What Will Survive (34 page)

I'm not expecting you to reply straight away. Think about it for a day or two. I don't want to cause you further pain, but we have to reach some sort of civilised arrangement for the time being. I'm desperately worried about Nicky — Frannie calls me a lot but on the rare occasions I've got hold of him Nicky is monosyllabic. That's one of the things we will have to talk about — you can reply to me at Charles Street (not the office) if you don't feel able to speak on the phone.

All the best,
Stephen

Amanda started and opened her eyes, which felt like sandpaper. She groaned and pulled down the sun visor. ‘Ugh — how long have I been asleep?'

Ingrid smiled. ‘As soon as we left the cafe, you began to snore.'

‘I don't snore!'

Ingrid gave her an amused glance: ‘It was not so loud.'

‘It must be the air conditioning.'

‘I was about to wake you anyway. See what you are missing.' She waved towards the precipitous mountain road, the lush fields of the Bekaa Valley — browner now than in Aisha and Fabio's pictures, after weeks of broiling sun — left behind while Amanda dozed.

She put a hand up to her head. ‘I shouldn't have drunk so much last night. They're generous with the wine at these embassy parties.'

‘People do not drink in public in Damascus, it is not like Beirut.'

Amanda reached to the floor for a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap and drank from it. It was warm and she pulled a face. Then she brightened: ‘I really want to go back for a holiday, see some of those Crusader castles.'

Ingrid's eyebrows arched. ‘In that case, be careful what you say in your article about Syria.'

‘Oh, I'm not going to write anything about the government. I mean, everyone keeps telling me how awful it is, but that's got nothing to do with Aisha.'

The car rounded a bend and Ingrid braked, throwing Amanda forwards. ‘Shit!' she exclaimed. ‘Who are they?'

In front of them, men with guns were fanning out across the road. A military jeep was parked at an angle, its rear wheels close to a steep drop. Within seconds, two of the men were running towards the car, cradling rusty machine guns.

Ingrid said, ‘Have you got your passport?'

‘Yes, but —'

Ingrid reached for hers. ‘Probably they do not speak English. If they do, you are a teacher, OK?'

‘What?'

Ingrid held out her hand. ‘Passport — hurry, Amanda.'

She pulled her bag from the floor and fumbled inside. Ingrid wound down the window as the soldiers approached, speaking to them in a strained voice in Arabic and handing over both passports. The men huddled over them, their eyes flicking suspiciously to the two women, and Amanda gripped her mobile, although she could not think of anyone to ring. Ingrid was answering questions, smiling and nodding, but the veins stood out like cords in her neck. After a moment, she began to relax and one of the soldiers stepped back, peering under the car, more bored than suspicious. Then it was over: the soldiers returned the passports and waved the car on, and Amanda heard the engine of the jeep start as it prepared to make space for them to pass.

‘What was all that about?' she asked.

One of the soldiers began walking backwards, his machine gun held casually in one hand, guiding them past the military vehicle.

‘Oh — they're the UN,' Amanda said, noticing the faded markings on one of the doors. ‘You'd think they'd have more modern equipment.'

Ingrid's hands gripped the steering wheel and her eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. The soldiers were watching them as the car pulled away, and she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, despite the winding road. ‘They are not UN, Amanda. I knew straight away they were SLA. That's why I told you not to say you are a journalist.'

Amanda said, puzzled: ‘Who are the SLA?'

‘The South Lebanon Army. General Lahad's men.'

‘Oh God, not another lot I haven't heard of. Who's General Lahad?'

‘Antoine Lahad. A Lebanese general who was sent down here to deal with the militia. Instead he joined them. His men are —' Her mouth turned down. ‘I think you say a law unto themselves.'

‘Blimey.' Amanda looked back over her shoulder, even though the jeep was long gone from sight. ‘You don't think they'll come after us?'

‘I hope not. Did you see how old their jeep was? Sometimes there are fights between the SLA and UNIFIL. The SLA hijack their jeeps and take their uniforms.'

Amanda turned in her seat, making herself comfortable again. ‘Why doesn't the government just arrest this guy?'

‘Last year they tried to take him to court but Israel stopped them. The Syrians protect Hezbollah and Israel protects General Lahad — that's how it is down here.'

Ingrid reached across to turn up the air conditioning, which was struggling with the late afternoon heat. A thermometer fixed to the dashboard showed eighteen degrees, a lot cooler than outside, but Amanda's jeans were damp with perspiration. Ingrid was wearing loose linen trousers and a long T-shirt, and she had tied her hair in a loose ponytail before they left Damascus.

She checked the mirror again. ‘I think we are OK. I did not expect to see them in this part of the country, mosdy they operate around Tyre and Jezzine.'

Amanda gazed out of the side window, finally aware of the ravishingly beautiful landscape which she had first seen in Fabio's photographs. Blue-green mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, shadowed in places by the dark shapes of clouds. The highest peaks were bare granite, touched with pink now that the sun was beginning to set, and she thought that somewhere beyond them must be the sea. The car slowed as Ingrid changed down a gear, beginning a winding descent towards the floor of a valley. About a hundred yards to the left were the remains of a house, collapsing into what looked like a bomb crater. The ground was rough and uncultivated, and there were no animals to be seen.

‘Landmines,' Ingrid said, before Amanda could ask. She pointed to a cluster of houses on a distant hillside. ‘Don't worry, that's where we're going.'

‘Already? Fantastic.' Amanda stretched her arms behind her head. ‘I hope they've got something cold to drink.'

Ingrid smiled to herself. Not long after, she drove into the village, stopping to ask where the Hadidi family lived. A man dressed in rough clothes, like a shepherd, explained in a gruff voice where to find the house. A moment later, Ingrid drew up near some metal gates set in a high wall and turned to Amanda, one hand on the steering wheel.

‘Do you think it will take more than an hour? Because if you want also to see the car today...' She sounded tired. ‘I would like to be in Beirut in time for dinner — Riad has to leave early on Sunday morning.'

‘Well, maybe it isn't absolutely essential.' Amanda looked sheepish. ‘I've got a bit of a hangover, to be honest, and I wouldn't mind an early night myself.'

Ingrid took out her mobile. ‘Let me call Riad. It will only take two minutes.'

Amanda opened the passenger door, got out and peered up and down the street, committing the details to memory: crumbling houses, some of them little better than in the refugee camp, telegraph poles with peeling posters, a thin dog sitting next to a dripping tap. Amanda went to the gates and tried them, breathing faster as they opened with a faint creak. She peered inside, finding herself in an empty courtyard. The single-storey house was painted white, forming a square with the wall which bordered the road. Shrivelled plants in olive oil cans stood against the peeling walls, giving the place a neglected air.

‘Hello?
Marhaba?
'

To Amanda's left, a door swung open. A young woman appeared, saying something over one shoulder. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, pretty much like Amanda in fact, and her dark hair was shoulder-length. She looked wary, suspicious even, and Amanda wished she had waited for Ingrid.

‘Do you speak English?'

The girl responded in Arabic.

‘I'm sorry —' Amanda looked at the girl, not sure what to do. Behind her the gate creaked again and she was relieved when Ingrid appeared beside her, putting away her mobile. ‘Ingrid! Can you tell her why we're here?'

‘Sure.'

Ingrid smiled and pointed at herself and Amanda in turn. Amanda waited, expecting the girl's suspicion to melt away, but she continued to regard them through narrowed eyes. When Ingrid had finished, she shook her head and lifted a hand to her eyes, not saying anything. It looked as if she was about to cry, but instead she took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

‘What's going on?' Amanda whispered.

Ingrid put out a hand to silence her. The young woman had pulled herself together and she was able to answer Ingrid's questions, gesturing with one hand beyond the gate. Ingrid's face darkened, and the exchange speeded up, the girl responding several times with single emphatic words.
Eventually she glanced behind her, said something to Ingrid and went inside the house. Amanda heard raised voices, then the girl returned with an older woman, her brown face heavily lined, her hair covered by a grey scarf. Everyone began speaking at once, in Arabic, and Amanda's head swivelled from one to another as she tried to understand what was going on.

She said, ‘Is this the right place? Did Aisha—'

Ingrid brushed the questions aside. ‘I do not understand,' she said. ‘They say Marwan —'

The old woman was openly weeping now. Feeling uneasy, Amanda gripped Ingrid's arm. She remembered the bomb damage in the valley: ‘Has something happened to him?'

Ingrid glanced round the courtyard. She wiped her brow, damp with perspiration, and said something to the two women. The girl darted across the courtyard to a door, opened it and stood back.

‘In there,' Ingrid said, sounding exhausted. ‘At least we can sit down...'

Amanda followed her into a square room, blinking as the girl turned on a light and dust motes danced in the heavy air. Somewhere, in the distance, a baby began to cry. ‘Is there any chance of a drink?' she whispered. ‘Water, tea, anything?'

Ingrid lowered her bag to the floor and sat down on a bench which ran round three sides of the room. She said something to the young woman, who nodded and left the room, switching on a ceiling fan as she went.

Amanda went to a wall unit, picked up a photo frame and held it aloft: ‘Look! It's Marwan. So we're in the right place.'

‘Of course, that is not the problem. Please, Amanda, sit down.'

Amanda put the picture frame back in its place, among a collection of family photos. She moved a couple of kelim cushions and settled herself next to Ingrid. ‘All right, what's the big mystery?'

Ingrid breathed out. ‘First, from what I can gather, Marwan is in Khiam.'

‘Where's Khiam?'

‘It is a very bad place — a prison run by the SLA.'

‘Those guys we met on the road?'

‘Yes. They torture people — dogs, electric shocks.'

‘Marwan is there? Why?'

‘That is one of the things I am trying to find out.'

There was a noise at the door and the young woman appeared with a tray.

‘Choucran
,' Ingrid said, getting up to take it from her.

The girl pulled up a small table and they bent over it together, talking in Arabic as she poured two glasses of mint tea. Amanda watched, thinking she would have preferred a cold drink but doubting whether the family even owned a fridge.

‘Thanks.' She took a glass and sipped from it as the girl sat down at a polite distance.

Ingrid said, ‘This is Amal, Marwan's sister.' The older woman entered the room, coming to sit beside the girl, her gnarled fingers clasping and unclasping. ‘His mother, Um Marwan.'

Amanda nodded at each of them in turn, able to see the resemblance to the boy in the photo. Ingrid spoke to Amal in Arabic, listening to what seemed to be a long story, interrupted occasionally by Marwan's mother.

Eventually she turned to Amanda. ‘You were right — Aisha came here with Fabio. He wanted to see Marwan, but he's been taken to Khiam.'

‘Where is this place?'

‘Not far — maybe that is why we met those men on the road.'

Amal interjected, repeating the words ‘Al-Khiam' several times. Ingrid translated: ‘Fabio was upset. He wanted to go to Khiam, but Aisha —' She paused to ask a question. ‘Amal is saying Aisha did not think it was safe. She said they should go to Beirut and come back with people from an NGO, perhaps a camera crew.'

The mother said a few words and Ingrid smiled faintly. ‘She says CNN. Everyone has heard of CNN.'

‘To get him out, you mean?'

Ingrid nodded. ‘Once someone is in this place, they disappear for years.'

Now the older woman was speaking, her voice lower and more guttural than her daughter's. Ingrid listened, frowning.

‘What's she saying?'

‘Something about a helicopter.' Ingrid asked a question and Amal took over, speaking fast and gesturing with her hands.

‘The one that took Aisha to hospital?'

‘No — a military helicopter. Shh.'

After a while, Amal finished speaking and took a cup of tea to her mother, coaxing her to drink it. The older woman sipped listlessly, her eyes watery and red.

Amanda said suddenly: ‘You don't think he's dead? Is that why they're so upset?'

‘They do not know. What they are saying —' Ingrid hesitated. ‘I will tell you, but you have to forget all your Western ideas for a moment, Amanda.'

She waited, not sure what was coming.

‘The next morning — they stayed the night, you were right about that as well — Fabio went to see someone in the village, the head man, and came back very late. The next morning, while they were deciding what to do, a helicopter flew over the house. Aisha recognised it from the day before. It had flown overhead while Fabio was taking pictures on the road.'