LITMIR.BIZ

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of ourselves as heroes, although I didn’t understand why until later.’

      I wait for her to continue.

      ‘I remember once being in Paris while expecting John back from a mission. It was early summer and many people had left the city because of the occupation. The streets, homes and shops seemed completely deserted to me and it was sad too. The truth was, of course, that there were still many Parisians there just getting on with their lives and trying to avoid attention.

      ‘I walked into a café for something to eat and there was a middle-aged woman serving. I noticed after a while that she was the only one working there, so I asked her why that was. She just put a plate of food in front of me and walked away without replying.

      ‘I didn’t stop there, of course. I finished my meal and went up to the counter where she was rinsing out some glasses and asked her why she was running the place on her own.’

      Margo clears her throat and looks out into the distance.

      ‘The woman was clearly very irritated with me but she finally gave me an answer. She said that her husband had been taken away by the Germans and that although her son and his young family had fled, she had refused to go with them.

      ‘But why would you want to stay, I asked her. “I’m waiting it out,” she said. I didn’t understand what she meant. “I’m waiting it out,” she told me again, “because I know it won’t last, war never does, and someone has to be here to put the pieces back together again when it’s all over.”’

      Margo wraps her arms around herself.

      ‘I felt so small. There I was feeling important when I suddenly realized that our fight would be won by people just like her who stubbornly held on to their daily existence and resisted just by insisting on living their lives as they always had.’

      I lean over to take her hand and we continue to gaze up together at the darkened sky.

      ‘I love you, Margo,’ I say.

      I walk through the open front door of Margo’s apartment and find a man in the sitting room. He is grey-haired and pleasant-looking and stands up as soon as I arrive.

      ‘Oh, hello,’ I say, reaching out to shake his hand. ‘I’m Layla. A friend of Margo’s.’

      ‘How do you do?’ he says, with a smile. ‘And I’m Fouad.’

      ‘Layla, sweetheart,’ Margo says, coming in from the kitchen. ‘How nice of you to drop in.’

      I turn to her and smile.

      ‘I won’t keep you, Margo,’ I say. ‘I just thought I’d come by to say hello.’

      ‘Oh, sweetheart, please sit down. I’ve been wanting you to meet Fouad for a while now. He’s a dear friend from years and years ago.’

      Margo has mentioned Fouad to me before. I nod and smile.

      ‘Why don’t I go make some more coffee?’ Margo says as I sit down. ‘I’ll be right back.’

      Fouad and I look closely at one another. I am very curious about anyone from Margo’s past.

      ‘So how long have you known Margo?’ I ask, a little surprised at my own boldness.

      ‘Hm. Would you believe over fifty years?’

      He chuckles at my astonishment and his eyes disappear into his face with his smile.

      ‘We met when I was a student in London right after the war,’ he continues. ‘It doesn’t actually feel like that long ago, but I suppose it is. What about you? How do you know Margo?’

      ‘Oh, we’re neighbours. I live on the floor below. I met her when I moved in here a few years ago.’

      I want to ask him what Margo was like when she was young but I am afraid of appearing too forward.

      ‘You want to know more about Margo and her past, don’t you?’

      I’m startled by his question.

      ‘Am I that transparent?’

      ‘I don’t blame you,’ he says, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I would be curious too. She’s a remarkable woman and she’s been through a great deal.’

      ‘She’s a very special friend,’ I say.

      ‘What is he telling you?’ Margo appears in the doorway with a tray.

      I help her carry it to the table and pour the coffee.

      ‘Just how wonderful you are, my dear,’ Fouad says. ‘But Layla already knows that, I think.’

      Margo sits down, lights a cigarette and looks at me through a cloud of smoke, her eyes half-closed, her head tilted to one side.

      ‘Fouad helped me through a very difficult period in my life,’ she says. ‘I owe him a great deal.’

      We talk mostly about Beirut and the unfolding of our lives here. With Margo looking on, I tell him about my work at the university and am then delighted to hear that he graduated from there, too many years ago to admit to, he laughs. Like me, Fouad is Beirut born and bred, though since the death of his wife two years ago he has been living in their house in the hills above the city because it is easier to be alone there, he explains, with a garden for solace and a mountain of memories to sort through.

      ‘You must come up with Margo next time she visits, Layla,’ Fouad says. ‘Get away from the strain and stress of living in Beirut. We don’t hear about the antics of our politicians up there. It’s like being in a different country.’

      ‘I would love to, thank you,’ I reply and look at Margo for a reaction.

      ‘Yes, of course you must,’ she says with a smile. ‘It would do you lots of good.’

      At home later, I replay the visit in my mind. Margo has always been guarded about her friends, especially those like Fouad from the distant past, and although I am certain he knows much more about her than I do, I don’t think she would want him to talk to me about it. It is not the first time I experience bewilderment in her presence. It is as if there are aspects to her life that I will never understand, the darker side of an otherwise resplendent moon.

      I think of love as a state of being that I might one day find myself in without previous intention. This is how I feel about Beirut, after all, an attachment that I am not conscious of ever acquiring, my love for it having no beginning nor a likely end, a bond that is impossible to abandon because it has become so much a part of me.

      Soon after my return to Beirut, a colleague in my department who had been born in America to Lebanese parents asks me to come out to see a film with him. The film, based on a novel about immigrants in a Western city, is very moving, and afterwards, over a light dinner at a quiet restaurant not far from the theatre, we discuss it at length, examine the motivation behind the characters’ actions and the strengths and weaknesses of the plot.

      ‘I imagine the reverse is also true, that it has been difficult for you to adjust to being here again, after all the years away,’ David says as we eventually make our way home.

      ‘This country has changed so much since I was a child,’ I sigh.

      ‘And you are very different as well, aren’t you?’

      I laugh nervously and stop to look up at him for a moment.

      ‘Yes, that too, I suppose.’

      With time, I discover in David an underlying kindness that puts me at my ease. It is not just being with him that makes me contented but also the anticipation of our encounters, the certainty that they will continue to be a part of today and of the days to come. We speak of work and of our pasts, the small town in Virginia where David’s parents had settled and his childhood there, my experience of the civil war and the years that followed my family’s departure. We also indulge our mutual love of literature by discussing favourite authors and books, the successes

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