What Will Survive (29 page)

It was just like interviewing the nurse, Salma, all over again. Amanda said, ‘Your husband — would he talk to me?'

Séverine's eyes clouded. ‘Jean-Baptiste died six years ago.'

‘God, I'm sorry. I had no idea.'

Séverine dipped her head. ‘Of course, why should you. He was older — much older.' She sighed. ‘It is not easy, being a widow.'

Amanda said in a hurry: ‘I've brought some photos. Would you like to see them? They might help you remember something... some little detail.' She reached inside her bag, noticing that the brown envelope was starting to curl at the edges. She flipped through the pictures, looking for one of Fabio. ‘Here, this is a good one.'

Séverine's mouth opened. ‘This is Fabio? He has aged! I would not have known him. Though the clothes, always so military — like Jean-Baptiste.' She
made an impatient sound: ‘And still carrying that bag! He is still having trouble with that shoulder, I can tell from the way he is standing.'

Amanda handed another print across.

Séverine's eyes narrowed. ‘What is this? What is he holding?'

With difficulty, Amanda leaned across to see what she was looking at. In the picture, presumably taken by Aisha, Fabio was holding a framed photograph of a young man. ‘Looks like a graduation photo, doesn't it?'

Séverine got up, crossed the room and opened a drawer in a heavy sideboard, returning with a magnifying glass. ‘Jean-Baptiste couldn't see at the end,' she said in explanation, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She positioned the magnifier over the photograph, studying it closely. After a few seconds, she looked up, smiling. ‘I knew him at once! It's Marwan — Marwan Hadidi! So he went back to college, after the war.'

‘Who?'

‘I'm so glad! Marwan was a student — law I think. When his classes closed, he got work with some of the journalists — it was easy, they were all staying at the Commodore. All these kids hung around, running errands and translating, the foreign press were just about the only people who had any money. That's how he met Fabio.'

‘I thought Fabio knew Arabic.'

Séverine balanced the magnifying glass on the arm of the sofa. ‘Sure, but these kids, they knew everyone — they had friends and relatives in the militias, and if they did not they made it their business. Fabio said he would have got into trouble many times, if it was not for Marwan.' She looked at the picture again, smiling. ‘He was a good kid — he worried always about his family in the south. Sometimes I let him use the phone — they didn't have one of course, his mother, she also was a widow. But there was a cousin in the village who took messages... That's why he stayed in Beirut, to send them money. He used to carry a picture of his little sister, I expect she is married now.'

Amanda felt a prickle of excitement. ‘In the south? This village, do you remember the name?'

‘Mmm — somewhere near Nabatiyeh, I think. I wonder how old Marwan would be now? I last saw him in 1987 maybe 1988.

I remember he was crazy for —
bandes dessinées,
we call them in French. Superman, Batman, Fabio used to bring —'

‘The village — think, please.'

Séverine's mouth turned down. ‘It is a long time ago. Is it important?'

‘Yes.'

‘Because?'

‘Because that would explain —' Amanda spoke hurriedly, the words tumbling over each other. ‘Why they didn't — they should've been in Beirut. If Fabio knew someone —'

Séverine looked puzzled.

‘Sorry.' Amanda took a breath. ‘Aisha and Fabio, they were supposed to come straight to Beirut. Where they were killed, it wasn't on their route at all.' She pointed at the picture in Séverine's hand. ‘But if Fabio wanted to look up this boy — what did you say his name was?'

‘Marwan. Marwan Hadidi. But the name of his village — I do not know if I ever knew it.'

Amanda groaned and sat back.

‘Wait. I have a friend, she is from the south. She might know the family —'

‘Can you ask her?' Amanda's eyes flew to the phone.

‘Mmm, she has young children. I should call her in maybe an hour.'

Amanda hid her impatience. ‘That would be great. Fantastic.'

There was a burst of noise from outside, a voice rising and falling in the call to prayer. It went on for a minute or so, then another voice joined in, from a different part of the city.

Séverine looked at her watch. ‘Yes, I will call her in one hour.' She glanced across at Amanda's ankle. ‘How is your leg?'

‘Still hurts a little.' She had almost forgotten about it in the excitement of discovery: the prospect of a totally unexpected and heartwarming story about Fabio trying to set up a reunion with a young Lebanese boy who had helped him during the civil war.

‘Good.' Séverine lifted her arms and stretched. There was still a sticky heat in the little flat but the air coming through the open door to the balcony was growing cooler. She yawned and said, ‘Would you like a massage?'

‘What?'

‘You are very pale, and it would help your circulation. We can go on talking while I work.'

‘I — thank you. As long as I'm not holding you up.'

‘Pas du tout.
I will set up the table.'

Séverine took the tea tray into the kitchen. She cleared a space in front of the sofa, drew out a folding table and set it up. She lifted the bag of melting ice from Amanda's ankle and left the room again, calling over her shoulder: ‘Take of your trousers and top — I will get towels.'

Using the arms of the chair to take her weight, Amanda pushed herself into a standing position and undressed, leaving her clothes in a neat pile. Hitching herself up on to the table, she stretched out, shifting several times until she felt comfortable. She closed her eyes, trying not to think about Séverine's friend, who might never have heard of Marwan Hadidi and his family. Then what would she do? The university, they would surely have a record...

‘Ready?' There was a sweet smell in the air and Amanda felt Séverine's hands on her shoulders.

‘Absolutely.'

‘Relax! You are so tense.'

Amanda took several deep breaths, as she did at her yoga class, and her muscles began to loosen up under the pressure of Séverine's expert fingers.

‘Thank God that's over.'

‘Sorry, darling?' Carolina walked into the kitchen, closing her purse. She had just paid Lidija for helping at the party, although when she lifted her head she saw there was a stack of dirty dishes and wine glasses on the draining board. The plates were hand-painted and could not go in the dishwasher but there was no reason for Lidija to leave the glasses unwashed. Carolina saw there were cigarette stubs in one of them, and probably even more lying about in the garden.

‘I thought it went off quite well, considering.'

Stephen was leaning, arms folded, against the door frame that used to lead to the garden and now opened into the conservatory. There was no need to elaborate on what he had just said: this year, their annual summer party had been an exercise in smoothing ruffled feathers in Stephen's constituency association. He had gone out of his way to be charming, standing beside the chairman's wife and listening to her views on everything from Section 28 — a vital tool to protect the nation's children against a homosexual conspiracy, apparently — to Princess Diana. ‘Nothing but a jumped-up little hairdresser,' Carolina had heard the woman declare as she passed, heading for the swimming pool to make sure Lidija's friend Danuta was keeping an eye on the younger children. ‘What that poor man has had to put up with. She'll do anything to get back at him. It's those boys I feel sorry for, their mother carrying on like that in public.'

Stephen was looking bored, as he had the day before over breakfast when Carolina read out a story about the Princess from Saturday's
Daily Mail.
‘That woman always seems to be on holiday,' was all he said as Carolina studied a picture of Diana, hoping her new romance wouldn't go wrong like her marriage. ‘I think the royal family has treated her very badly,' Carolina had protested. ‘I think she deserves to be happy.' Stephen threw down
The Times
and poured himself more coffee: ‘Christ, darling, it's no skin off my nose. Good luck to her, if that's what she wants.' But he had deferred to the chairman's wife this afternoon, nodding in apparent agreement and calling out to Lidija to ask her to top up the woman's empty glass.

‘Don't you think?' Stephen said again.

‘What? Oh, it was fine.' Carolina pulled down the door of the dishwasher and began stacking glasses, grateful that Lidija had at least emptied it before going home.

‘She seemed all right with the kids, that friend of Lidija s. Here, let me.' Stephen pushed away from the door frame and took over the job, standing close to Carolina in the long narrow kitchen. Several guests had admired the fittings and Carolina had had to explain several times that they were made by a company in Devon.

She stared for a few seconds at Stephen's left arm, brown from the sun and covered with fine hairs. As always he had dressed perfectly for the occasion, in chinos, a sports shirt and loafers worn without socks — a bit unconventional for their neck of the woods, but conveying an easy confidence that would stand him in good stead over the coming weeks. There had been talk, not in Stephen's presence, of selecting a new candidate, which had gone far enough to prompt a call from the local newspaper. But Stephen was right, the afternoon had been a great success, and Carolina hoped that the dark mood he had been in for weeks might now begin to lift. She stepped back and put her hand up to hair, forgetting for a few seconds that she had had several inches cut off the previous week. Nicky liked it, he had actually commented on it when she picked him up from a friend's house, but Stephen had been preoccupied with the arrangements for the party and hadn't mentioned it.

‘Shit!' A glass had slipped from his hand, shattering on the quarry tiles.

‘I'll deal with it.' As Carolina moved past him to get a dustpan and brush, she caught the smell of alcohol on his breath and wondered how much he had had to drink. When the fragments were safely in the bin, she straightened. ‘I'd better change,' she said, feeling overdressed now the guests had gone.

‘Nice dress,' Stephen said, noticing it for the first time. ‘Is it new?'

‘Yes, actually.' Carolina felt herself blushing. She had found it in a new boutique in the High Street, drawn inside by a rather daring window display. The assistant was endlessly patient, pulling dresses from the rail and coaxing her into trying them on: ‘With your skin, you need either neutral
colours or something very strong,' she said firmly, steering Carolina away from her usual pastels. In the end Carolina had chosen a crepe dress in a shade the assistant called old rose. ‘You're tall and slim, it's perfect for you,' the woman said as she wrapped it in tissue paper.

‘Where'd you get it?'

‘That new place I pointed out to you.'

‘You should go there more often — you look great.'

She took a step towards him. ‘Stephen?'

‘Mum, Dad, can we get a takeaway? Please?'

Carolina turned to see Frannie entering the kitchen, arms outstretched in imitation of an aeroplane. In one hand were a couple of menus from local restaurants, which had been pushed through the door the previous week. At Carolina's urging — she hated the waste of paper as much as the mess they made — Stephen had recently put up a ‘no junk mail' sign on the gate but it made very little difference. ‘Half of them can't read, and the rest don't speak English,' he said when Carolina continued to protest about the leaflet-deliverers. Now they exchanged a glance.

‘I don't see why not,' Stephen said, as much to Carolina as his son. ‘What do you fancy?'

‘Indian,' Francis said instantly. ‘Or Chinese.'

Carolina grimaced.

‘Indian. Your mother doesn't like Chinese.'

‘It's not that. It's the monosodium glutamate —'

‘Got a bit of paper? You'll never remember what everyone wants.'

‘Me?' Francis opened his eyes wide and rolled them.

‘Go on, Frannie. Phone in the order and tell them I'll pay cash.'

‘I'll do it.'

A hand snaked over Francis's shoulder and snatched the menus. He whirled round to confront his elder brother, who was a head taller and easily able to hold them out of reach.

‘It's not fair! Dad said I could—'

‘Nicky, don't tease Frannie. It's been a long day and we're all tired.'

‘I'm not tired.' Nicky ignored his mother, making a show of opening one of the menus.

‘I'm just seeing if they do vegetarian.'

‘Just order some vegetables. Tarka dall, you like lentils.'

‘I want chicken tikka masala.' Frannie snatched the menu from him. ‘And a nun.'

‘Nan, stupid.'

‘Stop arguing.'

‘And a Coke.'

‘Frannie, you know you can't have sugary drinks. And isn't chicken tikka that red stuff? It's full of E-numbers.'

She felt Stephen's hands on her waist. ‘It won't hurt for once,' he said quiedy.

‘Can we get a video?'

His arms slid further round and she felt his breath on her neck. ‘No, because I've drunk too much to drive. You can choose one from my office.' Stephen kept a collection of videos — documentaries, old movies and his own performances on
Newsnight
and
Question Time
— in a room to the left of the front door that he used as his study. ‘Whose turn is it to choose?'

‘Me.'

‘Mine.'

‘I don't think so, Nicky. You picked that Clint Eastwood film we watched on Friday night, remember?'

‘Yeah, but it was crap. His hair was long and he looked really spastic.'