BEIRUT, 1995

Bilqis hobbles inside where I’m helping Inam with her English-language homework. She’s only up once a day now, either to accompany us on our afternoon stroll or to feed the manic hens. She scatters grain from her hands in haste as she closes the door behind her, and we look up from our books in alarm.

‘There’s a strange man outside. I’m worried.’

I rise from the table, wiping my inky hands on my thighs. Inam shadows me. I squint at the setting sun, cup my hand over my eyes. A thick-set silhouette visible at the end of the yard. One bent leg as he leans against a wall, carrying all the weight of his body.

‘Chaim.’ His name feels alien to my lips. I walk forward without realising what I’m doing, without meaning to show him how he still holds me in his thrall. The hens at my feet squawk and peck at dry earth, sometimes missing their targets and tapping at my bare toes, but I don’t care.

‘Go inside, Inam.’

She stays where she is, glued to my side.

I feel no time elapse between my loneliness and being engulfed in the warmth of his body. I allow myself to melt, ebullient with relief, elated by his open-handed touch.

‘I’m so glad you found me.’

‘Are you? Then why did you run away?’

Strange, this new mouth light on mine. I’m flexible in his grip, changing into somebody else. Inam stares up at us both and tugs at my arm.

‘Anoush, Anoush! Come back inside with me.’

I wave her away, disentangling the furious hands. Inam plants her two feet between us, wriggling her body through.

‘Go away! Leave her alone.’

‘Inam, don’t be silly. I told you to go inside.’

Inam punches me in the belly. Chaim gasps.

‘Traitor!’ Inam shouts. ‘Traitor. I hate you.’

She runs inside and slams the door so hard the hut shakes on its flimsy foundations.

We huddle together on Chaim’s futon for days. Somehow the guilt of quitting the camp, leaving an enraged Inam and mildly acceptant Bilqis behind, of not working, not writing, not answering the telephone, not being responsible to anybody but each other, renders the time we lie there in artificial darkness ever more potent. We play games with intertwined arms and legs, make a tent of the bedclothes, giggle at each other’s fiercely rumbling stomachs, ignore our hunger pangs for a day as we kiss and press against each other: new love now, tender and slow.

Finally Chaim gets up at sunset, only to bring back stale date biscuits and a jar of bergamot preserves – all he can find in his empty kitchen cupboards – brewing watery Arabic coffee to keep us awake. We eat the preserves with our fingers, licking Nile-green syrup from each other’s wrists and chins. He burrows beneath the bedclothes, his rough, grey-flecked head between my legs.

‘Don’t,’ I’m tempted to say, but I stay still, frozen, as his tongue finds me. This is the first time he’s done it. Yet something makes me shudder, something in me wants to recoil. I push his head away. He sits up.

‘What’s wrong?’

I can see his age now in the harsh glare of the bedside lamp, the wiry white hairs around his groin and the soft rolls of fat, belly to hip.

‘Aren’t we together again? Why are you holding back?’

I feel guilty at betraying Sayed, wrong to leave Bilqis and Inam, but I can’t say this. He’s telling me what to do again, and I’m a little girl who can’t help but comply.

‘Lie down again,’ I say. ‘Come on. I’ll rub you.’

He mumbles, his voice flattened by the sheet beneath his face.

‘All that time without you, not knowing where you’d gone, made me realise—’

‘You didn’t even come to the Mayflower to find me.’

‘How could I? I didn’t know who you’d have in the hotel bed with you.’

‘That’s a low blow, Chaim. Sayed’s in prison, for God’s sake.’

‘So it’s the Palestinian you think about, is it?’

‘Please, let’s not start that again.’

‘I’m sorry. Forget it. I’m just scared. Scared that I’ll lose you.’

I continue rubbing, pressing my thumb into the hollows of his spine, leaning closer.

‘You won’t,’ I whisper, next to his face. ‘You won’t.’

He turns over in the bed to kiss me, his cheeks wet against mine.

‘It’s hard for me, Anoush. Here I am, feeling that I’m betraying my family and my people by being here in the first place, and then feeling as if I’m betraying you if I’m truly myself. I’m just making it up as I go along.’

I stop, exhale.

‘I still want to help him, Chaim. All of them.’

‘I know. I’m sorry I was so suspicious. It’s hard to trust, and just accept them as people. Too often who they are gets covered over by their own prejudices against me.’

I pause. ‘I’m hoping Inam hasn’t had time to fully identify with any race, or religion. Or have any prejudices. I hope she can learn to move between all these worlds. But she won’t have anyone after Bilqis and Amal are gone. I don’t know how I can help. I just feel that I need to go back there, be with them.’

He’s sitting up now and pulls me by the neck toward his chest. I submit, laughing helplessly.

‘Okay. Okay, I’ll stay here for a while. Just a little while.’

My arms high up in the air. He imprisons my wrists in one hand, and takes me down with him.

We’re all here in court, dressed sombrely, hands clutched tight in laps, eyes averted from each other. The trip down to Israel was fraught with difficulty: Amal taken sick with apprehension and having to go back, silence and sullenness from Inam, a two-hour hold-up at the border. Israeli soldiers with designer sunglasses and condescending grins who treated Chaim as if he were some sort of traitor.

Now the waiting is unbearable. Inam asks to go to the bathroom ten times. I don’t realise until the fifth time that this is because it’s the first time she’s seen a flushing toilet. She comes back after each trip dripping with pink liquid soap and wetting her only dress.

Weeks ago I’d asked to report on Sayed’s trial for The Globe. My request was refused. The tribunal is under military jurisdiction, subject to security and anti-terror legislation, making it difficult for any civilian to attend. The best lawyer I could find for Sayed is an Arab–Israeli, educated in a Jewish university yet adamantly pro-Palestinian, a man with one precarious foot in both camps. His mother still lives in the Occupied Territories. Chaim couldn’t help but cringe at the term, and I hated him for a brief moment.

I accompany Inam on her latest visit to the toilet. She spends an inordinate amount of time in the cubicle humming, and I have to shout above her garbled song.

‘Are we friends again?’

Inam stops at the end of a verse, taking her time before answering.

‘No.’

‘Please, Inam. When you get older you’ll understand.’

‘I am older.’

‘Big girls need a man sometimes.’

‘I know that. But not one like him.’

She comes out of the cubicle, washes and dries her hands, using dozens of paper towels, turns and looks at me.

‘How could you leave us for him? He’s Israeli.’

‘What does that mean, sweetheart? Does that mean he’s a bad man? You know better than that.’

‘No, I don’t.’

I squat down and put my hands around her tiny waist. ‘Yes, he’s Israeli, and he’s also a good person. Not all Israelis are bad. And not all Palestinians are good, true?’

She won’t look at me.

We walk out of the restroom in silence. As we approach Bilqis and Chaim, Inam slips her fingers into my palm. She glares up at Chaim and wriggles her behind between us on the bench outside the courtroom.

Bilqis whispers, ‘Are they going to put him away forever?’

‘He has a good lawyer,’ Chaim soothes.

‘How do we know if it’s a fair trial if they won’t even let us in to see?’

‘Shh,’ I warn. ‘He’s coming now.’

Sayed’s lawyer looks relaxed, almost too relaxed. He slouches about in front of his prosecuting colleague, adjusts his suit trousers, surveying the anxious families in the corridor with a self-consciously puzzled air. He smiles broadly at me as if we share some secret, and I smile back, encouraging. Chaim jiggles my arm over Inam’s competing, resolute presence.

‘What’s his problem? Why’s he acting as if he knows you so well?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know I don’t want to be here. You know I’m here against my better judgement.’

‘All right!’ I whisper furiously in his ear. ‘Go back home then.’

Chaim settles back in his chair, glancing at Inam. She’s put her hand on my knee in a proprietary fashion.

‘You know I’m only doing this for you,’ he says.

‘Don’t trouble yourself, please.’

Inam smiles at nothing in particular. I turn away, blocking Chaim from my line of sight. Sayed is being led through a side door to the courtroom, less than ten metres away. His eyes are blindfolded.

In the days following the verdict, Bilqis grows somehow frailer, more transparent. I move back into the camp to be with her, lacerated by Chaim’s protests. I’m flat, worn out. Sayed has been sentenced to twenty-one years in the infamous Russian Compound in Jerusalem, with little hope of appeal.

I stroke Bilqis’s arm where it rests on the faded, floral sheet.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll visit him every week. I’ll write more articles.’

Bilqis protests, ‘How can you go there? They won’t let you in.’

‘I have two passports, Aunty. I can use one for here and one for there.’

Bilqis mutters into her nightie, ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s your safety I worry about.’

‘I can take Chaim with me.’

At the mention of Chaim’s name, Bilqis sniffs and turns her face to the wall. She’s become more critical of him since their meeting. She thinks he’s too old for me, too jocular, too confident, too Israeli. And she’s been more emotional lately, dwelling on the past – her dead son, Inam’s mother – as though unaware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. I lean in further so my lips touch her cheek.

‘We’ve already arranged for a counsellor to see him once a week. Medical care and visits from the Red Crescent.’

Bilqis continues to stare at the wall. I stand, brisk and falsely cheerful. I put my hand out to Inam, who’s still clutching the now-bedraggled book I once gave her.

‘Should we let Grandma take a nap, sweetheart? Let’s go for a little walk.’

I hurry home with Inam in the deepening dusk. People on the street jostle us as we run past; taxi drivers slow down, honking their horns, recognising me always as a foreigner. They keep up a meaningless patter of entreaty as they cruise alongside: ‘Is very hot, mademoiselle, you need hat for your beautiful skin, you want I take you anywhere, is cheap, is cheap.’ I grow tired of shaking my head at them.

We’re both starving; it’s past dinnertime. We stop at a sudden scent of spice and salt, a stall selling hot thyme bread. I buy four and we stuff them into our mouths as we run. I think of Bilqis opening a tin of something, trying to heat it on that tiny flame.

We come back to the hut to find her mumbling incoherently, evidently in a great deal of pain. Her right side is locked in a curve, almost completely paralysed. I run to find the camp doctor. He massages her arm and shoulder, gives her an injection, takes to pummelling her after fifteen minutes.

‘Stop!’ I scream. ‘Can’t you see you’re hurting her?’

‘She can’t feel a thing, believe me.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘It may be the onset of multiple sclerosis or motor neurone disease. We need to run some blood tests and scans to see. Either way, she needs to get to a hospital tonight. If it’s either of the two, she’ll eventually lose control of her limbs, bowels and bladder. In extreme cases, her mouth and throat, and even the ability to speak.’

I cast a swift glance at Inam to see if she’s listening. She sits crosslegged near the open door, leafing through the same dog-eared book. She gives no appearance of having heard but I know better. I come closer to the doctor’s face.

‘How long will it take for this to happen?’

‘Weeks. Months. Maybe even years before it takes over and ends her life. There’s no cure, no real treatment. She’ll need a full-time carer. Unfortunately we don’t have those facilities here in the camps. She’ll have to be transferred to another hospital or a hospice as soon as we get these tests done.’

He calls an ambulance. Inam and I watch as it takes Bilqis away. She can hardly look at us.

Her last words are covered over by Inam’s voice, but I think she says: I’ ll be back tomorrow. Inam is sobbing, screaming, hitting out at me.

When it’s over, I try to get her to bed, lie down on top of the covers next to her. She holds my hand until she falls asleep, her fingers tracing my veins in an eternal circle.

I dream. Chaim’s face. Sayed, smiling. I run, keep running through night-filled streets. Cats screech at me from alleys. I’m breathless and sobbing. Out of the gloom, the figure of a man. I stop, not sure who it is, tears drying on my cheeks. Before I can catch a glimpse of his face, he’s turned away.

I dread supervising the move to the hospice. The hut now empty, hollowed out. I’m shocked at how quickly one can remove any traces of a human presence, even after so many years. All that’s left now are two single mattresses stripped down to their sheets, the dented saucepan for making tea. Concrete walls bare of any decoration. All of Bilqis’s bibelots have been stored in cardboard boxes by the door, and her old house keys from Jaffa are nowhere to be found. Nobody except me knows she’s hidden them under her nightdress, clutched tight against her belly so they don’t jingle and give her away. They’re too precious to be shown to strangers.

She’s back from the hospital. The tests were conclusive: she has motor neurone disease, middle-stage. She lies on her bed, waiting for another ambulance that will take her to the hospice, and confronts the inevitability of her own decline. Inam stands outside in the yard, scowling. When I try to touch her she springs back and snarls.

‘I’m too old to be in an orphanage. And even if I was, I don’t want to go to any French one.’

She pronounces the word French with distaste. I kneel in front of her, try to convince not only her but also myself of the wisdom of this decision. Rowda’s presence is only making it worse. She stands aside, arms folded across her breasts like a bodyguard.

‘You don’t have to go, Inam,’ she says to the sky. ‘Nobody can force you. You can go to the Hezbollah orphanage with all the other Palestinian kids.’

‘Listen, Inam,’ I whisper. ‘It’ll only be for a short while. I’ll try and get you into a good Muslim school where you can board as well. Chaim will help me.’

I know I’ve made a mistake mentioning Chaim when I see Inam’s face. She’s flounced away, kicking at stones with her scuffed and broken sandals.

‘I don’t want anything from him,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘I’d rather die.’

Rowda snorts, unfolds her arms.

‘I’ll go after her.’

‘You won’t.’

I’m standing face to face with her now.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ve spoken to Bilqis and she agrees. We discussed this months ago, before her illness got so bad. This is none of your business. We don’t want Inam going to a place where there’s no clean water or food and she could catch anything. Bilqis has signed the papers, okay? So you can just leave now.’

‘What?’ Rowda rages. ‘What are you going to turn her into with your expensive, private-funded fucking orphanages? A Palestinian Uncle Tom?’

She sticks her head into the open door of the hut, leaning against the jamb.

‘Did you hear that, Umm Issa? Your granddaughter’s going to become a Jew.’

I rush up to her, smack her hand away from the door.

‘You idiot! Are you trying to kill her? Come away.’ I pull her into the yard. ‘Can’t you see that Chaim and I are trying to help you people? What more do you want?’

‘We don’t need you!’ she snarls. ‘You and your Jewboy trying to come in here and telling us what to do. We’re perfectly capable of looking after ourselves.’

‘Look around you,’ I say. ‘Look at this place. Are you serious? Of course you need help. Stop hating everyone and take a good, long look at yourself.’

Inam stares at me and Rowda. I can see she doesn’t know who to turn to, what to believe.

I can’t sleep anymore. I lie awake on my back listening to Inam’s murmurs, Chaim’s increasing snores, Julius’s whimpers and yelps as he dreams. I’ve brought Inam to Chaim’s apartment until there’s room for her at the orphanage. Now that she’s here, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, I can’t face sending her away. But where would we both live? Chaim’s home is out of the question. I’d hate to be so much in debt to him. Over these past few weeks I’ve watched myself detach, as if to sabotage my own happiness. I’ve seen myself bicker, shout, be nasty. I’ve pushed him out and he’s helpless.

Could I find an apartment to rent, settle for a while in Beirut? A few days ago I was offered a permanent position at The Daily Star; they like my work, said they could trial me as an Arts writer, also a few pieces in the Politics and World sections. I asked for a week to think about it. I could still write for The Globe, feature pieces that would build on those I write for the Beirut paper. Saying yes would mean I’m committed to a year in Beirut at least. But with a permanent job I’d be able to help Inam.

I’m still not entirely sure why I want to save her. I’m so tired. They’re all so noisy. I fight the urge to kick out at them, even though they’re not the ones keeping me awake.

I turn over, sigh, finally sit up. I look at Inam’s serene, oliveskinned face, striped by moonlight coming through the gaps in the curtains. Could it be possible that I want to adopt her? Once I’ve entertained the thought, it builds. Soon the pressure is so great I want to wake Chaim and tell him. But I don’t. I keep watching her. If I adopt her, if I help her now, everything could change. For the better, for all of us. It could be our only chance to set things right. But how can it be done? Aside from the practicalities of money, schooling, geography, is it wise? Am I ready to look after a child? And such a child! So aggressive, wilful, even uncontrollable at times. Is it in her genes? Can I trust myself not to blame her for what her father did? She may be violent when she grows up, unpredictable. Will I look at her and say, this girl is the daughter of the man who killed my father? I get up, walk to the windows, open the curtains an inch. Inam is quiet now, deeply asleep. She sleeps with both arms raised over her head like an infant. The moon rises over the sea, a lugubrious eye. It watches me watching it.

I entertain the brief fantasy of me and Sayed, out of prison and prosperous, bringing up Inam in the thick of her culture. A nice, easy ending. Surely I can’t be serious. But part of me wants him as well as Inam. Yet how can I leave Chaim, after we’ve been through so much together in such a short time? But I can’t see Inam being happy with a Jewish stepfather. I can raise Inam with Sayed, and we can, all three, comfortably stay in our boxes of ‘us and them’, Jew and Muslim, Israeli and Palestinian. Or I can raise her with Chaim and bridge the divide. I can teach her what Chaim has shown me. But how? Go back to Boston? Can I take Inam away from her language, culture, shared identity? And what of her grandmother?

I think of Bliqis lying in that rickety hospice bed, silent, uncomprehending, overwhelmed by the fluorescent lights and the constant clattering of feet, her demented, dying bedmates calling the nurses in querulous tones. Staving off the hour of death with the dubious comfort of strident young women. Women who at times can’t even understand Arabic, sent by well-meaning aid agencies to further confuse the troubled journey into oblivion. From fretful sleep to the nightmare of being misunderstood. Annihilation itself.

Her right side was clawed and twisted. Her mouth constantly hung open, a trickle of saliva spreading over her chin. I leaned over with a tissue, wiped, kept wiping as the stream of dribble grew. I thought of Siran: another pang of grief and failure. I haven’t seen her for more than two months now; it’s easy to forget she’s still alive. Here I am with Inam’s grandmother and what about my own? I wiped Bilqis’s mouth again, gave up after the tissue box was empty. The more agitated Bilqis became, the more she relinquished control of her failing body.

Inam stood at the end of the bed, not wanting to touch her unrecognisable grandmother, or to touch the blanket, the scratched bedposts, the peeling wall, nor the railings as she and I fled down the stairs. She held tight onto my arm and waist as if she too were falling into oblivion.

‘I won’t do it,’ Rowda says. ‘I just won’t.’

The fan at her elbow whirs at a frantic pace. The desk in front of her is larger than life in its dustiness, its messiness and its mountains of billowing paper. On the far edge near the telephone I see a carefully rolled joint, with little wisps of grass escaping from the tight wad.

‘Please,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve been to the lawyer, and I’ve nominated you as the home study counsellor. You have to come and make an evaluation of the apartment I’ve just rented before we can go ahead.’

‘I see. The apartment you’ve rented is in the very same building as your Jewish boyfriend. And I know the procedure. You don’t have to explain it to me.’

‘Look, I’ve got all the paperwork.’

I empty my bag of photocopies: my and Inam’s birth certificates, letters from a local doctor confirming my physical health, a psychological evaluation, confirmation of my freelance work with The Globe and my contract at The Star, bank statements, tax returns. Rowda waves it all away.

‘Why are you showing me all this? I’m not the one you have to convince. Anyway, have you thought of asking Sayed’s mother if she objects? She might want to have the option of looking after her own flesh and blood.’

‘I’ve spoken to Amal and she agrees. She’s too old now, she understands that. She has no money. Inam needs me and I can give her a better life than this.’

We’re interrupted by a colleague of Rowda’s, who stands behind her and sorts through documents until he finds what he wants, leaves with a kiss on her suddenly reddened, upturned cheek. She turns to me, unable to disguise the smile in her voice.

‘I’m not debating whether or not you have the funds. I’m sure you can get all you need from your Israeli boyfriend. What I object to is a white woman, such as you, presuming to know what’s best for a Palestinian orphan.’

‘But you’re white.’

‘I am not. I’m an Arab. These are my roots.’

‘Look.’ I lean forward over the desk and try to catch her eye. ‘I’m not going to play these games. All I need from you is a simple reference after you’ve seen the apartment. Come on, you’re a counsellor. You’ve known them both a long time. This is your job.’

‘Don’t tell me what my job is or isn’t! Whether you like it or not, Anoush, you’re a white woman, with a white woman’s education, privileges and prejudices. How do you think you can bring up a child like that? I’m only saying this for your own good. And most of all Inam’s.’

‘It’s Chaim you object to, isn’t it? You haven’t even met him, how do you know what he’s like? You’re a grown woman. And I hope with all my heart that Inam will see lots of him and that he’ll be supportive of my decision. He’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to her. So she won’t grow up as narrow-minded as you.’

‘Say what you like. I don’t care.’

I sigh.

‘Just write me the reference, Rowda. I can go to somebody else for one if you don’t, you know.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Not here.’

I let out another long, broken sigh that seems to spur Rowda on to new fits of anger.

‘You’re a Westerner. You pretend you’re just like these poor, oppressed people but you have no idea.’

‘What about you? You were brought up in Australia! At least I lived the first sixteen years of my life here.’

‘The difference is I don’t presume to be the great white hope for them. Do you see me adopting any Palestinian orphans? I just help in small, modest ways – in any way I can. You’re only interested in the grand gesture.’

I stand up.

‘Well, I tried. There’s nothing more I can say to convince you.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘How sad, Rowda, to be so young and yet so rigid.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Whatever. You live with it.’

Rowda gets up from behind the desk and sees me to the door.

‘Your lawyer will get a copy of my report in the mail tomorrow. Advising against you. I’ll send another to the Camp Authority.’

I walk out of the Red Crescent office without looking where I’m going. Rowda’s voice and face and her strident view of the world overwhelm the narrow street, the listing buildings, the people hurrying from kerb to kerb. Dust blows onto my face, hair, all over the crisp white trousers I put on this morning, thinking to intimidate Rowda with my linen freshness. Rowda is not to be intimidated by anything. Fearlessness seems to be one of the few virtues of doing away with personal doubt and replacing it with an iron-clad certainty.

I find a cafe, sit at one of the outdoor tables. The pollution is unbearable. I move inside. The cigarette smoke drives me out again.

‘Staying?’ The waiter chuckles.

I nod.

‘You seem pretty uncomfortable,’ he says in English.

‘I’m sorry. I just need a bottle of mineral water, thank you.’

The Italian water arrives on a napkin. I wipe my face with the minuscule square, sit and look at the smears of dirt from my cheeks for a long time. A car backfiring jolts me out of my reverie. I take out the sheaf of adoption papers, booklets and official forms from my bag. It looks so easy. So easy for a Western woman to do. And what if I was poor, uneducated and Muslim?

I leave all the dotted lines blank but fill in details of marital status, age, rental income in US dollars, my dwindling savings in the bank, my assets, liabilities, references, place of residence. My pen hovers over the page at this last question, undecided. I don’t know where I should live anymore. I need somebody’s help with this. Inam needs some kind of father. I can’t do it on my own. Or can I? It’s really not about Sayed, or Chaim, I suppose. It’s about helping Inam to rise above her prejudices – about trying to live what I teach her.

I haven’t told Chaim about the adoption yet. Sometimes I think I’m only doing this to sabotage my relationship still further. It all seems so crazy. I’m in love with an Israeli and adopting a Palestinian. The butt of one of those mixed-race jokes. Any man would be confused by my decision, if not plain angry. Am I pushing him away by doing this? And if so, why? Is it because of Sayed? Or my father? In no way is Chaim anything like his distorted memory. Issa Ali? I’ve resolved that pain by now. Or at least enough to keep moving. Inam is not Issa, just as I am not Selim.

I pay for the water, stuff the papers into my bag, and punch Chaim’s work number into the cafe payphone. Engaged. Breathing out, I shock myself by being glad for the reprieve.

A week later I stand before Chaim in my new apartment. It feels surreal: as though it is not me but someone else signing rental agreements, cleaning out cupboards, buying linen and crockery that may be discarded before this time next year. Inam is spending the day with Amal, and I’ve had the chance to ponder what I’ve done – and scare myself.

‘Please,’ Chaim says. ‘Come and sit down. I even brought my own kitchen chairs for you.’

He tries to laugh, but the sound dies on his lips. He looks at my face and his eyes harden. I know how hurt he is that I’m not living with him anymore. But I can’t smooth it over – there’s nothing to absolve me. I place a pot of tea on a low table of hammered copper, clichéd scenes of oases and camels, the only piece of furniture I’ve bought so far. I bring out green olives from the bar fridge that came with the apartment, some bread, a pat of smooth white cheese.

‘I’m not that hungry,’ he says. ‘But I’ll pick. You eat. I never see you eat anymore.’

I come behind him where he sits, and put my hands on his shoulders. He closes his eyes, surrendering.

‘Come on, won’t you eat something with me?’ he asks.

‘You know I can’t. My stomach.’

With his eyes still closed he takes an olive from the bowl on the table, reaches up and shoves it into my mouth. I spit it out, heaving, leaning over the sink.

‘You’re a middle-aged man! Don’t be so immature.’

‘And you waste no opportunity to remind me of it. What is this upset stomach? Surely by now you should be used to the food here. It’s anxiety, isn’t it? You’re afraid. Admit it.’

‘Afraid of what?’

‘Me. Committing. Being open. Everything.’

‘Maybe. But I have every reason to be afraid. Of you, for a start.’

‘Come on, what’s wrong with me? I thought you were in love, but now, in the past few weeks – this is pure indifference.’

‘How can you say that?’ I spit back. ‘How do you know what goes on inside me? Of course I still love you.’

He shrugs. ‘You don’t even know yourself. Please sit down, stop hovering.’ I move closer, sit opposite. He passes the teapot, a glass. ‘Like I said, you do need to eat sometimes as well. You’ve got so thin since I first met you. Brittle.’

‘Chaim, listen to me. I’ve made arrangements to adopt her.’

‘What? You’re joking.’

He puts his tea glass down, looks away as if he can’t trust himself to speak.

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? I thought you would know better than that. And why didn’t you tell me first?’

‘She has nobody to care for her now. She loves me. I love her.’

‘Yes, but why didn’t you tell me first?’

‘I’m sorry. I knew you would disapprove.’

‘I do. And it’s not that easy. You say you love her? What are you talking about? You hardly know the kid.’

‘I know her. I know she feels as abandoned as I was.’

‘So what? How about when she’s a teenager? In only a couple of years? When she tells you she hates you? When she despises you for not being Palestinian, or Muslim? And why adopt her when you can have your own? You’re so young. And I—I’ve not given up hope of a child of my own.’

‘That’s not what I want right now. A baby. With you. Or anyone.’

‘Oh, so that’s how it is, is it?’

‘At the moment I want to adopt Inam. Or foster her at least. It’s my only chance to change things. To really help someone who needs me. To right those wrongs.’

‘Right those wrongs. Listen to yourself. Could you be any more self-satisfied? And what about me, in this ideal world of yours? Are you saying you and I won’t be together?’

‘No. Of course not. Well, I don’t know.’ I stop, tracing the shape of the kitchen tile with the toe of my slipper. ‘I’m not sure.’

I watch his face, the soft lines of cheek and chin, the patrician mouth.

‘Chaim, I’m sorry. Chaim! Please look at me.’

‘Yes?’

His eyes are shining with unshed tears.

‘I care for you, Chaim. I love you.’

‘And you know I love you more than you love me. And I can’t figure out why you’re doing this to me now.’

‘I’m being insufferable. But—Inam needs me more than you do. And she loves me. I know it. And I love her, like a sister and a mother.’

‘How can you talk about love for a child you hardly know? So what now, are you going to take her back to the States? She’s a refugee, Anoush. Remember? She can’t even get a passport.’

‘I can help her, Chaim. And you can too, if you let yourself.’

‘For God’s sake! Who do you think you are? Really?’

I wait, breathing hard.

‘Right then,’ he says. ‘You want me to help. To right those fucking wrongs. And dammit, you know I’ll do it, for your sake. Then hate myself for being such a pushover.’

‘I’m not asking you to, okay? I can do it without you.’

‘Look, Anoush. I don’t want to force myself on you. Maybe— maybe you do need someone of your own age.’

‘That’s not the issue—’

‘No – listen to me. For once, you need to be clear. I’m going away to Nabatiye for two weeks. Giving you space, time, all that crap. No pressure. Think about me … and that other guy. I’ll help you a little with Inam when I come back, I’ll give you that; but as for everything else, it’s up to you.’

I stand up, put my hand out to him. He waves me away and gets up to go. Before he leaves, he turns at the door and takes my shoulders in both hands. His grip is tight, almost hurting me, but I don’t say anything. I circle his waist with my arms and for the first time ever, he seems diminished instead of me.