Chapter Nine
CATHERINE
Beirut, Lebanon, 1970
As we flew in from above, the city’s buildings resembled a crowded cluster of white beehives nestled closely together on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea.
We landed two days before Christmas, and the air was a damp sixty degrees Fahrenheit. A driver named Walid greeted us in Arabic and then in English as we walked out of the airport before taking our bags. He was a small man and moved around as quick as a fox. His driving was erratic, yet on par with everyone else’s. I craned my neck to see if there were any dividing lines on the streets.
“How do people know which lane to stay in?” I asked Gabriel.
He smiled and held my hand. “They get used to it. It’s organized chaos.”
Palm trees stood on the water’s edge, begging to be noticed against buildings and makeshift markets everywhere. Balconies were littered with people, some leaning way over to talk to neighbors below. I could hear their voices shouting as we passed. It was a beautiful, bustling city with an energy reminiscent of the French Riviera. The drive was just shy of twenty minutes from the airport to Rue Clémenceau, where Gabriel’s apartment was. The Clémenceau district was somewhat of a diverse cosmopolitan area at that time, home to Christians, Muslims, and Jews alike, and just blocks from the esteemed AUB, American University of Beirut.
Walid came to an abrupt stop in front of a charming old building that looked like it could have stood on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, with its round, ornate balconies protruding from the front. It was tightly nestled between two other buildings that were similar yet less flamboyant. All three had a bevy of Christmas lights and other various decor—such as large pine wreaths—dripping from the terraces and doorways. I could smell them as soon as I exited the car.
“We are home.” Gabriel turned around and kissed me.
Not long before, that word had meant only one place for me: my family home in Greenwich. The idea that this was my third home in seven months was inconceivable. And the fact that I couldn’t call upon a friend or cousin to commiserate with, let alone speak the language, was terrifying. I took a deep breath and rested my hands on my stomach.
Walid jumped out to get our things from the trunk.
Cars and buses were whizzing by fiercely, preventing me from exiting the vehicle. And the honking! Gabriel jumped out the passenger side and then opened the back door. “Come this way.” He extended his hand and helped me out onto the sidewalk.
I shivered a little. “What is everyone honking at?”
“It’s the service cars. They are like shared cabs. They honk to get attention and let people know they are around.”
I shook my head.
“Can I get you a sweater, Miss?” Walid asked as he began to rummage through my tote bag.
I took the bag from him. “I can manage, thank you.” I wore a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeve cotton crewneck T-shirt in a dark eggplant color. On my feet was a pair of black loafers.
“Of course. Please let me know if you need anything.” He nodded and smiled, revealing numerous missing teeth.
I smiled back, clutching the tote to my chest.
Gabriel came up from behind and kissed my neck as Walid watched. “He’s going to drive you anywhere you need, OK?” Gabriel told me, and then spoke to Walid in Arabic. “We can get settled, and then he can take you to the market if you like.”
A mother and her four children walked past us on the sidewalk and entered the building. The last one, maybe two years old, stumbled behind the pack, dragging a stuffed penguin. The woman waved enthusiastically to Gabriel and welcomed him with her smile, but she didn’t stop for any introductions.
“It’s been a long day,” I said to him. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He and Walid exchanged a few more words I couldn’t understand, and then Walid drove off, but not after telling me in English to have a wonderful evening.
“He seems lovely,” I said. “But I don’t want to trouble him.”
“It’s fine, my dear. It’s what he does. And you will find that everyone will be able to talk to you. Around here, most people will speak English and French and, of course, Arabic—which you will learn—but there will always be someone who speaks English.” He studied my face. “Don’t worry, OK?”
I nodded.
He took my hand, and we walked up three flights of stairs to Apartment 310. Gabriel unlocked the door and helped me drag what bags we could carry on the first trip into the foyer, and then he went to open the balcony doors. The horns from the service cars filled the apartment, along with bits and pieces of conversations in Arabic from people standing near the curb who were smoking and catching up with one another. The white curtains hanging on either side of the doors billowed, coming to life from the breeze as if they’d been holding their breath during his absence. The living room was a simple mix of white-and-cream furniture with one large Oriental rug that covered a small portion of the marble flooring. There were two paintings on the walls, both depictions of the beach and the ocean that added some color to the room. It had the look of a bachelor pad, a little sparse and dispassionate but comfortable.
He slipped an arm around me and pulled me close. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s very nice.”
“I love you, and I want you to love it here,” he said and then pulled away, waving his arms about. “You change anything you want. Anything!”
I laughed and remembered how much I adored him. Every part of him that I fell in love with months ago was exaggerated in his home. His smile, his deep voice, his affection for me and his country, and the ease with which he expressed his emotions to me and the rest of the world. I felt all of it in his embrace.
“This is a tight community. This neighborhood and these buildings, they are like family to me, and they will treat you as such.” His eyes were serious. “Those who know me will do anything for me, and I for them. You will see.”
“OK.”
“I know how things were back at home for you. You will be able to have those relationships here, too. You just have to open yourself up to them.”
“OK,” I said again, and we hugged.
“I will get the other bags,” he said, pulling away and darting back down to the street where we’d left them.
I walked to the edge of the glass doors overlooking the street, where Gabriel was chatting with a man below. The air was filled with the scent of baking flour and spices. I didn’t step outside because there were people just next to us on their balcony, and I didn’t want to intrude.
A moment later, there was a knock on the door. I rushed to it, thinking Gabriel had been locked out. But it was the tiny little girl with the penguin that I’d seen waddling behind her mother earlier.
“Why, hello,” I said, and she quickly thrust a round, pizzalike dough at me. “Thank you.” I giggled.
She stared up at me like a little fawn with heavily lashed brown eyes. “Thank you,” she repeated.
Her mother laughed from across the hall. “You are welcome!” the woman shouted, coaching her on the correct response.
I lifted my head. “How kind of you,” I said to her mom.
“Manakeesh,” she said, pointing to the dough. “It is Manakeesh. I remember Gabriel likes his like my husband, Sammy, with a little bit of cheese and meat and lots of extra thyme.”
Gabriel’s voice could be heard from the stairwell below. “You spoil me, Brigitte!” he hollered, carrying bags in both hands. She leaned in to kiss his cheek when he made it to the top.
“It is my pleasure,” she said, then looked back at me. “I am Brigitte, and this is Reema.” The little girl beamed at the mention of her own name.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Catherine.” We loosely shook hands.
“We have heard a little about you but are excited to know more.” She pulled a card out of her apron. “It’s a wedding card. Many of the ladies were very happy that Gabriel has found someone to love, and many of the ladies were not so happy!” She laughed some more and winked at me.
He and I exchanged smiles. “Well,” I said, “I hope not to disappoint anyone. Thank you so much for this.”
“We have more good news,” Gabriel started. “I am going to be a father.”
Brigitte clasped her hands over her mouth and then embraced both of us. “How blessed you are!” she squealed. “Come, Reema!” she yelled, but the girl did not move. She stood staring at my hair. Then her mother yelled something in Arabic, and the girl ran back into her apartment.
Gabriel wiped his brow and closed the apartment door behind us. He was home. He was speaking the language, greeting the neighbors, talking about his favorite foods, boasting about his baby on the way, and rummaging through drawers and cabinets, knowing exactly where everything was.
I walked to the balcony again and stepped outside. It was not my first time out of the United States, not even close. I’d traveled before, vacationing with my family in the South of France, visiting Laura at boarding school in Switzerland. Heck, Gabriel and I had honeymooned in Italy only a few months ago. Oh, no, I was not naive to international travel, but previous excursions had all been under the guise of a vacation, with the promise of returning home on the near horizon. And there it was again, that word. I wrapped my arms around myself, never feeling so out of place in all my life.