23
They are still on daylight saving and the light, soft and hesitant, comes early, through the gap in the curtains and on to the bed, shaping itself to the contours of their bodies, gently waking her.
Peter does not stir when she sits up. She looks at him, his features in repose beautiful to her, fair skin unblemished, his greying hair fine as silk, an implied calmness to his demeanour even in sleep that still moves her after so many years.
She gets out of bed carefully, puts on her dressing gown and looks back to make sure she has not disturbed him. In the kitchen, Anas is already sitting at the breakfast bar, hair ruffled, his eyes, when he looks up from behind his glasses, uncharacteristically flat.
—Anas, Hannah says quietly. You’re up early.
He does not respond.
She places her hand over his and feels a slight tremor in it.
—Is everything all right?
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. She puts an arm around his shoulder and, feeling him shudder, realizes that he is crying.
—Anas, please tell me what’s the matter. You’re scaring me.
He finally looks up at her.
—It’s Brigitte, he says in a whisper. She’s left Damascus and taken the children with her.
She lifts both hands to her mouth.
—I don’t understand, she exclaims. Where did they go? What happened?
There is a pause before he can reply.
—I telephoned them several times yesterday but no one was in. I’d been worried since that car bomb exploded in our neighbourhood after I left. I wanted to make sure they were all right, but when I called my mother late last night, thinking they might have gone there, she said they were gone.
—Gone?
A thought occurs to Hannah though she does not say it out loud. Please God they haven’t been kidnapped, she thinks. It is not unusual for people to go missing in Syria. Since the revolution and consequent civil war began, there have been tens of thousands of abductions.
—It’s not what you think. Anas has read her thoughts. Our neighbour downstairs saw the taxi we always use parked outside for them. They had lots of luggage. When my mother asked the driver later, he said he’d taken them to the airport.
—Thank God. She breathes a sigh of relief. Where do you think they went?
—I’m sure she went to her parents in Berlin. Where else would she go?
—So you’re going to call them?
He shakes his head.
—My in-laws moved recently and I don’t have their number. I didn’t think I’d ever need to get in touch with them without Brigitte there.
—At least you know they’re safe, Anas. Hannah is not sure what else she can say in the way of comfort.
—She waited until she knew I’d be coming here for the exhibition and left without saying anything about it. There is bitterness in his reply. She knows I would never have agreed to it.
—Brigitte has talked about leaving before?
He shrugs.
—Since the fighting began, whenever the subject came up. I always told her Damascus is home and I would not abandon it no matter what happened.
He waits for a moment until Hannah begins to feel a hint of his anguish.
—I also said I would never allow the children to leave. I reminded her that they would always be Arab.
—But, Anas, you can’t be surprised that she would want to get the children out of a country at war? Surely, you can’t.
—She doesn’t feel the way I do about Syria, he says. Why should she? After all, it’s not her country.
Hannah begins to ask him if he really believes any mother, regardless of her nationality, would not choose to remove her children from danger, no matter the cause, but decides to remain silent.
She sits down and feels a now familiar hopelessness rising through her chest, gloom that comes from her many years as a journalist writing about the affairs of a region constantly in turmoil. Silently, she gathers together the thoughts that she will later write down to use in the stories she is always working on.
