Marie remembers how simple her life was before her father gave her the photo. She understands that Jean Boivin was not her biological father, but he was the only father she had ever known. His absence still weighs her down. She decides to phone Carmen, Jean’s wife. She no longer calls Carmen mother. A coolness plagues their relationship since Carmen moved back to Quebec City and began living with another man. Marie punches in the number, slowly, deliberately.
“Allo?”
“Carmen, c’est moi.”
“Marie?”
“Oui.”
“How are you? Where have you been? It’s been a month.”
“Désolée. I should have called earlier.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re all right though?”
“Yes, can I talk to you about Papa?”
“Is it the photo again?”
“Yes.”
“Marie, I really don’t know anything about it.”
“But you knew that I wasn’t your child, and you never told me.”
“It was what your father wanted. He wanted to protect you. He wanted you to feel loved. We always loved you!”
“I know. I love you too.” She wants to say Maman, but she hears movement in the background. “Is he there?”
“Yes, Philippe and I were just sitting down for breakfast.”
Marie pauses. She doesn’t want this intruder to overhear her conversation, but she’s come too far. Time is pressing and answers are needed.
“Is the woman in the photo my biological mother?”
“I don’t know. How could I? The first time I saw the photo was when you showed me it. Jean just told me that you were orphaned. That’s all he ever said.”
“Tell me again everything you know. It’s important.”
“All I know is that your father arranged the adoption from the Sisters of Charity when he served in Lebanon. I was surprised when he wrote me about the adoption. I said yes because your father couldn’t have his own children, and in his letter, it was already apparent that he loved you. I knew that there was more to it, but I never asked. Sometimes, your father could be secretive, even with me. For a while, I wondered if somehow Jean had strayed, had an affair and you were born of it. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him that. Before he left Canada, we’d had our problems. Every couple does. When he returned with you, life was perfect. Perfect until the end.”
Her mother’s sobs come through the line. Guilt overcomes Marie. Why is she putting her through this? Then she hears her say: “It’s all right, Philippe.” The intruder’s presence angers her.
“Marie, are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Will you come up to Quebec soon?”
“Of course, but I have another assignment first. In Paris, this time.”
“Marie, tu me manques.”
“I miss you too … Maman.”
The pause, the silent reconciliation, lasts a short eternity, the blink of an immortal’s eyelash, and then the line goes dead.
The room has grown larger as if to confuse Marie as where she should turn next. She feels her vitality escape from her languid limbs and slumps onto the sofa.
There on the coffee table is the photo album. A collection of what has been, false promises of what was to be forever. She flips through its pages. Tricycles to bikes to her first car. Bathing suits on sandy beaches to parkas in the snow. There he is, her father. He looks so handsome in his uniform. She turns to the end of the album. He’s sitting up in his hospital smock, smiling through the pain. It was taken one day before he died from throat cancer. It’s the keepsake of the last time she saw him, the day he gave her the photo. He could no longer speak. When she asked him what the photo was about, he summoned up the energy to write on a scrap of paper: It was on you when I found you. She wanted to ask him more about it, but when he closed his eyes and began to breathe calmly, she held back. She leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, then sat by his bed until he was fast asleep.
That night, Marie had her first dream of the boy at the wall. She had no idea where it came from or what it meant. She only knew it had something to do with the photo. When she returned to the hospital the next morning, Jean Boivin had passed from this world.
Taragon’s taxi pulls to 10, rue de Solférino, the Paris headquarters of the French Socialist Party. Kressmann has agreed to meet him, but insists that a couple of colleagues also attend. He knows that these men will be sceptical, perhaps even cynical. They will have heard the entreaties of the Palestinians and the wild optimism of the Israeli Left before. Madrid in 1991 had infused everyone with excitement—an end to decades of bloodshed. Rabin’s murder struck all peace supporters hard. The turbulent years of the Intifada, the rise of Hamas in Gaza, and the iron fist of successive right-wing governments have jaded most of them. And now he, a journalist, is going to present them with a blueprint for peace—another pipe dream? He readies himself for ridicule from these hard-nosed politicians.
He knows that Kressmann is putting his reputation on the line in meeting him, but Kressmann is indebted to Taragon in more ways than one. He also owes a debt to ‘Akkawi for saving his life when the Phalangists surrounded his small clinic in Naba’a. To Bronstein, it is a dette du sang—two left-wing Jews who’ve both fought hard for their people to be part of, not apart from the world—to march on the righteous side of history and not sink into the role of oppressors.
Taragon will have to make a compelling case for Kressmann to bring his fellow Socialists onside. Then he can reel in the Spanish Left, and hopefully the Scandinavians. The junior senator from Illinois, Barack Obama, has also just announced his run for the presidency, and Taragon hopes to convince America’s new voice of political moderation to endorse the initiative.
The questions that Kressmann may ask race through his mind. How to convince Hamas and the Palestinian Authority? How to neutralize the settler movement? The Right of Return—what Israelis would ever agree to that? He’s been preparing his answers since leaving Greece.
“Twenty euros.”
“Pardon?”
“The fare is twenty euros,” the cab driver repeats.
“Yes, of course. Here you are.”
Taragon’s heart beats faster. He straightens his shoulders and brushes the hair from his forehead. He sees the shadows underneath his eyes in the reflection of the glass of the building.
Chapter
18
Athens – April 2007
AGAINST TARAGON’S ADVICE, Abdullah ‘Akkawi decides to make a play to bring others into the initiative. So instead of taking his new identity and heading to Spain as they agreed, he island-hops the Aegean in a number of small fishing boats to the southern coast of the Peloponnese. From there, he works his way up to Athens, where his old friend Adil Nashashibi is vacationing. Dr. Nashashibi was the PLO’s long-standing ambassador to Greece, and the year before was elected Chair of the PLO’s Political Committee. Since Arafat’s death, his influence has grown in the organization, and he’s one of the few Fatah leaders whom Hamas still holds in respect. He’s also one of the few accorded the privilege by the Greek government of visiting Greece as often as he wants. He once succeeded in convincing PLO dissidents to release a Greek passenger ship. Gratitude goes a long way in the Greek memory. So does vengeance.
En route to Athens, Abdullah stops off in Tripolitza where, in 1821, Greek nationalists massacred eight thousand Muslims and Jews. His mother, Meryem, told him the story of how her grandmother escaped to resettle in Algeria. But the rest of the Jews perished. It’s a pilgrimage he has wanted to make for a long time—a sober tribute to his mixed heritage. Although it’s been years since he abandoned his atheist youth and submitted to Allah, Abdullah has also never denied his Jewish blood. Why should he? It was Abraham who first submitted to the will of Allah. He has merely followed in the Jewish patriarch’s footsteps. Truly, Allah does not distinguish between Jews and Muslims. Here in Tripolitza, they were murdered
as one.
Abdullah searches for some acknowledgement of the massacre—some atonement of it, but there is none. Instead, statues of heroes of the Greek War of Independence adorn the city. He cannot help but think of Churchill’s observation that “history is written by the victor.” He knows the success of the agreement negotiated in Arkassa is crucial to the survival of the Palestinians, and now believes that it will be just as important for his mother’s people.
The train pulls out of Tripolitza’s station. Soon, it is snaking its way through the mountains and plains of the Peloponnese. A quiet land. A land now at peace with itself, but it was not always so. In the low-lying fog, he imagines Philip’s Macedonian phalanxes spearing the Greek citizen soldiers. From his train window, he can see the mountains of Laconia, the frontier of the Macedonian advance. He hears again the words of Father Jean, a French Jesuit, who visited his school in Beirut to teach them the history of Greece and Rome: “Philip sent a message to the Spartans saying: ‘If I enter Laconia, I will raze Sparta.’ They answered with a single word: αἴκα—if.”
It was this example of ancient courage, Spartans’ steadfastness that pushed him to join the fedayeen. Forty-five years have now passed in the struggle to regain his land. Against all odds, he is still alive. The Arkassa Pact is now crucial to his goal—he must persevere. His eyes grow heavy and he dreams of happier times, of holding Munir, Hedaya’s soft hands on his shoulder, and his cousin Hoda’s graceful smile. The train slows and then jerks as it changes tracks. And the Athenian suburbs in their concrete vacuity consume his dreams.
Bronstein curses Taragon as he walks up the snow-covered spiral staircase in Outremont. How did Taragon convince him into this frozen exile? It’s April. How can it still be so cold here in Montreal? At home, the geese are plentiful in the Alonim Hills. The Bedouin of Basmat Tab’un are cleaning their old rifles, ready for the spring hunt. He thinks fondly of Abu Yassin, who taught him to hunt, to recite poetry and to judge no man by his colour or religion. It’s been a year since his mentor passed away. Most importantly, he learned honour and respect from the Bedouin leader. His teachings served Bronstein well when his world shattered amidst the bickering of religious bigots and right-wing racists.
Bronstein shivers. His spring jacket offers little protection from the bitter cold. He pushes the doorbell and waits. From the staircase, he watches two Hassidic men walking with their sons. His entire life, he has never understood the Haredim. Like many secular Israelis, he resents how they exploit the state, avoiding military service and draining the government resources with their excessive demands for social services for their burgeoning families. Now Taragon has banished him halfway around the world to live among them. Suddenly, Bronstein feels ashamed. He’s preaching reconciliation between Arabs and Jews, but is still plagued by his own bigotry.
“Bonjour.”
Bronstein turns to the face half-hidden in the partly opened door. The eyes are deep and alluring, despite the scars around them.
“Puis-je vous aider?”
“Marc has sent me.”
“Oh. Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
The apartment is painted in the subtlest of pastels. There’s an air of Provence. An elegance of Paris. And the scent—what is it? He watches his hostess walk to a small statue of a kneeling being. She puts out the burning incense in the clay saucer in front of it.
“Please forgive the smell. I was just completing an offering to the Buddha for my parents.”
“It’s a beautiful scent. What is it?”
“A blend of cinnamon, mango, and papaya.”
“When did your parents pass away?”
“I don’t know. I lost touch with them thirty-two years ago, so I pray for them on the day we lost our country.”
Bronstein looks at a yellowed calendar on the wall above the shrine. In French and a language he assumes must be Vietnamese is the date April 30th. He struggles to understand its meaning. Then he remembers sitting with his young friends in the university’s cafeteria when the radio announced the Fall of Saigon.
Leyna Nguyen looks up at her guest.
“Marc was vague about when you would arrive. Tonight, I’ve invited a couple of friends for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I can take a walk.”
“In fifteen degrees below? I don’t think so. You will join us.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Of course. I have it all up here. Your name’s Anatoly Shostakovich. You were born in Irkutsk and now live in Vancouver. We met on a vacation in B.C. last summer. We’ve a common interest in classical music.”
“I didn’t know that Marc had such a vivid imagination.”
“Not Marc. He only said that I should call you Anatoly. The rest I made up. Does that work for you?”
“It’s a great cover story.”
“Good. It will be a little more convincing if you pay me a lot of attention during the dinner. They’ll think that we’re lovers and won’t ask too many questions. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Bronstein says. There’s something there, unexpected, a tiny spark between two exiles, the exchange of chi between them. Marc was right when he said: “You’ll like her.”
The doorbell rings, releasing them from the moment. Leyna quickly shows Bronstein to the guest room to put away his suitcase.
“Wait here. I’ll come get you in two minutes.”
Leyna rushes to the door and opens it to Marie Boivin, Minh Chau and a distinguished-looking man in his fifties who must be Mathieu Hibou, her new beau.
“Bonsoir Leyna. You know Marie, of course. And this is Mathieu.”
Leyna steps forward to kiss Marie on the cheeks, hugs Minh Chau and stretches her hand to Mathieu. “Enchantée.”
She sees a serenity in Mathieu’s demeanour. This pleases her. She’s never seen Minh Chau so radiant. From the corner of her eye, Leyna notices the roundness of her midriff, a bump on her cousin’s delicate frame. Is the life cycle beginning again? She looks into Minh Chau’s eyes for the confirmation of her suspicion, and then leans in to whisper: “Congratulations!”
Leyna ushers everyone into the living room, then goes upstairs to knock on the guest room’s door. Together they walk down to the living room, Leyna putting her hand around his muscular arm. Bald and missing a few teeth, Bronstein is not a handsome man, but there’s a dignity in his movement that conveys strength and confidence. And he’s someone Marc trusts so she’ll trust him too.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce Anatoly, a friend from Vancouver.”
Bronstein freezes as Mathieu Hibou looks straight into his eyes.
From a café in the Plaka, Abdullah calls Adil Nashashibi. They agree to meet that afternoon in the Benaki Islamic Art Museum. There’s hesitation in his friend’s voice. It’s been a full year since Hamas won the Palestinian legislative elections. In the last few weeks, while Abdullah negotiated the Arkassa Pact, tensions have been mounting between Hamas and Fatah. Adil is one of Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas’ earliest supporters. He explains on the phone that he’ll listen to what Abdullah has to say, but the old man is furious with Hamas. An initiative from one of the movement’s leaders will be a hard sell.
Abdullah listens calmly to his friend’s caution, but inside he scoffs. Hamas gave Abbas every chance to rein in Fatah commanders in Gaza who filled their pockets with whatever they could skim off from the Gazan economy. When Gazans complained to Abbas, his only response was to reinforce his corrupt lieutenants. Now Gaza is on the brink of civil war.
Abdullah begins to weigh his options. Arkassa has the potential to change the landscape of the Middle East, but he doesn’t share Marc’s view that they should create momentum with the international community before seeking cooperation from the Palestinian leadership. The Palestinian factions must first form a united position. He needs the support of intellectuals like Adil to make this happen. Still, his absence from Gaza has left the field open
to hotheads. Should he shelve the Arkassa initiative to return to Gaza to mediate an intra-Palestinian peace? No. Allah decided that he should join Marc and Bronstein on this journey. He will see it to its end.
Abdullah checks his wallet. He still has plenty of euros and his coded list of supporters in Europe. He’ll wait to replenish his funds in Spain. It’ll be safer there. Since the arrival of its Conservative government, decades of Greek support for the Palestinians have ended. It’s now hard to believe that Greece once sent ships to evacuate the PLO from Beirut and gave Arafat a second lease on life. Slowly, the entire world is turning its back on the Palestinians.
Abdullah decides to walk to the rendezvous at the Benaki Museum. It’s only twenty minutes away, and much of it is through the expansive National Gardens where pursuers will find it hard to hide from view. Abdullah touches the knife inside his jacket. How many has he killed with it? Ten, fifteen? Israelis, Lebanese, Palestinian informers. At first, he killed only in combat, battles of life-or-death. After Sabra, it was in anger as he hunted down his son’s killers.
When the PLO left Beirut, he threw in his lot with the Shi’a fighters. For years, he fought alongside the Hezbollah to drive out the Israelis from Lebanon and to track down the Guardians of the Cedars. He never learned which of them pulled the trigger to end his son’s life and abducted his niece, but he interrogated enough of them to confirm their collective guilt—how his wife, his aunt, his cousin all fell under their knives. His anger consumed him and vengeance seemed the only reason to continue to live. Then one Friday in a remote village on the slopes of Mount Lebanon, an old man, perhaps the village mukhtar, came to him and said: “We will pray now.” He turned to say no, that he never prayed, but he saw the man was blind. Out of respect, he rose to walk with the man toward the villagers gathered to pray outside their bombed-out mosque. The blind man placed his hand on Abdullah’s shoulder and said: “Allah leaves no man behind. He sees you. He waits for you.”
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