It is late. She sits on the balcony overlooking the building’s courtyard, alternately looking up at the stars and then down at the outlines of her self, her hands shadows in her lap, her breath imperceptible even as she becomes aware of it. Behind her, where she cannot see it, is the Mediterranean Sea rising and falling against the rocky, uneven shoreline of Beirut.
She tries to recall a prayer her mother used to whisper in her ear at night, melodious words in classical Arabic that guaranteed protection against the dark and which she often repeats to herself whenever fear grips her and insight is out of reach. ‘Dear one, to you I surrender myself this night and upon your shoulders I lay my burdens. You are my light, the shelter and serenity that I seek.’
The thing about grief is its lack of precision, the way it pervades one’s being without discrimination, refusing to be compartmentalized, sinking in its own significance and pulling me down with it no matter how hard I pray or how long I wait for it to diminish. In Anas’s death I am reliving past sorrows: Mother’s passing and the missing her that followed; Lebanon’s demise, the death of thousands and the loss of belonging that has gone with it; the slow but certain dissolution of the Arab world so soon after hopes for its deliverance had been high. I am aware also that the devastation I feel will inevitably lead me towards total surrender to it until I am confronted with the choice of either surviving it or disappearing completely in its shadow.
Anas was killed when the car he was travelling in stopped at a Syrian army checkpoint that was hit by mortar fire. Although there were no survivors inside the vehicle and identifying the victims would not have been possible anyway, the identity cards of the driver and his passenger were eventually found behind the barricade of sandbags where an officer had been inspecting them at the time of the explosion. It was several days before Anas’s family was informed and some hours after that when Peter and I were told.
—Does Brigitte know? Hannah had asked Anas’s sister when she spoke to her.
—Yes. I telephoned and told her.
—What will she do now?
There was a long pause at the other end.
—I don’t know what she plans to do, came the reply. I’m so angry with Brigitte right now I don’t even want to think about her. It’s the children I’m most concerned about.
But Hannah thinks of little else now that the initial shock begins to attach itself to her everyday routine. As she somehow moves and breathes, she asks herself again and again what Brigitte and the children, who had been eagerly anticipating their father’s visit, will now do without him. How will they ever survive this?
These are thoughts that break her heart anew every morning when she wakes up to the memory of what has happened and must will herself out of bed and get on with the day; thoughts which, again, as she gets into bed at night and tries to fall asleep nestled in Peter’s embrace, chip leisurely at her soul.
When Hannah and Peter telephoned Berlin and asked to speak to Brigitte, her mother had explained in halting English that her daughter could not talk to anyone at the moment, that she needed time.
—Just tell her that we love her and are thinking of her and the children, Hannah said. Tell her also that she must let us know if there is anything at all we can do to help. Please make sure you tell her that, she pleaded.
Hannah had felt surprise at feeling somehow let down, even resentful afterwards, as though in speaking with Brigitte, in trying to comfort her, she might have had the chance to alleviate her own sorrow. An opportunity had been missed.
Peter comes out to join her, sitting in the chair opposite hers.
—Are you coming to bed? he asks.
—I’m not ready yet.
—You haven’t slept well for days now, Hannah. You need to look after yourself better.
—Don’t fuss, Peter, she protests. All the medical tests you made me have were fine.
—All I’m saying, he continues, frustration in his voice, is that you need to relax more.
Then, more gently: I’m concerned about you, sweetheart. I really think you should be taking something for the panic attacks.
She shakes her head.
—I’m not willing to take sedatives, Peter.
—Sometimes medications are the only answer.
—I’ll try to relax, she says. I promise I will.
Then, just as he begins to get up, she remembers.
—I meant to tell you earlier, Hannah says. I got a call this afternoon from Philippe, the owner of the gallery hosting Anas’s exhibition. He thinks having the opening on the scheduled date is a good idea. He seems to feel there’s no sense in delaying or cancelling.
She takes a deep breath.
—Anyway, I told him we’d get in touch with Brigitte and let him know what she wants to do.
—Anas’s work will be even more desirable now, I suppose, says Peter.
Hannah is surprised at this.
—As tragic as Anas’s death is for those of us who loved him, he continues, his family will need the income from sales of his work. This is an opportune moment for that.
—But so soon after his death, Hannah protests. It seems indecent somehow.
Peter looks at her with great tenderness.
—Hannah, he says, maybe it’s time you let go of your anger and frustration over a situation you can’t control. Are you sure you’re not taking this war too personally? Anas happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and all we can do, as close friends, is try to help his family.
—That’s exactly what I want to do, she says, but somehow I can’t get myself out of this dark hole.
—I lost a close friend too, he says. I’m trying to get beyond the sorrow just like you are.
She is unsettled by the disappointment in his voice and feels a familiar panic spread into her chest. This is a moment I will remember years from now, she tells herself, as the fear beats against her ribs and, finding no release there, rises further until her neck and head burn with it. There has been something niggling at her about Peter recently, something about him that is different but which she is unable to pinpoint. It is as though he is waiting for some kind of a response from her. But a response to what?
When Hannah is able to speak again, her voice is hesitant.
—I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I haven’t considered what you’ve been going through, habibi. I’m so sorry.
—It’s OK, Peter says, his voice softening.
—You loved him as much as I did, and I haven’t once asked you how you’re feeling. Will you forgive me?
But this does not seem to placate him.
—Hannah, there’s no question of my being willing to forgive you or not, he says vehemently. We always forgive each other no matter what, don’t we?
He looks so earnest, so anxious as he asks this question that she is suddenly aware of how important her answer to it will be to both of them. In that moment, as each appeals to the other for a reply that will eliminate all doubt from their minds, she knows what she must say.
—Of course we do, ya hayati. Always and forever, no matter the circumstance.
She wants to say more, something to comfort him further, something grown-up like: ‘We have both done things we regret, my love, but nothing will ever change the way I feel about you, the way we are together,’ but she knows there is no longer a need for it.
Peter breathes long and hard.
—Getting back to what we were talking about, he says, I really believe we should be encouraging Brigitte to allow the exhibition to go ahead – for her own sake, and the children’s.
—Maybe you’re right.
—Besides, what better tribute is there to Anas’s life and work than an exhibition that celebrates both?
He puts out his hand and, as she takes it with hers, pulls her up and holds her close to him.
—We’ll get through this, Hannah, you’ll see, he says.
She lifts her head and kisses him gently on the lips.
—I don’t want to ever have to do without you, Peter, she says. Promise me we’ll always be together?
In the interval before he replies, Hannah nestles her head more closely into his shoulder and holds her breath.
—Always, Peter says.