It is raining hard, though it is not cold. Hannah waits for Peter to come around to her with the umbrella and steps out of the car. Standing now, she can see the open doorway of the gallery and the people inside, bright lights and fluid movement, shelter from the deluge.
She holds on to her husband’s arm and they walk slowly beneath the umbrella, looking down to try and avoid the puddles that are appearing in ever-expanding circles at their feet. Peter is tall and sturdily built. She leans against him as if she might benefit from his height, from the larger space he occupies in this world, and in becoming aware of their bodies, close and cautious as they move together like this, she realizes how much she has depended on him during this past and difficult year, wonders how she would have coped, given the turmoil around them, without this man who now walks in step with her with such ease.
The exhibition has attracted more people than she could have imagined and it is difficult to move around once they get inside. She lets go of Peter’s arm and moments later when she looks behind her he is no longer there. Unable to see Brigitte and the children, Hannah decides to peruse the paintings and sculptures that had been scattered haphazardly around the gallery when she came here with Anas weeks ago and which are now beautifully displayed. As she does so, despite all the activity around her, she can sense Anas’s presence, his critical artist’s eye.
From him, she had learned to see works of art from a new perspective: how to look beyond the obvious and assess an object’s relationship with its surroundings; how colour and light are one and the same; how the observer and the thing being observed continually shape one another; and, perhaps most importantly, that beauty is not merely a reflection of taste but is, on some level, an absolute. It seems to her, looking at these works of art that keep safe so much of what was precious about Anas, that art is also a purveyor of truth. If his violent death is a symbol of the betrayal of the popular revolts that brought down merciless regimes all over the Arab world, then Anas’s art is the antithesis of that treachery, an indication that life will always find ways to assert itself, no matter the circumstances. She feels sudden anguish that had he lived, Anas would surely have achieved still greater recognition for his work, and that with his loss, the region had lost not only an artist but a man whose awareness and insight had brought grace and clarity to an otherwise dim and despondent environment.
She spots Brigitte in the far corner of the gallery and makes her way over to her. Marwan and Rana, dressed in their best clothes, are standing beside their mother and baby Hayat sleeps in a pram next to them. Brigitte is busy greeting well-wishers so Hannah bends down to talk to the children.
—Everything OK here? she asks cheerfully.
—Shhh. Rana places a finger over her mouth. You’ll wake the baby, Aunty Hannah.
—I’m sorry, sweetheart, Hannah says quietly. I didn’t mean to do that. Amazing that she can go on sleeping with all the noise around her, isn’t it?
—I’m not letting anyone come near her, that’s why, Rana replies. You’d better move away too now.
—Yes, yes, of course I will.
Hannah takes Marwan by the hand.
—Will you show me around, habibi? Since you know your father’s work so well, you’ll be the best guide.
Although he does not say anything, Marwan follows her to where one of Hannah’s favourites, a clay sculpture, is displayed on a column that has been painted in white. The setting makes the figure appear even smaller than it actually is, its head round and disproportionately large, its diminutive arms sprouting from either side of its torso, its eyes hollow indentations that appear to have been pressed – as one would press fingers into dough – on to the front of its skull.
—What do you think of this one? she asks Marwan.
He drops her hand and does not look at her. In the days since his arrival, he has maintained a pretence of nonchalance, of feigned indifference, that has alarmed Hannah. When she expressed her concern, Peter told her that Marwan might simply not be ready to face his grief. ‘Give him time, Hannah. Give them all time to come to terms with what’s happened.’
—I think, Hannah says now, this is a fun piece, kind of quirky. Just like your dad was. Know what I mean?
Marwan lifts his hands up towards her, and gives her the thumbs up. She raises her eyebrows and waits for what will come next.
—Who do you think made those eyes look like that? he asks her.
When she finally understands, she laughs out loud, grabs his thumbs with her hands and shakes them hard.
—Ah, it was you, she says, and is delighted when Marwan grins back at her. That’s why it’s so good. No wonder I loved it so much when I first saw it. Then, more quietly, she asks: You really liked working with your father, didn’t you?
Marwan nods.
—He took me to his studio lots of times, he says. He always wanted to know what I thought of what he was working on and let me work with him on some stuff too. I mean, I don’t know if I would ever want to be an artist like he is but it was fun to play around with paint and clay. I don’t know, maybe I should become an artist now and sell my work too.
—You know, Marwan, Hannah says gently, he always told me how proud he was of you, said he wanted you to do whatever would make you happy.
The boy looks at her anxiously.
—But now that he’s dead, it’s up to me to take care of everyone – my mother and my sister … my sisters, I mean. Somebody has to earn a living to keep this family going.
Hannah tries not to smile.
—You’re right, habibi, but you know your mother is very strong and very capable. I’ve always admired her for that. She’ll take care of things, I’m certain of that. Besides, Uncle Peter and I will always be here for you if you need us.
As if on cue, Peter appears.
—Hello, he says. Marwan, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you. He gestures to the young boy to follow him. Come with me. There’s a young man who wants to meet you, the son of a great friend of your father’s. Let’s grab some juice and take it over to him.
—And this is why I love you, Hannah whispers into the air as she watches them walk away.
A waiter with a tray of tiny canapés comes by. She grabs a few and is munching on them when Maysoun, dressed in a long green dress that brings out the colour of her eyes and makes her skin glow, comes up to her.
—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so beautiful, Hannah tells her friend as they embrace. Something wonderful must be happening in your life.
—I do have some news. I’m leaving at the end of the month. Finally going to New Zealand.
—To see that friend you told me about? I know you’ve spoken about it before but I didn’t think it would be so soon.
Hannah finishes the last morsel of food, wipes her mouth with a napkin and looks for somewhere to throw it out.
—If I like it there, continues Maysoun, he says he wants me to stay on.
—You mean you’ll get married?
—I’m not sure about that but it’s a possibility, I guess.
—Will your mother go with you?
—She’s refusing to so far, but she might be persuaded if I decide to stay.
Hannah wonders if Maysoun isn’t just running away and will later regret her decision to go to the other side of the world in search of happiness.
—Are you pleased to be leaving, habibti? she dares to ask. Is it what you really want?
Maysoun pauses for a moment before replying.
—I know what I don’t want, she says. I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to be working in a job and in a part of the world where despair is always the order of the day. Does that sound terribly selfish to you?
—No, of course it doesn’t. You deserve to be happy, Maysoun.
Hannah reaches out and gives her friend another hug.
—I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for what you did for Fatima and her son. We were thrilled to hear that they’re settling in well at the camp in Turkey.
Maysoun smiles.
—Yes, I was very glad about that too, but what about the baby?
—You mean Hayat? She’s over there.
Hannah points to the pram that Rana is now pushing towards the Ladies with Brigitte following closely behind.
—It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Sometimes things do come full circle, despite the odds. Brigitte had decided to name the baby Hayat, meaning life, and they had all agreed that it was both beautiful and appropriate.
Maysoun plants a kiss on Hannah’s cheek.
—Let’s spend as much time as we can together before I leave for New Zealand. Maysoun turns and walks away as if floating on a cloud.
If we each take different paths in our lives, Hannah wonders, then how true can my interpretation of someone else’s journey be? Maysoun will leave and I will miss her at first, will try and recall how her story once touched my own until eventually even that memory of memories past will fade.
She looks around for Peter and finds him by the statuette she had been looking at with Marwan earlier.
—You like this one too, she says, slipping her hand into his.
He turns around and smiles.
—Something about it is very appealing, isn’t it? It reminds me so much of Anas.
She leans her head against his shoulder.
—You know, Hannah says wistfully, there was something I always wanted to ask him but I never got the chance.
—Hmmm?
—I wanted to ask how exactly he knew when whatever he was working on was finished? How do you know when it is time to stop painting or sculpting or writing or composing something?
—When it’s complete, you mean?
She nods.
—Well, Peter continues, Anas and I talked about something like that once. He told me he always felt he had to attempt not just to create perfection as a final goal but to continue to recreate it again and again as he worked, with every brushstroke of paint, every groove in clay. Maybe what he was trying to say is that there is neither beginning nor end to any kind of endeavour. That it’s the creative process that is its own reward.
Hannah looks at him, marvels at how familiar his face has become to her, and how great is the comfort, how tender the emotion, at times like these of mutual recognition. How had she ever doubted his love for her or hers for him?
—We’re both tired, Peter says with a smile. All this talk about life and art is a bit much, isn’t it?
She laughs.
—Shall we go? he asks.
When we get to the exit, I turn around to take one last look, note the light and sound, the movement and moments of stillness in between. I see in this scene the completeness that Anas had sought in his work and life, the beauty that is displayed here and the people who seek and are moved by it. Most of all, I understand that there is a purpose to all this, that Anas’s death has in part been vindicated, and that suffering does not endure as long as the will is there to let it go.
—Peter?
He looks at her but she’s not sure what it is she wants to say so she reaches out and places a hand on his arm instead.
—How about we pay a visit to your father before we go home? he asks. It would be nice to be with him right now, don’t you think?
—Yes, habibi. Yes, it would.
Once in the car, and despite the rain, Hannah opens her window just a little and breathes in the humid air. Peter has taken the coastal road, driving first through the downtown area, rebuilt since the war but still lacking the soul and vibrancy of the old Beirut, and then onto the Corniche where the blue-black sea menaces, waves rising high over a barrier of rocks on the shoreline before splashing onto the road and the vehicles moving cautiously across it.
She remembers her conversation with Anas as they walked here weeks ago, her assertion that she could only ever be really happy living by this sea and his argument, in turn, that Peter might have sacrificed a great deal because of that.
For a moment, she begins to ask herself if she would have been prepared to do the same for Peter, leave family and home behind just to be with him, then recalls the many times he has insisted that his wish was only that they be together, wherever that might be.
She looks out at her Beirut once again, at night and oblivion advancing and feels, inexplicably, a quiet gratitude. And when Peter, as if recognizing a need in her, reaches out to touch her lightly on the shoulder, she turns to him, his profile indistinct now, imbued with the darkness that surrounds them, takes his hand and lifts it to her cheek.