THE LEBANESE TROUBLES
Alain Miles
Published by Rapscallion at Smashwords
Copyright 2010, 2011 Alain Miles
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There's only one virginity to lose,
And where we lose it there our hearts will be
Rudyard Kipling
I
Before the troubles, I suppose we were all pretty naive.
There was a dinner-party not long after we arrived, when some foolish intellectual woman upset our hosts by arguing that she was Lebanese, like them.
- What do you mean, Lebanese? You're American.
- Sure, I was born in America, OK. But where you happen to be born is just a matter of happenstance. Nationality's quite different: it's where you decide to put your heart. And this is where my heart is. Lebanon's my home and Lebanon's where I want to live.
- You are most welcome. But still you are not Lebanese as we are Lebanese. You look like an American and you think like an American and you feel like an American.
- But that's just it, I don't feel like an American. I haven't lived there for years. I don't belong back there. I work here, my friends are here, my interests are here - in Beirut.
- Still that is not Lebanese. Look, are you ready to fight - maybe even to die - for Lebanon?
Ah, so it was that old chestnut, was it? Patriotism. Dutifully, we all rushed into the fray, scattering prejudices like musket-shot across the table.
- Surely you don't believe ...
- Fighting's not the answer ...
- You have to defend ...
- I'm not talking about ...
- Dulce et decorum ...
- Oh God!
- I don't think it's a terribly relevant question.
As it turned out, the question was both relevant and terrible. And just a few weeks later, our answers would not be hypothetical.
II
Claire is lucky, she makes friends easily. I've always envied beautiful women that - their ability to captivate people without even trying. And not just men either. So many times with Claire, when we've just been walking down the street, I've noticed that the women passing can't take their eyes off her. Usually not even a glance at me.
So meeting people at our first party in Beirut was no problem.
- John, have you met Claire and Richard Devine? They're just in from London.
- Hi. John MacAllister. CBS. I take it you're Claire ...
She smiled.
- ... and Richard, good to meet you. What brings you to sunny BAY-root?
- Teaching, actually.
- Ah, so you're a teacher. I used to hate teachers when I was at school. Don't you hate teachers, Claire?
- No. He's a lovely teacher.
- God, you're not one too, are you?
- Not me. I'm just a dumb blonde.
- I thought they didn't make teachers like you when I was at school. What do you do?
- I model .. a bit. Well, I did back in London anyway.
- A London model!
- Well, I wouldn't really put it like that ...
- Why not? This is Beirut. You can put it any way you want. Hey, you've got to meet Sam. You know Sam?
- No, we don't know anyone yet. Who's Sam?
- Sam Fannous. You know, It, the boutique, he runs it, surely you must have been there? He's always putting on big fashion shows, and I'm sure he could use you ... no, you know what I mean. I saw him here somewhere ...
Sam wasn't there. But Lawrence was. I first met Lawrence when I went over to the table in the corner to help myself to another plateful of savoury goodies. I was tempted by the dips, lingered over the cheeses, but finally plumped for the prawn canapés and groped across the table for them.
- Hey!!
The muffled protest came from somewhere down below, down there behind the overhanging tablecloth, where my foot had connected with something soft but unyielding.
- Go play ball if you want to, but this is out of bounds.
- I'm sorry.
I moved back a step and cautiously lifted the tablecloth. As I bent down to look, I met a straw-thatch of hair, an ice-cold pair of blue eyes and a giant walrus moustache. A Viking, and an angry one!
- What are you doing down here?
- I should have thought it was obvious.
As I peered deeper into his lair, I saw that it was indeed obvious. There in the shadows behind him was another dim figure, which an unbuttoned shirt revealed to be female.
I smiled, feeling a fool.
He smiled too. He positively beamed, to let me know his fierceness had been a total sham. And after all, now I thought about it, he sounded like an American, not a Viking.
- Hi. I'm Lawrence Anderson.
- I'm Richard. Richard Devine.
He lifted his hand out for me to shake it.
- Good to meet you, Richard. This is Monique.
- Hello.
- Hi.
Later that evening we were standing outside, Claire and I. It was one of those large expensive apartment buildings on the brow of the hill in Chioufi. The balcony was like a garden, and the view we had from there on the fifth floor was magical. Down in the valley below, the lights of the eastern suburbs jostled against one another, shimmering like a phosphorescent sea. We lifted our eyes to the villages - little bands of light encamped on the mountain-side above the city. Higher still, scattered twinkling pin-points suggested solitary climbers - or perhaps some of them were stars. The moon had not risen and the night was velvet, soft and warm and dense and black: there was no telling where the world ended and heaven began.
We stood close together up against the railings, alone. So much life down there in the city, so many thousands of people this Saturday evening; so much movement and noise; so many bodies and faces and voices. Yet all somehow mystically suffused in a soft murmuring glow - the light of life. Directly below a taxi blared past, footsteps clattered briskly round a corner and were gone again, sucked back into the hum of the city. Even the party was muted. In a back room somewhere, a guitarist was strumming through his repertoire, and the air wafted familiar tunes and words to us, when we chose to listen. Now and again a voice distinguished itself or the refrigerator door slammed closed. Someone laughed. There was jasmine, hanging sweet and steady in the darkness, laced momentarily with a sharper, acrid aroma: Lebanese Gold.
The whole city was insubstantial, distant. It made Claire especially close. Her hand in mine was delicate and cool. Her eyes, half-turned, were large and dark and serious. We spoke soft words for one another, exchanging pretty similes, trying to cap one another in feeling. Moments like these shared, we said, cemented us as a couple, would last longer than the stars, joined us closer than sex ... It was the game we always played when we were in love.
Lawrence and Monique emerged from inside. My first thought was that Lawrence horizontal had cut a more impressive figure than Lawrence vertical. Under the table he had been a savage noble in his den, but now he was .. well, ordinary. He was shorter than me and his clothes were too wide for him. But Monique, Monique whose face I now saw for the first time, was sensational. Earlier, when she had been invisible from the shoulders upward, she could have been anyone - or any female, at least. But now, with her long, silky black hair, the humour in her eyes and on her lips, the sculptured high cheekbones, and the rich tan that glowed even in the half-light, she was a princess of the night. It wasn't Claire's conventional magazine-cover beauty, but it was a face bright with energy, mischief and adventure. Every feature told me that whichever side of the mountains her fathers came from - and it would have been east of the Caucasus - it was the hot-blooded side.
And as I stared, I realized that Monique was smiling at me. Not just smiling a greeting or smiling at a time when I happened to be around, but smiling directly and deliberately at me. It was like a frank, open invitation.
I felt the colour rising to my face and I was fumbling with my words.
- Claire, this is .. er .. Lawrence and Monique .. you know, I told you, under the table .. when I was ..
But it didn't matter because Lawrence was already bending to kiss Claire's outstretched hand.
- ... and this is my wife, Claire.
- Enchanté.
The single word made Lawrence polished and correct.
Formalities over, we sat around a patio table and Lawrence proceeded to tell us the story of his life - then Monique's - then their life together. He had the American flair for outrageous monologue, investing the smallest incident with humour and drama. By comparison, anything I contributed seemed contrived and inconsequential, but Lawrence made me feel better by finding everything fascinating or amazing. Claire and Monique said less and smiled a lot. Monique's monosyllables were soft and sounded almost American.
But she was not American. Lawrence told us that her father, old Pierre, was a Christian Palestinian millionaire banker, whose sole remaining objective in life was to make sure his daughter did not get hitched to a dirty Arab. Which was why he had so frequently encouraged Lawrence - jokingly and allusively of course - to take his daughter's virginity. Little knowing it was far too late for that. (Monique, listening, simply nodded.) Old Pierre was a man of honour and, in his eyes, the breaking of one bond would automatically lead to the sealing of another.
Lawrence was Californian, in his early thirties. He'd avoided Vietnam by wearing plastic bags on his feet for so long that doctors wouldn't even let him get near them for his medical, and for the last eight years had been living - temporarily - in Beirut. He made a living selling other people's gossip to the local English-language newspaper. The Daily Slur, he called it. Monique worked there too. Two years ago she had walked into the office looking for a job as a receptionist. Well, first she got the job, then a week later she got Lawrence. Since then they had been together, living sometimes in sin but more often not because with old Pierre scenting blood, Lawrence preferred to keep up appearances. He strongly believed a fellow should be free to marry at leisure.
And of course we would come and have dinner at his place tomorrow, wouldn't we? Monique was a superb cook ...
Instinctively the four of us were friends. How we all knew it, I don't know. Perhaps there is some peculiar body chemistry that draws people to one another. Certainly, Claire and I, talking not long afterwards, decided it was easy to like Lawrence and Monique because we found them both physically attractive. And some weeks later, Lawrence confided that when he was with fat people he couldn't help being aware of a vague stale body odour - like sour milk - which he found repugnant. We were not fat.
It was Lawrence who expressed what we were all feeling.
- You know, we don't know a thing about you two - you could be Baader and Meinhof for all I know - but I don't really care, I like you, no matter how evil you both are.
We sat there grinning at one another, not speaking, like children who have just sworn allegiance to a new gang. And then again I was thrown off-balance as Monique's eyes caught and held mine. Surely they were offering something beyond friendship. She hadn't spoken more than a dozen words since we met, yet I seemed to be able to read her thoughts and feelings so clearly. Although I wasn't sure I fully understood her language.
Lawrence and I went to get more drinks. I followed him through the smokers' room, stepping across dim shapes too far gone to notice us, and into the kitchen. A few people were hanging around the makeshift bar.
As Lawrence was pouring a gin and tonic into one of my glasses, he asked casually:
- Did you ever have an affair since you were married?
His head was bent over the glasses. I thought this was more of his party banter.
- No. Why? Have you? Since you met Monique, I mean?
He turned his pale blue eyes up to me, very serious and very sincere.
- I don't think I could ever be unfaithful to Monique. I really care for her.
- We're very close too. We're lucky because I don't really believe in marriage - not marriage in the abstract, if you see what I mean, but ..
- Take care of Claire. She's a good lady.
- I know. I do.
- But take care, right?
He'd finished pouring and led the way back outside. As I followed, I was filled with a warm, grateful feeling. Lawrence had unlocked the door that opened into our deepest, most private selves. I suddenly realized that from the time I got married to Claire, I'd been losing touch with the guys I knew. I'd forgotten how good male companionship felt.
Outside on the balcony Lawrence turned on his party act again, for the benefit of the ladies, it seemed. It was as if our conversation had never taken place. Claire was saying that Jason, our little boy, was coming out with his first words:
- ... and then anyway yesterday he said something that sounded like bicycle, really clearly - bicycle.
- Not bad for a beginner.
- The funny thing is I don't know how he could have learnt it. I haven't got a bicycle and Richard hasn't got one - we never have - and even if we'd had one, I'd have called it a bike.
- Hey, maybe it's not bicycle. Maybe he's just telling you his preferences - it's bisexual.
Their voices receded as I returned to Lawrence's warning in the kitchen. The more I thought about it, the more bizarre it was. Take care of Claire - what was that supposed to mean? He hardly even knew us. Care ...Claire ...Claire ...Care ...
- Richard.
Monique's voice - I was startled. Little more than a whisper, but she was suddenly so close that her breath touched my cheek as she spoke.
- Would you like to hear a rooster crow?
- I'm sorry?
Whether it was my unfamiliarity with the American word rooster or because I was half asleep I don't know, but Monique's words didn't make any sense.
- Would you like to hear a rooster crow?
- Oh.. well .. I suppose so .. yes.
What could I say? Somehow it was a very insistent offer.
- Come on then. Yalla.
Monique was already on her feet. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it, then pulled me up out of my chair. Claire was still busy talking to Lawrence, but she shot over an enquiring glance.
- Monique's taking me to hear a rooster crow.
It sounded stupid.
- Fine.
Claire smiled. She was having a good time. I was astonished neither she nor Lawrence questioned my explanation.
And now Monique was leading me across the balcony to the far side. Her hand was still guiding me, and I was acutely aware of it, larger than Claire's, stronger, warmer. Outside of sport, we British men have a natural reserve when it comes to body contact; but in inverse proportion to our reserve, a heightened sensitivity to touch. The welcoming kiss from a foreign friend, or even an accidental brush against a stranger in a crowd never fails to alarm or arouse us, though we are at pains never to show it. I wondered if Monique knew this.
The balcony stretched around all four sides of the apartment. At the front, where we had been sitting, it was spacious and well-lit. But as Monique led me around the corner and along the side of the building, it grew narrow and darker. She ducked below the lighted kitchen window and motioned me to do the same. I did. Then at the back corner, she paused and pulled me close behind her. God, what was that perfume she was wearing? She turned to me, put one finger to her lips, and smiled wickedly. I was totally in her power. Cautiously, she peered around the corner. Then she was ready to go forward again. I followed.
The back balcony wasn't just dark, it was black. Like Monique, the light from the party seemed to have crept along the side of the building and then stopped. Across the street a massive unfinished apartment block loomed above us. The street lights, as if deliberately, were out. Faintly the guitarist was singing Wooden Heart. Now, as my eyes grew accustomed to the night, I was able to make out Monique - in silhouette - a few large pot-plants, and in the middle of the balcony - God forbid! - a bed.
My heart stopped - no it was throbbing like a motor.
Quickly, think! What do you say at a moment like this? What would a Valentino say? No dumb - he was silent movies. Bogart then?
- What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?
Oh God, no, did I really say that? And was that really my voice, that reedy, cracked thing?
- Sorry?
She sounded puzzled. Not being a native-speaker, she'd probably never heard the cliché before, thank goodness.
- No, nothing.
- Would you like to hear the rooster crow now?
I understood her either too well or not at all.
- Well yes .. when you're ready.
- Good. Then come here.
She took my hand again and gently drew me towards her. I tried hard not to look at the bed in front of me.
- Are you ready?
I could only nod.
She let out a piercing, blood-curdling crow. Two seconds of pure rooster, which threatened to break windows and perforate my ear-drums. I wouldn't have been surprised if the sun had suddenly risen.
Silence.
Wooden Heart continued.
- Well? How was it?
- Great .. it was great .. it must take .. a lot of practice.
- Oh yes, a lot. But before I haven't done it with .. other people. Just at home.
From somewhere down below came an answering crow.
- Listen! He knows me!
- Yes. You fooled him all right.
Triumphantly she led me back into the light. Now there was no need for caution, no ducking beneath the kitchen window. We were still holding hands, but now the crisis had passed, I began to relax. Since meeting Claire I had never found myself in such a compromising situation with another woman. But no matter how much I wanted Monique on that back balcony (and there was no denying I did), I knew Claire was my woman.
III
Eighty-two steps, Lawrence had said - well not so much said, as insisted. And when people are that adamant about their facts, you can't help checking. So we counted them aloud as we went up, me carrying a sleeping Jason on my shoulder, Claire with the bottle of wine we'd learnt was obligatory when going visiting in Beirut.
- ... seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight ...
We turned the final corner in the stairwell, and there, precisely four steps above us, was Lawrence with a glass nestling in each hand.
- Welcome, O weary travellers, to this little island of repose. And now divest yourself of your burdens and partake of the sweet fruits of this house. It's a 1974 Latroun, not exactly vintage but better than the name suggests. A few of these and you'll be legless.
Taking the wine could have been a complicated procedure, but we carried it off perfectly. First Lawrence gave one glass to Claire and took our bottle. In one movement he gave her the other glass and took Jason from me; Claire gave me my glass. Before it was in my hand Lawrence had disappeared into the apartment with Jason and the bottle, and we could hear him crooning, none too softly and only vaguely in tune - Hush-a-bye Jason on the tree-top. Claire glanced nervously at me, but if Jason was awake he obviously enjoyed being serenaded. Not a whimper. I shrugged and took a reassuring gulp of wine. Hmm, Lawrence was right: the Latroun was less delicate than the glasses he served it in, but if you were after something strong, heady, full-bodied, then this was undoubtedly it.
Lawrence re-appeared in the doorway, without Jason.
- Are you two virgins waiting for me to carry you over the threshold? I hope you're not waiting for me to ask you in. Life's too short for good manners.
We went in, and immediately I was reminded of the Viking in Lawrence. This was his den, and it was a triumph of carefully organized chaos. We were standing in what must once have been a fairly ordinary whitewashed room, but a room which had long ago succumbed to Lawrence's creativity. Everywhere cloths and covers and blankets were strewn in a glorious array of colour - the bold blacks and reds and blues of traditional Bedouin dyes contrasting with the fragile greens and yellows of oriental silk. It was a room where you sprawled rather than sat: there were soft fat cushions on divans, in corners, against walls. The only two chairs in the room were safari chairs - the ones that come in a kit as two pieces of leather and seven pieces of wood, and which make wonderfully comfortable loungers if you're willing to risk crashing through the seat and onto the floor. Both were safely occupied - by Lawrence's two cats. As if to blend in with the decor they were the typical Lebanese calicoes, mottled brown and black and white. The walls showed the same confusion of catholic tastes: here, a cluster of pen and ink cartoons - impressions of Lebanese life; there, a glaring canvas, slashed with bands of colour; and there, a shadowy nude, a half-life-sized photograph, coyly turning her shoulder and her face toward us. All of them originals, the work of Lawrence's friends and acquaintances. A mad medley of styles, yet everything was in its place.
Lawrence pulled aside a curtain - there were no doors, he had seen to that - and we found ourselves in the study. Once again the actual furniture was sparse: a writing-bureau, an IBM typewriter, a cassette recorder on a coffee-table, and, precisely positioned on a hessian rug in the centre of the room, a battered ironing-board. But nobody could call it a bare room. Each wall had been put to a different use. One was crammed with posters and publicity pictures from the various shows and plays Lawrence had appeared in with the local drama group. Backed up against another stood an immense multi-storey bookcase containing everything, Lawrence assured us, from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf. I checked. M: Masters and Johnson, Marlowe, Mailer, MAD magazine - yes, certainly a comprehensive collection. The third wall boasted a set of home-made shelves housing Lawrence's cassette collection; every song and every piece of music on every tape was catalogued in alphabetical order in the file lying next to the recorder. And finally the wall above the writing-bureau was entirely covered with softboard. To this were pinned snapshots, messages, invitations, addresses, reminders, shopping-lists, telephone numbers, postcards, bills - the essential paraphernalia of Lawrence's life.
- I've lived here ever since I came to Beirut.
It showed.
- Where did you put Jason?
- In there, in the bedroom. He says he's trying to get some shut-eye, and he doesn't want to see you grown-ups or hear a peep out of you until it's time to go home.
- OK. And where's Monique?
If you've ever yearned for dramatic effect in your life, try substituting curtains for doors in your home. Cue left - the swish of silk, the clatter of brass rings. There stood Monique, framed in what used to be a doorway, in a sort of tableau vivant: the kitchen-maid. She had her hair loosely tied back, she was wearing a simple black dress that covered her from throat to mid-thigh, and she was holding a ladle.
She stepped out of her frame into the room and kissed Claire on both cheeks. Then me. The same intoxicating perfume as yesterday. The same English weakness: as her lips touched me, I wanted to throw my arms around her and pull her tight against me. But I didn't.
- It's nice to see you, Richard.
- Not half as nice as it is to see you.
And of course I didn't say that either. It wouldn't have been my style.
Then she was gone, back into the kitchen, taking Claire with her. And so, while the women exchanged recipes, it was Lawrence's duty to show me all the improvements he'd made to the apartment.
- ... And right here we have the catwalk - see I knocked out the glass and put the little door in so the cats can go take a stroll on the balcony any time the going gets too tough in here.
- Did it take them long to get used to it?
- Not Tabitha, no, she's really smart. But Emily, well she's dumb and I guess the hole's kinda small for her, so it took her a couple of days. I had to keep dragging her through until she got the message.
In confirmation, Emily sauntered up to investigate, then jumped back in alarm as the door snapped shut at the end of Lawrence's demonstration. Recovering, but still alert and angry, she stalked away, then turned back to give the contraption a baleful stare.
We were distracted from these antics by the phone ringing in the study. Lawrence went to answer it.
- Lawrence... Hi, Helen, what's up? ... What!? SHEE-IT!!
He started jotting things down on a notepad.
- When was this? ... No, not a thing ... How many? ... The whole bunch? How did it start? ... Christ, now the shit's really gonna start flying. Who's on it? ... He's over there? ... Right ... Yeah. Look call me back when you get any more. I'm here if you need me, right? ... OK ... Thanks for calling, babe. 'Bye.
He stumbled back into the room, almost tripping over himself in his excitement.
- Hey, Monique!
He need hardly have shouted. After all, with no doors, there weren't too many private conversations in this house. We'd all heard the sudden tension and urgency in his voice, and we were already assembled, like a Greek chorus, to hear the news. Lawrence took a breath to compose himself, then delivered his announcement slowly and deliberately, as if he'd been rehearsing it for months.
- Well, it's started in Ain Rummaneh. It looks bad. Someone tried to get Gemayel this morning and did well enough to kill four of his bodyguards. So the old man calls for vengeance. They've just ambushed a bus-load of Palestinians and shot the whole lot of them.
Lawrence paused. Claire and I said nothing: none of it meant very much to us. But Monique, who had visibly paled beneath her tan, sat down heavily in one of the safari chairs. Tabitha had a narrow escape.
- How many?
- They're saying twenty-two. I've seen this coming. It's war.
Six weeks in Beirut had been long enough to get acquainted with society gossip. Politics was chic, and by now we knew most of the labels - Christians, Muslims, Shia, Sunni, Maronite, Druze, Palestinian, Israeli - if nothing more. Every day, we'd been reading about Palestinian attacks across the border into Israel and about Israeli air-strikes on the refugee camps. We'd seen for ourselves the planes slicing the sky in two, making the air above the city thunder and roar in protest. We knew we were living close to danger, but none of this was war - not WAR the way Lawrence said it, drawling out the word, coldly relishing the sound and feel of it.
- Where is this place ...Ain ... what did you call it?
- Ain Rummaneh. One of the suburbs. East. South-east.
- And Gemayel? I've heard his name of course.
- Pierre Gemayel. One of the Christian bigshots for the last thirty years, ever since independence. The man with the biggest private army in the country, maybe the biggest army, period. Certainly the best-trained, strictly on the Franco model, if you know what I mean. The Phalangists, they call themselves, after the Spanish.
- And the Palestinians are against him?
- With some reason. He's been dropping the hint that Lebanon doesn't really need its Palestinian brothers - leastways not the guys who carry the guns, the bums in the camps, the guys who threaten his authority. Maybe if they would all just go away, he says, Lebanon wouldn't be having all this trouble with the next-door neighbour.
- So the Palestinians tried to kill him?
- Richard, play fair! My paper pays me to get stories, not to draw conclusions. But as a private citizen, yup, I would say that's a pretty fair assumption. Seems that's what Gemayel thinks anyway.
Lawrence glanced at his watch and hurled himself back into the study.
- What is it?
- The BBC!
The loudspeakers above us boomed out a few solemn words in Arabic, then babbled like an electric stream - a micro-world of information and entertainment - as Lawrence spun the dial. We were just in time: the signature tune was already playing. Lillibulero. An extraordinary choice to herald in the British version of world news - an old Irish rebel song. The headlines began:
North Vietnamese guerillas today attacked military installations ...
And then -
In the Lebanon, a bus containing Palestinian passengers was attacked ...
Lawrence was beside himself in the study.
- Number two on the World Service! Number two! That's the highest we've been in years.
His excitement was infectious. There was a curious elation, a swelling of self-importance and pride that began in the pit of the stomach. I remembered the same sensation once before, back at home, when a housewife on one of the estates was found hacked to death. For two weeks it was headlines in the Gazette and for two days we were even worth a few lines in the national press. But nothing like this. Not number two on the world news. What would people say?
- You remember Claire Devine - Claire and Rick? They're out there.
And now the news in detail.
It was the BBC voice, authoritative and assured, used to dealing with crises. The voice filled the room and there was a slight echo, as if the World Service was being broadcast from the kitchen in the apartment downstairs.
In Lebanon this afternoon, fifteen Palestinians were reported killed and many more seriously wounded when the bus in which they were travelling was attacked in a suburb of the capital, Beirut. This follows an attempt this morning on the life of Mr Pierre Gemayel, a prominent right-wing leader, in which four people were killed. The attackers have not been identified, and Mr Gemayel escaped without injury.
Our correspondent in Lebanon reports that this is the latest and most serious incident in a series of disturbances which began in March in the southern port city of Sidon when a leading left-wing politician was assassinated. Leaders of left- and right-wing groupings are said to be meeting this evening, and the Palestinian leader, Mr Yasser Arafat, has called on Arab heads of state to intervene and foil what he described as a conspiracy to disrupt Lebanese-Palestinian relations.
Lawrence jabbed a finger on the off button like a full-stop. He stood there with a smile of grim satisfaction.
- A-men!
- You think there's going to be fighting?
- Who am I to doubt the BBC?
- But they didn't say anything about ...
- They never say. But they always mean. That's why I love the British.
Monique abruptly stood up and went to the kitchen.
- Dinner will be soon ready. I'll start now.
The curtain fell back behind her.
An explosion thudded through the apartment.
A cat hurtled from the kitchen.
Jason howled.
Lawrence ripped open the kitchen curtain. Monique sat on the floor with her back to us. Claire was halfway to the bedroom, looking for Jason. I started for the bedroom too, but as I turned, I saw Monique's head fall forward into her hands. Why the hell wasn't Lawrence helping her? He seemed to be fiddling with the oven. As I went into the kitchen, I realized why. It was full of gas.
- Are you OK, Monique?
There was no answer, just a single half-stifled sob. Her shoulders were trembling.
While I stood feeling useless, Lawrence knelt down beside her and took her two hands in his. Gently, very gently, he prised them away from her face. She held her head down for a few seconds more, but then suddenly looked up, directly at Lawrence. She was crying, holding her lower lip in check with her top teeth, and trying to give us a brave smile, all at the same time.
- Are you OK, hon?
She nodded. At the front, that silky hair was brown and frazzled, melted by the heat. Her eyebrows had been burnt too. But otherwise, miraculously, her face was untouched. I noticed little rings of singed hair on her arms and an ugly red weal darkening on her wrist.
Claire appeared in the doorway, carrying Jason. He was quiet now but still angry with us for waking him. He frowned and blinked until he was able to cope with the light, after the darkness of the bedroom and sleep, then turned and fixed us with a fierce steady glare.
- What happened?
- It was the oven. She must have opened the tap before the news and when she came back in here and put a match to it ... whoomff! Didn't you smell the gas, baby?
Monique shook her head.
- Well it's an interesting idea, converting the whole kitchen into an oven. What do you say, Jason? No you're probably right, not such a hot idea. But I'm forgetting, we haven't been formally introduced.
- Lawrence, this is no time for joking. Don't you think the two of you ought to help Monique up?
- Yes ma'am.
As I took one arm, I could feel her still trembling. She fell slightly backwards, letting us take her full weight. As she did, her dress rode up to the top of her legs. There were suntanned thighs and white underwear.
I think I must have blushed. Certainly I was hot with embarrassment and shame. Monique had just been hurt in a gas explosion, could easily have been maimed or killed, and all I could feel was lust. Even while I was pretending to help, I was getting a sexual thrill from touching her. For the first time in my married life I was coming face to face with the seamier side of myself. I realized that my conscience had no control over my imagination. Even now as I rationalized, this demon whispered to me - if you are ever unfaithful to Claire, it will be with Monique. I felt repulsed. And excited.
We got Monique to a chair and Claire was fussing over the burnt wrist.
- I don't think it's too bad - it's just going to hurt for a little. The one thing you mustn't do is cover it.
You could always rely on Claire in emergencies.
- Should we get her to a doctor?
- No, it's not really a very bad burn, thank heavens. I don't think you need to. Look, shall I finish getting dinner ready?
Monique shook her head - and then the tears started streaming down her face, and at last she was sobbing openly and without restraint, pausing only to take in sharp gulps of breath. Jason, on Claire's knee, joined in sympathetically.
- I'm sorry ... It's not this ... It's ... Everything!
Lawrence was pulling at his walrus moustache pensively.
- That's shock hitting her now. Hey, you two, I'm not a great host for saying this, but do you think we could do this another time? I've just got a kind of feeling tonight is not the night.
Perhaps the shock was hitting him too.
Jason bawled even louder.
- You know I think Jason would go along with that idea too.
- You will forgive us? I mean you will come back, won't you?
- Oh Lawrence, don't be so silly.
And Claire took Lawrence's hand and squeezed it.
- Yes, I think that'll be best. I'll keep Monique here for a while till she's feeling better, and then I'll drive her back home. You know, maybe it won't be such a bad thing if we're all tucked up safely at home in bed, just in case there's any trouble out there tonight.
And so five minutes later we were saying goodbye.
Claire kissed Monique, who was trying to apologize, while I was holding Jason in one arm and shaking hands with Lawrence with the other. Then it was Claire's turn to kiss Lawrence - and mine to kiss Monique. I hardly dared touch her cheek.
- Drive carefully - life can be dangerous down there in the jungle.
And we were on our way down precisely eighty-two steps.
At the bottom, on the Corniche, cars were speeding past, there was a squeal of tyres as someone took a corner too fast, a group of three men were shouting and waving their fists at one another. It was a normal Sunday evening in Beirut - as if nothing had ever happened.
IV
For the driver who wanted a challenge, no better place than Beirut. The city was a maze of narrow, traffic-jammed, one-way streets, and the only concession to any notion of order was the occasional appearance at street-corners of a frantic, permanently whistle-blowing policeman. Old-timers told the tale of a committee of French experts tasked with designing a new traffic system; after a few days in the city they gave up in despair, advising the authorities not to change anything - by some miracle, the anarchy worked. Cars shot out from any direction - one-way street or not - and in any direction: the Lebanese were just as adept at driving backwards as forwards. By nature, they were fast drivers too, although along the one-mile strip of Hamra Street, where the young blades showed off their wheels and whistled at the girls, pedestrians could race a car and win.
Not all our friends in Beirut had cars. After all, the taxis were reliable, cheap and fun - stopping every hundred yards or so to cram in another passenger. But after we'd been living there for a fortnight we discovered that a car, for us, was a necessity, even though all we could afford was a Volkswagen that would have flunked its road-test back in Britain ten years ago.
The problem was our apartment. It was in the centre of the city, but somehow it didn't seem to be near any landmarks - like hotels, shopping centres, cinemas, even sandwich shops. In most places this wouldn't have been a big issue, certainly not a reason for buying a car, but in Beirut it mattered. As far as we could tell, most of the streets were anonymous - nobody had ever bothered to name them. So if you used a taxi, there were only three possible ways to direct the driver home: by mentioning your local landmark, by telling him the name of your apartment block's owner (remarkably, the drivers always knew them), or by giving instructions in Arabic. Claire and I failed on all three counts - we couldn't even pronounce, let alone remember, our owner's name - and consequently we seemed to spend half our time in those first two weeks being driven around an unfamiliar, labyrinthine city in search of our house. In sheer frustration we bought the VW.
By now we were getting familiar with the routes, at least in our corner of the city, and we were soon back at the elusive apartment. We lived on the seventh - and top - floor of a brand-new block surrounded by other brand-new blocks. It was an area that had once known more modest and probably more dignified times: the handful of single-storey Arab-style houses with orange-trees and gardens, nestling between the brash concrete newcomers, were proof of that.
I flicked on the lights and the room glared at us. It was cheap vulgar light, highlighting cracks and bumps in the white plastered walls, smears of cement on the floor-tiles, and awkward angles everywhere. What a contrast from Lawrence's place! His, for all its eccentricity, was relaxed and comfortable, its character formed by years of habit. Ours was a young upstart: aggressive, unaccommodating, eager to stamp its authority on you before you tried to make anything of it.
And yet, just as Lawrence's apartment was an extension of his personality, this one reflected ours. Ever since we'd married - four years ago - we'd never been able to settle down. Always in the back of our minds was the feeling that someday soon we were going to travel, because when you're an English-language teacher, that's what you do. And so, although we'd stayed in London most of the time, we'd never lived in the same place for more than a year. And we never bought anything for the house - furniture, carpets, curtains, even house-plants - which would make us feel like permanent residents. Even when we decided to come to Beirut, it was on the strict understanding that we wouldn't stay longer than a year. We kept moving, but it was always the same makeshift chairs and tables, the same bare walls, and the same hard yellow light.
As soon as we got in, Claire fed Jason, then took him through to the bedroom to put him to bed. Jason slept in our room. He had to, because the room adjacent to ours, which you might have expected to be the second bedroom, was an architect's ingenious attempt to provide a balcony in a flat that shouldn't have one. On three of its sides it had walls just like an ordinary room, but the fourth, at the front, was open to the elements. There was just an aluminium railing, set at the perfect height for contemplation of the traffic, seven floors below. Claire was terrified Jason would one day fall between the bars, so the room was strictly out of bounds - to all of us.
Claire hadn't reappeared from the bedroom, so I went through to see what she was doing. She was half-undressed, standing in front of the mirror, examining her breasts. This was a twice-weekly ritual ever since she read a magazine article on the importance of regular self-checking for cancer. It was the same article that made her give up smoking - and me too I suppose, because after that, her look of reproach every time I lit up left me feeling like a moral leper. Claire was very good at guilt. In fact I sometimes wondered whether the main reason she did her cancer check in front of me was so I would start looking for lumps too.
- How many this time?
It was my usual joke, and it got the usual response: none.
I sat on the bed and then lay back, luxuriating, marvelling at this lady's beautiful, non-cancerous breasts and shoulders and, as she turned to me, her face. Still, after four years, I could sometimes hardly believe I'd married the best-looking woman I'd ever met. Before Claire, I'd envied other people their girlfriends. Now I never even noticed other women. Well, not until Monique. Not until Monique. What was so different about her? I hardly knew her. I had to get things into perspective.
Claire sat down in front of the mirror and began another ritual - brushing out her hair. Thick golden hair, hanging long in loose curls. It was the hair I'd noticed that night at The Cellar. The club was run by some charity organization in Ladbroke Grove: their idea of charity was to offer a stool, a spotlight and an audience to the aspiring singers and poets of West London - from Paddington to Shepherds Bush they came. As soon as you went in, you could tell more people came to perform than to listen. It was my first time and would probably have been my last, except that two rows in front of me there was a gorgeous blonde. At least, she might be gorgeous: by some curious trick of the light-show her hair seemed to sparkle gold, and that seemed promising. But no matter how far I casually leaned to the side, I couldn't make out her face, even when she turned to talk to the girl beside her.
Gradually, as the songs and poems began to drone and intone themselves into my brain, I began to lose faith. You couldn't expect much, not in a place like this. It would be the usual disappointment. But somewhere amidst the evening's many incantations - perhaps even heavily disguised in the frenzied strumming, manic whoops, and unintentional but deadly accurate spittle of the final performer - there must have been magic. Because when the lights came on she was perfect, and I was already in love.
She brushed past my chair at the end of the row without noticing me.
The next week I went back and there she was again - with the same girl-friend, I quickly observed, not with a man. The next week it was the same, and the same the week after. Each week I was ready with a new plan to meet her. And each week it failed because, while the flesh was willing - God, how it was willing! - the spirit clearly preferred to stand and wait outside the Cellar door. Even when once or twice I thought she glanced at me (or was it someone behind? - I didn't dare look), my mouth wouldn't smile, although I could tell by the aching in my jaws that the brain was sending all the right messages.
The sixth week I was late. All the seats seemed to be taken and I joined the group around the soft-drinks counter at the back. When I got used to the darkness I saw just one space - next to her! This was the moment. Now I would discover whether I was a man or a mouse.
I was a mouse.
For ten minutes I stood contemplating the empty chair, working out what I would say if I did go to sit there. Then I tried to concentrate on the music. Then I decided to leave. But the chair held me like a magnet.
She turned round and smiled at me.
As I sat down, she was whispering in my ear.
- What took you so long?
- I .. er .. thought maybe someone was sitting here.
- Every week?
- No. Don't you have ... I mean, aren't you with someone?
- Yes, he's six foot eight and he's waiting outside.
- What's your name?
Love at first sight!
- Richard, what do you think about what Lawrence was saying?
- What about?
- All the shooting today.
- Doesn't sound very good, does it?
- It sounds awful. What if there is a war?
- Oh I shouldn't think it'll come to that. I get the impression Lawrence is a bit of a sensationalist, don't you?
- But he knows what's going on.
- Yes, but you know what journalists are like.
Claire was still working on her hair, holding a strand with one hand and carefully pulling the brush through it with the other, wincing in the mirror as she caught a tangle.
- Do you like them, Rick?
- Lawrence and Monique? Yes, I've got a feeling we could get very close.
- I hope Monique's OK. It's an awful shock when something like that happens.
- Oh she'll be all right I should think. I wouldn't be surprised if she was upset by all that Palestinian business too. After all, she is a Palestinian.
- Yes but she's not one of those Palestinians. I mean her family's very respectable, her father's a banker, isn't he? She's very attractive Richard, don't you think?
That was difficult to answer. I knew what I felt, but what could I say?
- Yes, she is pretty, I suppose - but don't worry, she hasn't got a thing on you.
It was an ugly sensation, lying to Claire. It was as if the words had curdled in my mouth; there was a sour aftertaste. She put down her brush and swivelled round on the stool to face me. Wearing only her skirt and her shoes she looked vulnerable, and a shadow of accusation crossed her face. For a second I was terrified those deep blue eyes had penetrated my soul.
- Richard, I was a bit surprised at you this evening.
- Why?
- Well, after the explosion, you went rushing straight in to help Monique and you didn't give a second thought to Jason.
- Yes but it was Monique who was hurt.
- I know, but Jason is our son, Richard. I really think you might have given him a bit more thought ...
- But he was all right.
- Yes he was, thank goodness, but you weren't to know that at the time, were you? None of us knew what had happened.
This was getting dangerous. Somehow I had to change the course of the conversation.
- I'm sorry, love. Anyway, what do you think of Lawrence?
- Lawrence? Oh he's a darling.
- I see, so he's a darling, is he? And where does that leave me?
- A close second, darling. Darling, let's go to bed.
- Already? It's only nine-thirty.
- Uh-huh. And tonight nine-thirty is a perfect time to go to bed. Don't you want to?
It wasn't that I was reluctant to go to bed with Claire, just surprised she should have made the suggestion. Claire was always the one who didn't want to go to bed yet.
- This is a change!
- Darling, don't make fun of me. You're always complaining that you always have to ask me and that I never take the initiative. Well tonight I want to go to bed and I want to make love with my husband, if that's all right with you.
- You should know by now you don't have to ask me.
In ten seconds flat I was undressed, but Claire was even faster, waiting for me on the bed.
- I'se a-waitin' for yuh, baby.
- I'se a comin', I'se a comin'.
Claire had smooth, taut-muscled skin, and I loved to take my time with her, running my fingers down from her shoulders, slowly across her breasts, along the ribs pressed up tight against the flesh, then down to her stomach ...
But Claire had other ideas. She was in a hurry.
- Come inside me, darling. I want you inside me.
She had never liked me to touch her. To make me feel better, to assure me it wasn't my fault, she used to tell me it was because of the training she'd had from her father. When she was a little girl he taught her to play a game: he put his hand on her knee and she was supposed to slap him. The habit had persisted, as her first boyfriends had discovered to their cost; one false move and they got it in the face. Even now, for Claire, sex was the serious business of intercourse and she hated what she called fooling around.
She flinched as I fumbled and flailed toward the entrance. In exasperation she took me in her hand and guided me there. But it was too soon. She was too tight. As usual.
She gasped as I thrust deeper inside her, then clutched my shoulders and pressed me harder down onto her. She blew lightly across my ear, a trick I'd taught her.
- I love you, Richard Devine.
- And I love you.
But at that moment it was only my mouth saying the words. My mind was saying: Why can't it be easier? Why does it always have to be such a struggle? So conventional, so rehearsed, so restrained? I wanted to stroke her, to let my hands wander across her - but they were pinned down between us, useless beneath her body. In fact, my left arm was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Time to remember mother's advice: a gentleman takes the weight on his elbows. I raised myself and extricated my arms.
Claire stiffened.
- What's wrong? Am I hurting?
- My hair. You're lying on my hair.
- I'm sorry, darling.
I lifted first one elbow, then the other, and Claire tucked invisible wisps of hair behind her head, out of danger.
- Got it all?
- I'm sorry, Richard. It's just that it hurt. But you're feeling very good to me tonight.
And in an effort to prove it, she ran her finger-nails lightly down my back, then set about her love-making with redoubled vigour and determination.
Why was it that sex with Claire always made me feel like a schoolboy? A gauche, incompetent novice? Was it my fault or hers? In every other respect, life with Claire was uncomplicated, natural and right - much more right than most other relationships I'd seen. Only when it came to sex were we unable to satisfy one another. Why, Claire never even seemed to climax. She never complained, but it was an affront to me, a question-mark against my virility. To make it worse, tonight I wasn't having much better success either.
There was no music in this pushing and heaving, straining and grunting. Our bodies were grimy with sweat. The sheet below us felt like a damp greasy rag. The whole exercise had become a test of physical endurance.
- I'm sorry I'm so long. Are you sore?
- No, I'm OK. I'm enjoying it.
Enjoying it? How could she be enjoying this mockery of the sexual act? Was she just saying it to please me, because she thought I was enjoying it? My mind focused fiercely, front and centre. Ignore the pain that flares each time I thrust forward. Forget that the skin feels as if it's being torn from my body. Push .. push .. push. Dear Lord, if You love me, let me come and put an end to this torment. Strengthen me and make me not flaccid.
Now I could feel it coming.
A little more!
But Jason was awake and whimpering at the other side of the room. Claire tensed, then stopped.
- Oh please darling, just a little longer!
It was no good. Jason was howling, terrified perhaps that his parents were inflicting such bestiality upon one another. Claire pushed upward on my chest.
- Richard, I'm sorry. We must see to him. Perhaps we can finish in a minute.
I moaned and rolled off her. It was already too late. I was already dead, drained of sexual energy and interest. The time would not come again - not tonight.
Claire was naked next to the cot, rocking Jason gently in her arms, sometimes tickling him under the chin or on the stomach. Slowly the screaming subsided to a gurgling and chuckling, a counterpoint to Claire's soft words of comfort.
- Jason, Jason, it's Mummy. Yes. It's all right. Were you having a bad dream then? Did you want to see your Mummy?
How I hated my son sometimes. What right had he to dominate our private life? Why should he get his gratification instantly and deny me mine?
But as I cooled down, a darker, more sombre mood flowed across me, gathering like a black stain on my mind, blotting out my future with Claire. No, it wasn't Jason's fault. In fact, he'd probably saved us from total corruption. Wasn't sex supposed to be holy? The body is a temple, and all that? A sanctified expression of love? What we'd just performed was an act of animal nature - mating, coupling, copulation, call it what you like - it had nothing to do with love. I might as well have masturbated. And this was with Claire, the woman I'd adored for years!
- He's fast asleep. Do you want to try again, darling?
Could she really be serious? Was she so completely unaware of our degradation? Or did she perhaps feel this was a wifely duty she should perform for me? I loved her for her devotion, hated her for her lack of understanding.
- No, I can't. Not tonight.
- Well, never mind. Perhaps it'll be better next time.
But she didn't sound convinced and, after leaning over to switch out the bedside light, she stayed at the far side of the bed. I was certainly not convinced. There had been nights like this before, lots of them, now I thought about it. What was different about tonight was my detachment, the cold realization of how bad things had really become.