Bone Ash Sky (67 page)

I have vague notions of finding the barn, examining it for some trace of my father’s time there. A marking on the floor, some faint initials carved into the wooden beams. A message to me that would vindicate him. Sometime around noon I sit under the shade of an olive tree and drink my whole bottle of water, knowing I’ll regret it. I make my way into a field and squat, hoping no one will see me. When I’m finished I walk across the field to where I can see a small hut made of timber, partly obscured by mulberry trees. Even if there’s nobody home, at least walking through grass is preferable to walking in the dust. And the mulberries might be bearing fruit at this time of year – I’m getting really hungry now.

As I walk, a man emerges from the side of the hut. He’s zipping his trousers. I come closer and see him go inside, come out again with a plate and a paring knife. I stop under the trees, peering at him through bright sunlight. He’s tall, maybe fifty, with a creased forehead and leathery brown cheeks. A farm worker spending the hottest part of the day in the shade. His movements seem restricted; he lumbers back and forth on the threshold of the hut like a dog patrolling a patch of territory. His eyes are blank, unfocused, and he seems excited, as a child would be, to have me here. He must be mentally challenged, what I would have called in my childhood
slow
.

He comes toward me and stretches out his hand – I recoil, thinking he’s going to strike me – but all he’s offering is a tiny morsel of rolled-up pita bread. He advances. The black nails are close to my mouth now. I shake my head but there’s no way I can refuse his food without offending him. I open my mouth and chew, realising that inside the bread is kibbeh, raw mince pounded with lemon juice and parsley and cracked wheat. I force myself to swallow it down, tears springing to my eyes with the effort, and sit down gratefully on the plastic stool the man has provided. I know I’ll soon have to vomit, know it and at the same time try to convince myself otherwise. I look around for some distraction, up at the mulberries glinting like dark eyes among the leaves. The man follows my gaze and picks some. I watch his awkward, bear-like movements as if he’s far away, in another frame, another time.

Was my father buried here, somewhere under these thick-leaved trees? Did Issa Ali dig Selim’s grave before he drove the truck to his own death, or did one of his fellow fundamentalists? Did my father have to sweat in the hot sun himself, fear of death making his hands shake as they held the spade? I look around wildly. Should I knock on every door in the village, ask if they know of a man named Selim Pakradounian? Am I failing my father – just as he failed me – by even stopping here, giving up?

The slow man smiles at me, burbles something in a language of his own making. The berries fall into my lap; I stare at them stupidly. He motions for me to eat, taking one and snapping off the hard stalk. I raise one to my mouth and in that instant I’m running to the other side of the hut, bringing up meat and bread and raisins, and behind me I can sense the man’s hot, wet hand on the nape of my neck and his soothing murmur, and I know in that moment there’s nothing to be found here.

BEIRUT, 1983

I
t was 6.12 am on 18 April 1983.

Issa woke in a nasty mood. He’d worked himself up over the last few weeks to feel this way. Brittle, full of hate. Spitting venom. Even abusing the poor peasant boy who came each morning with a basin of water to wash his face and feet and hands, towel him, hand him glasses of tea. This morning he waved the boy away. He wanted nothing to eat or drink. He wanted to sit alone on the floor in the corner of the room and pray. Read the Koran.
Believers, why is it that, when you are
told, ‘March in the cause of God,’ you linger slothfully in the land? Are
you content with this life in preference to the life to come?
He wanted to meditate on the next twenty-four hours. Maybe he’d even let himself cry. Just this once.

He told himself his motives were purely political. He wanted the peacekeeping forces to know they were defeated; helpless in Beirut’s maw. He’d been sucked in then expelled; why shouldn’t they? He wanted the Americans, British, Italians and French to know their stupid little sortie in Lebanon was doomed. And what better way to do it than by bombing the US embassy? He too would die, but round-armed virgins awaited him. And he was sure his mother would be proud and grateful, if only for the best Iranian rice, flour, sugar and coffee Islamic Jihad would give her in compensation. And the cash he’d negotiated? He was sure she’d share it with Sanaya. Sanaya had told him she was pregnant and at first he’d been frightened, worried for them all. Then, as he watched her quieten over those days, and soften toward him, all he’d felt was tenderness and regret that he had to leave her and their unborn child. He knew his death would shock Sanaya into loving him completely, drive his memory straight into her heart so she would never be able to forget him.

But there was more to it than that – and he only allowed himself to admit so when he was in the barn with Selim, watching the beatings. He must sacrifice his earthly joy with Sanaya to gain eternal life. Only by being a martyr for Allah could he hope to be with her forever. Her face would be in that of the houris chosen to wait upon him. Her hands would caress him through their pearl-tipped fingers. He would taste her mouth through the fruits of immortality. Her arrival in Paradise by his side would be inevitable as long as he kept his given promise in this life.

His only twinge of doubt was in the impossibility of seeing his child born before he died. To see its tiny rosebud fingernails, its ten perfect toes. His own tinsel eyes staring out at him from another face. Some days he thought Allah compensated for his approaching death by giving him the gift of prophecy. He could see his earthly future in front of him as he slept, hold the gurgling baby and at the same time breathe in the fragrance of Paradise. His dreams were sharp, clear-cut as reality. They were spiritual dreams, sent down by Allah, not the mere inventions of a tired brain. He saw huge phoenixes with green plumage taking him up into the clouds, an inky sky that flaunted all the arabesques and flourishes of a Koranic inscription. The birds sang in classical Arabic,
Chosen one, you will see your child in Heaven.
Even with these manifold spiritual gifts, some days he feared the inevitability of his own annihilation. Yet he was committed to Islamic Jihad, had told them he would do it. And he knew now that violence was the only valid path to freedom. There was no other way.

He was chosen for the job long ago, although he hadn’t known it until now. From the beginning of his appointment to the organisation, he was marked for suicide. He was given the easy jobs, the sure battles, in case he accidentally died in combat and ruined their plans. His decision to accept this project months ago reverberated higher and higher up through the organisation into Iran. To back out now would mean certain death. Death without glory. At least this way he would be a holy warrior for the cause and be lifted straight up to Paradise. He would also wipe out the stain of his weakness with the commander, the memory of his cowardice down south.

It was a hushed spring morning, the beginning of Easter Holy Week for the Christians. The fervid light of the Beka’a Valley had woken him too early. He walked outside to the well, pumped up some brackish water and splashed his face. Unbarred the barn door and kicked Selim into consciousness.

‘What are you doing, pretty boy?’

He saw Selim swallow, force the thick sounds out of his mouth through dry lips. ‘Praying. Praying you’ll spare me today.’

‘You’ll need it,’ Issa answered. ‘Pray for all you’re worth, which isn’t much.’

Selim groaned and turned to face the wall. His chains clanged, giving off a vile smell. Issa muttered under his breath, ‘No more French cologne for you, pretty boy.’

It was 9.30 am. Sanaya woke later than usual and banged her alarm clock down on the side table. Dead again. She sat on the side of the bed. Sleep pooled around her, dragging her down once more, caressing her heavy eyes, melting her limbs under warm flesh. Ever since her pregnancy had become established and the nausea had abated, all she wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and dream of Issa and the baby. Together in a sunlit field of flowers. Red poppies, irises, forget-me-nots. The cleansing aroma of thyme, its miniature purple buds. Blades of wet grass sticking to their bare legs. She contemplated lying down for a few minutes longer, until she remembered. The shock each time she woke and remembered Issa–Selim, Selim–Issa always paralysed her for a few minutes.

Today she stood up and decided to do something, anything. If she surrendered to despair, she might as well die now. She set her jaw, opened the blinds. It was a shimmering spring morning and she dressed lightly, packed some toiletries in a bag, wrote a note for Rouba which she would leave under her door.
Not sure when I’ ll be back.

She was sure Issa had taken Selim to the Beka’a Valley. She read in the newspapers that this was where Islamic Jihad took all their victims eventually. She had only to make it across the Green Line without some trigger-happy sniper shooting her in the back, and grab a taxi. She had only to mention Issa’s Arabic name to one of the Muslim drivers, or to mention Selim’s Armenian surname to one of the Christians. Her dilemma was to decide which was the wisest choice.

She ran downstairs and placed the note under Rouba’s door. Coming upstairs to get her bag, she felt a swell of nausea and rushed to the bathroom.

It was 10.37 am when Sanaya gathered together her bag and keys and made for the door. As she opened it, the proximity of Rouba’s face made her utter a small, confused yelp.

‘Come on, Sanaya, I don’t look
that
bad when I’ve got no make-up on.’

‘You startled me. I thought you were at work.’

‘I just got your note. Where are you going, may I ask?’

‘To visit some friends for the day.’

‘Which friends? Do I know them?’

‘I need to get out of the city.’

‘Do I know them?’

‘No—no, they’re old friends from school.’

Rouba walked to the divan and threw herself down on it.

‘You’re pregnant; you’re not thinking straight. And I know you’re lying.’

Sanaya crossed the room and sat alongside her, holding her travelling bag to her stomach.

‘There’s no point going anywhere, Sanaya. They’re going to kill him anyway. For all we know, he could be dead already.’

‘Selim?’

‘No! What are you talking about? Issa. He won’t be doing exactly what they tell him, I assure you.’

At 1.03 pm she hurried to the taxi rank on the Corniche. Bombed apartment buildings rose against the flat, yellow sky. The streets had been smashed so many times by shells the tar had turned to dirt, brown dust coating her arms and face whenever a car drove past. She’d been fighting with Rouba for what seemed like hours. Rouba had insisted Sanaya eat something. She took her downstairs and packed her a lunch.

Now she rushed through the crowds – why did they all seem so frantic? – her handbag upending and spilling all its contents. She left the lunch on the ground. As she bent with difficulty to gather the rest, she was shaking.
My God, it may be too late to get through the border into
east Beirut. I may be shot. Killed. And my baby.
She hesitated, pressed two fingers to her yielding belly. A taxi driver smoked a cigarette as he waited, saw her and opened the car door.