Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  She walks over to her suitcase and looks for the photo, the one that Selima took of them. She considers attaching a note to the photo for Marc and entrusting it to one of the departing fighters. She could ask him to give it to the French legionnaires who are escorting Arafat’s troops to the port.

  “Hoda, please come.”

  She turns to see Hedaya standing at the door to the bedroom.

  “Your father is asking for you. He doesn’t sound well at all.”

  Hoda pockets the photo and goes to the bedroom.

  Chapter

  57

  Tiberias – September 2007

  THE BLAST COMES just as Bronstein helps the last person out of the room. He hears his ribs crack as it throws him against the doorway. He pulls himself up. The chairs and tables in the room are piled up, obscuring the view of the podium. Bronstein pushes several aside. He sees Taragon’s bloody form propped up against the far wall. The bomber’s body parts are strewn over a radius of ten feet. Bronstein knows the chances of another bomb are high, one timed to explode just as the first responders turn up. He is about to leave when he hears the moan. It can’t be. He turns, and for a moment thinks he sees Taragon’s shoulder move.

  Bronstein staggers forward. The distance to Taragon seems like an infinity. Through the constant ringing in his ears, he strains to listen for another sign of life. Maybe he has imagined it? How could Taragon have survived the blast? He’s about to collapse when he finally reaches his friend’s body. The bomb has inflicted a massive chest wound. The left side of Taragon’s face is a tangle of veins, flesh and torn skin. Bronstein kneels down and presses his index finger on the artery of his friend’s neck. Nothing. He tries to administer CPR, but when he places his hands on Taragon’s chest, the bones shatter. His hands sink deep into the cavity and press against the heart. He cups the heart for a moment in a desperate hope to feel a sign of life. Again nothing. He angrily looks at the remains of Taragon’s murderer. Who was he? Bronstein knows that he won’t rest until he discovers the assailant’s identity and who ordered the assassination. He knows what he must do, and reaches over to pick up the severed digit.

  The SWAT squad rushes into the room to whisk Bronstein away before the second bomb hidden in the ceiling turns the room into flames, charring the remains of Taragon and his assailant.

  Chapter

  58

  France – October 2007

  THE SUN RISES as the train passes Limoges. Still four hours before they reach Toulouse. Leyna’s head is resting against Marie’s shoulder. As the train changes tracks, Leyna wakes and looks into the young woman’s eyes. “Are we there?”

  “No, go back to sleep,” Marie says.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  Leyna sits up and takes Marie’s hand.

  “It hurts me too, but there’s nothing to do except bring him home.”

  “Have you ever been there?” Marie asks.

  “Where?”

  “Rennes.”

  “Yes, twice when I was very young.”

  “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  “Then, I thought I did. I mean of course I loved him, but then I thought we would be always together.”

  “What happened?”

  “He fell in love with someone else. It was a long time ago.”

  “Did Minh Chau tell you?”

  “That you thought that Marc could have been your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  “No, I don’t, but after we bury Marc, I’m going to Lebanon to be sure. Someone there is going to help me find the truth.”

  “Selima?”

  “Yes, you know?”

  “Minh Chau told me. She told me everything.”

  “So you must know that my mother was Hoda ‘Akkawi. Was she the woman who took Marc from you?”

  “Yes. It was a long time ago, Marie. I learned to love Marc another way after that. He was my friend, my best friend. He was always there for me. Always so easy to love.”

  Leyna wipes her tears and turns to Marie. The young woman’s face is ashen, her eyes hollow, so empty. Leyna squeezes Marie’s hand and melds her grief into her own.

  Marie and Leyna descend from the train and walk to the baggage car. The porters are already unloading the casket. Marie freezes when she sees it. It is still so hard to believe that he’s gone. She feels Leyna squeeze her arm, then a slight tug to turn her around. A small woman, perhaps in her eighties, leads a group of men toward them. At her side is a tall, thin man. Marie recognizes him immediately—Kressmann.

  Leyna walks ahead to bring the old woman forward.

  “Marie, this is Madame Taragon. Jacinta, this is Marie Boivin.”

  “I know. She’s exactly like Marc described her.”

  The old woman walks purposefully forward, places her hands on Marie’s face and pulls her down to kiss her cheeks. Marie feels the tears well up in her eyes, in their eyes.

  “Little one, let’s not cry. We must be strong.”

  Marie cannot hold back any longer. In the arms of the diminutive Jacinta Suárez de Tarragona, she collapses.

  Chapter

  59

  The Koura Valley, Lebanon – October 2007

  IT’S JUST A FEW MORE KILOMETRES until they reach Bsarma. Selima looks at the young woman in the driver’s seat. It isn’t just Hoda that she sees in her. She sees Nabil as well. She wishes he’d lived long enough to be with them now. But the bouts of rheumatic fever during his childhood finally took their toll on his fragile heart. Selima had visited Nabil’s grave before picking Marie up in Beirut. He spoke to her. He asked that something of his be given to the young woman, the last of their bloodline. Selima went back to her house on the hill to go through his paintings. She knew right away which one she’d choose as Nabil’s gift. It sits beside her now, wrapped in plain brown paper.

  Marie fidgets. She feels strange to be beside this woman who claims to be her aunt, this woman who has assured her that she’ll find in Bsarma what she’s looking for. Marie had pressed her in Beirut for details, but Selima insisted that she should hear it first-hand from people who knew Hoda during her years in the village.

  The road flattens out as they pass by Amioun with its centuries-old hand-carved monk caves. The beauty of the valley quiets Marie’s nerves. It’s a place in touch with nature and the past.

  “They call the Koura, the holy valley. The Christians here are very devout. They’re mostly Greek Orthodox and Maronites.”

  “Maronites? Were they Phalangists?”

  “No, the Maronite population here fought hard against Gemayel’s forces. But they weren’t saints either.”

  “You’re a Maronite, aren’t you, Selima?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Hoda was your sister-in-law. She was a Muslim, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right. I married her brother Nabil. And yes, he was a Muslim. Neither of us cared about religion. We escaped together the madness of the civil war here, and lived many wonderful years in France.”

  “Is your husband still alive.”

  “He died two years ago from heart complications.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Selima gazes at Marie and takes her hand in hers.

  “You would have loved your Uncle Nabil.”

  Uncle. The word sounds so strange to Marie.

  “Look, that is Bsarma,” Selima says.

  Marie slows her rental car. The road now has many people walking along it, but few young ones. Most have immigrated.

  “Our hosts were very excited when I told them you were Canadian. Almost everyone here has family in Montreal.”

  Marie says nothing. It’s still hard for her to believe that it was only three days ago they buried Taragon. At his mother’s insistence, they marched high into the Pyrenees to lay him beside his father. Kressmann walked beside her the whole way, denouncing the bombing in Tiberias. But he told Marie to forget Arkassa. The foc
us was now on American efforts in Annapolis. The right of return for the refugees and separate status for Jerusalem would never be accepted by the majority of Israelis. With American support at Annapolis, the Palestinians still had a real chance for a state of their own.

  Marie was disappointed with Kressmann’s dismissal of Taragon’s initiative. She can’t understand his faith in the Americans. Perhaps, he’s just naïve. Perhaps just another tired politician too cynical to stand up for what is right. She’s looking forward to seeing Bronstein again. She knows that he won’t give up on Arkassa. Leyna is already on her way to Tel Aviv to help him convalesce. She’ll join them soon and together they’ll plan the next steps.

  Selima tells Marie to stop the car in front of a stone house covered with climbing vines. An old woman emerges from it, propped up by a girl in her late teens. Selima is out of the car and walking up to the woman. Marie follows slowly.

  The old woman squints her eyes and leans toward Marie.

  “Mashallah—What God has willed.” She reaches out to take Marie’s hands and stands there with her mouth open for a moment.

  “Come, grandma,” the girl says, leading the old woman back to the house. Then she says to Marie and Selima: “Please come. We have tea and sweets inside.”

  They walk into the modest house. The girl brings a teapot and a plate of baklava.

  “Marie, this is Um Amin and her granddaughter Nadine,” Selima says. “Um Amin speaks very little French, but Nadine can translate.”

  Marie pulls out the photo that she had wanted to show Taragon.

  Um Amin falls into her chair and pats her chest.

  When the old woman recovers. She looks intensely at Marie.

  “I see Marwan in you, and Hoda too.”

  “Marwan?” Marie says.

  “Your father.”

  Marie looks at Selima who raises her hand to wait.

  Um Amin slowly tells Marie what she has wanted to know for so long. A mother of exquisite beauty who’d loved her. A father who died heroically defending the village. But also a brother who died at birth. The old woman tells Marie the name her mother gave her—Meryem. Marie repeats the two simple syllables of the origin of her being, and looks into the faded grey eyes of the old woman.

  “And the man in the photo?”

  “Ma b‘arifu—I don’t know him.”

  Marie quietly explains that he’s a French journalist called Marc Taragon.

  No, the old woman explains, Hoda had never mentioned a Frenchman. She was Marwan’s wife and the mother of his children. That’s how she knew her. That’s how everyone in Bsarma knew her. She was a good woman, a good mother.

  Marie politely asks the old woman for more details. She asks her what happened to Hoda when she left Bsarma. Wait, she answers and whispers to Nadine. Two minutes later, the girl returns with a stack of letters. One after another Selima translates them for Marie. They speak of Hoda’s happiness at being reunited with her parents. How handsome and big her nephew Munir had become. Munir—the boy’s name triggers her memory. The last kiss from her mother before being sent off with her cousin. Hoda’s face is as vivid as if she were standing there before her now. Dark hair, olive skin, coal-black eyes as piercing as they were beautiful.

  “Wait, Meryem!” Um Amin says. She walks over to a cedar chest. She opens it and brings back a photo.

  “Votre père,” she says.

  Marie freezes. Selima takes her hand.

  “He was so handsome, your father.”

  Marie stares at the young Marwan Kanaan. He is perhaps fourteen. His curly dark blond hair flows over his ears. His high cheekbones give him nobility. His eyes betray the curiosity of youth.

  “Do … do you have other photos?”

  The old woman shakes her head, but Selima opens her purse.

  “Meryem, this is your father at university.” Selima too has begun to address Marie by her birth name, and when she says it, it sounds so real.

  Marie takes the photo in her hand. It seems unbelievable to her.

  “Would you like to visit him?” Nadine asks.

  Marie looks confused.

  “I mean his grave,” Nadine says.

  “He’s buried here?”

  “Yes, come.”

  Marie processes the new information as she walks with the women toward the church. The small cemetery gate is in a bad state of repair. It takes a jolt to open it. They walk up to a small engraved stone bearing her father’s name. Beside it is the name Rami Kanaan.

  “Is this my brother?”

  “Yes.”

  Marie searches her memory for a prayer to recite. It’s been years since she was inside a church. Her mind draws a blank.

  Selima senses her frustration.

  “What is it, Meryem?”

  “I can’t remember any prayers. I should say something, shouldn’t I?”

  “Your father wasn’t a religious man, but he loved poetry. Do you know Gibran Khalil Gibran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then say this with me. It was your father’s favourite poem. I remember him reciting it once at a poetry reading at the university. He had such a beautiful voice.”

  Marie listens to Selima begin, and then repeats her words.

  Where are you, my beautiful star?

  The obscurity of life has cast me upon its bosom.

  Sorrow has conquered me.

  Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!

  Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

  Where are you, my beloved?

  Oh, how great is Love!

  And how little am I!

  Chapter

  60

  Bsarma – October 2007

  THE WORDS OF GIBRAN’S POETRY give Marie a sense of completeness. She smiles at the women, and silently thanks them for their kindness.

  “Can we go back?” she asks.

  “Yes, you will want to visit your house first,” Nadine says.

  “My house?”

  “Yes, your great-grandfather’s house now belongs to you. You can stay there tonight. We’ve cleaned it for you.”

  The women return to the small house next to Um Amin’s. Outside it is a tall olive tree.

  “Your father planted this tree when he was a young boy,” Um Amin says. “It’s now strong and bears a lot of fruit. It will live a long time, like you. I’m old, and God willing, I’ll soon see your father and mother in the other world. I’ll tell them how beautiful their daughter has become. They’ll be very happy.”

  The old woman opens the door and then presses the rusty key into Marie’s hand. “Meryem, it’s your home now. You should come often. You’re a daughter of Bsarma.”

  “Thank you.”

  Selima and Marie decide to stay the night. It’s far too late to return to Bikfaya, and the mountain roads can be treacherous.

  As she lies on the bed, Marie feels like she’s always lived here. There’s a knock on the door. She opens it to see Selima holding the thin rectangular package she had in the car.

  “Marie, I have something for you. Something … from your … uncle,” she struggles to say.

  Marie takes the package. It feels light, delicate. She gingerly takes off the tape, careful not to tear the paper. Inside is a small painting, exquisite in its simplicity. Just the black outline of a man climbing over a wall to a city somewhat obscured by smoke.

  “It was one of the first impressionist pieces your uncle sold. I came across it last year at an auction and bought it back.”

  “It’s beautiful. Does it have a name?”

  “Yes, turn it over.”

  On the back of the canvas, in pencil is written: Évasion de Sabra, Nabil ‘Akkawi, Paris 1976.

  Selima leaves Marie. She knows that there’s much that the young woman has to think about. It is better she’s alone. Selima opens the door to the courtyard and goes to the olive tree. There she feels the urge to see Nabil’s face. She looks into her handbag and finds the photo of Nabi
l and her by the Eiffel Tower. It was taken just after they left the Mairie with the piece of paper signed by the magistrate to bear witness to their love. She knew that she loved him the first moment she saw him. A thin boy, his fingernails covered with paint. He never had his sister’s beauty, but his pale lips, narrow eyes, the rising of his eyebrows when she approached enchanted her. Her family disowned her after her marriage to Nabil, but her cousin Tobias, a Maronite priest, intervened to reconcile them to her choice. The years passed and their love grew stronger, even when he entered his dark period after the news of his parents’ death in Sabra. She nursed him back to life and he returned to paint with more passion than ever. When his heart started to falter, she was always by his side. When the end came, she refused to let him go. He’s still with her. His voice answers her over the snow in the mountains, through branches of the cedars and against the stone walls of the villages. She will never let him go.

  Marie watches Selima stand in the courtyard. She hears her speaking, but can’t make out the words. She momentarily wonders who’s with Selima, but her interest wanes as fatigue overcomes her. She falls back on the bed and looks around the room. Moonlight casts shadows of the tall olive tree on the walls surrounding her. The wind picks up and the shadows move like Javanese puppets. She imagines in them her father and mother playing with her in the courtyard. Um Amin’s girls join them. Sleep brings colour to their smiling faces.

  The happy images fade into a different dream. She’s back at the wall, but Munir isn’t with her this time. Her hand is bleeding. She hears gunfire all around her. The flares illuminate the night sky. She looks in every direction but is afraid to cross the street into the city.

  From the shadows, a dark shape emerges. Then another and a third. She looks at their faces. Young faces. Abdullah, Bronstein, Taragon. She wants to go to them, but her legs won’t move. A boy’s voice whispers from the darkness behind her: “Go, Meryem.” She gathers her strength and walks slowly toward them, and they turn into alabaster statues. She touches Abdullah. He disintegrates into white sand. Then Bronstein, again her touch reduces him.