—Is Hannah home? Brigitte asks, looking around in some confusion.
The young woman with an infant in her arms shakes her head.
—She’s out, she says, looking closely at Brigitte. Are you the artist’s wife? The one who was killed?
Brigitte gasps and the young woman motions to her to come inside.
—She told me to let you in if you got here before she did.
—Thank you.
—Are you from Syria? You sound like you’re from home, but you don’t look it. The woman reaches out to touch Brigitte’s hair.
—No, no. I’m not Syrian but my husband is.
Brigitte makes her way to the sitting room and sees a young boy playing on the carpet by the French doors. He looks up at her and smiles. He is very much like his mother, has light-coloured eyes and fair skin. The baby begins to cry and the mother places it on the sofa before going into the kitchen. It looks to be about three months old and, unlike the little boy, has a full head of dark, wavy hair.
—A little girl? Brigitte asks when she comes back with a bottle.
The young woman nods.
Leaving the baby on the sofa, she pushes the bottle into her mouth and holds it there, turning her head away to stare at Brigitte.
Having lived in the Middle East for so long, she is used to standing out because of her height and her blonde hair, but she has a feeling that the young woman’s apparent fascination with her has something else behind it.
—I’m from Syria, the young woman says.
—Oh.
Brigitte cannot understand why she feels uncomfortable in this woman’s presence.
—My husband was killed in the war too, she continues. I didn’t want to leave our home but I had to in the end.
—I’m sorry, Brigitte manages to say after a pause.
The young woman clears her throat.
—He was looking for you, your husband. I heard him talk to the others about it, about how anxious he was that you took the children away.
Brigitte lifts her head in astonishment.
—You were here? You met Anas?
She nods.
—My son and I were staying here too.
—I don’t understand.
The young woman looks confused.
—I’m Fatima. Hannah hasn’t told you about me?
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I only just got here, she says. I was in Germany …
—Yes, he told me that you’d taken the children away with you.
—Anas?
—He went out on to the balcony to smoke a cigarette and I followed him. We talked for a long time.
—You talked to him about us? Brigitte asks softly.
—When he explained what had happened, what you had done, I told him he was wrong, that there wasn’t a mother in the world who wouldn’t want to get her children out of that place, that he had no right to expect anything different from you.
Brigitte cannot believe what she is hearing.
—Anyway, Fatima continues, he didn’t say very much at first. But I could tell he was listening. Then just before we went back inside, he showed me a picture of you and the children, your son and daughter.
Brigitte opens her eyes wide in astonishment.
—I told him that if he was missing you all, he should just go to you. I said that’s what I intended to do, go be with my family no matter what. Eventually, he agreed with me, said he knew he couldn’t live without you and the children.
—He mentioned me?
—Yes.
Brigitte takes a deep breath and, feeling suddenly cold, wraps her arms around herself.
—Can I hold her? she finally asks.
Fatima nods and hands her the baby.
She nestles the infant in the crook of her arm and watches as she sucks eagerly at the bottle. Her forehead is high, delicate skin stretched thinly over it, revealing tiny, crisscross veins of colour. Brigitte bends down to take in that inimitable scent of baby, of newness, and is instantly refreshed.
Recollections of her own children as infants flood into her mind, pictures such as this, of Anas standing patiently beside her, looking on with tenderness and then taking the bundle on to his shoulder to relieve her for a few moments, listening to him sing the babies to sleep, watching him rock them in his arms; memories of his immense, unrelenting love for them. Her tears fall on to the child’s blanket and she is unable to stop them. She looks around for a tissue and is grateful when Fatima hands her one.
—He was a good man, your husband, Fatima says suddenly. He was kind to me.
Brigitte nods, her head still down, unable to speak.
—When I said your husband was a kind man, I meant I knew he’d be able to help me.
A look of anxiety passes over her face and Brigitte is suddenly aware, as one sometimes is, that she is about to be taken into Fatima’s confidence.
—Before they took me back to the camp in the south, she says, he promised to help me.
—What camp?
—When my son and I fled Damascus and came to this country, we joined members of my husband’s family in an encampment in the south.
—But how did you come to be here, in Beirut?
—I left her here. Fatima points to the baby. I’ve had to come back for her because the woman looking after her no longer wants her.
Brigitte does not know what any of this has to do with Anas.
—I told him about the baby, you see, Fatima continues. She was born long after my husband died. He understood why I couldn’t keep her.
—You’re not keeping her?
—You’ll need to burp her now, Fatima says, ignoring the comment.
Brigitte lifts the baby on to her shoulder and pats her gently on the back.
—You think I’m heartless, I know, Fatima says.
—No. I—
—But I have to think of my son. I have to think about his future. There’s no place for a sister with no name in it.
The baby lets out a soft burp and Brigitte smiles despite herself.
—But I don’t understand how Anas was able to help you, she says, and in that moment, looking at the young mother, the child’s breathing aligned with her own, Brigitte understands. He told you he would find a home for her, didn’t he? she asks quietly.
The young woman continues to look at her, saying nothing.
—He didn’t suggest we would take her, did he?
When Fatima nods in reply, Brigitte feels shaken and is not sure whether or not to believe her. Maybe Anas didn’t have a chance to tell me about it, Brigitte thinks. Peter had said that, just before leaving, Anas told him he had finally understood why she had decided to leave with the children. But when he had gone on to Damascus despite that, Brigitte concluded that he might have changed his mind. Oh, God, she wonders, what had Anas really been thinking when he told this woman he would be prepared to take her baby?
She looks down at the child in her arms again, the wide-open eyes and that stillness in them that one sees only in infants, a kind of quiet knowing, and for an instant it is as though Anas is standing beside her, also looking on in wonder.
—Habibi, Brigitte whispers to herself, dare I believe that you died loving me still?
She is aware moments later of the little boy standing up and going over to his mother. Fatima takes him on to her lap and kisses the top of his head.
—This is Wassim, she says.
—Hello, Wassim.
The baby begins to hiccup and Wassim screws up his face.
Brigitte looks at him.
—What’s the baby’s name? she asks him.
He turns his head to look at his mother but Fatima only shrugs.
The baby begins to squirm in Brigitte’s arms.
—I think she needs changing, she says. Would you like me to do it?
Fatima lifts the little boy off her lap and puts him back on to the floor.
—Go get the nappies from the kitchen, she tells him. The ones Hannah bought for us. Then she places a rectangle of cloth on the carpet and turns to Brigitte. You can lie her down here, she says.
But Brigitte is unwilling to let her off so easily.
—What is the baby’s name? she asks again.
Fatima sighs.
—She doesn’t have one.
—Doesn’t have a name? she asks with disbelief. Why not?
Wassim comes in with the bag of nappies and Fatima hands her one, a look of resignation passing across her face.
—If I give her a name, I’ll have to keep her.
—But she’s your child …
—Mine? What use do I have for a girl? She’ll just be another burden for me – and for Wassim as well, eventually. And once she gets older, what chance will she have without a father to protect her?
—You cannot abandon your child, Brigitte says as she changes the baby. Surely you realize that much?
Fatima stands up.
—I’m not abandoning her, am I? she says, her voice rising. You’re all good people here. You can take care of her. And why do you keep saying she’s mine? I never said she was, did I?
—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you …
Fatima sits down again and begins to sob.
—You know, when I heard about your husband being killed, she finally says, looking up at Brigitte, the first thing I thought of was how difficult it would be for you, like it was for me. She shakes her head. I mean I know you’re much better off and everything, but the feelings are the same. I cared about my husband too and he loved me back in his own way, just like yours did. I could tell he did, the way he talked about you and everything. It wasn’t just about the children for him.
Before Brigitte can reply, the front door opens and Peter and Hannah walk in.
—Oh, you’re here already. Hannah comes up and gives her a hug. Squeezed between them, the baby lets out a little yelp. Hannah laughs.
—So you’ve met Fatima and the children, she says.
—Peter kisses Brigitte.
—Sorry we’re late. We were held up at Maysoun’s.
—Fatima, Hannah says. We have good news. It’s all arranged for the day after tomorrow, for you and the children.
The young woman looks anxious.
—Don’t worry, habibti, Hannah says. Brigitte is a close friend. She won’t say anything.
—I’ll go in and start supper, Peter says.
He turns to Fatima and Wassim.
—You two can come and help me, he says with a smile, and they follow him into the kitchen.
Brigitte looks at Hannah.
—She met with Anas when he was here, spoke to him …
—Yes, I know. He was the only one of us she would talk to in the beginning.
—Would you believe I’m feeling jealous? she says, close to tears. About their conversation, I mean. It’s much more than he gave me in the end.
—Come here, Hannah says gently, taking her friend into her arms.
Perhaps what I need to do, Brigitte tells herself, is to grieve without hope of comfort and without aim, with no view to the future, no expectation of resolution, to wallow in the guilt of my own survival and imagine, uselessly, frenziedly, what might have been. She wants to smile at these thoughts but feels herself cave in instead, her chest and all her insides turning in on themselves so that she is reduced to one, beating centre.
*
On the balcony with Hannah and Peter, Brigitte feels a chill in the air. It is late enough for the streets to be relatively empty of traffic but many of the windows in the buildings across from them, beyond the now dark courtyard and on a level with the unseen sea, still flicker with light.
—She has no intention of taking the baby with her, Brigitte says, her voice a little too loud. I hope you two realize that.
—What do you mean? asks Peter.
—I mean exactly that. Fatima is planning to leave the baby here.
—How do you know that? Hannah asks.
Brigitte shifts in her seat.
—I had a chance to talk to her before you arrived earlier this evening and she told me that’s what she was going to do. She says she spoke to Anas before he left for Damascus and he promised to visit the baby at the Palestinian camp and help her arrange for someone to take it.
—But he never mentioned anything about that to us, Hannah protests, leaning forward in her seat.
—She probably made him promise not to, Peter says. She was much more comfortable talking to him than she was with us.
—But I still don’t believe she would abandon her baby if no one agreed to take it.
—I think she’s desperate enough to do it, Brigitte continues. She is absolutely adamant that she cannot take that child with her to join her family.
Peter frowns and reaches out to touch his wife’s arm.
—I think Brigitte’s right, Hannah, he says. We need to sort this out.
—But what can we do? Just hand her over to the authorities here and forget about the whole thing?
They fall silent for a few moments, mulling over their thoughts in the dark.
—I want her, Brigitte blurts out. I’ll take her.
—I’m sorry?
—If Anas promised he would help her, then it’s my responsibility now to do that. She also told me he told her he would be prepared to take the baby himself.
—And you believed her?
—It doesn’t matter if I believe her or not, Brigitte says emphatically. The important thing is that this child needs to be saved from an uncertain fate.
Hannah and Peter remain silent.
—Why are you looking at me like that? she asks.
—Do you realize what you’re saying, Brigitte? Hannah finally asks.
—Of course I do.
—You’ve had a big shock, habibti. This may not be the best time to make such a big decision.
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I didn’t have to think about leaving Damascus when I did, she says.
—But will you take her back to Berlin with you?
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I’m not sure we’re going back there.
—What? You’re not planning to go back to Damascus, are you?
—No, of course not. But the children and I love it here. So did Anas. We could stay on in Beirut. Look, it may seem crazy to you, Hannah, but I know in my heart it’s the right thing to do. Please don’t look so shocked. I’ve already spoken to my in-laws about this and they’re very happy we’ll be close by. This is where we belong, Hannah – or where my children and I can at least learn to belong.
—All I’m saying is that you should give yourself more time to think about it. Don’t let it be an impulse decision like this.
Brigitte presses her lips together.
—How can I explain? she asks quietly. To you, my kind and loving friends. But something is compelling me to do this, some instinct …
—Do you know what has just occurred to me? Peter suddenly intervenes. And then, without waiting for an answer, he continues: I’ve just realized that this is exactly the kind of thing Anas would do – you know, resolving to save this child – absolutely the kind of decision he would have made, given the circumstances. I’m sure of it.
He looks at Brigitte and smiles.
—It’s almost as if, he tells her, it’s almost as if in taking this child you will be making up in some way for the loss of Anas. This is what ‘a life for a life’ really means.
Brigitte’s heart, which had begun to drop moments earlier, suddenly lifts and floats towards him. He has given her the answer she needed. She feels that Anas himself has spoken to her through Peter, as if he made the decision long before she could have been aware of it and all she needs to do now is receive it with grace. She mouths a silent thank you to Peter, sits back in her chair and closes her eyes to the Beirut night.