Chapter Eleven
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1970
It was still dark when Gabriel’s alarm clock rang the next morning, and I vaguely remembered him saying goodbye to me before he left. I lay there for a while, staring at the white ceiling and thinking I should get up and unpack before showering. By the time the sun came up, I was dressed and ready to go to the market. Christmas was the next day, and Brigitte had invited us to have dinner with them and a couple of other families in the building. Gabriel had not hesitated to accept the invitation when Brigitte’s husband, Sammy, had come to our door the night before.
I grabbed my wool coat and purse and skipped downstairs to find Walid waiting at the curb, leaning against a Volkswagen Beetle with a newspaper and cup of coffee in his hands. He quickly folded it up when he saw me. “Where to, Miss Catherine?” His toothless smile was quite charming.
I stopped when I reached the end of the walk. “You didn’t have to come today,” I said. “Did Gabriel send you?”
Walid glanced at my stomach and then patted his own. “He doesn’t want you walking far.”
“Thank you, but I’m just going up to the market and the patisserie. I’ve been told that they are only three blocks away, and I’m really looking forward to the walk, having never been here before.”
“Permit me to accompany you, then?” He pointed to his feet.
I sighed in the subtlest way possible. “Yes, of course.” I’d desperately wanted to be alone and unburdened by an overzealous local who was hired to be my shadow and make conversation. Little did I know at the time, Walid would become one of the most significant people in my life.
We walked for a few blocks, and I was eventually pleased to have my own personal tour guide. The streets and sidewalks were busy, but free of trash and debris. They looked as though they’d just been swept clean, and I never saw them any other way. Walid and I passed several pushcarts along the way selling fruits and vegetables and meats, which they would boil or grill for you right on the cart. “Picked fresh today from the mountains. You will not find fresher than these,” Walid assured me as we stopped to inhale the warm scent of smoked foods filling the air above the sidewalk.
“Gabriel and his family have a home there, in the mountains. I’m looking forward to seeing it,” I said.
“Yes.” He nodded with enthusiasm, as he did everything. “Beit Chabab.”
“How do you say it?”
“Beit Chabab,” he said, slower. “I will drive you there.” He grinned.
“Oh, no, not today.”
He laughed at me. “No, it would be almost two hours today. Another time. When Gabriel is ready.”
Many of the people who lived in Beirut had roots in the mountains. They spent time in the city, but went “home” to the mountain villages where their ancestors had been for many years. Each village had something for which it was renowned. One was known for olives, one for soap making, and Beit Chabab was a well-known bell foundry—crafting church bells for Christian communities in Lebanon and overseas.
Gabriel had never said much about it other than his mother lived there with his younger brother, who was born with severe learning disabilities, and she hadn’t left the village in forty years. I knew very little about her other than that she was Lebanese and spoke no other language than Arabic. His father had left when Gabriel was very young, and he had very little memory of him. Once Gabriel’s father was gone, his maternal grandmother had moved in with the family to help until she passed.
I walked into a bakery and was welcomed by the smell of fresh flour and a pleasing mix of cinnamon and other spices I could not identify. Walid waited for me outside. “Hello, I would like to get some dessert . . .” I paused, testing the English of the girl behind the counter who looked about my age.
She spoke perfect English with a thick French accent. “What would you like?”
“What would you recommend bringing to someone’s home? We will be guests for the holiday.” My brows were raised. “Maybe something traditional?” I asked.
She shrugged, her lids heavy and bored. The bakeries opened very early in Beirut. “Maybe some cake and ice cream. We’re known for our bouzet ashta. It’s rosewater ice cream with mastic—like a little bit gummy paste—and pistachios.”
I hadn’t heard of gummy ice cream before, but she seemed confident in its classic appeal. “I will take some of that, please. Enough for twelve people.”
She packed the ice cream and a few pastries into bags, which Walid promptly took from me when I exited.
By the time we returned to our building, I was famished. “Let me put these things in the freezer, and then I would like to buy you lunch.”
Walid began to shake his head.
“And I won’t take no for an answer. Gabriel said there is a falafel stand on the other corner, and I simply must eat, as you know.”
Walid insisted on running all the groceries to the apartment while I waited outside. When he returned, we walked in the opposite direction to a kiosk on the sidewalk. He was always a half step behind me. “Are you married, Walid?”
His head bobbed. “Yes, yes, of course, ma’am.”
“Please call me Catherine. You are my first friend here.” That made him chuckle, as did most things I said. “Tell me about your family.”
“My wife, she is beautiful like you. Well, not such white hairs like you, but she is beautiful and she works at the university, so our kids can go there. We have one son, who is eighteen, and our daughter is nineteen.” He paused. “I also look after my wife’s sister’s daughter, who is eight. She lost her parents in a car accident many years ago.”
I stopped walking. “I’m so sorry for her.”
He smiled and shrugged and waved his hands. “It’s OK, it’s OK! She is with us now. Very happy and smart girl.”
The shelves behind the man working the food stand were filled with baskets of Manakeesh in different varieties, emitting a fresh doughy aroma that reminded me of Jessie’s homemade biscuits. There was a long line of people waiting; some looked like American students from the university nearby, and some looked like locals. I’m not sure what I looked like, other than out of place. When we finally reached the counter, I thought I might faint from hunger. I ordered three Manakeesh for Walid to bring home to his family, two falafel sandwiches—one for him and one for me—and a chicken schwarma plate for us to share. We sat on the spotless curb and devoured it in seconds. The chicken was juicy yet crisp around the edges, and was served with a side of hummus that was drizzled with a healthy portion of olive oil. I think I went through no less than ten napkins.
When we returned, little Reema was alone in front of the building, blissfully playing with some dolls. “Thank you for spending so much time with me today,” I said to Walid, and handed him the bag of warm Manakeesh. “Please bring this home to your beautiful wife, and tell her I can’t wait to meet her.”
He leaned forward and took the bag. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.
“You’re welcome!” Reema shouted from behind.