah remembered her mother shopping, a grocer’s and numerous small shopfronts; then up stone steps towards the Hariri mansion where the country’s former prime minister – assassinated some years before – and his family once lived but which now stands empty but for the security guards that man its gates; and finally to a large and ungainly building that appears to pitch forward halfway up a hill and which, surrounded on all sides by even taller structures, is forever deprived of natural light.
Hannah sees a young woman lean out of a window a few floors up and put out washing on a clothes line. How long, she wonders, will it take to dry in shadow?
—I checked with Aunt Amal before we left, she turns to tell her father. The electricity won’t be cut off until later this evening so the lift is definitely working now.
—Thank goodness for that, replies Faisal.
She gently steers her father towards the front entrance and they get into the lift.
—Your aunt should have left this old place when her husband passed away, Faisal says. I told her she could move in with me but she wouldn’t listen.
—I know, Baba. You’re right, of course, but she may yet change her mind. Give her time.
—She’s lucky enough to still be paying the same rent she did before the war, he continues, so she’d get a good sum in compensation for getting out.
It is so dark on the landing that Hannah uses her mobile to light their way. Amazing, she thinks, the discrepancies in Beirut now, luxury buildings alongside crumbling ones such as this one, apartments that sell for millions and others where tenants continue to pay the equivalent of only several hundred dollars a year in rent. The civil war caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands, destroyed much of the country’s infrastructure and forced a huge chunk of its middle class to move abroad. Now, nearly twenty-five years after it ended, these losses have, it seems to Hannah, been merely glossed over, have been replaced with rabid construction, a generation of Lebanese with little awareness of their country’s past and over a million displaced Syrians struggling to survive, living without hope.
—Careful, Baba, she says quietly as they arrive at her aunt’s threshold.
—Ahlan, ahlan, Amal says, opening the door, one hand holding it wide and the other hanging on to her walker.
Faisal goes in first, gives his sister-in-law a peck on the cheek.
—For heaven’s sake, Amal, he says. Why haven’t you got any lights on? It’s like walking into a cave in here.
Hannah embraces her aunt and reaches for the light switch.
—Baba, it’s customary to ask after people when you walk into their home, she protests, turning to the old woman. How are you, Khalto?
—I’m fine, ya rouhi. And don’t worry about your father. He tells me off about something or other every time he comes over.
Faisal walks into the living room and pulls open the French doors that lead out on to a balcony where old rattan armchairs are crowded around a glass coffee table.
—Let’s sit out here. He gestures to the two women. It’s too stuffy inside, all that old furniture and those carpets.
Hannah lays a hand on her father’s arm in the hope that he will tone down his criticism but he shakes it off.
—My daughter, he says turning to Amal with a smile, is always worried that I am too hard on you about this place. Perhaps she doesn’t realize what good friends we are and how much I love coming here.
The balcony is small and the many flowerpots that line its edges serve to make it seem even smaller. Walking up to the railing, Hannah looks out at the surrounding buildings, takes in an impression of denseness, of immovable human proximity, and is surprised at feeling reassured instead of tested by it. She leans over a little further and looks at the adjoining verandah to the right where white plastic chairs hang on the balustrade and a dim overhead light reveals a freshly mopped floor. The apartments are so close together that she can smell the disinfectant used on the tired but gleaming tiles.
She turns around and offers to go back inside and make the coffee.
—I’ve put out the pot and the cups and saucers on the worktop and the coffee’s in a jar in the freezer, says her aunt. Don’t mind the mess. The cleaning woman is due to come tomorrow so she’ll take care of it.
In the kitchen, Hannah puts the water on to boil and begins to tidy up a bit, washing the dishes in the sink, wiping down the work surfaces and giving the floor a quick sweep before making the coffee. She dare not do more for fear of upsetting her aunt and thinks, not for the first time, that she should make an effort to come here more often to help out. Amal’s two daughters live overseas and come to visit only once a year so the old woman, who has so far refused to have a live-in housekeeper, is alone much of the time. It is a dilemma, Hannah realizes, that many who emigrated and left elderly parents behind have to face.
When she takes the coffee tray out to them, her father and aunt are sitting together in silence. She realizes that although the balcony looks directly on to the street, it feels just as closed in and stuffy as the rest of the apartment.
—When did you and Khalo Nabil move in here? she asks her aunt before she sits down.
—Goodness, that was a long time ago, says Amal. As soon as we got married, so that would be about forty-five years ago, I think.
—The building was brand new at the time and was considered one of the best places to live in this area, Faisal adds. Had a lot of greenery around it, I seem to remember?
Amal nods.
—Yes, it did. Things were very different. She points in the direction of the villa. That was the only building anywhere near here, and it didn’t block out our view either. Your Uncle Nabil and I were invited to a party there once long ago.
—To the Hariri villa?
—It didn’t belong to Hariri then, Amal continues. It was owned by a Druze member of parliament, a very wealthy man. He held a reception once and invited lots of people from the neighbourhood.
—Probably after people’s votes, Hannah says with disgust.
—No, habibti, her father objects. He stood for elections in his mountain village, so constituents here wouldn’t have been able to vote for him anyway.
—But people around here did go to him for help from time to time, Amal says. I still remember what it was like inside those gates. A beautiful garden with fountains, and the house was huge, marble floors and vaulted ceilings.
—It can’t have been as impressive as the Daouk villa up the road, Faisal says. I’ve been inside, you know.
There follows a mild argument between Faisal and Amal that Hannah does not participate in. Instead, she listens and tries to imagine her father and aunt in their youth, sitting together like this, perhaps with others looking on, with Hannah’s mother and other members of the two extended families enjoying days brimming with promise. She has seen photos of them, of course, black-and-white ones that make them appear even more removed in time, taken in places that no longer exist and with people who have already passed on, ephemeral images of themselves as they dreamed goals that have long since been gained and lost.
She listens and sees all this and feels a sudden, private sadness which their obvious pleasure in being together does not dispel. Hannah is still deep in thought when her mobile rings and she answers it. Later, she will not remember the exact words that Anas’s sister used to let her know of Anas’s disappearance. Then as soon as she hangs up, Hannah dials Peter’s number.
—Peter, habibi, she begins.
—Hannah? Are you all right?
She takes a deep breath.
—Anas’s sister just called. It’s Anas. They have no idea where he is – his family, I mean.
—I don’t understand.
—It seems he never made it to his parents’ place in Damascus. They weren’t sure when he was meant to arrive and assumed he hadn’t left Beirut yet.
She sits down abruptly and bangs the back of her head against the balustrade. The notion that she has somehow had this conversation before, that the experience is familiar, takes over as a wave of knowing apprehension threatens to overwhelm her. Could something terrible have happened to Anas? She begins to panic at the thought. Why didn’t we bring him back to Beirut with us that day? Please, God, let him be all right.
She is suddenly filled with foreboding, heart racing and a tingling sensation permeating through her body, an almost unbearable heat. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to take a breath, but is unable to do so, unable to shake off the crushing fear threatening to swallow her up. For a moment, there is nothing in the world but this dread growing inside her. For a moment, she wonders if she too might vanish.
—Hannah? Are you all right? Are you still there?
—Peter, she whispers into the telephone. Help me, please.
Her body closes in on itself and she is at once immobilized. She feels someone bend over her and she clutches at the extended arm.
Eventually, as the panic begins to ebb, she opens her eyes and realizes it is her father’s arm she has been squeezing.
—What’s the matter, sweetheart? Faisal asks.
She hears also Peter’s voice at the other end of the line.
—Are you there, Hannah? I’ll be right there.
Hannah looks up at her father as she puts her phone back into her bag.
He hands her a glass of water and she sips at it carefully.
—Has this happened to you before, habibti? he asks.
Hannah nods.
—Only once or twice. She tries to make her voice sound reassuring. It’s nothing. And before Faisal can question her further, she continues: It’s Anas, our artist friend. He left for Damascus a couple of days ago and still hasn’t arrived home. He didn’t even tell us he was going, and Anas’s sister just found out he never actually got there.
—Terrible, Amal mutters and on hearing this Hannah understands that her worst fears about the war in Syria, that someone she knows and loves would be lost to it, may yet be realized.