What Will Survive (28 page)

‘Want anything?'

‘Oh — some oranges, please.'

‘Do you like figs?'

Amanda nodded and watched as Ingrid added them to her bag. ‘Can we walk a bit?'

Ingrid looked surprised. ‘OK,' she said, ‘if you like.'

They pushed their way through the crowd, the street becoming shabbier and more littered with rubbish by the moment. Some of the stallholders were selling poultry, tied together by the legs or in wicker cages, while emaciated dogs scavenged in heaps of rubbish, sidling away with bones and unidentifiable scraps. Amanda looked from side to side, trying not to inhale the pungent odour of raw meat, human sweat and live animals. When they reached the last stall, she saw that the dilapidated buildings extended for miles, marking the beginning of what looked like a vast slum.

‘What is this place?' She turned to Ingrid. ‘How can people live here?'

‘They have no choice.' Ingrid gave her a compassionate look. ‘This is where I made my film, the one I'm editing now.'

‘This is the camp?' Amanda broke off, realising that whenever Ingrid talked about her film she had pictured rows of tents in some dusty place far beyond the city; images familiar from news reports of wars or famine in Africa. This was nothing like —

Amanda turned to look at a three-story building which seemed to have collapsed in on itself. It was like peering into a doll's house with the front ripped off, except that real people were living there: on the ground floor she saw a table, armchairs covered in ripped orange plastic and an old TV set, with the remains of the first floor forming a makeshift roof. Beyond its shelter, children played in the dust and chickens scratched between lumps of concrete.

She wiped sweat from her forehead. ‘Why doesn't somebody do something? It looks as though it's been hit by an earthquake. Where's the aid? When will they be moved out?'

Ingrid said quietly: ‘They won't be moved out. The Lebanese government doesn't want them here, but they have nowhere to go.' She waved towards the warren of buildings that stretched as far as the eye could see. ‘Come, I'll show you.'

She set off. The smell had worsened and in a few yards Amanda recoiled from a vast mound of stinking rubbish, towering over the street. Hurrying on with her hand over her nose, she spotted a low building which appeared to be some kind of office. Two men, unshaven and wearing leather jackets, lounged in chairs outside, impassively watching the street. Behind them was a mural of a mosque, executed in primary colours like a child's painting, and Amanda stopped for a closer look.

‘What's that?' she asked. ‘Can I take a photo—'

Ingrid was nowhere to be seen. Amanda took a few steps, was jostled by some teenage boys and slipped on something viscous. Losing her balance, she crashed to the ground, a crippling pain shooting through her ankle. She clutched it, tears springing to her eyes. Her hands were grubby, where she had tried to save herself, and she was aware of people clustering round her, asking questions she didn't understand. Terrified that she'd
broken a bone, she tried to massage her lower leg but the pain got worse. She looked up, blinking away tears, and said in an agonised voice:
‘Ingrid.'

‘Where does it hurt?'

A man knelt beside her. He moved her hand and gently touched her leg. ‘Here? Show me.'

She gasped.

‘Don't move.' He massaged the sore spot gently, then probed with his fingers.

Amanda watched his hands. ‘Are you a doctor?'

‘Yes.' He had springy brown hair and a foreign accent.

‘Amanda! Are you all right?'

The man looked up as Ingrid arrived, breathless and alarmed. ‘She is your friend? I do not think she has broken anything, probably it is a sprain.'

Ingrid knelt beside them, her skirt trailing in the dust. ‘Can she walk?'

‘I think so. Do you have a car?'

‘Yes.'

‘OK, take her home and give her tea with lots of sugar. For shock. She will need painkillers and maybe a bandage for support. I do not have one... You must go to a pharmacy.' He turned back to Amanda. ‘Now I will help you up — slowly, there is no hurry.'

He put his hands under her shoulders, taking most of her weight as she made a shaky attempt to stand up. She gasped when her left foot touched the ground but the pain was not quite as bad as she had feared. Ingrid held out her arm and Amanda leaned on it. ‘Thanks,' she said to the man.
‘Choucran.'

Ingrid grinned. ‘Do you speak Arabic?' she asked.

‘A little — I am learning.'

‘You are Russian?'

‘From Ukraine.'

‘Hold on to me, Amanda.' Ingrid felt in her bag and produced a card. She held it out. ‘Ingrid Hansson.'

‘Grigory Radionov. We do not have cards —'

‘I make films, perhaps you can call me?' Amanda's grip on her arm tightened. ‘OK, Amanda. Let's go.'

‘Take it slow.' The man moved away and Ingrid helped Amanda to turn in the direction of the car.

‘What's he doing here? I mean, a doctor from Ukraine?'

‘I heard some Russians had arrived at the hospital — Russians, Ukrainians, most of the people here would not know the difference.'

‘There's a hospital in the camp?'

‘Of course, many thousands of people live here. Most of the doctors are foreign. Volunteers.'

Ingrid started talking about an interview she'd done with a Malaysian doctor who had worked in the camp for many years. Amanda concentrated on staying upright, not wanting to lean too heavily on her. After a while, sounding anxious, Ingrid said, ‘Are you all right?'

‘Mmm — it's not as bad as I thought.'

‘Let's stop and have a rest.'

They stopped next to a gate. Amanda leaned gratefully on the top bar, letting it take her weight.

‘Thank God you're here,' she said, ‘I wouldn't have got this far on my own.' On the other side was a field, unevenly carpeted with grass, where banners had been strung between several tall trees. Amanda screwed up her eyes, unable to read the writing. ‘What do they say?'

Ingrid did not reply straight away. Then she said, ‘This is where they buried the bodies.'

‘The bodies?'

‘After the massacre. Here, under the grass.'

‘What massacre?'

‘In 1982. September 16. Next month will be the anniversary. Haven't you heard —'

Amanda's ankle was beginning to throb and without thinking she lifted her foot off the ground. ‘Ingrid, I was
fifteen
in 1982.'

‘OK.' Ingrid dipped her head. ‘Ariel Sharon surrounded the camp to stop anyone leaving and the Falangists came in.'

‘Who?'

‘Lebanese Christian militia. It went on for three days.'

‘Why?'

‘They wanted revenge. Always it is like this in Lebanon — their leader had been killed.' She hesitated. ‘There were bodies everywhere. Women, children — bloated in the heat, you can imagine.'

Amanda looked at the scene, peaceful now except for the banners. The pain was intensifying and she bit her lip.

Ingrid glanced down. She exclaimed, ‘Your leg is swelling. Do you think you can make it to the car? We're almost there.'

Moments later, she helped Amanda into the passenger seat. She opened the glove compartment and took out a plastic bottle of water, which she placed in Amanda's lap. ‘I'll stop for painkillers,' she said, hurrying round to the other side. She looked increasingly worried: ‘Shall we call Madame Boisseau? She will understand —'

‘No!' Amanda massaged her leg, not wanting to go back to the hotel alone and dwell on what she'd just seen. ‘I'm fine, really.'

‘Are you sure? My doctor—'

‘I don't need a doctor. Why don't you — what was the name of that singer?'

‘Fayrouz.' Ingrid looked at her uncertainly, then slid the tape back into the cassette player.

They set off for the nearest pharmacy, where Ingrid parked outside. When she returned, she was clutching a packet of pills and a bandage.

‘Here goes.' Amanda had never heard of the tablets but she swallowed one, hoping for the best.

‘The pharmacist said you should not mix them with alcohol,' Ingrid warned.

Amanda rolled up her trousers and gently smoothed the bandage over her ankle.

‘Not exactly elegant but it'll do,' she said. ‘OK — now for Madame Boisseau.'

‘My God, what happened to you?'

The woman with red hair held out a hand and drew Amanda into the narrow hall of her apartment. She swung a strong arm round Amanda's waist and guided her into a small sitting room, where she helped lower her into an armchair. A door was open on to a balcony, although it didn't make much difference to the temperature in the room; on a low table there were cups, saucers and a plate of cakes, identical to the ones Ingrid had ordered in the cafe. Séverine Boisseau studied Amanda, hands on hips. ‘You should have called me, I would have come down. How did you manage the stairs?'

‘Slowly.' The lift to the second-floor apartment was out of order and Amanda had had to use the banister to haul herself up to Séverine's front door.

‘Did you fall? What is it, your ankle? Let me look.' Séverine pulled up a stool, lifted Amanda's foot on to her lap and pushed up her trouser leg. She rolled down the bandage, her fingers moving over the swollen flesh. ‘No wonder you are in pain. I will get some ice.'

She hurried from the room and Amanda heard doors opening and closing in another part of the flat. A moment later Séverine returned with crushed ice cubes in a plastic bag, knelt and arranged it over Amanda's ankle. She lifted her head: ‘When did this happen?'

‘Not long ago. I've just taken some painkillers — anti-inflammatories.'

Séverine got up, went to a cupboard and poured a small amount of cognac into a glass, which she brought to Amanda. ‘Drink,' she ordered. Amanda hesitated, remembering the pharmacist's warning, but decided to ignore it. She spluttered as the alcohol burned her throat, but immediately felt warmed by it. Séverine stood over her, making sure she finished it.

‘Take your time. Would you like some tea? Something to eat?' She gestured towards the cakes.

‘I'm not hungry, thanks.' She looked down at her hands. ‘God, what a mess! Can I use your bathroom?'

‘Through there. Let me help you.'

It was off Séverine's bedroom. When Amanda limped back, her face and hands washed and most of the dried mud brushed from her
trousers, the Frenchwoman was in the kitchen. She returned, holding a teapot.

‘I will let it — brew, is that the word?'

She opened the door a little wider and returned to the sofa. She was wearing narrow trousers and a fitted white shirt which looked as if it came from a little boutique in Paris. Her hair was short, pushed back from her wide forehead, and there were fine lines around her eyes. Amanda guessed she was in her late forties, possibly a little older, though very well preserved.

‘You want to ask me about Fabio Terzano.' Séverine's voice was husky, and Amanda was not surprised when she reached for a packet of cigarettes. ‘You don't mind?'

Amanda shook her head, although she didn't like breathing someone else's smoke. A lighter flared.

‘I was sorry to hear about his death,' Séverine continued, inhaling, ‘even though I have not seen him for years.'

Amanda hesitated in the act of switching on her tape recorder. She gazed at Séverine: ‘You didn't keep in touch?'

The Frenchwoman threw back her head and laughed. ‘Good God, no! Fabio wasn't interested in me! He came to me at the beginning, that is true, but then he met Jean-Baptiste. My husband,' she explained. ‘They, how do you say — they bonded like a couple of boys. Old soldiers, you see.' She rolled her eyes. ‘Jean-Baptiste was in Algeria. He went back to France but he could not settle, and so we came here.'

She was silent for a moment. Eventually she leaned forward and tipped a column of ash into an ashtray. ‘Fabio ate with us some nights, when the shelling was not so intense. It was all war, war, war — as if we did not get enough of it every single day! Who was up, who was down, what the Israelis were doing... I used to go into our bedroom and watch TV and they would sit till the early hours, with that door open' — she nodded towards the balcony — ‘talking and drinking. There was not much else to do in those days, except read the papers and find out who had been killed.'

A phone rang. Séverine turned her head, tutted and stubbed out her cigarette. She got up and answered it, speaking in Arabic but occasionally
throwing in a French word or phrase. When she had finished, she returned to her place on the sofa, smiling broadly.

‘Excusez-moi. Voulez-vous —'
She shook her head. ‘I should not speak French! Shall we have some tea?'

She poured for both of them, handing it to Amanda without milk. Amanda thought about something Séverine had said a moment before: ‘You said Fabio came to you? What for?'

Séverine looked surprised. ‘Massage,' she said, flexing her hands in front of her. ‘I am a masseuse.'

Amanda thought of Séverine's fingers moving deftly over her ankle — like the Ukrainian doctor's, she now realised. Something else occurred to her and she said distractedly: ‘Of course, he was wounded, wasn't he?'

Séverine looked as though she was about to burst into more peals of laughter. ‘Not in Lebanon, no! He came to me because he was having trouble with his shoulder.' She patted her own with her hand. ‘What do you expect, I said to him, carrying that e-nor-mous bag? He was practically lopsided! I told him, you will have trouble as long as you carry so many cameras. He did not believe me, he wanted me to make him better just like that.' She snapped her fingers, the noise reverberating in the still air like a gunshot. ‘I did my best but the tissue was very hard. Really, that is the only thing we talked about — apart from my cassoulet!' She smiled at the memory.