Peter nearly stumbles over Fatima sitting on the steps that lead up to the building’s entrance. Beside her is Wassim and a large plastic bag filled with what seem to be clothes. When she stands up, pulling the little boy up with her, Peter notices a bundle in her arm. He looks more closely at the tiny face peeking through the tightly wrapped blanket.
—Marhaba, Peter greets them in Arabic.
—I’ve come for news, Fatima says with a nervous smile. Your wife and Anas told me they would let me know about my parents.
—Yes, yes, of course.
Peter reaches over to ruffle the little boy’s hair.
—Kifak, Wassim?
He waits for Fatima to mention the sleeping baby she is carrying in her arms.
—Why don’t you come up? he finally asks.
He notices the look of hesitation on her face and is immediately aware of the reason behind her reluctance. She will not come upstairs to the flat with him if he is alone.
—Hannah fil beit, he reassures her. Hannah is home. Please come up and speak to her yourself.
—I couldn’t remember what apartment you lived in, she says. I … the porter told me to wait here so I did.
Since his spoken Arabic is not good enough to explain further, Peter picks up the plastic bag and motions for the young woman to follow him into the building.
—Hannah, he calls out once they’re upstairs.
—I’m in the kitchen, Peter.
They step into the kitchen and he sees the surprised look on Hannah’s face.
—I’ve brought visitors with me.
—Fatima! Hannah rushes to embrace the woman, and then leans down to give Wassim a kiss. How are you, habibi, she asks. And who is this? she continues, looking at the baby in Fatima’s arms.
—You said you’d have news for me, Fatima says, ignoring Hannah’s question. You promised you’d let me know about my family.
Peter pulls out a chair from around the kitchen table and motions for Fatima to sit down.
—Yes, and we have good news for you. Hannah sits down beside her. Your family is in a camp on the Turkish border, Fatima, and they have been told that you and Wassim are here. I wanted to go and see you and let you know, but … She looks up at Peter. Anyway, our friend at the Red Cross, Maysoun, she’s in touch with the authorities at the refugee camp. She’s trying to see if she can get permission for you to go there and join them. We’re not sure how it’s going to be possible, though.
Fatima hangs her head and begins to cry and Hannah wraps an arm around her shoulders.
Peter watches as Wassim inches his way closer to his mother’s chair, as though afraid of anyone noticing his presence. He has remained silent throughout the interchange between the two women. The scene – Hannah and Fatima bending over each other in a gentle arc, the little boy leaning into them like an afterthought – moves him in a way he does not quite understand.
He hands Hannah a box of tissues, fetches a glass of water for the young woman and then pours a cup of orange juice for Wassim.
—Here you are. Peter bends down to give it to him but the little boy shrinks away and shakes his head. Peter places the cup on the table and moves away.
Fatima finally looks up.
—Even if you can’t go there to be with them, Hannah tells her gently, at least you know your family’s safe, that they all survived.
—Where’s the other one? Fatima asks. The one who came with us to the camp? Anas? I thought he lived here with you.
Hannah looks anxiously at Peter. He shakes his head.
—He’s gone back to Syria, Hannah says with obvious difficulty. But we’re here for you, Fatima. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you. Are you going to tell us who this is? Hannah looks down at the infant but Fatima shakes her head.
—Please, you must take me to see this woman you’re talking about, she pleads. I’ll explain why I need to be with my own family. She’ll understand, I know she will. You have to help me. I can’t cope on my own any longer.
—Is it the baby, Fatima? Hannah persists. Is it yours?
Wassim, now clearly overwhelmed by what is going on, begins to sob.
—Hannah, Peter says in English, I don’t think we should keep asking her questions like this, at least not in front of the little boy. Can I talk to you alone in the living room for a moment?
Hannah takes the baby from Fatima and pushes Wassim gently towards his mother.
—He needs you to comfort him, she tells her.
In the living room, Hannah looks intently at the baby.
—Do you think it’s hers? she asks.
—I don’t know, habibti, but I don’t think Fatima’s prepared to talk about it right now.
—Maybe if Anas were here …
—Why do you say that? Peter asks.
—It’s just that when we brought her home last time, she was much more willing to talk to him. I had a feeling that she told him a lot more about herself than she did me.
—Yes, I do remember but it’s not going to help the situation if we let her know what’s happened to him.
—The baby’s awake, Peter, Hannah says softly. Look.
She loosens the blanket from around the infant so that the contours of its face and its tiny hands show through. Its eyes are wide open and seem to be looking directly at him. It blinks and Peter feels his heart flutter.
—She’s beautiful, isn’t she?
—You’ve decided it’s a girl?
—Looks like a girl. Her features are delicate. Just look at that little upturned nose, and those big eyes.
—I wonder what Fatima has to say about this baby. I mean, if she brought it here to see us she must have known we’d ask questions. After all, it wasn’t with her the first time we saw her and I didn’t see any sign of an infant when Anas and I took her back to the camp.
—I thought you said there were lots of children there anyway.
—Yes, there were, but surely if this were her baby, she would have asked about it right away, Hannah replies. Her husband’s uncle and his wife certainly didn’t mention it.
—She seems alarmingly indifferent to it, Peter says.
—I wonder why that is. Peter, you have more experience with babies than I do, can you tell how old it is?
—Well, it’s clear this is not a newborn. I’d have to examine it more closely, of course, but I’d say this baby is around two or three months old. Anyway, he continues, trying to sound matter-of-fact, I’ll bet it’s going to start screaming for food any minute now. We’d better give it back to its mother.
—We don’t know she is the mother, Hannah protests.
—No, you’re right, we don’t, but she is clearly responsible for this baby one way or another.
Fatima and Wassim come into the living room looking forlorn.
—Does the baby need to be fed? Hannah asks the young woman.
Fatima looks at her as though surprised.
—Oh, she had her bottle a couple of hours ago but I’ve run out of milk. She puts her hand inside the pocket of her skirt and brings out a baby bottle. Here, she says, handing it to Hannah. You have milk here, don’t you?
She sounds almost flippant, Peter thinks, or is it anxiety that she is feeling?
—Tell her that regular milk won’t do for the baby, he says, turning to Hannah, and ask her what formula she’s been using.
Hannah lays a hand on Peter’s arm and speaks directly to Fatima.
—It’s OK, she says. Don’t worry about the milk, Fatima. We’ll get her some, and some nappies as well. I’m sure she needs those. Why don’t you sit down and rest for a bit? I’ll telephone the pharmacy up the street and ask them to deliver a few things.
She tries to hand the baby back to Fatima.
—In the meantime, Hannah adds, I’ll go wash this bottle in the kitchen.
—No!
Both Hannah and Peter are startled by the hostility in Fatima’s voice.
—I don’t have time for that now, I tell you. Just take me to this woman, please.
The baby begins to whimper and Hannah responds by rocking it in her arms.