 
## A gust of wind shook the trees. Leaves whirled. He was passing the pond now, its gray wavy water already carrying a sprinkling of dead leaves. Suddenly, Daniel blacked out. He braked, stepped down, took a deep breath, unsure what was happening. He didn't see her, but he felt her presence, as undeniable as when she had been sitting on his bed in the hotel and her knees were touching his.

## He had a clear sense that she was being menaced by suffocating clouds, that she was sinking into some poisonous swamp. He plainly heard her screaming for his help. He heard her call his name:

'Daniel!' – once only but very loud.

## MARTYR

## Six Books Series

## BOOK ONE

## THE LOVERS OF 9/11

## FRANK EMMANUEL

### Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Frank Emmanuel 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design by C-Borg.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Quotations from the Qur'an are based on MidEastWeb for Coexistence, "The Qur'an in English Translation, Complete in electronic format with Historical Background" (Revised version, May, 2011): http://www.mideastweb.org/

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only, remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

_Shahid_ , f. _shahida_ , pl. _shuhada_ : Witness or martyr: one killed for his/her religious beliefs or in battle with the infidels.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue: 1996 - Leila's Scar

Chapter One: A Journey Is Planned

Chapter Two: A Jealous God

Chapter Three: Beirut: Love And Terror - Part 1: Love

Chapter Four: Beirut: Love And Terror - Part 2: Terror

Chapter Five: A House Divided

Chapter Six: Flight Forward

Chapter Seven: The Drowning

Cast Of Characters

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Other Books In This Series

Sample A Scene From Book Two

Connect With Me

# PROLOGUE

# 1996 - Leila's Scar

Solitary journeys through the dark are pregnant with risk. The night hems you in, and years seem to pass before you emerge from the shadows. It was late evening as Leila Bouazza biked along a gravel path in the deserted dunes of South Holland. It was warm for that time of the year, but she had put on a light sweater to ward off the nightly breeze. Save for the bright moonlight and her headlight, the path was dark. Though she'd been warned against nocturnal trips like this, Leila Bouazza was unafraid: she was adventurous and a bit reckless by nature, very fit, and had just started training in martial arts. After all, she knew the road – she had traveled this run more than once, though never alone. Normally, there were always other bikers here, even in dark.

Tonight, however, was different. The road, climbing and descending through sandy hills and dips lined by firs and thickets of blackberry bushes, was deserted. She wondered why and remembered. Leila was a political science freshman, yet this had somehow escaped her. Fourth of May. Today, the Netherlands commemorated the horrors of the Second World War. The streets were empty as most people were watching the somber commemoration rites on TV.

By the time she realized this, she was already far along the path. She noticed that her breath was too fast, and a faint worry arose in her. There were still several kilometers of open dunes ahead, and then a short stretch through the woods. Once she got past that, she'd be able to see the gas station where the bicycle path crossed the thoroughfare. People would be there. She pedaled as fast as she could.

As she entered the last five hundred meters of dense forest, the moon hid behind the treetops. Glancing left and right, she pressed down harder on the pedals. Once she got past the bend in the road, it would be less than a minute before she reached civilization again. She turned the curve.

Out of nowhere, a figure sprang up in front of her. She tried to dodge, but as she raced past him, the fellow gave her bike a hard kick. Leila's hands slipped from the handlebars, and she fell, with the bicycle halfway beneath her. The pebbles scratched her knee. The metal frame pressed against her knee through her torn-open trousers, pinning her to the ground. She screamed. A strong hand covered her mouth.

'Is that her?' a coarse voice inquired. It all went very quickly, too fast for her novice martial arts responses to be of any use. She froze.

'Damn Moroccan. Positive,' answered the man who held her from behind.

What did he want from her? She wanted to scream, but with that smelly hand glued tight to her mouth, she could only utter muffled sounds.

'She the one you talked to, Johnny?' said the one who had made her fall.

'Not one gram of doubt.'

Leila strained to recognize the voice. Was he— Could it be—

She had no time to finish her thought. A third shadow approached, grabbed the bicycle, and tore it from her. He threw it to the side of the path. The one addressed as 'Johnny' kept her mouth in a vice-like grip while the guy who had made her swerve came closer. He was hooded. All three of them were hooded. With a violent jerk, another hand pulled away her headscarf, releasing her long and wavy hair.

'You've got nothing to do in _our_ country, dirty slut!' the man in front of her yelled. He stood straight above her. 'Hold'er tight, John. We'll teach this Moroccan whore a lesson she won't forget.'

Johnny let go of Leila's mouth, but now squeezed her right arm. Twisting her neck, she noticed Johnny was shorter than she, and very stocky. His ski mask hid his face; but it was so dark she wouldn't have seen it anyhow. By his voice, she could tell he must be young.

She was in shock, pain, and revolted, but her brain kicked in again and she thought fast: yes, this was definitely the same guy who had approached her in the clubhouse at that meeting. No doubt, the same who had asked her if the meeting was only open to "real Dutch". Meanwhile, the third fellow gripped her left arm. She lay on the ground. The first man made ready to leap on top of her. She trembled.

'Go back to where you come from, Arab slut,' this assaulter hissed. His voice sounded Flemish, and he spoke with a lisp. He was tall and muscular.

'But– I was born here,' she muttered.

In a flash, their brief conversation came back to her. That afternoon, she had attended a discussion on neo-Fascism at a clubhouse nearby. The coffee hall had been crowded and noisy. At least a hundred students from various universities were milling around pell-mell, holding cardboard cups with cappuccino, munching sweets, and chatting. Actually, what she had heard Johnny say was "Real Diets", not "real Dutch" – an unfamiliar, archaic term.

'Of course not. Anybody's welcome. We're discussing the relevance of war memories for combating racism. Feel free to join.'

"Only Dutch?" she thought. Aren't we all cosmopolitan?

At least a quarter of her own year were of foreign background – Turks, one Bosnian, some Caribbean boys, two Brits, a Kurdish refugee from Iraq, a few Moroccans like herself. Not to speak of the exchange students – the Japanese boy, and that Indonesian girl who had criticized the lecturer in public.

'Who's speaking?'

'Professor de Vries. He's come back from his research on Islamic groups in the West Bank. Our tutor. He'll sure point out some similarities—'

'You Islamic?' the boy interrupted.

'As you see.' She pointed to her headscarf. 'Why's that important?'

'Oh, nothing, just to know, you know...'

'So, yes, my parents are Muslims. We're all in the same boat here, aren't we? What about you?' He was standing close to her, she could study his thick black hair, his eyes light blue, almost magnetic... she sensed something vaguely disturbing about the guy, at once charismatic and sinister. Were it not for his bizarre behavior, he might be an Arab himself.

'Antwerp,' he said. Belgian accent: same tongue, different pronunciation. 'I'm Aryan. Just a tourist here.'

Aryan? Leila raised her eyebrows. Who but some neo-Nazi weirdo would call himself that today?

Yet Mister Blue-Eyes made neither a dumb nor a boorish impression.

'Tetkalam arabi?' she tried.

His pupils retracted a millimeter. He forced a smile. 'You're babbling in Turkish, aren't you?'

'Hey, why you playing stupid, dude? I'm sure you understand me. What are you denying?'

'You live here? Got a place to sleep?' He was unshaven and had wild eyebrows yet she thought his face looked charming.

'No, I'm from Amsterdam. But tonight I sleep over at a friend's in Haarlem.' That was not true, at least not completely. Her father had, after a long argument, finally ceded this once: after the meeting, Leila was allowed to bike together with Marion straight to Marion's parents' house. Her friend's was a trusted address.

'Is that far?'

'Three quarters of an hour by bike. I'm used to it. Hey, I'm Leila. What's your name?'

'Just a moment, Leila.'

He turned around and was lost in the crowd. She looked around but didn't see him anymore, shrugged her shoulders, then went back inside to listen to the lecture. She didn't see Marion.

When the gathering drew to a close, she received a message: Marion had all of a sudden felt ill and left.

'Better not to go out alone tonight, Leila,' Professor de Vries had warned. 'If you need to get back in direction of Amsterdam, I can give you a lift, together with Joyce and Erik. Still one place free in my car...'

But the thought of giving up on her hard-earned evening of freedom was too disappointing to accept.

'Thanks, but don't worry, I know the way.'

Her eyes were wide open, but it was too dark to distinguish much. Leila heard the furious beats of her heart against her eardrums. She tensed her arms to free herself. In response, an iron force twisted her right hand like a screw. She yelled and relented. Johnny held her immobilized, together with the other Fleming. The first boy already had his knee between her legs.

Again she yelled. The thick leaves of the trees absorbed her voice. The woods around the dunes were deserted.

'What you want of me?' she screamed. 'Let me go!'

'Go? Go back where you belong,' said the man who had called her a filthy harlot. This one spoke a vulgar dialect she recognized as from the north. His weight pressed against her thighs. The sweaty odor of his shirt entered her nostrils. She wanted to vomit.

'I belong here,' she managed to say. 'I was born here.'

'More's the pity. This place is not for your type. It's for the Diets nation.'

Again, that word. 'What's _Diets_?'

'If you were of our people, you'd know. The Greater Dutch Nation. Slegs vir blankes. You don't understand that either, do you?'

"Only for Whites". The ubiquitous shields in apartheid South Africa flashed through her mind. The symbols of racism you saw on TV.

They were crazies. Ultra-rightist gangsters.

'Let me go, bastard.'

Something hit her face. His fist. She felt a sharp pain. Something liquid dripped down her cheeks. She tasted blood on her lips. His ring must have cut her.

'Nobody calls me that, you whore. You half-bloods, you're the worst of all. Hold her, comrades. Let's make her enjoy something better than...'

Her eyes had grown used to the dark by now, and she saw him swiftly unbuckle his belt and lower his pants. A pair of brutal hands wrenched the shoes from her feet, then tore down her trousers. Leila tried to resist but her arms, gripped behind her back, couldn't move. She tried to kick at the body that was forcing itself between her knees. She wanted to bite but only swallowed a mouthful of empty night air, mossy and fetid.

Then she saw it approach. A wave of panic gushed over her. All her muscles tightened up. Something hot and rough penetrated her. She screamed from pain, rage, and humiliation. With his full weight on her, her martial arts were to no avail. He moved mechanically back and forth in her. His masked face was so near that she could smell his breath: the stench of liquor made her retch. The rapist stepped up his rhythm, panted, and soon ejaculated inside of her. Her whole body went rigid. She clenched her teeth.

Then he withdrew and calmly brushed the sand and twigs off his legs.

'Okay. Next. You, Lou?' He addressed the tall Flemish fellow who held her left arm. 'Sure,' Lou said in a matter-of-fact tone. 'Don't let her escape, Johnny,' he added.

'Wait, Lou, hold her!' the first rapist yelled. Drunk or not, he appeared to be in full control. 'That bitch's a strong terrorist, you hear. Johnny alone won't be able... I'll come over.'

''Course, I'm able to keep'er under control,' Johnny bragged. But the Dutch fellow had already jumped over Leila and grabbed her left shoulder.

'Your turn,' he signaled to the tall Fleming.

Walking up to her, Lou unbuttoned his fly with both hands. For a split second, Leila had her legs free. She coiled up. Then, the moment he wanted to descend on her, she bent her knees, and with all the force she could muster kicked him in the crotch. The tall Belgian gave a wail and sank down in pain.

'Dammit, you dirty Arab devil,' Lou yelled, 'I'll make you pay for that.'

She felt a second fist land against her shoulder, and sharp pain. She tried to move but couldn't. Her tongue was parched. Terrified, she noticed how hard her breathing had become. She tried not to faint. The Dutchman had released his grip and stood again, towering above her. His boot was now crushing her other shoulder with his whole weight. Johnny, the short one, was still gripping her arm.

'You want to come out of here alive, black she-monkey? Better keep your dirty instincts under control.' Without shifting his foot, he turned to the tall Fleming. 'She hurt you bad, didn't she? You okay?' In an instinctive gesture, Lou crouched next to her, protected his testicles with his hands, and started to cough.

'Take that off, bozo, before you choke.'

With effort, the man tore away his ski mask, but he kept coughing. In the dark, Leila caught a glimpse of coarse features, a tip-tilted nose, and a goatee that seemed outlandish against his hairless skull: a skinhead. He was seething. She felt a sharp pain in her face: Lou's belt whipped her cheeks, and then once more.

_If I pass out_ , she thought, _they'll kill me_.

'Enough, Lou,' the northern Dutchman commanded, and then, 'You must learn how to discipline that vermin. Hold her tight, Johnny.'

'Got her, Woody.'

'You better now, Lou?' Woody inquired, his tone almost compassionate.

Lou's coughing continued.

'Never mind,' Woody said. 'The Muslim hooker didn't behave, so we'll leave a little memento.'

She saw something glitter in the dark. Woody landed his knee on her belly then, with a few experienced slashes of his knife, slit open her sweater and her bra. Johnny's right hand now covered her nose and mouth. In panic, she struggled to keep breathing. She tried to free herself, but his other hand held her by the hair. She heaved as if to vomit, frozen in fear again. Woody's knee was still on her belly, making breathing even harder. Meters away, Lou's coughing subsided, then resumed.

A sharp pain tore through her breast. It scratched and cut and turned in her flesh. She tried to control herself but couldn't. The agony was unbearable. Tears rolled down her cheeks, burning in the cuts. Again she screamed and nearly passed out.

Then on instinct – she would never understand how – she struggled free and grasped the hand that was smothering her and sank her teeth into it. Again she tasted blood – but not her own. John's fingers cramped, she got hold of his little finger. In agony, as the rapist was writing something on her chest with his knife, she plunged her teeth deeper into the finger. Johnny screamed. The hand that had held her hair groped toward her throat. He tried to throttle her.

His whole finger was now in her mouth and she continued biting as if his hand were a tough and rubbery steak. Then she felt as if her teeth were clutching a bone. His scream grew louder, and the grip on her throat loosened. Meanwhile, the pain in her chest continued. She was bleeding. The rapist had concluded his work. She hadn't even noticed that he had stood up.

'What about you, Johnny? What's that – your hand bleeding?' A roaring laugh. 'Did she bite you?' Woody, the leader, taunted. 'Want to show her you're a man, too? Go ahead, I'll keep her under control.'

Staggering, Johnny stood up. She lay there on the gravel, trousers rolled down to below her knees, naked where she was most vulnerable. No hands held her anymore. Was she free? But she felt too weak to move. Suddenly she saw his knife. The leader of the three calmly sat next to her, the blade pointed at her neck vein. She imagined where the eye openings were in his hood. No idea how he looked but his whole demeanor betrayed a cold hatred that filled her with terror.

'You keep still, babe. You don't move or...'

Johnny lay on top of her. She dared not stir. Whether the pain in his hand inhibited him or a sudden shame, he hardly succeeded in entering her. Or perhaps it was the gaping, bleeding wound on her chest that was too near. Johnny lay panting on her belly but stayed half-limp.

'Can't come in the slut? You don't have to spare the rod. Come on, Johnny, quick, we don't have all the time in the world. You no Speedy Gonzalez, huh?'

Woody's last sneer made Johnny withdraw at once. Humiliated, he stood up and pulled up his trousers.

'Such a slut,' she heard Woody say. The Dutchman with the knife. 'But this'll make her think twice about staying in our country.' Then addressing the other two: 'Stand there, next to her. That's good. Your foot, John, put it on the bitch's face. Easy does it... Smile. That's good.'

She felt a heavy and dirty boot pressing on her hair, the other one resting inches from her neck, but was too defeated to react. Through tears, everything blurred. Three flashes burst from a camera.

'Also the rune,' Woody commanded. Lou tore her blouse open further. More pictures were taken. Then the gang leader rose. 'Let's hope they come out well. I'll develop the negatives at once. Come on, let's get out of here.'

The shoe lifted from her neck. They were going at last.

'You better, Lou, old chap? Ho-ho, you Flemings. Still got a lot to learn on how you treat women before you're ripe to join our new commonwealth. Don't you?'

'What do we do with this bitch?'

That was Lou, who had received the vicious heel of her sneaker in his groin. He had recovered, it seemed, and wanted revenge. Or perhaps he felt diminished by Woody's arrogance. Leila's head was spinning. She started to shudder again.

They had raped and maimed her – were they now going to kill her?

She was in no position to defend herself, and there was nowhere to run. Tears welled in her eyes and the flash blinded her. She couldn't see a thing. It was as if she had lost her sight, but her hearing was clear. Their talk was taking a sudden new turn, away from her.

'Hey, how come you knew her?' she heard Lou ask, in Johnny's direction now.

There was no immediate answer.

'Yeah, Johnny, how come you know her? How did you know she'd come over the dunes,' the gang leader chimed in.

After a few seconds' pause, Johnny said, 'Well, sure looks enough like an Arab, don't she?'

'And so do you. Ha-ha. Ain't from your own clan, by coincidence?'

''Course not. I just picked up a few words of street Arabic at school.' His words came out haltingly, as if in apology. 'So... what do we do with... her?'

'Na, she got her lesson, comrades,' Woody decreed. 'Let's not soil the banner of our movement with Arab blood.' He was clearly the leader. 'Leave her. She'll recover and tell the others to go packing. Let's go.'

Their voices – growls, groans, coughs, and belly laughs in response to their jokes – were growing fainter, and finally their steps faded into the distance. Almost unconscious, Leila lay half-naked on gravel and grass. She sensed a sticky fluid flowing out of her. She was bleeding from her chest, grains of sand stuck in her chafed arms, legs and back. Her bruised skin and crushed flesh ached – cheeks, throat, arms, legs, and her torn hymen. Worst of all, though, was the pain in her breast.

If only she could die. Then and there.

Gradually her eyesight returned. She was shivering but could barely move. A few meters from her, she recognized the scraps of her bike with her bag still swung around the handlebars. She sat up and retched. She tried to look at the hurt between her legs. It was all dark, but she knew there was blood there too. She had been violated for belonging to a hated race. She was no virgin anymore. How could she ever tell her parents? How could she ever return to her community?

Then, bleeding and all, abandoned under dark trees, knocked half-unconscious by pain and humiliation, she heard a voice inside herself, as if from a distance:

_I am strong. I could have avoided this had I chosen to accept the lift offered by my teacher. Did Professor de Vries expect that this might happen? Such a nice guy. If only he had insisted... But of course I had to be stubborn again. I felt like I could confront whatever came. But with three against one, I never had a chance._

She inhaled deeply.

_I hurt, but I am breathing and the leaves are full of oxygen. I must live. And whatever will come, I swear – I swear that, however long it takes and whatever it costs – I'll find the coward fascists who raped me. I shall have justice!_

Then she fainted.

back to top

# _Chapter One_

# A Journey is Planned

## 1.1.

Amsterdam, Friday, 12 January 2001

_If you must criticize religion, Mister de Vries, why don't you criticize your own instead of Islam?_

The harsh words, spoken in public, still rang in Daniel's ears. The nerve. How dare she? Wet snow swirled around him, obscuring his vision, and the cold penetrated his thick winter coat, yet he felt hot. His heart pounded, and he hardly allowed himself the time to lock his bike to the rack. Then he walked the twenty-odd steps to the door, paying scant attention to the lights and the bustle behind the windows of the Three Hares café. He ran to the polished copper knob and pulled it with a violent sweep. Gusts and cold raindrops chilled the tables near the entry. For a moment, the January draft stole the cozy warmth from inside, but he barely noticed as patrons huddled beneath their sweaters or tugged at their pullovers. Still flushed with adrenaline, he made his way in. As the wooden door fell shut, the ambiance returned to the room: a snug, noisy, half-dark place full of students and young executives come to usher in the weekend. His old friend Martijn Jansen had nestled in a secluded corner for a couple beers. Daniel walked toward him, flung his wet coat over a chair, but kept his knitted scarf around his neck. He took the chair opposite Martijn's.

'Man, your face's all red,' Martijn said. 'What's gotten into you?

'Did you hear how she accused me?'

'Elhag? Hmm. The debate didn't go too badly for you tonight.'

'Not until you left.'

'I was called for something urgent at the newspaper. Glad you got my message. So... what happened?'

Daniel tugged at an end of the shawl and tried with one hand to dry his curly brown hair, still thick but much shorter than it used to be. With his other hand, he tried to disentangle himself from his shoulder bag. His frown and the dark look in his brown eyes signaled that he was boiling inside. He made a quick sign to the waitress – only a beer could help him cool down now.

Mona Elhag, the Egyptian-born feminist anthropologist, professor at Columbia, invited as a guest lecturer to Amsterdam. With her mellifluous voice and fiery radical words, she had attacked him in front of a large audience as if he were a foreigner-hating racist.

'During the last part, she tried to cast me in the role of the Muslim-eating monster. And you didn't see all those nitwits cheering her.'

'Why's she so against you anyway? What did you answer?'

'I said that studying a religion without believing in it is not blasphemy – it's just trying to make sense. I didn't attack Islam. I only said, the risk is that others will. Aggression doesn't just flow in one direction.'

Martijn listened.

'Her supporters have done a good lobbying job, I'm afraid,' Martijn said. 'I counted over one hundred and fifty of them.'

'You saw that little group of observant bearded youngsters? And in their midst, a few head-scarfed girls, applauding no matter what nonsense she uttered. And booing me. Then the others were infected and carried along.'

'Don't forget your nice colleagues who invited her in the first place,' Martijn said. 'But you didn't give a bad talk at all, Danny.'

Martijn possessed the rare combination of being a success without making enemies. Still, there was something patronizing in his way of talking, and it grated on Daniel's ears. They both had studied Arabs and Muslims for years. Martijn, however, spoke as if they were his exotic pets, his poodles, flashy enough to be trotted off to the admiring sighs of the "lay people" but a tad ill-behaved – as if their bad manners were beyond his responsibility. Daniel let it slip.

She's got that trick of turning it all into a one-woman show,' Daniel protested. Involuntarily, he ran his fingers through his hair.

'The sentence against you would've been carried out regardless,' Martijn went on, unperturbed. 'Still, Mona's not so bad as you paint her.' He gulped down his beer.

Daniel followed his example, and gradually he started to feel better.

'Is it true she called you words like "exemplar of Western superiority"?' Martijn asked.

'For such a highbrow academic, that bitch was quite provocative,' Daniel recalled. He had more to get off his chest. 'She said, "What are you telling us?" Something like, "do you think, if we don't watch out, Muslims will kill people here in the street?"'

Daniel's cheeks burned. Sneers had risen from the corner of Elhag's supporters when she had mocked, 'Daniel, you may know a lot of antiquarian trivia, but how much respect do you have for my culture? You talk of "us Dutch" as if we don't belong here. Isn't that racism? First, you pull us in, then you want to kick us out. Sorry, we're no yoyos.' Laughter arose among the students.

Martijn's words brought him back to where he was.

'You defended yourself with conviction, Danny, during that intro duel. With your customary verve. And fiercely. But she won this round. Courtesy your politically correct mafia. You can't compete. Despite your brilliant dissertation and your TV appearances and your last OpEd and all that... Sorry, I've seen this enough times to know how it goes.'

'What's she got that—?'

'Well, she's the "in" specialist, long list of publications... unreadable, yeah, but still. And don't forget the question of gender. Those are all points in her favor. Mona's openly criticized her old admirer Chomsky for not being progressive enough. Dared to attack her competitor Saadawi for forgetting poor Egyptian women. That takes pluck—'

'-–and guarantees publicity.'

As Martijn ticked off more icons of the academic Left whom Elhag had fought on their own terrain, Daniel had to smile despite himself.

'See? The committee couldn't have dreamt up a more glamorous star.'

As he talked, Martijn wolfed down the liverwurst slices piled on the plate in front of him.

'By the way, who was that fascistoid clown who made such a disturbance?

'The tall blonde guy at the back? The one with his little French cut beard and his lisp. "And what about terrorism, Miz' Elhag?"'

'You know him?'

'They told me he's just an accidental tourist here. Seems to be a trainee at a police academy in Belgium.'

'Oh, Belgian...' Martijn's lips curved into a belittling smile. 'And yet, few people would have the guts to speak out like that. They may think the same, but they wouldn't say it aloud.'

'Nasty, if you ask me. But, how come you read my newspaper article? I thought you were still in Baghdad, then.'

He didn't have to wait long for a response. In between a couple more beers, they picked up the thread of their last debate, which had been dormant for two months. For some time, they argued politics. Daniel was relieved for the diversion and got easily sucked in. They had several more drinks while Martijn related anecdotes from his travels. The stories weren't very funny, but he told them with such verve that Daniel had to laugh all the same.

Daniel was just embarking on a story of his own when a blonde girl whom Daniel had noticed walking the corridors of his department approached their table and, feigning not to see him, jovially greeted Martijn and started chatting with him. Mildly interested, he eyed her, smiled, and spoke with her for a minute.

Then, as he moved in his chair, ready to switch back to more serious matters, another woman came to interrupt. She was modern-looking, dark-haired, and in her mid-twenties. She walked up to their table and to Martijn's visible annoyance, paid no attention to him but approached Daniel with a big smile.

'You were great tonight, Daniel! Pity I couldn't stay till the end. How you put that bitch in her place...'

'Hey, Leila! Haven't seen you in ages. Thank you, but... I didn't realize you'd come to listen... Sorry I didn't notice you among the public.'

She smiled, so different from his naïve student of five years ago. Now, she was a young self-confident professional.

'Where've you been, Leila?'

'Oh you forget we're trained to be invisible in public.'

'Well, it's easier when you're not in your uniform, but I mean since you disappeared from my class.'

'It's a long story.' He read a hint of hurt in her expression. 'Why don't you stop by at my office? We can chat more in private.' She cast a quick glance at Martijn. 'Let's say, tomorrow around ten?'

'Saturday morning?'

'Why not? Right now, I'm with other people, but I saw you and wanted to say hello.' She pulled out her calendar and scribbled something. 'They've stationed me at the Marnixstraat police office... How's Ingrid?'

'We separated three years ago.'

'Sorry to hear that... Yeah, how time passes,' she said. 'You know, I miss our discussions.'

'But you found yourself a good alternative, didn't you? Career officer, right?'

She smiled. 'Tomorrow then?'

'For a former student, I'll drag myself out of my bed.'

She waved and walked back to the other side of the café.

'Wasn't that the girl they attacked?' Martijn asked. 'Those three hooligans? What's she doing nowadays?'

'Police academy, as far as I know. I haven't seen her since.'

After a brief pause, Daniel returned to an earlier thread of their conversation:

'So what are you gonna do with the rest of your life, Martijn? I suppose your Middle East escapades are over now, aren't they? At least for the time being?'

Martijn looked vaguely bothered as if Daniel should not have asked. At least not so directly.

'Oh, I dare say they won't be too sorry if I return to...' Martijn vaguely mentioned a prestigious department at his university in the East of Holland.

Daniel smiled but said nothing. He thought it a boring career. Still, people look for security. Both of them were far beyond their adventurous years now. At some point even globetrotters settle down. Daniel understood how imperiled his own position was now. In his mind, he scanned possible alternatives.

'What about you, Dan?'

The question dragged Daniel out of his musings. 'Maybe offer myself to Arafat as a ghostwriter?'

'Don't try to escape, Dan, or next thing I'll think you're going to defend Ariel Sharon.'

'Should I applaud when Palestinians blow up shoppers and tourists in the market?'

'Not applaud, perhaps, but understand. At least I do. There comes a point when a person who's lost everything, every hope...'

'And human life – isn't it sacred anymore? To me, it still is.'

Martijn raised his eyebrows and made an impatient gesture.

'Incredible! You'd lose that sentimental rubbish soon enough if you'd seen half of what I've seen. But you haven't been in the region for... when was that last time?'

'Couple of years.'

It was a sore point.

'Listen, Dan. We call ourselves specialists, but the Arab world's a bath we have to immerse ourselves in from time to time. I look at you, and I see someone at risk of becoming a paper Orientalist.'

Daniel grimaced. For a moment, his blood coursed through his veins and he felt full of fire.

'It's been a long time. Fact is, I'd love to go again. You know, I sometimes feel sinister things are happening over there. Something baleful's brooding. We better keep our finger on that pulse. We've got a responsibility. And not just because we're "specialists". Don't you agree?'

'What you mean?'

Puzzled, Martijn shook his head.

'I mean if only...'

Daniel's bitter grimace returned. He shrugged.

'Money,' he sighed. 'Money, and the duties of home. Or, what you'd call "home". So... perhaps I'd better focus on what's happening under my nose. Anyway, the whole Middle East seems to be moving here, lately. Doesn't it?'

They both laughed. Martijn rolled his eyes. As Daniel listened to his own laugh, it sounded to him neither gay nor humoristic. Yet, he also knew that "defeat" had never been in his vocabulary.

Martijn appeared to be sunk in some internal swamp, then his gray eyes ignited.

'I think I've got something for you.' Martijn's words came out a bit thick and incoherent. Anybody else would have been knocked out from the amount of alcohol Martijn had imbibed, but the giant was virtually immune. Daniel pricked his ears, tired though he was.

'I've got this idea. Why don't you join me tomorrow at home? I mean, after you're done with that policewoman... we'll hammer out a proposal that will ship you out to your romanticized Orient for a couple of weeks.'

'What've you got on your mind?'

'Allo has an urgent job in South Lebanon. Their coexistence education project with Druze and Shiites is not doing too grandly, and it's coming up for review. Problem is, the expert who was scheduled to do their local evaluation is on maternity leave. Giulliardi and Co. may not like your views there either but I can put in a word for you. After all, you've done missions for them in the past. Why don't you take her place for a while? Not for the feminist awareness part, of course, but for the educational leg. But mind you, you'd have to fly to Beirut next week...'

Martijn sat on Allo's board. He could be generous when he chose to be. Although not nearly as big as Novib or the Christian NGOs, Allo was a respectable development aid foundation and rather open-minded. And rich.

'I'll think it over. Thanks, anyway.'

They stood up to go. Martijn leaned forward and brought his face so close that Daniel, at the other side of the little table, could see the pores in the turned-up red nose.

'Don't think this over, Dan. You seize this opportunity with both of your hands. You're leaving the university anyway. Goodness knows you might enjoy a bout of real life for a change. And let the department enjoy Sayyida Elhag meanwhile. They'll miss you in the end.' He showed a wily smile. 'There's also something else in it.'

Daniel's curiosity was piqued. Martijn could also be cunning if he chose to.

'Allo will be the cover... You've got to also go after those Hizbullah blokes. Remember our discussion last year, after Israel's withdrawal? I need to know if these fellows are really getting as encapsulated and bourgeois as our western press predicts. I don't–'

'Of course, they are. They're already sitting in the Lebanese government. And now they lost their best enemy! What could be worse for a genuine revolutionary?'

'That's what you think, Danny. I don't believe a word of it. You must find out how their compass tries to keep to the East. That'll make the article I need to complete my reader. It'll be a hit. Keeping all proportions. Just one more minute, miss.'

These last words were meant for the waitress, who had come back to get rid of them. For the last quarter of an hour, Martijn had pretended not to notice her. 'I bet those Shiites ain't selling their fervor for a plate of hummus. That'll confirm my thesis. But be honest, Dan. Anyhow, don't you dare come back empty-handed! You write it, I'll do the introduction – to inoculate your naïve readers against any hidden messages you'd like to include, ha-ha!'

Overruling him, Martijn paid for the drinks, 'Here, habibti, keep the change.'

Daniel didn't like favors, not even from old friends. Yet he couldn't deny – the scheme was enticing. He put on his gloves and, without waiting, stepped outside.

Martijn followed in a loud and unsteady voice as they walked towards their bikes: 'Go home now, you imperialist! Yankee, go home! Ha-ha. Go, go! Write the preliminary draft already.'

An icy cold rose from the canal, but the alcohol made Martijn oblivious. He had forgotten to close the zipper of his old jacket, and his shawl hung loosely around his thick neck.

'Tomorrow at twelve, then, at your place?'

Martijn hopped on his bike with surprising agility. His feet started to pedal, but their circular movements were incoherent, and the frozen street was slippery. The wheels turned. He regained his balance. Within seconds, he rounded the corner and had vanished.

## 1.2

'You really rebuilt your life, Leila. Hats off.'

'I still remember how you came to visit me in the hospital. You were so kind. But I simply couldn't go back to Amsterdam and the university then. The worst wasn't even me, and what they did. Or that horrible tattoo.'

She was more open than she had ever been as his student. She wanted to unload something - but why with him, and why now?

'I for one can't imagine a worse experience.'

'It was worse for my parents.'

'You once described them as relatively liberal. Poor people...'

'Oh, they're not so political. They've always been easygoing with me, though. Alas, the others aren't so open-minded.'

'The others?'

'Uncles, aunts, second cousins. The extended family, the neighbors, our community...'

'They knew?'

'My folks at home, they knew, of course. I felt ashamed. You've no idea. I made them promise not to speak with anybody about what happened. After I found my way back home. That's why my parents decided never to make an official complaint. It took me weeks to recover. They sheltered me in a deft hideout. All very discreet. Only the doctor who treated me knew. But guess what? Within days, the rumor mill was turning full steam. In no time, the whole hamula knew. What with me losing my so-called honor, they became near-outcasts.'

Daniel rubbed his chin as he always did whenever he needed to collect his thoughts, looking for something to say that would comfort her without sounding banal.

She sighed. 'If I had been a girl from the Turkish countryside, they would've forced me to kill myself... You're thinking, why's she summoned me here, aren't you?'

'Not at all. I'm glad you found your way again. And even in uniform.' He looked at the sharp creases of her neat shirt, the smart epaulets which signaled her rank, her strong smile. Already a brilliant career officer.

'Yep. I finished police academy in the shortest possible time,' she said, not without pride. 'Cost me years of therapy, though. Truth is I don't even know why I felt the urge to pick up the pieces.'

'So – what was the worst?' Daniel was never afraid to probe painful spots.

'That I never had any idea who did it.' Her face glowered. 'Save for that one stout shorty. If he was indeed the guy I met in that meeting. But I didn't know him either.'

'They spoke Flemish, you said.'

'Two of the three. But so do another eight million. Damn fascists. What have we ever done to–'

'And you're positive they were from the Far Right?'

'Who else would've said such things? Unless that shorty was the same dog who cozied up to me in the Folk University. For a second, I could've sworn he was Arab himself. And that he brought them to me, to impress the two others. But that's absurd, isn't it? And all three were masked, and it was pitch-dark. Probably I wouldn't recognize them today if they were led in front of me.'

She sighed again. 'I'll never find the perps, I'm afraid. You're a nice prof, Dan, but you're a man, and I doubt any man can understand what it means to have to live with that. My only revenge was that I nearly bit off his little finger.'

Daniel smiled, and said in a gentle tone, 'And so by way of compensation you decided to become a counter terror police investigator.'

'You're not the first to remark—'. She suddenly stopped herself.

'Gee, I hope I didn't make a stupid remark, Leila.'

'Look... here's why I called you here. Yesterday, I had this sudden sense I saw one of the three.'

'After all these years? Where?'

'Your debate in De Balie.'

'But we touched only indirectly on culture and sexual violence, and...'

'No, I mean, the public. Look, this may sound idiotic but... that tall blonde guy with his anti-Islamic rant. The one who attacked your Egyptian shrew, who tried to adopt you into his Far Right.'

Daniel flashed back to that scene. The debate had turned to the usual suspects – radicals, fundamentalists, the Muslims in the west... There was a loud interjection from one of the last rows.

'What about terrorism?' asked a voice with a Flemish accent. Tall young fellow, short hair. His trimmed blond little beard seemed incongruous with his outmoded green loden coat...

'Terrorism, Mister?' Mona Elhag had relished his provocation. 'Terrorism results from poverty and exploitation. And you know who's most responsible for that? I bet you know it as well as all of us here do: it is you, the west. All these stories that Islam is so violent, that's just a smokescreen. What you call "terrorism" is already dwindling. Now what's not dwindling is the number of innocent Iraqi children dying of malnutrition due to...' Elhag went on for five minutes in the same vein.

'We've a lot of poor people here too,' the heckler answered back, 'but they don't blow up ships and embassies! You should look at the religious side...'

But the worst had come a few minutes later when the guy had complimented Daniel in public:

'You've given us very strong arguments tonight, Professor Devries. Not just against Islam as a religion but also against our own over-the-top tolerance – tolerance of their excesses. Of them Muslims in the midst of our Western civilization, I mean.'

Daniel cringed. What was that lonesome cowboy of the Far Right trying to do? Make it even worse? Give him the kiss of death?

Mona had the mike and cut him short. 'Let me tell you something, my friend.' But then she turned to Daniel, and with that icy glance over her gold-rimmed glasses, shot her lethal arrow. 'Dr. DeVries here probably agrees with your fascistoid viewpoint. Don't you, Daniel?'

The memory of Elhag's barb made his eyes sparkle again with anger. 'Yes, I remember him, Leila. What about him?'

She made a little frown. 'I don't know. It's five years ago. And the cowards were invisible. But yesterday I was sitting just two rows behind him. And when I saw his stature, his way of standing, that lisp... I had this strong intuition. You know who he is?'

'He came to talk afterwards. Never seen that heckler before, though. No, not the foggiest.'

She bit her lip, disappointed. 'Oh well that pops my balloon. Never mind.' She showed a brave face.

'Leila, a hunch is no evidence. If I ever hear anything... though, chances are remote at best. I'm not a detective. Just your nice lecturer, and even that... I may not stay for long at the university anymore.'

'I hope they don't kick you out. We all loved your classes.'

'Wait a sec... He introduced himself.'

Daniel looked into the distance and tried to conjure up the name. He looked at the wall of her office, decorated with some pastel-tinted abstract painting. Down through the window, he saw seagulls circling in groups over a canal, scouting the dark water for floating bits of food. A long blue tram passed by, scaring bikers with its loud electric bell. He couldn't recall the man's name.

'I see you've given up on your scarf,' he said after a moment, to change gears. 'Many turn more religious after such a trauma instead of turning away from it.'

'Well, you don't wear a yarmulke, either.'

'No, but I never did. And anyhow I'm only quarter-Jewish. My faith is... atheist, I guess.'

'And so is mine. God, if He exists, must forgive me.'

'For...?'

'No not because of that bunch of rapists. But why should I make myself even more conspicuous with symbols that have lost their meaning for me? What counts is not what Allah does, or Christ, or your Jehovah, for that matter, but what people do to each other...'

He gazed intently. Leila was a nice ex-student, and she was making the best of hard circumstances. In fact, so was he, and Martijn, and Ingrid and Evelyn, and little Lieve – nice people all, decent, lost in a senseless, blind, arbitrary, and violent universe... In the midst of their talk, a wave of loneliness washed over Daniel. He wanted to ask if they had succeeded in removing the swastika tattooed in her flesh, but he didn't dare.

She read his thoughts. 'What they did to me... After that, who can believe in circumcision and all that...?'

Then his eyes lighted. 'Hey Leila, I just recalled the guy's name. After he provoked me, I asked him, "and who are you?" He answered, "Ludo Vermeulen. Police academy, Antwerp." No insult intended, Leila, but he's a colleague of yours.'

## 1.3

"Fiery Debate Shows University under Spell of Political Correctness," the headline proclaimed. Evelyn's long fingers held up _De Telegraaf_ into the light, her head half-hidden behind the newspaper. Daniel saw only part of her long ashen-blonde hair stick out over the edge of the pages.

'Since when d'you read that sensationalist trash?'

The paper lowered, and the elongated face came in sight, smiling and quizzical.

'And since when do _you_ get them to devote an entire column to your antics?'

'I'm glad to see you again. It's been a hectic few days.' Daniel didn't mention it, but he was upset that Evelyn hadn't come to listen. Days had passed. Several meetings had taken place – encounters where he hammered out the plan with Martijn, appointments in a majestic villa in Leiden to negotiate the finances at Allo headquarters, and visits to the Tropical Institute for vaccinations.

'So how did the duel with Mona end?' Evelyn asked.

'As the article says.'

'I want to hear it from your mouth. Journalists can't be trusted.'

'Seems I might have no choice but to become one myself.' Daniel had also received a letter from the Department – his contract would not be renewed. He was out of work.

'Here, they write about your take on the crisis of the Islamic world: "De Vries argued that the growth of anti-foreigner sentiment in Europe is the migrants' own fault". Seems all the popular media are cheering you. Did you really—?'

'I never said that,' Daniel interrupted. 'That's the twist she gave to it. Elhag. You know what I think. There's misunderstanding on both sides. If we don't watch out, it may lead to violence – from either side.'

Evelyn sucked in her breath. 'I don't like you so pessimistic, it's not like you. I hope Lieve will grow up in a more peaceful world than our parents did. Or than we did.'

'I don't want to play the prophet of doom, Evelyn, but you know my opinion about our intellectual polyannas. It could be much worse. And terror may strike just as well from the Muslim extremists as from our own Fascists.'

'Why do you always throw stones into placid ponds? That was not a popular thing to say, there.'

'Not in our circles, no. And not in hers. Though I don't recall Islam being a placid pond. And she wasn't placid either. She shot back that most violence and terrorism is against Muslims! And that she doubted how aware I was of those racist incidents – here, in my own country.'

'What a conceited academic bitch! I'm sure you held your ground. But why do you always have to stick out your neck...?'

_Typical Evelyn ambivalence_ , he thought. She admired his audacity and feared the insecurity. Applauded a revolution – as long as she could watch from behind a thick plexiglass shield.

'The mood got heated. She just used me as a trampoline for her own verbal gyrations. Streams of sentences, peppered with all the fashionable catchwords. You know the lingo. "Masculinist social scientists... gender-based discourses... the Other"... And for her, I'm such a hopeless case, with my "imperialist mentality", I would of course never understand, let alone accept, her 'otherness'. In brief, they should hire women anthropologists. Preferably from Arab culture itself.'

Evelyn laughed but her green eyes stayed serious.

'Meaning, in short, hire her,' she deciphered.

'All her blather doesn't mean a thing,' he said. 'But it does sound intimidating.'

'Don't lament your university job, Danny. You'll find something else. Come, let's eat. Call Lieve.'

Later, after dinner, Evelyn tucked in her daughter Lieve and brought coffee into the ample living room. She tried to hide her slight limp.

'Let me carry the tray for you before the pain gets worse again.'

'No way. You've helped already more than enough in the kitchen. What you want, to put women back on a pedestal like Victorian ladies, dainty and responsive to remote control?'

He shook his head.

The floor lamp cast a yellow light over the low wooden table. The gas stove whirred and stirred the leaves of the monstera. It broadcast rays of warmth to the curtains that kept the cold out from the garden beyond the blurred glass panes. Her slender hands poured the coffee in white earthenware cups. She sat down as Daniel completed his story. He had, he explained, defended what he believed in, but it had done his career no good.

'Anyway, Danny,' she concluded, 'about all these radical groups, you're the specialist. Nobody can take that from you. I think you're doing fine. Don't let it get on your nerves.'

Then, abruptly, she changed the program. 'You promised you'd read me something tonight. Can it be now?' she implored. Her face relaxed, her eyes widened.

'But not again from...'

'Yesss!' There was no need to mention the title.

She liked to be read to aloud. She said he did it well. Her eagerness and receptivity struck a cord. 'On your night table, I bet,' she cajoled.

He stood up and walked up the stairs to fetch the book. Evelyn called after him: 'Careful, don't wake Lieve up! But have a glance at her.'

_No worry. This nine-year-old_ , he observed, _sleeps like a dock-worker after a hard day's work_.

Upstairs, however, he walked on tiptoes to mute the planks of the landing, creaking under his house shoes. Softly he pushed the door of her room and heard her regular breathing. For a few seconds, his eyes had to get accustomed to the dark. He knew each corner but advanced with cautious steps lest he bump into anything. The teddy-bear-shaped night lamp spread its dim brown light over the bed, modeling the folds of the blanket that covered her. The long locks, as ash-blonde as her mother's, moved slightly up and down with her breath. A protective peace that pervaded the little room enveloped Daniel. He was attached to Evelyn's daughter, growing up in this one-parent household. So cute and intelligent. On and off, Daniel would step into the shoes of the absent, unknown, never spoken-of father.

He left Lieve's door ajar as he entered the next room. There, on the shelves of his own spacious retreat in her apartment, he saw the familiar stacks of books and magazines he was working on these weeks. It was like his second home. Next to his bed, he found the novel Evelyn desired.

Downstairs again, he read aloud to her for close to an hour. Whenever his eyes turned up from the page, he caught her intent look.

'That was wonderful, Danny,' she whispered when he had reached the end. 'I'm totally riveted by it.'

He felt defenseless and proud at once. Must be those theater classes, long ago, he thought.

Tonight's chapter had been about desire that ran against the grain. The heroine's longing for a marriage of love had been thwarted by harsh family customs. Evelyn seemed to savor the forbidden fruits vicariously.

At heart, he knew, she was a romantic. Mere words on paper, but how they transported her. If she'd always been like that, he might never have gone away. They'd embrace forever. Living together, wife and husband, nothing revolutionary, nothing extraordinary. Just without all her ups and downs, endless, yet endlessly unforeseen. Lovers, episodic celibacies, drinking bouts on the beach. She'd suffuse him and he'd protect her, and he'd be like Lieve's father. Maybe they'd even have a son or a daughter of their own, some day.

Then another unwelcome thought welled up from part of him – a part as cold as those metro stairs he once climbed to meet a sunless winter morning: _Daniel, unless you go away, you'll stay predictable and tame. She'll go look for wildness in others_.

She had poured him another cup, but he hadn't noticed. Her mood had changed, and her eyes shed their languid sheen. Practical now, she was already talking of something else.

'Martijn's Allo project – you haven't explained it yet.'

'Right. We've been too busy to talk.'

'So you'll coordinate people to inspect Allo's projects in Lebanon. But then you'll have to be away, won't you? How many days a week will you be in Leiden?'

'You misunderstood, Evelyn. I am going to Lebanon. And Giulliardi will coordinate me.'

She paled.

'I thought... I didn't know you'd go...'

He took time to explain the details. Prestigious mission. Important for the people involved - Allo served hundreds if not thousands over there. Well paid. Instructive.

'And the best part is... if it works out well, there may be other projects down the line.' Martijn had even alluded to a more permanent position.

Her lips quavered.

'I'm not crazy about you going to Lebanon now, of all places: the world's most unsafe destination.' Evelyn didn't raise her voice, but Daniel understood she was anxious.

'It's not dangerous, Evelyn. We're ten years past the civil war. Beirut's becoming again the Paris of the Middle East. And it's not for long. I should be back here in three weeks, at most. One month, tops.'

'You told me you'd take Lieve to the dinosaur exhibit in Leiden on the crocus holiday.'

'I'll take her afterwards. The dinos stay until May.'

'She'll be disappointed. Besides, so am I. My course is filling up. The one that starts next week.'

Evelyn's freelance psychology classes were always a success, but she didn't really need the income.

'The one about Jung? That's great news. Alison said she'd help you out with that one, didn't she?'

Evelyn made an awkward face. 'Not enough. It'll be eight evenings over the next couple of weeks. I'd hoped you'd be here to take care of Lieve. Lend me a hand with the materials. Production, printing, distribution, you know. Once she's asleep, you can do your own work upstairs. Your place will be waiting for you every evening as always.'

Her green eyes staring at him were demanding their due. He felt cornered.

'I can see how inconvenient my trip is for you. Yet, it'd be a disgrace if I copped out at this point. It would be a slap in Martijn's face. Now he's put his weight on the scale. Besides, it's important to plant my feet in Mideast soil again. Sense how the earth smells there, how dry its dust is, how sticky its mud where your feet sink in. Feel that sun on my skin. Get a grip on how those people think today. You just called me the 'specialist'. You know, that's a title one has to earn.'

Now it was Evelyn's turn to look defeated. She was angry, he knew, but it would come out in some other form.

'Have it your way, Danny. Don't talk to me about equality, though. Say whatever you want – in the end, it's always us women who pay the price.'

_Oh no_ , he thought, _let's not walk that path again. Walk? More like being dragged. Crawl! Quick, something else_.

She leapt into the breach. 'Okay then. I'll ask Alison to just help a little more.'

'Like she helped you last week?'

Evelyn cast a hurt look, then thrust her head backward in a defiant gesture.

'Yes, she was here Wednesday night. So what?'

'So what? You told me there was nothing between you anymore. For a good time already.' Daniel tried to sound composed and in control, but he realized his voice showed far too much emotion.

'It's nothing serious,' she insisted. 'You know that.'

'She went with you to bed, didn't she?'

'And if we did?' she challenged. 'That would still be within the rules, wouldn't it? I'm a free woman. What do you want – to chain me?'

'No, but you know that I never believed–'

'And you know that I never promised you monogamy. I love you but...'

'But?'

'Don't look so beaten, silly. I didn't have sex with her! It's all in your head. Unless you consider a hug and a kiss the same as sex.'

'But she wanted–'

'Of course! But I didn't. Not on Wednesday. Not then.' A near-giggle, and again, that challenging, playful glance. 'I really love you, if only you could accept me as I am.'

'I'm not sure I can.'

'You mustn't be jealous. So she tried, okay? I didn't play along. Not all the way. Don't be childish. What does it mean to be true? You think it's that thing between your legs that determines everything. Where it goes, and where it stands, and where it stops. There are other things that excite me. We've talked about this so many times.'

'A fascinating subject, never fully exhausted.'

'Mockery doesn't become you, Danny. Listen, you stupid male! You'd better believe me, because I'm a woman, and I know these things from the inside out. So let me tell you. There can be just as much love, or treason, between two longing pairs of eyes that meet fleetingly in a street, as there is between two naked bodies; and I can have sex with... somebody, and still be faithful...'

'Faithful to whom? Me or Alison?'

There it was, he had blurted it out. They had fought. He was jealous, and now he had spoiled their evening. There was a moment's silence. Expecting she'd ask him to leave, he though it better to forestall the humiliation. 'I'd better go, perhaps do some more work at home tonight,' he said standing up.

'Don't you want rather to share a glass of wine?' Evelyn asked. She never followed his script. 'I'm sorry we quarreled, Danny. I wanted it to be pleasant between us tonight. I was stupid. I always enjoy so much chatting with you, listening to you. And all the things we do together. I shouldn't have said those insensitive things. You don't understand, do you?' Her eyes were again wide and vulnerable and hungry.

Suddenly she rose. Daniel stood motionless as she walked towards him and clasped her arms around him. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then nestled her head against his hair and caressed the nape of his neck. Her long blond hair tickled his face. He let himself be embraced, then looked into her wet eyes. How could he not love her? Evelyn's body was leaning on him. He breathed deeply and inhaled a mossy perfume so subtle it could only be noticed from very close. Her effusiveness, enthusiasm, easy laugh, easy anger, and easy tears always surprised him again. He'd never seen her jealous.

They stood there, entwined once more. Her cat wove between and against their legs and purred, trying to squeeze between them. He desired to know Evelyn's body again. She unclasped her hands and softly withdrew.

'Not tonight,' she whispered.

Daniel bit his lip. 'I'd better go then,' he repeated.

'If you must. But you may also stay. Anyway, I'm glad you're not angry anymore.'

At the door, he wrapped himself in his brightly colored woolen shawl, got into his winter coat, mittens, and the fur cap he used on the coldest nights. Then, he approached to kiss her goodbye.

'I see your whole love life in your wardrobe,' she observed with a smile. That was one of her standard jokes, but it was true. His coat he had bought from a Kalverstraat shop on a Saturday afternoon fling with a forgotten woman that had nearly gotten out of hand. As for the fur cap, Ingrid had bought it for him when she was with the party delegation to Russia, just a week before they broke up. It remained something of a parting gift, albeit of limited use. And Evelyn had knitted that shawl for him.

'I like your shawls the best,' Daniel said.

'That's why you always lose them! But it's the last one I'm knitting for you,' she said and in a good-humored gesture, whirled it around his neck.

'And if I lose it again?'

'Then you may find yourself some nice submissive Arab lady to weave you a keffiya.'

## 1.4

This was not the right time to admire the stately turn-of-the-century facades of Evelyn's street, with their neat brickwork, high bay windows and cast iron balconies. The night was very cold, crisp and clear, and the road surface was slicked with puddles that had turned into slippery ice. The wiser thing would be to keep one's eyes at street level. Daniel's mind, however, was drifting. From the elegant Old South quarter where Evelyn lived and worked to his modest apartment in the much poorer Statesmen's Quarter, he barely noticed the deserted streets he biked through, so well he knew them, and so absorbed he was in his thoughts.

Why is she always tempting me and rejecting me? It's always the same. She keeps pulling me until I don't resist anymore. I give in, and she pushes away. "Not tonight"? Our problem isn't "not tonight". The real problem is that even the occasional "yes tonight" is mere entertainment for her.

The longer he thought of it the hotter he felt. He loved her, but he had to get free of her. He didn't want to keep circling a woman unable to feel passion for him. Who was forever telling him her adventure stories while his only role was that of a witness. Yet, it wasn't so easy: she didn't let him go. Did she need him as a public, a critic, an interpreter? Did she maybe love him after all? Or was he the one who wouldn't leave those clear green eyes, all that philosophy of the boudoir, the security of her embrace? She was the one person who could always put him down with her fast and tight-fitting theories. A bitch like Mona Elhag he would have defeated if the audience hadn't interrupted him with their ugly applause and yelling. But Evelyn? She wore her slogans as she wore her miniskirt: out of fashion, unsuited for someone of her years.

But then again, she had such long and shapely legs, and she craved the admiration she got for her legs, her eyes, and her verbal virtuosity. She liked to impress and to control. He hated it when she controlled him with a few well-chosen words, or a glance. He had to admit: she could do without him, but he could not do without her.

This last realization made him even angrier. As he approached the bridge over the park, he had to pedal with an extra effort. Just over the highest point, where gravity made the wheels circle down faster and faster, he saw something small and metallic gleaming in front of him on the street. But he was too close now to deviate and drove right over it. Within seconds, all the air had escaped from his front wheel. Swiveling, the bike threatened a salto mortale. Daniel was too adept to lose control over the handlebars, though, and too alert to fall. He used all his force to make the racing vehicle stop. Then he stepped down and brought it to a standstill.

By the light of a street lantern, he observed the clean cut through the rubber; it must have been a piece of glass. The shock had bent the wheel. He was wet and cold at the same time. He cursed. Where to now? He rested the bike an instant against the lamppost. Walking a bike is slow and tiring – even more so with a wheel that has been forced out of its axis. He had not gotten too far from Evelyn yet. He calculated that he might reach her street in less than half an hour. She'd probably have gone to bed, but he had the key. She'd be surprised yet glad to see him. Walking all the way to his apartment would take the better part of a very cold hour.

For a moment, he stood poised between two options. He turned, stared back in the direction of the Concertgebouw. That way Evelyn beckoned. Then, he remembered his earlier thoughts. He turned again, picked up his damaged bicycle, and started the long trek home.

Every meter was exhausting, but with each step Daniel's hold over himself and his rejection of his dependence on Evelyn grew stronger.

If I focus strongly on this, I won't feel the cold. Thank goodness, no wind blowing. What is it she actually wants? She encourages me to go out, yet keeps me on a leash. She invites me, we dine together, talk about everything, and on occasion we even share the bed. At times, it's as if we're man and wife. At other times, she goads me to "fulfill my need for adventure". She wouldn't mind, she says.

And so, a few weeks ago, he had at long last given in to his frustration and curiosity. He browsed some relationship sites on the net. He didn't believe in love or even friendship without interaction, without sight, touch, smell. Still, half as a joke, he registered and posted one small and rather bland ad:

"Mid-30ies book wright with some ideas about the Middle East, a traveler and a houseman, a father without child, a lover without lady. You? P.S. Five foot eight, brown hair & eyes. I live in Amsterdam. Race and religion unimportant; sincerity, crucial."

To his amazement, he got inundated with reactions. But none intrigued him more than mildly. There were untold numbers of people of all varieties out there: lonely, adventurous, systematic, chaotic, or plain quirky – all in search of friendship, romance, marriage, whatever... After Christmas, annoyed with his brief and inconclusive research, he had severed his subscription. But somehow the emails kept coming. He disregarded and deleted them unread.

Evelyn, he was sure, thought he was looking for variety because that was the only game she knew. But he needed just one. In secret he promised himself never to be her loyal plaything anymore. If ever there came a woman who really loved him, he'd go with her to the ends of the earth. But first, he'd go to Lebanon.

Chilled to the bone and worn out, Daniel at long last reached his street on the canal. He locked the broken bicycle into a slot at the waterside, close to where he dwelt. _First thing tomorrow_ , he thought, _the bike repair shop – before they close for the Saturday afternoon._ It was late – three o'clock at night: better not sleep in though. He turned the key, climbed the two stairs, opened his door, and was home.

He was greeted by the same mess he had not cleaned up before he went to Evelyn's: half-read newspapers lay in front of the TV; his mock antique mahogany cabinet stood still open; various sweaters he had tried on lay spread out and crumpled on his bed. On the table, Allo files – the Lebanese projects. He bent down to switch the heater to the highest setting. Then he closed the curtains and tossed a few crumbs of fodder into the aquarium. The famished guppies raced to the surface. Within minutes, his place was warm.

Daniel shivered. His head ached, and he noticed that his eyes became watery as he looked into the lamp. Had he caught a fever?

He prepared hot tea, threw in two slices of lemon, and gulped it down. He undressed, crept in bed and fell into a restless sleep.

An hour later, though, he woke up with a start and couldn't fall back to sleep anymore. He stared at the alarm: it was the dead of night. Yawning, he walked in his pajamas to the computer. He didn't understand this sense of unquiet, and covered himself with a sweater. He read Le Monde online, then some Arab, Turkish, and Israeli newspapers, then tried to work. But his mind wasn't into it. The muscles in his right shoulder and wrist were still stiff from dragging the bike. Then, in the middle of a sentence, the computer bleeped, signaling the simultaneous arrival of over ten new messages in his mailbox. More answers. That stupid contact ad.

He felt the urge to delete them all unread, but curiosity made him read. Nothing interesting, it seemed. He skimmed over three or four unpromising notes on his screen and was about to erase it all when a short letter written all in capitals caught his eye. He paused to read it.

'HI DANIEL, I AM NADIA. I am 26 years, divorced, and I am a reporter by profession. I am only five feet three inches short, have black hair and dark eyes, but my friends consider me attractive. So much for physical details, for now. And, make no mistake. Don't misread me for an easy pickup. Although I like movies, dancing and romantic evenings with good wine and music (who doesn't? but all your other admirers surely tell you the same, don't they?), I'm serious and I have strong values. I am Arab, though my Arabic must be more halting than yours since I was brought up in the States. I am involved in causes to do with my Lebanese background. I studied Middle East politics at Columbia. Currently, I'm living by my journalistic wits. I liked your description.'

Underneath, in another font, the unknown woman had glued a proverb: "Your task is not to seek for love but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

Daniel read her message three times over.

Not even cheesy: he recognized the quote – Rumi, Persian mystic, thirteenth century of the Christian calendar. What a coincidence that she came from where he was going. Something he couldn't name tugged at his heart, and he saved the letter. Then he continued reading through the other messages. He had trouble paying even minimal attention, flipped diagonally through them, found none exceptional, and threw them all away.

He walked to the window and looked out over the canal. Two or three houseboats motionless in icy water. Tomorrow, it might freeze solid. It was still dark. He didn't understand himself. He had never replied to any message – why would he now? Why did he feel he _wanted_ to answer this Nadia? He still was feverish. Who was broadcasting to him, and through what ether? Daniel didn't believe in occult powers, but this was as if a voice were calling out from within:

"Everything that's wrong with you will turn out right. And whatever is right, will turn even better."

## 1.5

Her window on the thirty-second floor was wide as a big movie screen. She watched the snow fall. Swirls shifted direction ferociously, and a yellowish fog spread out across the Manhattan sky. Nadia Iskander pulled herself as close as she could to her desk, to be closer to the window – her own private movie. Contours of the skyscrapers illuminated. Myriad bright lights shone in nearby buildings. In the distance, she could just about make out the silhouette of the Twin Towers. The ever-changing panorama inspired her whenever she was writing her article, but tonight the show was rather desolate. The heating did not reach here well. Despite having wrapped a down blanket around her legs, she felt a shiver.

Hours had passed since Keith left for Kennedy Airport. His harsh words were still ringing in her ears. She was expecting his call, but none came. Tonight would be hard writing. She had switched off all the lights in her loft, save for one study lamp that cast its intense circle on her desk.

Distracted, her eyes scanned the objects scattered across the table. Her little Qur'an, its gold-lined pages bound in ornate green leather, seldom opened but a source of comfort. Two portraits in simple glass frames, one showing an elderly couple (her parents), the other a smiling toddler. A hand mirror. The calendar with an aerial picture of a white city bathed in a blue sea reminded her that today was Sunday 4 February 2001. She took the mirror, and in the reflection checked her face, which she thought too plump, and her raven black hair. She didn't like what she saw – she had reapplied the makeup rather hastily after crying. Her eyes, almost black, were red around the edges now.

She had again the anxious sensation in her throat as she opened the email for the umpteenth time. No message from her virtual mate on the other side of the ocean. She was not sure what she wanted of him, but just communicating back and forth created an interesting rhythm in her somewhat erratic existence, at once exhilarating and soothing. But three days had passed. Why didn't he answer? Did he exist? Or was he just the alter ego of some adolescent, grown tired of his cruel prank? Her younger brother Yunis might have played such a joke on her, before he became so religious.

On the computer, she opened the text of her current article in progress. The telephone rang. Nadia's anxiety got the better of her.

'Keith? Did you make it to the airport? In this weather—'

'—No honey, this is your Mideast room,' a well-known voice replied. 'And we need your help. Now.' It was Stanley from the newspaper.

'I have no time for new assignments,' she lied.

'Make time. We need the interview with Edward Said for the weekend magazine.'

'What's the hurry? Why me? I've hardly been in touch with him since I finished university. I haven't followed his literary meanderings in a long, long time. And besides I'm doing Lebanon, not Palestine. For all my sympathy, why don't you ask...'

Nadia tried to remember the name of a suitable colleague.

'Fink's out,' Stanley interrupted. 'And Tony's stuck with some intractable lawyerly problem. And he's become a bit too old-fashioned of late, with all his empathy for the human suffering on both sides. Meantime, your perennial hero Said is just back from the field. Believe me, you're best for this. Second-generation Arab insider sensitivity. Pinch of anti-imperialist objectivity.'

'That's a sarcastic mouthful, Stan. Did I pass the hybrid identity test for your paper?' She tried to make her voice sardonic. 'And just for your knowledge, I also empathize with humans of the opposite side. And I have no time.'

'Eighteen hundred words, but mainly his. Can you do it?'

Nadia hesitated. This guy was didn't take no for an answer. He was interrupting her work. She was not in the mood. She did not need the money, but she felt she needed to hold onto something concrete, as if she were in danger of being pulled in the deep. Still she didn't surrender at once.

'Give me a couple hours to think it over, Jeff. I'm not sure I'm up to it. Call me back tomorrow morning.' She hung up.

When Nadia returned to her computer, she noticed a fresh email from Daniel. Her heart pounded, and she didn't like the sensation. This absolute stranger was beginning to mean more to her than she wanted. She had not crossed the threshold of sending her photo or telling him her full name, and she didn't intend to, not any time soon. All the same, they were no strangers anymore.

This was their sixth or seventh letter. Every letter now led to new confidential exchanges, elicited new tokens, new confessions. Every time his words landed in her mailbox, she was relieved and longed immediately to make their correspondence even more intensive. If no letter arrived for a day or two, however, or if it contained what sounded like ever so slight a retraction, she would feel betrayed. Nadia didn't understand. Why did she do this? To correspond with a stranger, somebody not of her kin or religion. And she had barely finished with Keith. It seemed shameful. She wanted not to want it, but she wanted it all the same. She knew her own flaws well – that indecision, her always being pushed in two opposed directions at once, never making up her mind.

_Religion or freethinking. East or West. Do or don't. That's what you get if you grow up a Muslima in America... Yet there's nothing erotic to it, it's just curiosity. I have a right to be curious about what this other unknown, faceless person thinks and knows about my culture, about Arabs, about us Twelver Shiites. To find out his prejudices; he doubtless harbors some._

Her gaze shifted to the picture of the city where she was born, at the far side of the Mediterranean.

Only, an insidious tiny voice inside her head nagged, by now your curiosity should long be satisfied. You're at the brink. One step further, and it will no longer be mere 'scientific' or 'journalistic' curiosity.

Nadia pondered the voice, and hesitated, wondering if she should erase the letter unread.

She did not. Instead, she leapt into that other dimension she feared and had rejected in the name of all that was holy to her, the dimension that pulled and tugged at her. Nadia noticed right away that it was a long letter, with three pictures attached. Before she read on, she clicked them open.

For the first time, she saw Daniel: two close-up portraits, the third a picture of him standing in a park. She scrutinized them intently, decided he must be a bit taller than she, observed the brown hair, somewhat curly, the light skin. His brown eyes conveyed a sensitive nature. They seemed to smile at her, and to study her as deeply as she did him. She could not tell, though, if he was truly eleven years her senior, as he had written. And in any case, she didn't mind. She liked his upright posture but disliked what she thought was an immature smile. She didn't fall for his features, yet he appeared sympathetic. He had, she thought, something inquisitive in his look. The intense eyes seemed to plead, "Open your heart for I want to know you." She'd seen handsomer guys, but this man projected a pleasing authenticity.

Yes, she wanted to know him too.

She tried to erase the thought, but it had been thought, and could not be unthought anymore.

Then she read. In long and fluent sentences that showed facility with words, Daniel wrote how much he liked her letters. Would she tell him more about her plans? "For it seems to me that you haven't quite emancipated yourself from this Shiite background you described. Between your lines, I sense nostalgia for something you lost when you embraced America. Is that not so? What is it?"

She felt piqued and again thought of Keith. How he had pressured her to go to bed with him again and again after that first ugly experience. Pressing, pressing as if it was a small matter... Why was this so hard? Why did it feel like such a terrible transgression – if not for the prayers and the values that her parents had taught her? How many colleagues at the newspaper, those so-called Christian, educated and articulated women her own age, who might be her friends (some were) didn't make a fuss about their one-night stands? But then, why should she allow a stranger, faceless till five minutes ago, quarter-Jewish to boot, to sit in the driver seat of her thoughts?

Nadia felt exasperated, reopened his portraits, looked, quickly saved them, and went on reading. Daniel described how, until recently, he had taught at the university, made his students laugh and polarized them, and how he had lost his position to an Egyptian firebrand academic. Did she know her? Elhag. From Columbia?

Daniel also wrote of an empowerment project in the Bekaa that he was going to assess, next week or the week after. "Dear Nadia, one of the things I'm thinking about day and night is that I'll be going to Lebanon so soon. Aren't you from Beirut?". This touched her. She continued to read: "It's been years since I've been there, and the truth is, when I globe-trotted through the Middle East, Beirut was just too dangerous most of the time. But it has become much better, I heard. So what can you tell me about your experiences there, beyond (as you told me) being born there? For birth is the same whether it happens in Beirut or New Jersey, isn't it?"

_No, not exactly_ , she thought. But she admired his easy and encyclopedic knowledge of her part of the world.

"I think a lot of you, Nadia, though I don't know why. It's so strange to correspond with a stranger whose appearance and voice I cannot imagine. How is it possible, I ask myself, that in so short a time I've become attached to you, and this through mere words? Yet I feel as if we've known each other for a long time. I hope my face doesn't disappoint you too much. Would you also send me your picture? It would make it easier to link my feelings to a real woman."

Her eyes leaped over and went back again to his words, and her breath quickened. Was he, as he seemed to be, genuinely interested in her and not only in her body, like this other one who just left? How could he when he had no clue about her looks? Would he respect her? But she couldn't allow herself to think of anything so enthralling as love, or panic would envelop her.

Suddenly, she looked behind her with a hint of fear. She stood up, walked the length of her loft, made sure the door was locked, and returned to her desk. Keith should stay away. Why did Daniel never ask about him? Or had she never mentioned Keith? She wrote, but words didn't come easily at first. "I have no recent pictures of myself" (why was she lying?), "but I will take a few." Then, all by themselves, the words started to tumble onto the screen. "You are telling me things about my own background I never knew myself. How nice you are going to Beirut. If only I could walk there again. Yes, I miss it. I have been there a couple of times – last time, a year ago, for a report, but I had to come back prematurely because of my ex."

Okay, that was a bit embellished, but let it be.

She felt a sudden gust of cold in her gut yet continued typing.

"From my childhood there, few memories remain. I was five when we fled the civil war. When I returned eighteen years later, it was a new city. However, the taste of labbaneh and kubbeh, the voices of Fairuz and Marcel Khalifeh you hear everywhere, the special smells of the seaside... they feed in me a yearning for something, I don't know what, but something I miss here."

Her fingers now seemed to write with a will of their own, translating into imperfect words, but translating all the same, the emotion that kept rushing through her whole being. A sense of communing with a beloved confidante – a mix of desire, fear, and uncertainty – made her quiver.

"I would like to understand better what your relationship with this Evelyn is exactly about. If you are steady with her, then why are you looking for others? If it is not an ongoing love, why stay with her? This confuses me somewhat. I'd describe myself as rather curious about these matters but also as conservative and even religious. And, Daniel, I am looking for someone serious. I wouldn't agree to get intimate, or I would not forgive myself."

She thought for a while, then crossed the last line out. She began another sentence instead: 'There is something I must tell you up front...'

Nadia heard a key turning in the lock, and the door swung open. From the corridor, a sudden draft of icy air reached her feet. Keith walked in, took off his brown overcoat, still gleaming wet with melting snow, and nonchalantly threw it on the floor. Then he switched on the big light. Nadia swallowed. A gush of panic ran through her. Caught! With a quick movement, she erased what she was writing, then turned her chair to him.

Their eyes met. She knew he had seen.

'How come you're back? Couldn't you have warned me? Why didn't you call me on my mobile? You frightened me, entering like this!'

With unsure steps, Keith came her way. 'The flight was canceled,' he said with a thick tongue. 'Heavy snow, Nadia baby. No use waiting. I'll try again tomorrow morning.'

'But wait,' she said. She felt anger and embarrassment darkened her cheeks. 'How were you able to enter? And please don't leave your dirty coat on my floor.'

He stopped for a moment, then continued across the room. He said: 'The super at the entrance gave me the spare copy.' She looked puzzled. 'Didn't you tell him that in case of urgent need, he could let me in?'

'That was two months ago. It's over now, Keith. He should have called me before.'

He gave a smirk, turned the keys between his fingers, put them on the little glass table next to the entrance and sent her a teasing smile. Nadia shuddered.

'Well, I don't like it. Keep your distance. You're drunk. We had agreed it was over and out, didn't we? I don't want you here. Stay away from me or...'

She took a few steps, but he had already reached the desk. 'You know I've nowhere else to go at this hour.' His left hand leaned heavy on her arm.

'Leave me! Let go! Go away!' Nadia screamed. Keith did not react, staring at the blank computer screen.

'What were you doing?' His voice sounded steadier and cold now. 'What were you erasing?' With his right hand, he made a quick move and tried to retrieve the lost page. But it seemed gone for good.

'Leave my computer alone. What I write is none of your business. It's like a diary.'

Nadia shouted the words, but she stood there frozen, immobilized by Keith's force. His right hand moved fast over the keyboard. In a matter of seconds, he had retrieved her directory.

'What are these letters? daniel1, daniel2, daniel3? And so it goes on. Who's Daniel? God, they are recent. So yes, it is my business, sweetheart! What the hell's going on here?'

'You can't do this, idiot! It's my private life. Can't you show a minimum of dignity?'

But Keith didn't answer anymore, immersed in what he saw. She stood there helpless as he clicked on one of the letters and read. He was in her chair now, the bulk of his muscular body a shadow against the sharp light cast by her desk lamp. From less than a meter away, Nadia recognized the first lines: "Hi Daniel, I am Nadia. I am 26..." She covered her face with her hands.

He paid no attention to her anymore. She thought of rushing to pull the plug but he would be faster. Minutes passed. Then he opened the second letter, a third, skipped some, read the last. That was the one she had written last Thursday. Keith turned around and stared at her. She was still standing there, her lower lip trembling. He could get out of control.

'You betrayed me, slut!' he shouted. 'Who's that flunkey you're flirting with behind my back? A Dane or a Swede or something? Look what you're writing here,' – he glanced over the page till he found the quote, and read it aloud, mock-acting her tremulous and husky timbre. "I would like to share with you all the beauty I have in me. Intuitively, I feel transpierced–"...You slut!'

'How dare you...'

'How dare you! For three, four months we're so-called 'together'. And every single time I want to have sex again with you, it's been "Give me time", and "Soon, darling". Isn't that true? But for this man in the moon you feel _transpierced_...'

'It's only words, Keith. Really, I don't even know this Daniel. Never met him, and never will, probably. Besides, he's not a Dane, and it's not what you think.'

'Some multiculti progressive Arab lady you are! Full of high so-called religious principles to keep me at bay! And meanwhile you've the hots for some dingbat and play the online whore.'

Keith was doing his best to provoke her. Nadia's eyes filled with tears. She was upset and confused, unsure whether to feel guilty for her own behavior or indignant over his. But she must not engage in a shouting match, she must get him out of here. She said, 'How many times have you left me for days on end, on your supposed research trips – assuring me you were never unfaithful? While I never...'

'Unfaithful, to whom? To what?' He was speaking loudly now. 'To a Muslim girl too modest and bashful to give more than a sisterly goodnight kiss. Aside from that one time.'

'Perhaps I needed somebody unreachable to sort out my sentiments, okay? Somebody so far away he'd leave me inviolate. Or maybe I needed a bit of diversion.'

'Diversion?' he aped contemptuously. 'No, ma'am, I was your diversion! A smokescreen. Ain't worth anything to you, am I? Why did you never accept me? Why not...now...'

For a second, he appeared very sad. Then all of a sudden he ran toward her. His big hands seized her waist. Nadia was so surprised that she did not resist. He wanted to force her body nearer to his. The stink of strong alcohol exuding from his sweaty face came nearer as he tried to plant a kiss on her mouth. With an abrupt sway of her neck, Nadia avoided him, and the kiss landed on her ear, the force of her movement smashing his lip. She heard a smothered curse, drew back, but not fast enough. The back of his hand thundered against the side of her head, barely missing her eye. The incoherent hand of an alcoholic.

Pain was thudding in her temple but she kept herself together. Faster than he could react, she ran back to the table where her cell phone lay. He stood there swaying and doing and saying nothing. With her finger on the police alarm short button, Nadia, trying to be calm, said in deliberate slow tempo: 'Now get out of my house, you drunkard, before I call the police and denounce you for attempted rape. Go. Now!' She made for the door and swung it wide open.

Two muted male voices could be heard conversing in the corridor. The neighbor bringing home one of his lovers, Nadia realized. The sound coming from outside seemed to bring Keith to his senses. Drained of all aggression and with a meek smile that avoided her eyes, he walked past her, picked up his coat from the floor and walked out the door. She watched him drift down the corridor toward the elevator.

'Get out of my life. I never want to see you again!' she said in a hushed tone just within his earshot. Keith turned his head, and for a second his watery blue eyes, quite shifty now, met hers. Then he withdrew, walked on, reached the corner and disappeared.

Nadia locked the door as carefully as her quaking hands permitted. The extra keys still lay on the table. _Tomorrow, I must change the lock_ , she thought.

She went to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror, mortified to see a bleeding scratch on her neck and a fiery red mark on her temple, where he had hit her. Soon it would grow into a bump. She sat on the edge of the tub, cradled her head in her hands and cried again.

How on earth could she show Daniel what she looked like now, in this state? Even if she wanted to, no picture could plaster that over.

She watched herself in the mirror. Outwardly she looked calm as she began tending her wound, but a cold anger filled her.

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# Chapter Two

#  A Jealous God

## 2.1

April 2001

It was still weeks before Daniel would travel to Beirut. Some internal resistance within Allo had to be overcome, and various bureaucratic hurdles taken. Besides, Daniel had demanded a couple extra days ahead of his trip to familiarize himself with the projects he was to assess. His mission was urgent enough; in May, the NGO would decide whether to continue or phase out several projects that had run into complications. The task was also complex: to check out six different projects, all expensive, and all politically charged.

Daniel's brief was to visit each project, talk with the responsible partner organizations, review the books, and draw up his insights.

Charles Giulliardi, who oversaw Allo's Mideast operations, also instructed him to hear out some clients and grassroots activists, to "learn from the other side." Rumors had reached headquarters in Leiden that part of the funds earmarked for humanitarian missions had been being diverted to militant Islamic outfits. Some board members had inquired about the emancipating quality of their projects, but Giulliardi warned, 'Act discreetly. We don't want to endanger our fragile threads of trust, woven with so much effort.'

It was an evening in early April when Daniel arrived. The moment he stepped out of the airplane, he noticed that the air was still chilly but already steeped in the watery softness of Mediterranean ports in spring. He took a deep breath; the typical smell told him he was back in the Levant. A cab brought him to his hotel. The first thing he noticed were the streetlights everywhere. He vaguely remembered some places from his travels in the 1980s. How different everything appeared from those troubled times. In West Beirut, many houses still bore the mortar pockmarks of the civil war. Yet a good number of the worst-hit neoclassical, pseudo-Parisian edifices had been restored with love and big money. Among scarred buildings and ruins, many high-rises had arisen, modern and anonymous. When they passed the Hamra quarter, Daniel noticed many shops were still open. Not far from the Corniche, one of the adjunct directors welcomed him at Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.

He had visited the hotel several times in the past; it had been a preferred hangout of NGO pros and journalists, and its bar boasted the best long drinks of the Near East. Its rooftop hideout was the ideal spot for quiet, off-the-record interviews. In the evil years, the hotel had received more than its fair share of bullets, but they had extensively restored it. Gone were the massive and pompous leather chairs that had filled the dark lobby. Management had invested in light new seats clustered around chic smoked-glass coffee tables. Now, the whole space was brightly lit. Only the intricate baroque chandeliers remained, hanging low. Daniel was sorry to see that the old charm had gone, but soon got used to the new luxury. Nor had the Ambassadeurs, he soon learned, lost its reputation as the watering hole for Beirut's expat community. Once again, by a pleasant mix of old and young Arab and western intellectuals were patronizing it: British reporters, Syrian refugees, the Palestinian professor, the unmistakable Iranian agent provocateur, the German PhD Doktorant. A bunch of female students from the Gulf combined their scarves with tight jeans they could dream of at home in Kuwait or Riyadh.

He checked in. Tomorrow, an intense round of meetings would start early, but Daniel wanted to inhale a first impression of the city. It was early in the evening, but the hotel area was still bustling. He strolled the streets of the new center, absorbing an exhilarating mixture of impressions: the endless procession of young people, many dressed in the latest and smartest of western fashion. Young adults, men and women, were walking in small groups, laughing and talking in loud voices. Interspersed with their Beiruti Arabic accent, Daniel caught snatches of American and French expressions. Executives or up-and-coming professionals, he guessed.

In a café decorated with faux marble pilasters, four graying men sat around an old wooden table, sipping arak, munching pistachio nuts, and discussing politics. To their left, others were playing sheshbesh. In the main street, cars were honking. On the sidewalk, street vendors offered ful and lemonade. They looked poor but their carts were new. In between, women passed in black chadors. They marched with firm steps, in silence or softly conversing, and seemed not to mind the mundane diversions occurring around them.

No one paid attention to them either. A few sophisticated fashion shops were still open at this hour. Two elderly ladies with heavy makeup and adorned with gaudy jewels, emerged from a delicatessen, their hands full of bags. In front of restaurants that looked like tourist traps, decorated with bright neon decorations, waiters waved big menus, tempting passersby. After a failed sortie, they'd sometimes hiss a curse. Modern Arab music wafted from a bar. A big screen exhibited the pop star du jour singing in a deep décolleté. He entered the bar and had a beer.

Part of him was taking in all the new impulses. Beirut seemed a city that had turned its back on its dolorous past. Another part kept circling around the fantasy of that distant woman to whom he felt drawn. So this was the cradle of his unknown Nadia, who dreamt in Arabic but fought off her violent suitors in English. He walked back to the hotel. The many colors, sounds, smells kept his mind awake. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, at breakfast in the hotel, a jovial fellow with a wiry face and curly white hair came to see him. Daniel liked him at once. He was expecting him, the first and most important of his contacts here: Majid Khalifa, Allo's local representative. Majid, who was to accompany Daniel on most projects, had an affable smile and proved to be clever whenever unexpected circumstances arose.

'What's the latest on the Mirage project?' Daniel asked. Majid was fluent in five languages but they spoke in Arabic.

'You'll see for yourself, Doctor Daniel,' Majid said. 'The poor boys are doing fine. But rent and running costs are getting far too high. People fear the place will close down. Unless the Holland people increase the money, of course.'

In his colorless, third-hand Subaru, Majid drove Daniel out of the modern center. For a long time, they climbed through a maze of little streets. Finally, atop a dusty hill, they reached an outlying quarter of potholed streets and half-finished houses. A rather vast crumbling building with broken blinds housed the Mirage rehab center for disabled young civil war victims. "The boys," Daniel understood, were its maimed patients.

Dr. Karam, the director, who had been awaiting them, greeted them and showed them around. They walked through a long hall. In one of its corners, an adolescent with two artificial arms was reading a technical manual and, with surprising dexterity, fiddling with parts of a broken TV; another young man, blind in both eyes, lay on a bed listening to a radio; another two were trying to repair shoes. Further on, he saw other trainees. All looked up as he passed, and smiled.

Crossing toward the other side of the building, Dr. Karam preceded them to the room where disabled toddlers were being cared for. Two nurses in hijab, in the midst of their activities, greeted Daniel; the children looked sullen. Next, with proud gestures, Karam led them to the dining hall; then, they progressed to the kitchen and the laundry. From time to time, Daniel heard screams, but for the most part the place was quiet. By the time Karam led them into his office, Daniel felt subdued by what he had witnessed.

'You seem to be doing beautiful work, sir. What's the problem here?'

'Most of our inmates were babies during the later stages of the civil war, back in the late eighties. Orphans. We call it "Mirage",' (he pronounced it as the French word) 'but not because our dream of rehabbing these poor children must remain a mirage. Mi'raj is in honor of the Prophet's nocturnal voyage to paradise from Jerusalem. Peace be upon him. But our institution is strictly multi-confessional.'

Karam articulated each syllable with precision. Daniel knew the story from the files. 1991 was when Allo had started to subsidize the private initiative. All patients were severely mutilated war victims. That was then. Now, even the youngest were reaching adulthood, and one by one they transferred to institutions for grown-ups or released into the indifferent world. Most donors allotted their monies on a case-by-case basis, so Mirage's sources of income were dwindling. Meanwhile, parents and churches with younger disabled kids were knocking at the door.

'In a manner of speaking, this war has never ended. Landmines are still hitting every day. You saw the victims, in the left wing,' Karam pleaded. 'The problem is, our new pupils in general are without financial resources. We have to refuse most candidates. The worst cases are those in need of the most expensive treatment...'

Asking to see the institute's financial records was awkward, but Daniel couldn't avoid it. After spending hours peering over its chaotic handwritten ledgers, copying information into his laptop, Daniel heard Majid's lively voice engaged in enthusiastic dialogue with Karam, next door. Then they entered.

'Ah, I see you completed your research here, Mister Vries,' Karam said in a voice that was a tad too jovial. 'I hope we passed the test. I hope you found what you're looking for.'

Standing behind Karam, Majid signaled to Daniel not to react.

'Thank you for showing us around. I think I have everything.'

'I am sure you will call on other projects?'

_He's fishing for a good spot on Allo's priority list_ , Daniel thought.

'Tomorrow we'll inspect the Haddad project, Doctor Khaled,' Majid explained, from behind Karam's back. Then he stepped next to Daniel. 'And next—' Majid went on, reeling off further institutions on their to-visit list.

'You also plan on going to Mar Ilyas?'

'St. Georges? I doubt that Doctor Daniel has time for—'

'Oh no, you _must_ go and see it.' Karam interrupted, addressing Daniel directly. 'It's beautiful and—'

Daniel had heard of a project by that name, in the South not far from the Israeli border, but it was only for women, and not on his schedule.

'—it shows that even under war conditions, emancipation is an option.'

'Thank you again, Doctor Karam,' Daniel answered. 'We'll consider it... in the framework of our possibilities.'

The director accompanied them to the street, where they took leave. 'When you go south,' Karam still insisted as Daniel was entering Majid's car, 'Be sure to pay a visit to my colleague, Doctor Bernard. Pass him my compliments. Bernard Berberian: he can explain to you why it's not just freedom from foreign occupation that my country needs.'

It was late in the afternoon. Dusk was falling fast, but Majid seemed to know the way well.

'I'd like to hear your opinion, Dr. Daniel.'

'You may call me Daniel. No Doctor. As for Mirage, I'm still overwhelmed by the suffering we've just seen. All those innocent children... If you don't mind, I'll be more objective tomorrow.'

'What did you think of Doctor Khaled... I mean, of Karam?'

'He's from your community?'

'Sunni, yes, but that's not the point. Did you look at those files?'

'Yes, I had to study what Mirage has done with our money, didn't I?'

'I arranged especially for him to leave some other records visible in his room, in case you were interested.'

Daniel was mystified by something eerie that he couldn't lay his hand on.

'I needed all my time for the accounts registers.'

'Karam's not just a hospital surgeon, Doctor... Daniel. Khaled has for years worked as medical officer with one of the Sunni militias. And then with the police.'

'So?'

'Daniel, that toubib is a one-man treasure house of stories nobody wants to come out. You were sitting on top of an archive of scandals that could bring down our government. Or any party here. In particular God's Party.'

God's Party: Hizbullah. Was that why Karam insisted he go south?

'Oh well, that's too political for Allo, isn't it?' Majid summed up. 'Let's talk about something else.'

They parted in front of the hotel. 'You must have dinner with us one of these days,' Majid said. 'May, my wife, makes an excellent musakha'.

'How generous of you. With the greatest pleasure. But first our duty calls! What's on our plate for tomorrow?'

The next morning and the day after, Majid brought a few board members and relatives of the patients to the lobby of Ambassadeurs. The interviews took a long time. In the evening, alone in his room at last, Daniel made a few calculations, compared the information he had collected, and drafted a first version of his report on the Mirage project. In it, he mentioned the need for more regular accounting but recommended a substantial increase in support for the initiative. Then he called Holland and spoke with Lieve. They chatted for a good time. Evelyn was out on some errand. Later, he wrote to Nadia.

Daniel was so busy he barely noticed the time passing.

The next day, Majid announced, 'I'll drive you now to Mikael Haddad's Peace Education Fund, in Jounieh. As a Sunni teacher, I was myself involved in it for some time. It has great energy – you'll see.'

The Haddad project was one of Allo's showpieces. Camouflaged among more traditional literacy and social awareness activities for disadvantaged youth, the Foundation experimented with reconciliation games between local Sunnis and Greek Orthodox. Some Palestinians from a nearby refugee camp also took part; this was considered a revolutionary innovation.

A severe-looking woman in her sixties headed the Haddad project. She spoke at length about the project and showed Daniel meticulous financial records before he even asked for them. She had thin lips and had her hair combed straight to the back of her head. She was devoid of any traces of humor but, as Majid had foretold, radiated an infectious energy and seriousness about the Fund. _A missionary's wife_ , Daniel thought. The headmistress' temperament suited the environment well. Daniel had noticed that the population in this region was much more diffident, even morose, than in Beirut.

'They've suffered a lot,' Majid explained. 'Many hail from the security zone.' They slept over in a ramshackle roadside hotel. The Haddad Fund's activities spread out over several outlying villages, and would take days to visit, but things went well and they were enjoying themselves. In every village, Daniel and Majid were given the red carpet treatment by the local Fund delegate. Every day, they saw another school, sat in on some moving community dialogue, or had an enlightening talk with teachers and activists. Everywhere, Daniel noted, Majid made the most useful contacts in no time, and every hitch he resolved at the drop of a hat.

Haddad was one more project that Daniel rated highly.

## 2.2

Every other evening, Daniel composed a letter for Nadia. The pull that this woman exerted on him was undeniable. Even more strangely, he found that the attraction seemed to be mutual. After all, he stood as far from her as she from him.

The Internet connection was erratic, so one of the hotel employees would have to send the fax from an office behind the reception at the Ambassadeurs. Since Daniel could not know who might read his letter, here or in New York, he first thought it wiser to express himself by circumlocution, hoping she would get his hints. He was in doubt if he should write to Nadia about all he had seen.

In the end, he decided to be open about everything. For they had promised each other total honesty. It was such comfort to have a kindred soul who was on her way to becoming his confidante. In her replies, Nadia was unrestrained. He took her messages with him back to his room where he read her emotional, lyrical outpourings, elated about how much closer they had grown.

He had liked her voice from the first moment they started calling each other.

If her melodious sound could take shape – that's how he'd visualize her. But why didn't she ever send those promised pictures? While Daniel exulted in his fantasies of Nadia, he was at the same time worried she might find his talk upsetting. What was she doing these days? Would doubt not disturb her religious beliefs? Most of all, what did she look like? Blushing at these thoughts, he kept them to himself.

Then one evening close to the end of his mission in Lebanon, he received a letter from Nadia that ended on a much more practical and enigmatic note: "Daniel, just in case, may I ask you a favor? If you have a chance to find out – I have a second cousin in Mar Ilyas, south of Nabatieh. We used to be close, but she seems to have disappeared. I worry sometimes. Her name is Nuzha Ja'afari..."

### ***

It was the end of his next to last week in Lebanon. The project they had to look into was an agricultural empowerment initiative geared toward impoverished Druze peasants in the Bekaa. The evaluation passed without incident. That evening, the Khalifas invited Daniel. In their simple apartment in Burj Abi Haidar, Majid and May went out of their way to make him feel an honored guest.

'You must be happy there in Holland. Good economy. Nice people. So few problems. And the tolerance... It's an example we should follow here - if only we could. Many of us envy you.'

'It's a little less idyllic when you're there, Majid. We have our share of problems. You should visit. I'll show you around.'

'There are twenty percent Muslims in your country, no?'

Daniel smiled. 'Not even a quarter of that. And their situation is not brilliant, mostly. Not to speak of Dutch aversion to foreigners – it's growing.'

Majid's eyes grew as Daniel explained.

'Our Moroccan and Turkish boys and girls don't always have an easy time – they learn in poorer schools, live in worse houses, land lousier jobs. You shouldn't idealize... Now and then the hatred against them turns violent. Five years ago, one of my best students was raped and tattooed for wearing a hijab.'

'Really? That's terrible. Yes, we sometimes hear of anti-Arab racism...'

'Look, our professors and poets, and Ministers and curators... I think they're living in Lala-land. To say that is not racism; however, it's a taboo to mention it among our progressives, Majid, but aggression exists on both sides.'

Majid nodded slowly.

'The Muslim migrants are victims,' Daniel continued. 'But they're also part of the problem. Aggressive migrant kids loitering in the streets. Brothers pressing sisters to veil. Attacks on gays, on Jews. Contempt for our "Godless" culture.'

'I'm surprised, and not surprised, Daniel. Sounds a lot like our own radical Islamists here. Well, you'll see for yourself tomorrow.'

'I wouldn't say it's intrinsic to Islam, but for many believers it seems...'

Daniel treaded with caution. He had worked closely with Majid for the last couple of weeks. He liked and trusted him, but he was also knowledgeable about the Middle East – religion was the most inflammatory topic. Outside the protective shelter of their extended families, most people would go to great lengths to avoid the subject.

But Majid offered a wide smile. 'I know what you mean, Daniel. Islam's a religion that doesn't like to be integrated along with a dozen other sects and churches. As if we're no more than one pot of jam among tens of brands lined up along the supermarket shelf. That's what you want to say, no?'

'Exactly!' Daniel was relieved. 'And so where I live, as I said, some of our youth's growing more radical by the day. I see threats of terror. Not that there isn't plenty to criticize with us, too: we discriminate and that's wrong. But... after all, they came to live with us. Is it so strange that more and more people grow impatient and shout: "adapt or get out." Primitive people perhaps, but not evil. We have a politician who screams "Holland for the Dutch." He's more popular every day. Lamentable – but blaming one side only won't do. It'll just poison the well a bit more...'

Majid said, 'Daniel, I think you're a journalist as well as scholar. You see many things. And I think you're on the right track. Look, I'm a Muslim myself – kind of. But we ourselves have lots of criticisms of the wrongs committed in the name of religion. You know what I think? Islam has created a fantastic culture. Just look at the Alhambra, or the Golden Dome in Jerusalem. In the golden age, we had beautiful miniatures, poetry, mathematics, architecture, and optics, and grammar. And sailing expeditions. And hospitals, and science, and much, much more. _Then_ we were at the center. But that's just the point – _were_. Not anymore. We Arabs have a great past, but...'

'Majid, your future may also be fantastic.'

Majid shook his head. 'We're so defensive. Our culture has a problem. We're stuck in the middle. Our present is lousy.'

'That's not all your fault, Majid. I know about colonialism, about western arrogance: I teach that.'

Majid's smile was open but sad. 'We... the Arab world has been free now for decades, Daniel. And misery and tyranny have only increased. We make revolutions, but they lead nowhere.'

'I don't agree, Majid. You asked me the other day what I thought of Mirage, remember? Well, I've concluded that it's an apt symbol of where you people stand. There is this crust of cruelty and agony. But delve deeper, and you'll find that compassion flows, and life.'

Majid's white mane swayed as he nodded. For the first time, he was expanding on his own political sympathies. He had been a militant in the Lebanese Communist Party.

'You must have a lot of experience, Majid. This relationship you communists have with the Druze has always intrigued me.'

'Oh, but I'm no Druze.'

'You told me. But weren't you involved in those negotiations with Kamal Jumblatt, at the start of the civil war?'

'In '75? How old do you think I am, Daniel?'

'Umm, late thirties I guess.'

'I am thirty-one.'

'But then you're six years younger than I...'

'I know. Don't be embarrassed – my white hair has confounded more than one...' A little silence fell. 'In 1987, I took part in George Hawi's group. I was with, indeed, the Druze, in the battle against the Amal Shiites. I was just seventeen. They took me prisoner. Me and five comrades. They held us for weeks.'

Daniel held his breath.

'We were tortured,' Majid went on. 'One day, they brought us out to be executed. Seems we had lost our value to them. They put us against a wall, and shot three of my friends, one by one. I saw them fall. I would be next. Then one of their soldiers came running to the Amal commander, waving a paper. It was a fax: a ceasefire had been arranged. I was free, and so was my sole surviving comrade. For the three others, it was too late. They transferred us back to our side, in an orderly exchange of prisoners. I got a sedative from our toubib. The next morning when I woke up, my hair was all white.'

It was late when Daniel took leave. He thanked Majid and his wife. They embraced like old friends.

The next day, his last mission started. A young woman in a wide-falling chador waited for him in the lobby. She was his go-between to St. George's, a hospital in the South run by Greek Catholics but patronized in the main by poor Shiites. Allo was a minor partner in its women's project about gender roles: the Catholic Caritas was the main stakeholder, and this was the women-only project. For Daniel to go there was against all rules and maybe culturally insensitive.

But two days earlier, Daniel had received an urgent fax from Allo in Leiden: the project, happening in an out-of-the-way and somewhat risky location, was in trouble and needed at least a visit and perhaps some coaching; since no female assessor was available, Allo and Caritas had joined forces: could Daniel have a look at what was going on there? Daniel had his doubts. But out of curiosity, he had agreed to try.

'Good morning.'

'Morning of light. I am Fatima Nasr.'

All Daniel could see of the veiled woman were her plump pockmarked face and her ivory hands. She was polite but shy. He had difficulty engaging her in conversation as she only offered short answers. Together, they left Beirut for the South. For hours, their minivan taxi wound its way through mountains and along the sea, past resorts and refugee camps. Fatima was sitting on the left side of the "service" reserved for women, Daniel on the right.

After a few stops, most of the women got out, and more and more men entered. The division could no longer be maintained. Now, Fatima sat next to the window, with Daniel at her side. She was uncomfortable, he noticed, and tried to keep as much distance between them as possible. But the many bumps and turns in the road made that ever harder; and passengers were pressing against him.

The minivan crossed a cragged country of olive plantations and fortified hilltop villages. After Nabatieh, they entered a landscape scarred by war. In villages or standing alone, many houses had broken walls or had collapsed; families were still dwelling in some of these ruins. They passed bomb craters that had never been filled back in. Here and there, he even saw burnt-out tanks. Big portraits with the severe mien of Khomeini, Nasrallah and less frequent, the disappeared Musa Sadr, looked down on the passengers: they were deep in Shiite country. Nearly all women here went veiled, most in long black abayas. Attached to poles on either side of the streets, yellow posters glorified Hizbullah and its eternal struggle against the Zionist enemy. Groups of young men in khaki fatigues, Kalashnikovs swung over their shoulders, patrolled the roads. Several times, the minivan was stopped at roadblocks.

Fatima was now the sole woman left in the service. Two uniformed Hizbullah soldiers boarded the van for inspection. One of the two guards cast a disdainful look when he saw Fatima sitting next to Daniel, a foreigner, but the sentry let them pass, and the van continued on its route.

'Ferocious looking, isn't he?' Daniel asked. He had already tried several times in vain to chat with her.

'They are our heroes. They protect our honor.' She said and withdrew again into silence. After a while, Daniel tried again: 'Your family name is Nasr, isn't it? I happen to know in The Hague, in Holland, one Ali Nasr from South Lebanon who is Shiite. Is he perchance related to you?'

Her eyes lit up. This time, the bait worked better than expected. Fatima gave a long and rambling report of the various branches of her extended family, and where in the wide world they had all landed. Some Nasrs were living in Guinea, or had reached as far as India and Malawi. Others had settled in parts of the United States. Or upstream along the Brazilian Amazon. The Ajamis were more distant relations, she explained, while the Hamzas were prominent in Syria. The deeper she delved into the subject, the more enthusiastic she became. Daniel did his best to keep kindling the fire by manifesting discreet attention. Yes, she concluded, it remained uncertain, but the possibility of an Ali Nasr in Holland could not be dismissed.

They had broken the ice. From here on, he got along with Fatima more naturally. By the time they reached Mar Ilyas, the little town of the St. George hospital, he learned that she had been an avid Hizbullah supporter since age twelve, had trained as a social worker, had never been out of Lebanon, and was diabetic, Besides, she expected this summer to be betrothed to her cousin, a handsome and courageous warrior.

He had heard more than enough to write the article that Martijn had commissioned: among the rank and file at least, God's Party seemed in far better shape than the Western pundits were broadcasting. And he had also learnt a good deal about the women's emancipation project in the hospital. Fatima was one of its facilitators, and knew the organization from top to bottom: how the influence of the moderate Amal Shiites had waned, to be replaced more and more by pressure from the leadership of God's Party. Beneath a veneer of consensus, tensions raged between progressive and more religious women, about arranged marriages, contraception, and some young women's demands for the right to take part in the armed struggle. Some even had free relations with boyfriends in the party, Fatima disclosed. No, she did not favor that sort of behavior. 'However, to judge is not for us, but for Allah alone,' she concluded.

The minivan stopped. Putting his backpack on, Daniel carried her bag to the guesthouse and wished her goodnight.

Over the next couple days, the visit to the project went much better than expected. Her initial reticence shed, Fatima now believed that Daniel's assessment was vital to her project. She opened all doors to him. Hizbullah soldiers were everywhere in Mar Ilyas, but she kept them out of their way. He was surprised how many of the women were prepared to talk to him, even one-to-one, as long as Fatima was sitting in the same room. Although he could not attend their meetings, he learnt details of the mutual support networks that the nurses of St. George's had built among women of the poor quarter and the surrounding villages, of the literacy classes they promoted, and the health instruction they imparted. Daniel's sympathy lay with the more modern girls, but he could not help admiring, too, many of the fundamentalist sisters for their sincerity, stamina and idealism.

Had they gotten it all wrong in the West about Hizbullah? True, their struggle methods against Israel were ugly; hatred ran deep, though he had not come across any more overt anti-Semitism. But wasn't it more important what happened on the ground? True, that 'virtuous' emancipation might not be his cup of tea. But didn't it allow young women to crawl out of their houses, work, and get to know at least a tiny part of the world? Choice, Daniel understood, even limited choice, is better than no choice.

### ***

The afternoon after his arrival in Mar Ilyas, Fatima was away for an hour or two. Daniel had asked to see the head surgeon. The Hizbullah sister on duty who was showing him around was strangely reticent, but Daniel found the way by himself. He entered into St. George's hospital clinic to present his visiting card to Bernard Berberian. At that moment, the surgeon was just running out for some emergency. He had a hard-to-read face but forced a polite smile in response to the unwelcome interruption. Then Daniel transmitted the good wishes of the director of Mi'raj in Beirut.

'How kind of Khaled,' Berberian replied in a bland voice. Daniel imagined the shadow of a sorrow. 'Ah... Doctor Karam...' the surgeon continued. 'Khaled-Know-Nothing we call him here'.

'Funny surname,' Daniel said in a neutral tone.

'Funny, not?' Suddenly Berberian's face opened in a broad smile. 'But Miss Nasr and you must visit us. Are you available tomorrow night, Doctor Daniel?'

The Berberians had invited them on his last evening in Mar Ilyas. Fatima had excused herself. Daniel nibbled on the qatayef that Berberian's wife had baked. She had brought in a whole plate and then retired. Although the couple was Christian, they lived within the perimeter of the all-Shiite refugee camp that bordered the little town.

'Did you see this picture before? Did they show it to you?' Dr. Bernard Berberian asked.

'Delicious, my compliments,' Daniel said. He wiped the sticky honey from his hand with the small, embroidered kerchief, and took the photo that Berberian handed him. A young Shiite woman in chador. Superficially, she resembled the strong faces among the rows of portraits in black frames that Fatima and her friends had shown him on that first day at the entry of the hospital. Martyrs for the cause, they had told him. Under each portrait stood a little vase with a single fresh red rose. But when he observed the picture at closer range, he didn't recognize this thin-boned face with big sad eyes.

'Never seen her.'

'I'm not surprised. Nuzha was not your Hizbullahi poster child.'

'So who is Nuzha?'

'Was, not is. Didn't they tell you of the Ja'afari girl who died in childbed of septicemia, some four months ago?'

'One of the sisters of the project mentioned such a case while I was studying the records but without name. Nor did they mention she was a mother.'

'That was her. A scandal. She was a bright young nurse here at the hospital. Shiite as you can see. Lively and outgoing, lots of friends: perhaps this caused envy. She was prettier than most. Prettier than the picture shows. One day, she came home pregnant, out of wedlock. We found out who the father was – a rather notable married man from Araifeh. From that day on, nobody talked to her. The whole community rejected her. You know who was the harshest against her?'

With his teeth stuck in an Arab sweet, Daniel could only shake his head.

'Her own cousin,' Berberian carried on. 'A young Hizbullah corporal from Beirut. He was stationed here for a while. Very ambitious, very strict. Nuzha stayed locked up at her parents' home till her time came. They were awaiting the delivery before getting rid of her. One night, she was brought in, they said that the labor had begun. I knew that it would be a complicated delivery. The obstetrician on duty here, I won't give you his name, he's Hizbullah. He opted for the baby's life over hers.'

'You couldn't do anything for her, could you?'

'I might have had I been here. But I was in Saida for a surgery. When I returned, the next day, she had gone. It went all very fast and in a sneaky manner. I didn't understand it, because she was not yet at term, but they told me labors had started prematurely. The next night, when nobody was in the office, I went over the papers. I read in her protocol that she bled profusely; it said no medical supplies were at hand.'

'Are you suggesting... they let her bleed to death for no reason?'

Berberian kept silent for a moment. Then he said in a soft voice, 'Basically, that's the story.'

'Can you show me the protocol?'

'The day after, I wanted to make a photocopy of it, but the protocol was gone. In the log, somebody had whitened out her death cause and overwrote it with "acute septicemia." I can show you that.'

'What a terrible story. What happened to the child?'

'Nuzha's death wiped out her family's shame. They spirited her body away to Beirut and buried her there in Martyrs' cemetery without any ceremony. The child was of course rejected by the family. They gave it to an orphanage. It died after six weeks.'

'Would you say Hizbullah had a hand in it?'

Berberian gave a weary smile. 'One does not express such affairs in open words. Here, things happen and lessons are learnt by example. You're from Amsterdam, aren't you, Dr. Daniel? You cannot understand. But don't think that this place was a paradise of human liberty before Fadlallah came on the scene, either. I can compare. I've seen Europe. I studied medicine in Nantes.'

Daniel was shaken by Berberian's story. His stomach turned, and he ate no qatayef anymore. 'So this is why you called me?'

'I notice you are favorable to the project. It's of course your responsibility. I'm not talking you out of it because of any personal interest here. On the contrary, we get a bit of overhead. It helps pay for the oxygen in the surgery ward... at least if it's for operating on some guerrilla who the Israelis wounded. But about that emancipation project... I thought you should know that not everything here is as nice as it seems before you write your assessment.'

'How is it for you to live among people of a different sect?'

'My wife was born here and lived here her whole life. Mar Ilyas used to be half-Catholic. Her father was among the founders of St. George. But it isn't getting any easier.'

## 2.3

Nadia longed to hear his voice again. Swooning over his emails, she caressed the little pile of his faxes to the left of her computer. Since her high school days, she had never felt such infatuation. Not with Munder, nor with Keith. She was all too aware of her sexual energy. She felt it and knew that, from a source inside her, it irradiated to the world and had driven crazy more than one.

Religious scruples sometimes made her feel that her desire enslaved her to vice and sin. And God's voice had lately begun to talk more loudly again, inside her head. The thought of Daniel, on the other hand, awakened in her something else and no less pure. It did not feel at all shameful as thoughts of sex outside of marriage ought to. And yet this infatuation fed her guilt.

His letters made her wonder if Daniel had the same ambivalence toward her world, her faith... Was he her mirror? Was that him – or was she just projecting? How different his sincerity and his urge to share his deepest feelings and doubts, from the self-censorship they had raised her in, and which had become a part of her. But then, would he be so honest in reality? Could this abstract dance be translated into the rhythms of real life?

She read and reread his messages. How she loved that letter from a week ago where he reminisced about the time when, much younger, as a student, he had been so enthusiastic about Islamic culture and history. He traveled from Istanbul to Fez, from Córdoba to Delhi, from Teheran to Surabaya, meeting all those exotic figures, sitting in madrasas and temples. He listened, took in, meditated, found happiness, and went on, in search of more...

Oh God, how much would she have liked to be on a journey like that. Why was that impossible? Her parents had kept her under close control; the honor of a girl had to be screened and safeguarded. Everything seemed predestined for her until that terrible day when the Worst of All Things occurred. Ever since, she had been all on her own. She was free now - and yet hemmed in on all sides.

How she hated those boundaries – but weren't they just as much part and parcel of her parents' world as were the bright colors, the human warmth, and the shelter of a whole tribe of brothers? A world so different from the vibrant but harsh reality of America. These two very different realities had formed her. And she could never pass back through that door to her lost world – they had slammed that in her face. Oddly, she had not fully arrived in the other world either.

Daniel was the first to read between her lines. He seemed to understand the fences that split up her world. The loss had begun when, as a five-year-old girl, they had brought her in the airplane. Through the round cabin window, she saw Beirut lapped by its blue waters for the last time. Its buildings turned and the sea spun, and then she couldn't see it anymore. It had been lost, as if the towers and the minarets and the sun shining on them now lay on the bottom of the ocean, covered by an immensity of dark water, never to be dragged to the surface again.

One day many years later, she had decided to forget that memory. She was eighteen and could no longer live as an obedient little virgin. How proud she was. Her head went wild; her heart swelled and swelled till it broke the chains. Her bosom was on fire, and she ran away from her parents' home. It was cold outside, but she clung to her freedom and built her own little fortress in New York. She fled to it, fell on her head, got hurt, got up, worked, studied, and wrote reportages. God could no longer be her tyrant. That was not Him.

She read the Qur'an, the Sufi masters, and other inspired scriptures, and ended up making her peace with a vastly more tolerant Deity. The One Who not only tolerated Christians and Jews and Sunnis but Buddhists too and even atheists. Her new God was even amiable. You could tell Him whatever you wanted. Not that He ever answered, but He was always ready to listen. And wasn't there tacit approval in His silence, she had written. Daniel had understood and admired her thoughts.

And now this man was in her own city, her sunburnt Beirut, buried under the waves of time, and he was sharing his doubts with her. In the last days of his visit, as their correspondence reached a crescendo, so did her feelings for him. And although he had emancipated himself from the dogmas of another faith than the one she had released herself from – still, he shared with her his experiences and disappointments with _her_ world. His doubts, political, professional, and private. She wanted to talk to him, understand better. See if she, from her own perspective, could make sense of it all...

Take this 'anti-Semitic' thing he had mentioned. She knew he had _some_ link with that nation to the south of hers. So – they could not all be killers, could they? Together, the two of them could untie that knot. If they just kept their honesty. One day, he'd have to explain to her what being "quarter-Jew" meant.

For her, it meant nothing. Could you be half-Muslima? One-third-Arab? That was as absurd as being half-virgin. It's something digital, Yunis always said, and here he was right. Either you were, or you were not. Unless being Jewish worked in a different, analogue way... she had never quite understood that. Still, she hoped that his explanations might bring them closer.

His sincerity hurt her yet at the same time she craved it. The sun you like to bask in, don't you know how deep the shadows it casts? This man who admired the taste and the heat of her world was also honest enough to challenge his own convictions. He didn't lack intellectual courage. But who was right?

That time they had spoken over the telephone, and she fell in love with his sonorous voice alone, he had asked her: 'Shall we promise to each other that, whatever happens, we'll always speak to each other the truth?' It came out as something so simple and noncommittal, like 'Shall we make a walk in the park?' With eagerness, before even realizing it, she had accepted. But now, why did she not follow her vow?

Yes, but there were things that must be kept from him, from the whole world, things that (she knew) must stay buried so deep in her that she herself would at last forget them.

Nadia blushed. Nervously, she smoothed a few black curls back that were hanging in front of her eyes. There was nobody in the room. What was she ashamed of? She, too, wanted total honesty, didn't she? The stream going from her to the one she loved... to the source of love itself. That chain of connection to all beings of which the mystic Ibn Arabi spoke, and that should be here on Earth as well.

Ashamed of her own "dishonesty" and ashamed about her shame, she decided to do something about it. She would write it all to him, and to hell with all the censors. She'd be free. At that point, the phone rang.

'Sis, you must come to New Jersey. It's urgent. Abbi's in the hospital. He's had a heart attack... It's too early to say. Better come at once.'

## 2.4

They had all rushed to the hospital, her older brother Fouad, Nadia, and the younger Yunis. Their mother was waiting for them next to the bed in the private room where her father lay hooked up to numerous tubes and wires that monitored him and kept his condition stable. It was the first time in a year she saw him. He looked haggard but smiled weakly when he saw his sons gathered at his bedside. Too late did she realize that he would have expected to see her in hijab, what with all those young interns milling around.

'Abbi...'

'Why didn't you come to visit me when I was healthy?' he grumbled to her.

At least he no longer refused her presence.

A surgeon himself, Fouad had a professional talk with the cardiologist.

'We're fortunate,' he explained to his brother and sister, 'Abbi's infarct was less severe than they feared.'

'Alhamdulillah,' Yunis muttered.

'Still, he's just in his fifties, and this is already his second attack...'

'Meaning...?' Nadia asked.

'The medical staff takes no risks. For now, abbi has to stay in hospital.'

'What you think, Fouad?'

'Nunu, we must ask God for patience. Yet, I feel more at ease now than before that talk.'

The next morning, Fouad returned to his own city. Yunis, too, left and returned to his law faculty.

A week and a half later, Wael Iskander was still interned. Nadia, for the time being, settled back into her old parental home. Her mother Zahra didn't comment on how she dressed and talked. But Zahra's withdrawn behavior, her thousand little rituals, customs, and expressions, reminded her day and night of how far she had drifted from the Straight Path.

Every day, they visited father. Most of the time, Zahra and Nadia went together and stayed with him for as many hours as the hospital would allow. Slowly her father recuperated. She knew his temperament, stern on the outside but warm at heart, but she also knew that his sense of decorum forbade him from showing much affection. About that which had happened before they didn't speak a word. In the evening, she tried working on her articles, but it was hard to concentrate. The in-depth interviews that had built up her reputation – Said, Abu-Lughod, Darwish – fell by the wayside. In the downtime, when nobody was paying attention, she'd mail a message to Daniel.

Fouad called his parents every other day, and Yunis reappeared on the weekends to see his father. The second weekend, he and Nadia left the hospital earlier, leaving Zahra alone with their father while Yunis drove Nadia back to their parents' home.

'You must eat something, Yuyu. At home, I'll get you a sandwich. Hey, with that funny new beard and white skullcap you look like our imam.'

'No mockery, sis. It helps me not to forget who I am, and where I am. I'm doing what's my duty.'

'Duty? May I presume that you're also back at studying civil contractual law, then? When's your term paper due?'

'Stop the sarcasm,' he interrupted. Then, suddenly he barged in: 'And talking about dress codes, sis, if you ask me, it'd be much better if you wouldn't walk around like one of those western hussies.'

'Thanks for the advice but I didn't ask, if you noted.'

### ***

As soon as they arrived in New Jersey, they sank into their parents' baroque armchairs. She always felt like a naughty child when she was there, surrounded by their heavy, decorated furniture. The light tapis plein in her New York flat symbolized her emancipation. Among her parents' parquet, ancient wine-red carpets, empire cabinets, and French oil paintings in broad gilded frames, she felt again like the controlled teenager forbidden to date but too shy to flee. Yunis munched on the salad with tahini she had taken out of the fridge for him. His eyes spat fire.

'Nadia, I must speak with you. Dughri. Cut the banter. I ask you, what's come into your head these last two years? Since Munder divorced you, you've left religion behind? I must warn you. You bring us, your family, to shame. Do you know how my friends talk about you? I don't even dare to quote them. You'd hide your face.'

'Must be your recent buddies from your al-Ansar club, no? Come on, Yunis, you can't talk like that to me anymore. I'm an adult, and I choose my own life, okay? What gives you the right to interfere?'

'Don't read me again that feminist bullshit, sis. Not right – duty. I'm your brother. You know who's responsible. That's why. Besides, you're putting your soul at risk. Must I sit by and do nothing then? You can't go on like this anymore. Especially after what happened... last year. How many times have you done your prayers this week? Just asking, you know... Not my business. But He sees, doesn't He?'

'Wow, you have changed lately, haven't you?'

'Answer me! Don't change the subject.'

'Yunis! Are you the same swearing and hard-drinking guy who boasted about those dorm parties at your Law School? These last months, what happened to you? That's what I'd like to understand. Is it all because of that new student mosque you've been devoting your time to? They've indoctrinated you. That idiot imam, I bet. And by the way, I think it's none of your damned business how I dress. And no, I need none of your azan watches to call me to prayer. I can commune with the Deity whenever I need it.'

'"The Deity"? Is that how you speak of Allah nowadays? What have you become, Buddhist or something? And you'd better show a little more respect for what you call "my buddies." And for my imam. It's thanks to him I'm shedding some unhealthy habits. Coming back to myself. To the Straight Path. You should applaud that.'

'I don't recognize you, Yuyu. And anyway, if anybody has a right to meddle, Fouad's the older one.'

'Oh, sure!' he said. He whistled sarcastically. 'Our encapsulated, emasculated, Fouad. Hah! Our nice token Muslim! Well, if Fouad doesn't see to his duty, then I'm next in line, ain't I?'

'Say what you will. I am my own person.'

'No, you are not, and you know that. Deep down, you remember very well Whose person you are. Even if you deny it.' Abruptly, he switched to a more affectionate strategy. 'Doesn't it bring back to you anything to be here at home again, sis? When you see ummi praying and caring for abbi, doesn't that remind you of something? You haven't forgotten that you too once followed what Allah ordained, have you?'

Nadia wanted to blurt out a defense but was speechless.

'Damn it all,' he continued. 'Your whole downward slide begun when you left Munder. I'm sure of it. You should...' The mention stung her.

'I should nothing, you, you... Mister Ayatollah Khomeini!'

'Oh stop it, we ain't gonna talk politics. Or your support for that wishy-washy Khatami flab. Are we?'

'Then don't open old wounds!'

'Not so old. And considering everything, Munder wasn't even the worst for you. Why not give some thought to making up? Why, inshallah, he may take you back.'

'He wouldn't. And neither would I. And since when do you like Munder so much? I thought you always detested him because he was such – what was your formula again? Such a "useless bourgeois"?'

'I'm reconsidering. I'm thinking of your own best interest, Nadia. How much longer do you want to postpone remarrying? It's not done.'

'Now listen to this!' she exploded. 'Where are we living, is this America or Iran? Put this in your ears: if I'll ever remarry, it'll be for love – or not. Even, if I must, a non-Muslim!'

Now, it was Yunis' turn to be surprised. 'But... that's so out of the question.'

'My Islam is my own choice. For me, it's a path that leads to peace and freedom. Not your bigoted, fossilized straightjacket.'

'Stop this nonsense of your "Islam with a human face" before it destroys you! Nadia, do you think that you know better than Allah? And weren't you taught that as a Muslima—'

'Enough! I don't want to discuss this anymore, okay? Not hijab, and not five times a day salat, and not mixed marriage. Mind your own business. Now, I am fed up and—'

But he paid no attention to what she was saying, and without letting her finish her sentence, went on with his harangue. '—penitence. Come to your senses and behave as a normal decent girl. Stop it, Nadia, before it's too late. Or do you think we're blind to your makeup and your loose hair and your naked arms? And your despicable little kaffir friends with their beer and pot and free love? You know what? You act as if you're a slut, no better and no worse. You do as if you've never heard of what's right and what's wrong, you hear me?'

By this point, Yunis was yelling. She took a step back. 'You know what you're doing? It's whoring, it's zina. It's disgusting.'

'Stop it, Yunis. Leave me, please...' She was close to tears but didn't want him to see it.

'You know how ashamed we all are. I warn you. Don't jeopardize our family's honor! Our honor depends on your body. At least stay while you're here, stay with ummi. For her sake, for abbi's...'

But Nadia heard no more. She had stormed upstairs, and fled to her room.

Without saying goodbye, Yunis left. When Zahra came home, she noticed in what state Nadia was; but her mother said nothing.

Nadia stayed on at her parents', but half the time she hid in her room, her old room. Yunis' tirade had impressed her far more than she cared to admit. At first, she tried to defend herself against it. She still felt proud of herself. She had not budged from her views, her humane, modern, compassionate philosophy – just as compassionate as God described Himself in the Holy Book.

Yet, she soon sensed that she was sliding. Yunis had pushed her, and her convictions didn't hold her anymore. She was sliding... not the downward slide into sin Yunis had mentioned but toward a looming punishment. His yelling echoed in her head. She felt revolted but helpless. Oh, if only Daniel could be there to talk to her, bring her back to herself. But she was alone in her room. Why hadn't he answered her mail yesterday? She groped for her mobile.

But at that point, she heard Yunis's sentence reverberate loudly in her head: "Do you think that you know better than Allah?" She fell on the ground. Was that God's voice? And where was it – in her head or in the room?

_Of course you can't run away from Him_. Even if you mask yourself, even if you camouflage yourself as a kaffir girl, throw away your scarf, go in bikini to the beach, take on the skin tone and lipstick color and the self-assured airs of the American girl from a Presbyterian or Jewish or atheist household. He'll still find you out, pick you out from the anonymous mass that does not know Him, and fish you up. And He says: So you thought you could escape Me, _Nada_? You thought you could do whatever you want? You're just one tiny, headstrong, miserable creature, among the millions and millions of creatures that I created out of nothing. Out of just a clot of blood. Eons before you came in this world, I knew already that today, on this day and in such and such a place, Nada would close the door of her room to keep Me out. And that I'd find you in your puny hideout and put you in My hand. If I so much as move My thumb against My index, you'll be pulverized. And now, Nada, I give you your last chance, Nada, to _do what I have decreed that you shall want_.

He put had her down as one puts back a wounded butterfly on a leaf. She wanted to run, but wherever she ran she ran into Him. She could go neither right nor left, only forward in a straight line. She sobbed.

The day after her religious breakdown, Nadia announced to Daniel that they must stop communicating.

## 2.5

After Daniel returned from Beirut, Evelyn noticed how satisfied he seemed, but she couldn't grasp why. He had come back full of stories of warm and hospitable people. True, she heard that things had gone rather well with his mission, but he also told her upsetting snippets of the Lebanese reality he had witnessed: misogyny, racism, intolerance. She hardly saw him at all except for that afternoon when he took Lieve to the zoo and Lieve came back with remarkable drawings she had made of some Central American monkey in the nocturnal animals compound. Before she could thank Daniel, he was off again, heading back home to write his report.

Evelyn liked to divide the world into those people who preferred Tolstoy and those who liked Dostoyevsky more; or into Mozartians and Wagnerians; or into admirers of Hegel and admirers of Heidegger. She had always belonged to the first of these pairs, and so had her Daniel. But now she was concerned that he might be slipping into the other camp. It was in terms of these dichotomies that she tried to tweak an answer out of him one evening when she had invited him for dinner. From her big old-fashioned wooden loudspeakers, Mozart's 23rd piano concerto, the second movement of which always moved her so much, vibrated through her salon. They were on their second bottle of Rioja, and she still tasted on her tongue the remaining flavor of what she had prepared for Daniel – his favored ragout. He lay in her gray leather chaise longue, and she sat on the old sofa, her long fingers wrapped around her hitched-up knees, her green eyes sending soft, complicit smiles.

'Are you still running after that Muslim woman? You think it could work?'

'So far, I don't even know what she looks like. I'm trying to sort out my feelings for her.'

'Sounds romantic. So you can't even show me her picture. But, honestly, "Sort out your feelings"? You know better. Well, I do. You're over your ears in love, Danny. Otherwise, you'd have written more often to me instead of every day to _her_.'

'Jealous? Evelyn, that's so out of character for you. Where's your ideology?'

'Of course not. No one can harm what exists between the two of us. Anyway... are you still corresponding at that feverish rate?'

'As a matter of fact, no. Between Allo, my publishing house, and my students who came to see me, I just haven't found time to answer Nadia yet. Fortunately, not all my students have become Mona Elhag groupies. And I doubt I'll write her tonight. Tomorrow will be fine.'

Evelyn looked at him with an incredulous smile. Maybe he was not so infatuated after all? But when she let him speak more of his adventures and his feelings, the impression soon dissipated. She tried to show patience, but at some point, she could no longer restrain herself.

'You want to know what I think? I think that Nadia of yours spells trouble. I don't mean to hurt you...'

'Go on.'

'To be frank, I think you are in love with a fantasy. I can only speak on the basis of what you told me. Still, there's something... not normal going on with her. It sounds all too much like a tale from 1001 Nights. I wouldn't be surprised if one day, this woman you put so much trust in throws her liberated world-smart journalist lifestyle out of the window, and enters some madrasa. Or whatever you call those monasteries.'

He stared at her agape.

'And then, you can wave her goodbye and be sad. And I don't want to see you sad. And if ever she comes out again, she'll be another person, some Hare Krishna or Moonie.'

'What a frightening scenario, Evelyn. But based on what? I don't know too much of her background. But so far she's only been making steps in my direction.'

The dreamy expression on his face did not please her.

'When two faiths sleep on one cushion, the devil is the third between them.'

With that, he became irritated. 'Does that proverb also include my parents' marriage? Evelyn, you who were always so favorable to reaching out to people of other cultures, how can you say that?'

'I don't believe it myself that I said it,' she withdrew. 'I'm really against racism. But when, sometimes, I see the hatred in the eyes of those Moroccan youth... I don't understand. Coexistence seems harder in practice than in theory. Anyway, we have to learn to get along with each other.'

'I'd say so. But what's that got to do with Nadia? Isn't it good that I'm trying to find my passion? You've often encouraged me to do that.'

Something inside her cringed. Yes, she had said that. With a lot of emphasis, and more than once. 'Of course, Danny, it might work, in principle. But in her specific case, I think she's _really_ from another world. But, hey, she's not the one who interests me. It's you. One thing is to deepen your professional knowledge of Arabs. It's another for you as a westerner to become one.'

'Nor do I intend to. Anyway, she's at least half-western herself.'

'That's the dilemma you're driving yourself into, Danny. What good can come of it?'

Daniel appeared vexed.

Evelyn exclaimed bitterly, 'Maybe the age difference between us is the reason for our distance? It used not to be so. I'm just forty, but you make me feel eighty, you know? Or is it because I can't be passionate enough with you? You don't even know how she'll be.'

'Of course, it's not that.' He looked at her with warmth, and she thought that he had understood her. 'But it's true, obviously, there's something I miss.'

'Well, if you have to go, you shouldn't go to her for what you lack but for what she lacks.'

That sounded deep, and Daniel was unsure if he grasped her meaning. 'Honestly, Evelyn, she doesn't affect my feelings for you; however, what does our bond offer me? You're ambivalent toward me. Always were. Try to see it from my side. And what do you hope for? Not to stay for the rest of your life with me, I bet.'

'I don't know. You seem to have stored up a big reserve of resentment.'

'I feel deeply for you. That's as true now as when we met.' She saw a furtive smile on his face.

For all her psychological acuity, Daniel's words now floated past her as in a mist. He was talking of their common past, she grasped.

'Look, Danny, you're right that, speaking of sex, I prefer Alison. I'm sorry but I can't help that, can I? You knew from the start how I am. That doesn't mean we can't be together. And you know also that, despite appearances, I'm at heart monogamous. Also, your Ingrid appeared just then. At the right moment as we used to joke. And you wanted her, isn't that true? It's not my fault if it didn't work out between you two.'

Her soft smile faded. She looked into the distance.

'I care for you,' she said. 'You know that. You'll always be my best friend.'

He kept silent, waited for the rest.

'But we don't have to discuss _this_ again, do we? I'm so tired of it. I mean, you know where we stand. That's why I told you to open your horizons, if what I can offer you isn't enough. I don't want to hurt you again. But I also don't want you hurt by other women.'

He said, 'I don't think it can go on forever like this.'

'You have to follow your inner compass, Daniel. And I mine. We all have demons to tame.'

'For you, that must be the same she-demon of last year.'

Evelyn was on guard.

'Alison? No, I don't deny a lingering attraction... I told you so often you'd have to be patient. You and I, we've made love so many times, and did it satisfy you that I was yours? No, don't interrupt me now. I do want to make that point. Didn't I tell you, "I'm easier to get than to keep"?'

Thoughts raced through her head while she was speaking. Why did this all mean so much to her? She must let go, let him go to stupid Nadia! So, why couldn't she, wholeheartedly? Let him go to that religious hysteric, that exclusive, super-emotional, super-invisible bitch. Goddammit, he'd find out soon enough she was even more unreachable than Evelyn herself! Yes, but – Evelyn might lose. And perhaps that would be proof she was lacking in passion? She didn't want to lose him.

'Go. I won't blame you. I've never been very faithful to your standards myself. All these bourgeois conventions we carry around in our head... I never believed in them anyway. Perhaps we should stop keeping each other dangling.'

She laughed and went on: 'I'm not jealous of her. Perhaps I envy you. New beginnings are always exciting. I hope for you that something beautiful grows out of it. Goodness knows you might be on the verge of a voyage of discovery.'

He stood up. She walked up to him, took his head between her hands, and kissed him on his forehead.

'Maybe I should answer her still tonight,' he said. He kissed her goodbye and left for his home.

Evelyn watched him cycling away down the street. She tried to understand what made her so sad, wondering if his fascination with Nadia had broken her hold over him. She put on some music and tried to figure out why she felt so much love for this man but such little passion.

## 2.6

_Things always seem to happen in clusters_ , Daniel thought. For a long time, nothing of consequence would happen. Then out of nowhere, all kinds of important events occur close together, in a chain of meaningful coincidences – if only you could have the key to understand what they signify.

It was an early evening at the end of August, four months after the catastrophic letter from Nadia. In the yuppie grocery on the Koningsplein, Daniel had bought some ready-mades. He was about to bike home with his bags full of orange juice, cheeses, precooked grains, vegetables and a sauce sold as a fifth-generation copy of Moroccan couscous. But the air was languid and inviting. Throngs of tourists and locals were having a good time in the streets of downtown Amsterdam, ambling, taking pictures, or drinking beer and chatting on terraces by the water. Daniel immersed himself in their exuberance. He didn't want to head home yet to prepare his quick dinner, and confront his loneliness. Rather take a stroll, drift with the flow of the masses. Perhaps he'd see something interesting, maybe happen across an acquaintance. Or he could always have a drink by himself in one of the bars.

The months since Beirut had been among the worst he could recall.

First, that night at Evelyn's, when he had rejected her tardy willingness. Then, the whole affair with Allo. He had finished his report for Giulliardi with great zest. Martijn, who knew well the sensitivities haunting the world of development aid workers, had read his draft and was enthusiastic. He even remarked that Daniel shouldn't discount the eventuality of being sent out again soon. Daniel had presented his findings as boldly as he dared. While still 'protecting' some of the client organizations, he compiled facts and figures and described what he had seen. He recommended reviewing the financial future of some of the more problematic projects, but after he had handed in the report, a long silence followed. Weeks later, through awkward phone calls and discreet third-party nosing, he learnt that he had caused waves in the institution. The most important paragraphs of his text had been censored. Nobody was willing to tell him for certain which of Allo's mandarins had wielded the red pencil, but the result was that his most forceful recommendations ended up shelved.

What was kept intact was innocuous, or as the recent satirical expression had it, "politically correct." Allo guaranteed continued support for all projects, with hardly any string attached. But the NGO didn't ask Daniel to make a new expedition. In fact, he wasn't even summoned once to the stately villa on the water in Leiden to evaluate his past tour. He didn't understand where he had gone wrong. As he was walking along the canal, Daniel was aware he looked a bit disheveled. However much he hated himself for it, he couldn't help but show the world the involuntary self-neglect of someone overcome by sadness.

It had happened about three months ago now. That night after his talk with Evelyn, he had been too tired and nervous to compose a sensible letter to the woman who, according to Evelyn, spelled trouble. The next evening, he found a brief email in his mailbox. Mesmerized and powerless, he read it so many times he could recite it word for word. He felt a choking sensation whenever it came back to him:

"Dear Daniel, I made a mistake relating to you, and I must stop it now, before something irreversible happens. You cannot understand and I cannot expect you to, but I do demand that you respect my decision. I wish you much happiness in your life. With sincere feelings, Nadia Iskander."

He gasped for air. For one instant, everything looked black. In front of him, there were restored ancient houses with gabled façades, and a shop with handmade children's toys in the window. Next to it, in the luxury bakery-cum-deli, the queue was lengthening into the street, full of patrons patiently waiting to be served by the two girls who were wrapping a choice variety of rolls in paper bags. Bicycles were passing with a tinkling of bells, pedestrian crowds were buzzing around him, but he saw nothing. Then the feeling passed, and he was back on his feet again there on the Singel between the Baptist and the Catholic churches. It was still light, but a half-moon was visible above.

He could think straight again but could make no more sense of it than at any previous moment. Back when he had received the message, he had been shocked and in disbelief, wrote her at once an alarmed reaction asking for an explanation. He had not implored or humbled himself. He just demanded to be told why. Two days later, Nadia reacted with a curt letter, warning that he must no longer harass her. After this, the silence was unbroken. He had sent another mail, but no reply came. He called two or three times, but nobody answered. Had she changed her number?

And so Evelyn had been right. Daniel imagined that Nadia must have been hit by some religious crisis. And yes, he was sadder than he ever realized a person could be. A deep hole had been drilled in the center of his being. Every day, he had to fight in order not to fall into it. He didn't stumble, but he felt its incessant tug, like some huge magnet pulling him into a dark pit.

With great effort, he kept himself upright. As was his wont, he continued visiting Evelyn twice a week. At least one afternoon, he'd play games with Lieve or take her to some children's theater, an exhibit, or a school friend; and at least once a week, he'd cook dinner for the three of them. Evelyn hugged him. They remained as friendly as if no harsh words had been said. But he didn't sleep over anymore and never disclosed what had happened. Nor did she ever ask.

Daniel went on with his life. Three things kept his back straight. First, his connection with Lieve, his "adoptive daughter." Their closeness flourished, despite his crisis with Evelyn. Lieve grew very attached to him. Then, he had good contact with some seven or eight of his former students. Some were bright, and all liked to invade his house unannounced for drinks and debate, and often did so, in little groups or alone. Nobody at the institute had major complaints about Elhag, he learnt from them, except for her occasional falling back into unintelligible jargon. Still, quite a few would have liked to see Daniel back if it were possible. Among the students, one rather striking girl broadcast obvious interest in him. He didn't answer her hints, but it did wonders for his self-esteem.

Lastly, the water, which was everywhere in Amsterdam, was always there to comfort him: the reflections of the houses in the canals, a short hike from his apartment, the long barges moored on the quays of the Amstel river, and the little improvised hobby vessels spluttering through it when the sun shone. And for the price of an hour on the railway to Castricum or Bloemendaal, his eyes could gorge themselves on the gray North Sea majestically foaming beyond the dunes.

Wherever he went, Daniel walked on automatic pilot, his thoughts floating elsewhere. He often wondered what Nadia looked like. At least now he knew her family name. His research habits stood him in good stead as he tried to discover, through the Internet and some contacts in the US, whatever information existed in the public domain about her. But there wasn't much. Whatever she had told him proved true: a journalist of Lebanese Shiite background with an interest in Middle Eastern affairs, in her mid-twenties, divorced. No pictures available.

He retrieved a few of her articles in American papers and was struck by her remarkable empathy for whoever was the "enemy" in any conflict she happened to report on. Gee, he thought, _does anything happen in that part of the world other than conflicts?_ Her style was more emotional, even lyrical, than was usual for reporters. Some articles dated from early 1998. Then, there was a gap, followed by a series of firsthand reportages on Hizbullah in the spring of last year. These articles ended abruptly, before the conclusion of the series, in June 2000. That must have been when that thing with her husband happened. Whatever it was. Afterwards, nothing.

Daniel copied these bits and pieces and read and reread them. Then he made a conscious decision to overcome this episode. The more he tried to forget, the more she reappeared to him, a phantasmagoric collage of all the Arab women he had ever met – an unconvincing chimera but one that spoke with her voice, rehearsing all the beautiful promises she had ever uttered. He concluded that it must be part of the mourning process, and that it would soon pass.

Without noticing, he had reached the newspaper kiosk on the Spui. Its rich collection of magazines in bright colors broke his solipsism. He looked through a number of journals, focusing on those from the Middle East. This was more interesting. He leafed through the latest issues: _Jeune Afrique_ , the _Middle East Report_ , _Eutopia_... He left the _Herald Tribune_ for last. The sticky ink on its airborne paper would stain his hands, and then he wouldn't be able to hold any other magazine. But the international news was dull except for a global antiracism conference about to start in South Africa. If it depended on Arafat, he'd turn it into an anti-Zionism circus. That might still turn relevant.

He skimmed fast. A background article on the politics of post civil war reconstruction in Lebanon caught his eye. By Nadia Iskander. He gasped and his heart beating ferociously, paid for the paper and hurried home, where he read it. It was the third in a series.

So there she was. A journalist again, and for a top newspaper, no less. The text was as informative, opinionated and well-written as her earlier articles. Her divine epiphany, if that's what had destroyed their budding passion, seemed only to have improved her style. The mystery of her whereabouts was solved. But what was happening? Every little ounce of desire he had patiently, and at cost, buried as deep as he could, jumped out with a vengeance to assail him with redoubled impetus.

Daniel wanted to share his amazement, but with whom? Restlessly, he read on. His mind built a hundred hypotheses around her. At about four in the morning, he was still awake. He was exhausted, but dozens of floodlights were illuminating the inside of his skull in hellish colors. Outside, the first rays of dawn were washing away the night. Bleary-eyed, he opened his computer. Then he saw the message in his mailbox. Nadia.

Dear Daniel,

It took me too long before I dared to take this step. I tried to put you out of my thoughts and out of my heart. But something or someone didn't allow that to happen. I believed I had to sacrifice the emotions I had for you, although I never knew you. And now I have changed my mind. I believe now that our contact is meant to be, to exist and to grow for a purpose I feel but do not understand. This must sound all silly and unstable to you. I cannot explain it on paper. If only we could meet. I must have caused you a lot of pain. You do not begin to understand how sorry I feel for that. If you do not want to know me anymore, do not reply. I take my chances and will accept. If you believe you can forgive the past... I am doing journalism here in Beirut.

Nadia

P.S. This is my mobile tel. no. ... I'm at hotel _Les Ambassadeurs_.

For the second time, he gasped. Not even in passing did he have one tiny thought that there might be something to forgive, not in any of the 127 days of unmitigated, undeserved misery that had passed since then. He dialed. Within seconds heard the voice he had missed so much.

'Oh Daniel. How sweet to call me. I couldn't fall asleep tonight. I was in despair, and then I wrote to you. Are you very angry? How are you doing?' The black hole in his heart was filling with healing light. He tried to control himself.

'Yes, I'm fine Nadia. How good to hear your voice. How good to know where you are. Are you safe?'

'What did I do to you, Daniel? I feel like such an evil person, you know. You shan't forgive me. Do you believe we can ever pick up the thread again?'

'We already are. How long will you stay in Lebanon?'

'Another two weeks I hope. Mainly here in Beirut.'

'I want to see you! Will you have time to be with me if I come to Beirut?'

'What a question! Yes, I will make time for you.' No words and no intonation could have enchanted him more. Daniel felt a wave of longing surging within him.

'What a surprise you gave me, Nadia. Your voice... I am... speechless.'

'Words will come, Daniel. I'm so happy to know that you wish to come here. I need you. But please listen carefully. I can't promise you much. Or anything. My situation here is... complex. Will you be able to come with an open heart but without expectations?'

Before he had absorbed her words, he felt an unpleasant, churning, sensation in his stomach, as if he were being tossed by some giant rollercoaster. "No expectations" sounded like a painful setback – as mysterious and arbitrary as her sudden disappearance from his life in April, and as her unexpected return right now. However, he was not about to show doubt or disappointment. For he had also heard other words – words that embodied not only an irresistible appeal to his feelings but a call to his honor as well: "I need you."

'I will come just as you want me. But I have no clue what you look like?'

'I know. I'm ashamed of how I look. But I'll explain how you'll recognize me, before you fly. And I know your face. I've kissed your portrait on my computer screen.'

'I can't wait to make my flight arrangements.'

'Please come as soon as you can.'

back to top

# _Chapter Three_

# Beirut: Love and Terror

# Part 1: Love

## 3.1

And then he saw her. Rather, she saw him first. It was Saturday afternoon, the first of September. Past passport control, his suitcase rolling behind him, he looked around the hall. Same scene as five months ago. A long row of portraits of Lebanese leaders adorned the walls, but one dominated over all the others: the plump, overconfident face of Rafic Hariri, the billionaire president who was rebuilding this ravaged country. On the ground level, people from all walks of life were on the march, in a wild whirl of colors, browsing in gift shops, or welcoming relatives or friends, each trying to make himself heard above the din.

Among all the unknown female faces, Daniel tried to imagine where she might be and how she might look. He walked another hundred meters. At the corner of a little corridor full of perfume and leather shops, he put his suitcase down for a moment, trying to spot her.

'You are Daniel,' a familiar, sonorous voice behind him exclaimed.

He turned. She was shorter than he had imagined. Her little hand held a sprightly orchid, as she had announced, and the white flower stood out against her long, dark dress. A gray scarf covered only part of her raven black, wavy hair, so that a few unruly curls stuck out. Even veiled, her appearance was striking. If she'd been just a bit taller and less plump, she'd be the classical Arab beauty, he thought. Her face might have been a painter's model, rounded and regular, with prominent cheeks and full lips, and an olive complexion without blemish. Her almond-shaped, nearly black eyes were immense and radiated with an uncommon intensity. The moment they met his, he was caught like a fish in a net.

_She's the most exquisite being I've ever met_ , he decided. _No wonder I couldn't give her up!_

It didn't take more than a few seconds to combine in his mind the voice he knew, that tone at once soft and decided, and the living, physical woman who stood so close he could feel her warmth. All sounds, words, sensations and associations, happy and sad, that she had evoked in him over the past half year, over such great distance – that he had first cherished then tried in vain to undo effortlessly attached to this face and this body, where he knew they would stay glued forever.

'Nadia?'

She turned the flower to him and opened her mouth in a big smile. 'Now you see why I hesitated to send you my picture. I'm not so beautiful as you would have wanted.'

But that was the last she said, and Daniel did not answer either. Did his gaze hypnotize her, or hers him? For a long moment, they stood there in silence drinking in the other's presence. Daniel was unaware of anything else.

Then a loud whistle drove them apart again. Apparently the way they contemplated each other had scandalized some bystanders. He looked around the hall and saw three urchins running away, screaming. The moment had gone.

She said, 'Scarf or no scarf, there's no privacy in this part of the world.'

'I didn't know you wear hijab, but what a beautiful face.'

'I didn't when we started corresponding, and I don't all the time now, either. But here at the airport there's little anonymity.' Silence. 'You must be hungry, Daniel. Let's go to the Corniche and have something.'

'I'd better check in first.'

Cast out of the magic circle of the NGOs, Daniel was unable to afford a luxury hotel, so he had reserved a modest place not far from hers. The brief Mediterranean dusk had given way to a cloudy night. A ramshackle taxi brought them to Samir's Guesthouse, an old-fashioned place familiar to him from his earlier travels. The cab had to maneuver as it climbed the narrow alleys, the sharp curves throwing them closer to each other. An adolescent shyness enveloped them both.

Daniel clawed his fist into the door handle to keep himself from shifting against her. He remembered how he had done the same, during the long voyage south with Fatima Nasr, back in March. On the next curve, Nadia was tossed against Daniel. She didn't even try to keep any distance, and he couldn't help but feel her lavish form pressing against his side. He tactfully pressed himself as far as he could to the window. Nadia grabbed his hand and held it in hers. Neither of them dared look the other in the face.

After he had checked his suitcase at his hotel, they descended again and continued to a seaside bar. There, they sat down next to each other, both visibly nervous. The dimmed lights didn't provide much protection against intrusive looks, and against each other's. He was too uptight to be hungry.

'You drink?' he asked 'I can use a beer. You know, I feel so awkward. First, we chat for months online without seeing each other, then silence, and now suddenly we find ourselves sitting here face to face.'

'I'm so nervous that I'll say the wrong thing, Daniel. And I probably will. A Taibeh Pilsen will relax me, too.' They clinked their foamy glasses. She had not abjured all liquor, he noticed.

'Thank you for coming to meet me, Daniel. I couldn't believe it until I saw you walking down the hall.' Every word came out soft, well-articulated, pronounced with that slight accent he remembered from their dialogs over the phone.

'You can't imagine what it does to me to see you... How's your father doing?' Her stay in New Jersey was one of the last moments he recalled before she broke off communication.

'He's much better than anybody dared to hope.'

'Did you stay for much longer at your parents'?'

'After he returned home, I felt stifled and went back to Manhattan. That's when I began to wear hijab.'

'Was that why you wrote me that letter?'

'It was more or less around the same time.'

'Nadia?' Enthralled he looked into her eyes. 'Why did you disappear?'

She cast down her eyes.

'Wrong question. You should ask, why did I appear in the first place?'

'When you entered my life – even in our indirect, digital way – it was at once so natural and so magical. I was sure it would never end, as if I had landed on a new coast, a vast new continent. At the same time, I feared somebody might take you away... and then... I didn't understand.'

'No, you cannot understand. I'm not the modern woman you think. But, let's not talk about this tonight, okay? Let's just enjoy each other's company and be happy together.'

She pushed her chair closer to his and again took his hand in both of hers. The back of his hand brushed against the somewhat rough fabric of her abaya. Daniel sensed a current of energy passing from her hand and through his body.

Something brought to his mind the Buddhist concept of emptiness. Everything not expressed, everything unmanifest and unlighted, everything that to an outsider must appear as a great void, was mysteriously filled with meaning, pulsation, with the germs of all life. On a deeper level of reality, emptiness was full to the brim, overflowing with energy. What was this woman's secret? Such philosophies must be alien to her beliefs, yet didn't she embody them?

'Do you also feel something flowing in your hands?' he asked.

'It must be the effect of the Mediterranean air here.' She smiled and let go of his hand.

'What brought you back to Beirut?'

'You mean, how did I come from being a nun to being a journalist?' she laughed. 'Easy. I returned to Allah, but does that mean I should cut myself off from everything? I didn't believe that, and I don't believe it today. Okay, I have doubts, I admit.'

He gave her an understanding nod. Nadia continued.

'The newspaper reckoned that in my new guise of twice-born Muslima, I might be the right person to do a series on recent changes in the Shiite community here. So they offered me the assignment. For me, it was the ideal opportunity for a break from the situation with my father and mother and brother. And at the same time, a chance to come back to my roots, in a roundabout way.'

'How did your parents take it?'

'As you may imagine. They weren't crazy about the idea. For them, working alone in a city like Beirut – it might be unbecoming, an invitation to vice. Since I split up with Munder, they think I've reverted to being a virgin. Yunis wasn't enthusiastic either, I must admit. My younger brother...'

'The one who's become fundamentalist?'

'Over the past months, I've come to appreciate him much better. Though he's too extreme. Anyhow, this obsession that they must protect me is not so absurd.' She cast a coy smile. 'Of course, it's our own responsibility to keep to values.'

'Don't they consider the Ambassadeurs a den of iniquity?'

'So is the whole city, from their point of view. And so, by the way, was New York... But I put my foot down. To pick up a good story, you know, there's simply no better place, so that's where I'm staying. They'd preferred me to stay with my mother's relatives, the Ja'afaris. So we reached this compromise – I'm staying on my own and am free to go as I like, but I'm also under the Ja'afaris' protection.'

'Hence, your outfit?' He was unsure if her expression reflected a hurt.

'Contact with them is a knife that cuts both ways. It protects me when I have to go to dangerous places. And, my cousins are Hizbullah. They've plenty of juicy tales to tell.'

She yawned. 'Sorry, I'm not bored with you. On the contrary. But, I'm not used to alcohol. I guess God knew what He was doing when He forbade it. And the last few days have been frenetic, workwise. And to be honest, meeting you – I'm a bit overwhelmed...'

'So am I. When will we continue our talk?'

'Tomorrow. I'll pick you up from your hotel at eleven. We'll have the whole day.'

## 3.2

'No thanks, Hani,' she said. 'I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. And no, thank you, I also don't need the Fiat – you'll need it for your own errands, for the movement. And I'll have a lot of interviews in the next few days. I'll be in and out. Yes, that's right, the paper gave me a budget for cabs.'

Nadia said goodbye and hung up the telephone in her hotel room, then prepared to meet Daniel.

I must put on my scarf. I have to show him I'm a serious woman. Don't say that, Nunu. Not to show him, but Him. It's God Who wants your commitment. Daniel... It's all good and well, as long you exchange romantic letters, but how different is he from other men? Aren't they all just out to steal your honor, to use you as the receptacle of their lust and then, after they've used you up, throw you in the gutter? Wasn't Yunis right? And abbi? It's not for nothing that Uncle Imad put Hani and Musa in charge of my honor.

Oh, why did I have to call him? Come on, that scarf can't be so loose. Well, it's done; he's here now.

_I think that I may love him. What if I suddenly feel... if I desire him? First we must marry, otherwise it's haram. Yes, but I can't marry him_ _!_ _Only if he becomes a Muslim. It's so easy, God's like a magnet, you sense His wonderful and peaceful attraction. I don't want to commit deadly sin. And I don't want to lose him. So, should I put on this makeup, or show him my real virtue? Better go for virtue. But I look terrible!_

### ***

Daniel didn't understand why Nadia was so distant that Sunday morning. Her spontaneity, her softness, all her small gestures, in blatant contradiction to her pious appearance, had given him hope again. He had hardly slept. Now, the woman who was visiting him, though inhabiting the same body, seemed a distant ghost of the woman he met yesterday. They sat in the dark lobby of Samir's Guesthouse, on hard ersatz leather armchairs, a meter apart, and talked politics. There was only the two of them, plus the old manager hiding behind his counter and pretending not to hear or see anything.

Her cool demeanor hurt him. After an hour, he couldn't hold out any more.

'Nadia, what's the matter? Here we're sitting, discussing whether the Iranian revolution liberated or degraded women, and if Hizbullah is a national or a religious movement, and if Israel has the right to exist as a Jewish state... Is that what you called me for from Europe to Beirut?' His voice broke when he saw how pale she turned. 'I was so happy last night. And you were so beautiful, so radiant, even with that veil around...' She made no sound, but her shoulders started to shake and she cradled her face in her arms, her face invisible behind swaddles of black cloth.

'Oops... what have I said now? I didn't mean it that way, Nadia!' He stood up, tried to put his arms around her. He feared his words about her veiling had insulted her. Nadia continued sobbing and without tears and without words. And then, to his surprise, and perhaps to her own, she let herself be embraced by the clumsy infidel with his debauched efforts to touch and hug her. Slowly she turned her head and, their faces mere centimeters apart he saw a shy smile. Very lightly and quickly, she put a kiss on his lips, withdrew a little and laughed aloud.

'How stupid we are! You think that you insulted me for my veil, and I thought I'd insult you without veil.'

'So what's happening?'

'I'm conflicted. You don't even know how much I feel. How is it possible that God wants to forbid all this life that's bubbling up through my heart? Feel.' She took his hand and put it between her breasts. He turned purple.

'Maybe He doesn't. Let's go out of this dismal locale. Shall we walk along the sea?'

They stood up. 'Please, Daniel, be patient. Just give me some time.'

He understood a bridge had been crossed. But would there be enough time?

Over the next few days, their contact became much more natural and unencumbered. Daniel and Nadia spent the whole Sunday together, strolling, eating and drinking, enjoying every minute, whether talking or in silence. Somehow, she avoided talking about why she had broken off contact with him in April, and what had brought her to calling him now. He didn't ask, but decided:

This is the one woman I want. Why her of all the beautiful women in the world – I cannot understand for the life of me. For we'd never fit, and even if we did, her community would never permit it. Not a hair on my head would consider conversion. And yet, I'm not at liberty to choose between going for her, or walking that other path, never to meet her again. I have been chosen. Who knows, I may be the only one who can give her what she needs.

During one of their talks, he found that she had few childhood memories of Beirut. In the afternoon, at Daniel's request, she brought him to the part of Ras el Beirut where she had lived as a toddler. She had never been back. He had to ask the way half a dozen times, but eventually, with the help of a map, they discovered the street. Daniel noticed that, whatever her identity – assumed, authentic, rediscovered, or fake – her Arabic was rather elementary.

And there was the spot where the house of her birth had stood. In its place loomed a new, unfinished building, its iron stakes protruding from the ceiling. Inside was a small and improvised neighborhood supermarket. Around the corner, Nadia recognized the house that had served as the mosque where her father would go on Fridays. A paint seller had set up shop in the old prayer house. Inside, on one wall, hung a black and white portrait of an old man with a big mustache – likely the current owner's father; next to it hung an icon of St. George killing a dragon.

'This neighborhood used to be mixed. My father tells me he had Druze, Orthodox and Armenian friends. In the civil war, it became too dangerous, though, and most Shiites moved west. Soon afterwards, we went to America. It seems to have become mostly Christian here.'

They walked back toward Hamra, the late sun hammering on their head and shining in their eyes. In a little bar, they sat down on square low stools with seats of woven rushes and had a coke. In the narrow strip of shadow that fell across the sidewalk, they huddled together.

'You never reacted to the story of Nuzha's death. I heard her story from a doctor in Mar Ilyas.'

She blushed and pressed her lips.

'I was frightened. We weren't close acquaintances – she was my second cousin on the Ja'afaris side. I met her once at a party here, two years ago. Many of our relatives from the south had come for a celebration. To learn that her friends let her die just like that.'

'Some friends. But, are you sure it's the same person?'

'I know which village she's from, what hospital she was working for. And your description fits her like a glove. The Nuzha I knew was buried here in Martyrs' Cemetery, my aunt Wafa told me. But what does it mean to you?'

'I was shocked myself, although one hears of such incidents every day. See, I studied Arab culture for so many years I lost count,' Daniel said. 'There's this warmth, loyalty, hospitality. I visited Morocco, I told you that. I still recall those gardens with fountains made of colored tiles, the intricate patterns of the masonry... That for me came to symbolize your culture. A mosaic of many different customs, melodies, stories to tell, drying out if not for the generous water that kept sprinkling it all. And people here in the Middle East like to laugh a lot. They seem... well it's a platitude, but they really seem warmer than in Europe.'

She listened with shiny eyes.

'So studying and absorbing it all,' he went on, 'I found it easy to become enamored with Islamic culture. But when you immerse yourself for longer, then you come across those... norms. The way young people are prohibited from making their own choices. Poisonous prejudices one sect harbors against the other, transmitted from generation to generation. Disdain for other faiths. Violence in the family. Coercion. To be forced to abandon the one you love and bind yourself to someone you hate, for the sake of... what?'

Nadia rolled her eyes.

Daniel went on.

'In the beginning it's tempting to tell yourself, that's just an exception, an outgrowth, the toxic effect of centuries of western colonization and exploitation. And if nothing else helps, you can still comfort yourself by saying yes, yes, but we had the Inquisition, the witch craze, the Nazis, the gulags. Because you'd rather not see it. But after a while, I couldn't shut my eyes to it anymore. A man has to be honest with himself. And when I look closer, what I see is a very harsh society.'

'Oof, Daniel, do you plan to put me under a steamroller? You gave a whole speech. I recognize a great deal of truth in what you say though. True, we keep each other prisoner, through the menace of my neighbor passing judgment on me. And so everybody is kept yoked to those ancient, patriarchal values. But you know why?'

'Weight of tradition, don't you think?'

'I think you forgot something. Without that cuirass of absolute norms of honor, what would keep us from staggering and falling backwards into this morass of your western liberties?'

'You think it's a morass? I think it's thanks to those liberties that you could call me and that we're sitting here...'

'Well, for us it's quicksand. _You_ have learnt since you were a child to swim and keep your head above the waterline, but most of us would be engulfed and drown in no time. Also because – I want to be as honest with you as you are with me – because part of us longs to be swallowed. We don't have that training. We have religion instead.'

'You're happy with it?' Their conversation had landed in a far more serious track than he had expected.

'The point is not to be happy, Daniel. At least not in the immediate.'

'Then what is the point, Nadia?'

'I don't know if it's better or worse, but it keeps us upright, though, most of the time.'

He cast a dubious look.

'Some of the time,' she corrected herself.

Sitting there across from him, her elbows on the round tin table, she gravely explained to him what was most sacred to her. With meticulous care she had tucked her hair beneath her scarf. In her gray abaya, she appeared today an exemplary, devout, self-controlled woman. A distant observer might even have thought her expression harsh, but Daniel noticed in her eyes a nervous shifting, a twitching of tiny muscles in her left cheek.

_She believes that she believes_ , he thought. And yet he discerned a deep layer of doubt she hadn't managed to exorcize. And he was on the other side, on the side of doubt, no question about that. Maybe that was even what pulled her his way... He saw how she suffered from this battle inside her.

He felt an urge to shield her against the pain he sensed in her, but didn't know how.

'Sorry,' he interrupted. 'I lost our thread. Did you say that religion leads to that obsession with shame?'

'I didn't. But I'm also ashamed, Daniel.'

'Of what? You're so honest, so serious. What've you got to be ashamed of?'

'I can't tell you now, Daniel. I promise, I want to tell you one day.' She looked upset.

'No problem. You must think I'm way too nosey! But it's just that I want to understand you, on all sides. And you can ask me whatever you want too. I shan't hold back anything.'

There was a moment of silence, then he went on. 'But let's talk about something else. You told me you were here two years ago. You know, I even dug up what you wrote then. Then your articles suddenly stopped. What happened?'

He couldn't fathom why his words made matters only worse. She blushed and shuffled uneasily.

'No, no. Please, Dan. Not now, do not insist.'

Daniel saw something helpless in the way she looked at him. This time he took her hand and caressed it.

'It's already past dusk, Nadia. Perhaps we shouldn't stay in this area of town after sunset. It's not anymore as it was when you were a toddler. Come, let me bring you back to the Ambassadeurs'. There's no need for talk.'

She looked relieved and stood up.

Nadia got to understand Daniel better than he got to understand her. He somewhat sensed the presence of things she didn't know how to express to him. Was it some never-to-be-confessed trespass? By contrast, his interior, as she came to know it, didn't seem very different from his surface. Sometimes, she found this a bit superficial, but he was so sincere, interesting, funny and full of life that it was difficult to resist the attraction. On Monday and Tuesday, she had to put in several hours of research for her article on Hizbullah's new dilemmas after Israel's withdrawal from the security zone. Long taxi drives to outlying districts brought her to the grassroots militants whose voice, she gaged, would dictate the direction in which the Party of God would swing.

But her heart was not into it. Instead, she looked forward to her daily encounter with Daniel – even for an hour or less – squeezed between interviews and the obligatory visits at her uncle's and cousins'.

In these precious hours, they grew much closer than she had expected. They went for a quick snack, and then there was his masculine hand on her shoulder, the magnetic touch of a knee across a table, the sea wind blowing her black curls into his face. In between, she asked and Daniel explained. He laid out his life and plans. His studies, travels, glories and setbacks at Dutch universities, Allo and other foundations, his recent ventures into journalism. Most mystifying, though, were his unsatisfying, opaque relationships with those two women, Evelyn and Ingrid.

It amazed her he hadn't achieved a better position, given his vast knowledge. He must be too outspoken and not cautious enough to avoid hostile traps. He seemed at ease on an amazing variety of subjects, including history, philosophy, and art. He had also up-to-date opinions on issues she was supposed to investigate first-hand – like the internal tensions within Hizbullah. He even had a collection of irreverent jokes about the Prophet. He had told one with a quiet delicacy, and she had had to laugh in spite of herself; this was not a subject for humor. But when he saw that she couldn't resist, he shared a whole series of such jokes, and in the end she was rolling with laughter.

_Not exactly the devout Muslima_ , she reproached herself. But in his defense, it had to be said, his anecdotes about other religions were much pithier.

Inevitably, these moments also brought out sharp differences between them. Still, a new world was opening up to her, and he held the keys. The crazy thing was, it was her very own world. Most striking was how well they could talk about religion. True, she was captive to her "rediscovered Islam" while he... well, her God had, so far, fallen on deaf ears with him. But, beyond this chasm, they shared a fascination for cultural riches, and together they loathed fanaticism, hated Islam's dismal treatment of women, and feared its ambiguity regarding the sword.

What most moved her, though, was his unabashed love for her. This was different from exchanging romantic love letters. It was as if he saw straight through all her veils and liked what he saw. It must be gratuitous, something as absurd as her own attraction to him. But there it was, undeniable: with every passing day, she felt more certain he would do anything to be with her.

For her, this was a new experience. Was she worth that boundless affection he seemed to ladle out of nowhere? He was patient. When he made mistakes, he apologized. He didn't seem to push for sex. Her simple being there was enough to make him happy. But perceiving how important she was to him proved a stronger aphrodisiac than she could handle. Daniel's warmth melted all of her resistance. No use hiding her beauty anymore, she thought. Wednesday night arrived. They'd have the whole evening. She did her hair, preened, and felt like a teenager again.

When the telephone rang, Nadia answered. Daniel listened.

'No Hani, how many times do I have to repeat it? That was just an interviewee... No, you're right, he's not Lebanese... Yes, yes, I'd be interested in talking to your acquaintance from the politburo, but I can also ask my questions sometime next week... Oh, in that case, I may have to bring the interview forward... No, the coming days are booked solid... No, he's a Dutch professor studying Islamic politics. My hands? What do you mean, Hani? Are you spying on me? Khalas! I don't like that, you understand! I told you already, I'm not your little sister.... What did you say?... I must go to my next appointment now... Look, cousin, it just is none of your business. Ma'a salameh.'

### ***

It was a beautiful sultry night and they were walking along the seaside boulevard. The afternoon wind had softened. It was too hot for her abaya and she had knotted her scarf in such a way that much of her hair was visible. She knew that some men would look askance at her, but that she was safe in his protective presence. However, from the moment they met, she knew something was wrong. When he kissed her on her cheek, it was as if he was absent. He didn't seem to notice the change in her outfit. Their conversation went haltingly.

Toward the end of the boulevard, close to the lighthouse, it was darker, and fewer people were walking here; yet the atmosphere didn't feel dangerous.

She stopped in front of him.

'What's the matter, Daniel? You're down. Is it because of Durban? Look, Daniel, we may have different opinions about Palestine but—'

'No, it's got nothing to do with that. I hardly read the papers today. I got a mail from Evelyn. She has to undergo a new surgery.'

'How serious is it?'

'Oh, nothing threatening. But still a major bother. Last year, she fell from her bicycle. Some drunken driver hit her. A few of those tiny bones in her left foot where crushed under that idiot's wheels. They patched her up in the hospital. Her gait returned to about normal. But over the last few months, the pain has returned. Now the orthopedist told her they must pry the bones apart and set them again. It's a long, complex operation, and basically she'll have to learn to walk again.'

At the words "drunken driver" she jolted. She hoped he had not noticed.

'I'm so sorry, Daniel. Did you call her?'

'I did. She sounded fine, but she's in pain. And she'll be in worse pain for some time after the intervention. They intend to do it a week from now. I thought I might have to cut my stay short. As much as I hate it.'

'I imagine you've got to be there to give her support?'

'She's pretty independent, and the hospital stay should be brief. But she won't be able to walk for a week or two after they release her. Somebody's got to help with shopping and cooking and taking care of Lieve; though she's big enough to walk to school on her own.'

'Daniel, you're more committed than I thought at first.'

'No, I'm not. If I'm torn, it's because of Lieve. I told you, Evelyn and I, we're far from conventional lovers. Evelyn is... with Alison.'

Nadia frowned. 'She's lesbian, then? But why doesn't her real lover take care of her instead?' She sounded more American than Arab now. Not being "conventional lovers" was Daniel's shorthand for something much more complicated. She knew this from their correspondence.

'Bisexual, I'd say, but that's beside the point. Right now, they're not together. There's nobody else to look after Lieve, and she's like a daughter to me.'

'Doesn't Lieve have a father?'

'Nobody knows who. Perhaps not even Evelyn herself. She was rather wild then.'

'What about you, would you ever want to have a family?' he evaded.

Her face was blank. Nadia didn't answer. She had asked him for more time and wasn't ready for this. Their time was running out faster than she had expected. Previously, she was tiptoeing down a steep and slippery road. Now she was sliding down at an alarming speed. In the distance ahead, a fork in the road was approaching fast. She'd only have a split second to choose left or right, and it would determine which way her life would go. A wave of panic rose... she must not lose him.

They were still standing there, face to face, a few meters from the balmy sea, and feeling ridiculously sad for such a romantic setting.

'I'm not sure how much longer my own assignment here's going to last.'

'Well, you mentioned another fortnight or so. I planned my stay according to that. Anyway, I won't go for another few days.'

'Let's not waste time, then, but savor each minute that's left. Come.' She tugged his hand and walked him to the water's edge.

They watched the waves, dark and fuming, their rhythmic thundering against the quay. She dragged him closer to the edge. He followed, entranced. And what would happen if they held each other and fell together into the sea?

Nadia felt transported out of herself. She melted into something, someone bigger, something all-encompassing. For a moment, she had a vision of a woman lying almost naked on a beach, waves lapping her body. She strained her eyes, and saw an odalisque on a harem bed giving herself to a stranger, and the waves were folds of satin sheets. She came closer, and now she was looking at herself, and she recognized the intruder as her lover. All of a sudden an orgiastic sensation swept over her whole body. Was she falling over the edge with Daniel?

At that moment, she felt how the heavenly puppeteer pulled the invisible silver cord strung between them. Her feet moved towards him, and they approached each other until their bodies touched. Clasping her arms around him, she pulled herself closer, and buried her face in his chest. She knew that this moment would stay with her forever, in every last detail. In mystical unison, they stood there in a public place, glued together, motionless but for their hands desperately caressing each other.

When she looked at him at last, she noticed that he was looking back at her with boundless tenderness. He saw how wet her eyes were, and she knew he saw. It was dark, but her face turned red. He kissed her forehead and then bent his head down so their lips could find each other.

And there they stood for a long time, until she saw from the corner of her eye three men approaching. She pulled herself away and straightened herself up, self-conscious and unsure if they were safe, but then she noticed them talking and laughing.

'Your scarf's almost fallen from your head, and your abaya's grown wings, lady!' one of the three joked.

'The wind is the enemy of modesty,' she retorted.

'The wind on earth has lulled, my sister, but a gale must be blowing in your soul.'

Now everybody could see her, a fallen, debauched divorcee. Why didn't she feel regret? Taking her little Nikon, she asked the closest of the three men to take a picture. Daniel threw his arm around her, and both smiled as the flash went off.

## 3.3

Daniel felt as if he were living in a cloud. Online romance was one thing, but experiencing another soul sharing your feelings, knowing that she is reaching out to you as you to her, was quite another. He understood Nadia must take time out to be with her relatives, although he resented the time lost they should spend together. So much had happened in so few days, he figured he could use a day or two by himself to take it all in.

His mind was excited; however, there was still the matter with Evelyn. When he finally got through to her, he sensed that she was in greater pain than she wanted him to know, but she sounded as ambivalent as ever. No, he shouldn't miss out on the love of his life, she insisted. As if she herself were but a trivial figure in the landscape. But then yes, it would be so kind if he could be around, more for Lieve's sake than for her own... Evelyn was to check in at the Calvinist University Hospital that coming Thursday; surgery was scheduled for Friday morning. By the way, she added, Alison had also called. She'd fly in from Chicago a week after the surgery – meaning that, Evelyn said, afterwards he'd be free to return to Beirut, and to Nadia, if he wished. Lieve also said hello on the phone. Her voice had a stronger effect than all of Evelyn's casuistry. He promised to change his flight to be in Amsterdam before Evelyn was to be interned.

_Whatever's meant to happen between Nadia and me will now have to be sped up_ , he thought. On Friday, morning he went to AirLiban and for a modest fee, succeeded in changing his flight to Tuesday, September the 11th, in the afternoon

Saturday, Daniel was up early. He had now been a week in Beirut. He showered, shaved, put on his best shirt, and ate a quick breakfast. Then, he took a brisk walk through the neighborhood to pass the time, bought a couple newspapers in the kiosk around the corner off of Samir's, but he was restless and returned to the hotel. He tried to read the news in his room. Then, at a quarter to one, he went down to the lobby to wait for Nadia.

At half past one, she still hadn't arrived, and Daniel began to worry. The receptionist confirmed that no calls had come in for him. Saturday traffic jams were not uncommon though. Daniel thought of calling Ambassadeurs but decided against it. Maybe it would be wiser to distract himself with his newspapers. He had brought Le Monde and yesterday's Daily Star from his room. But he couldn't concentrate.

After another hour had passed, he had become concerned. He called her hotel and learned she had not been in since Thursday noon. He realized she might have been delayed at her relatives', but he had no way to reach her there.

By three thirty, he reckoned if something had happened, she would have called. Once more, he inquired at the reception desk – nothing. Would she have decided against their contact after all? Was everything over? He felt angry, abandoned, powerless – all at once. By now, he knew she wouldn't be coming. It had been a mistake to come to Lebanon at her beckoning. An illusion.

_But I must not enter this blackness again_ , he told himself, fighting the impulse that would have him sit on his bed, letting things take their downward course. _No, I must do something – anything but wait here._

He went out. The late afternoon was still hot. People were out in the streets now. He paced the sidewalks for a long time, oblivious to where his feet were carrying him. He entered a bar, ordered hummus and lemonade, ate and drank with no appetite, and walked on. He reached Hamra, where crowds were strolling past the cafés and boutiques. The door of a restored edifice stood open. Many people – students, he gaged from their outfit and manners – were listening to an agitated voice that came from inside, amplified through loudspeakers. A political speech no doubt. He stepped through the portico and continued until he could see the speaker.

On the rostrum, a man was analyzing in celebratory tones the 'victory of Durban'. The world community had at last seen the light, he claimed, and condemned Zionist racism. The orator stridently called for international action in solidarity with the Palestinian people. He was many times interrupted by applause and slogans shouted in ever louder and shriller tones. A woman from the public shouted that some way must be found for the Arab and Jewish proletariat to work together for peace, but she was booed. Daniel was uninterested, and very sad. Then somebody clapped him on his shoulder.

He turned around, and recognized the kind face, the white tuft, and the voice trying to shout above the noise: 'Daniel! I didn't know you were in Lebanon. Ahlan wa-sahlan. What a good surprise to meet you here! How do you like the speech? We have organized the sit-in. I mean we communists together with the Nasserists. You must tell me everything. How was your Allo report received? I bet they were impressed, weren't they? But no, come with me – I must present you to my friends.'

Majid Khalifa took him by the hand and dragged him deeper into the throng of demonstrators.

### ***

Nadia had been sorry that she couldn't stay with Daniel when they parted on Wednesday night. She told him they'd meet only on Saturday. Thursday was a day full of backlog writing for the _Herald Tribune_ ; and at night, there would be no escaping dinner at the Ja'afaris' in Dahiyeh, a stay certain to spill over into all of Friday.

Still the day at work proved to be a useful buffer. It helped her transition between yesterday's passionate mood, and the alertness she would need to ward off the weekend grilling. Her place with the Ja'afaris was ambiguous – she was at once their respected guest and their object of control. In her honor, aunt Wafa had overseen the women as they prepared a dinner so lavish that Nadia felt stuffed after the mezze. However, that was just the beginning. There followed servings of fattush salad, pita with basturma fresh from the oven, and lamb filled with perfumed rice with pine nuts. What with cousins (some still young children), uncles, and a sprinkling of other relatives and in-laws, they were over fifteen sitting around the table. The Ja'afaris were modern - the womenfolk were welcome to participate, though only the men talked.

The atmosphere was at once happy and solemn. As Nadia had foreseen, politics dominated the table talk, turning even more animated once her aunts had served coffee and laid out an array of sweets. Uncle Imad was leaning toward the Amal Party, and liked to retell the tales about his role in the siege of Burj al-Barajneh against Arafat's faithless Palestinians and against Hawi's treacherous Druze, back in the 80s. Everybody made a show of respecting him, although Nadia noted that no one took him seriously.

His sons Hani and Musa, Nadia's two younger cousins, were both Hizbullah activists. They attacked the "lukewarm" resistance against the Zionist enemy of their father's militia. It wouldn't have been difficult for them to push Imad into a corner, but they never pressed their point. Nadia listened, although she didn't understand every details.

At a given moment, Hani provoked her to give her opinion. Five years younger than she, he was a dark, strong-boned but handsome fellow with fierce eyes. Two years earlier, his temporary crush on her had stayed unrequited. Now, he seemed impervious to her charms, and their relationship had soured and turned quasi hostile.

'I'll translate into English for our beloved Nada. She's spoken with so many of our good-looking heroes, her appeal must have produced a judicious insight.'

Hani's English was not bad although Nadia didn't need the translation. She would have preferred not to publicize her moderate views to relatives who might read them as treason. As it was, they were already scandalized by the rumors circulating about her. But she decided to ignore Hani's sarcasm and speak her mind. It would have to be in English. Invisible to all the others, Daniel's spirit seemed to hover above her, breathing boldness into her lungs.

'Cousin, in my view your organization suffers from the same disease as so many other Arab parties. You live in dreams. Your armed struggle is an obsession. I admire your courage, but you fool yourself if you believe that Israel withdrew last year because of Hizbullah attacks. It withdrew because the Israeli Labor Party had promised that all along; and they won the elections for reasons that have nothing to do with Lebanon. The moon's tides make the sea withdraw, but you believe the sand dries because you blow on the waves.'

They fell all over her with criticism. Imad took the lead. He had understood - Musa had whispered the gist in his ear.

'Niece, don't you discern that withdrawal is just the first symptom of the deadly weakness that infects the Jews? Of course, it's us who forced them out! As long as Clinton gives them arms, they can brag all they want. But when it comes to real courage – well, I witness to you they're still what they always were.'

'Bush, ammi. It's not Clinton anymore,' said Musa.

'I don't care, Clinton or Bush, all Americans are the same,' the old man grumbled.

'Hey, does that also apply to cousin Nada?' Musa turned to her. 'You have a US passport, don't you?'

'Yes, I do. And you want to come and visit me, don't you?'

'Yes,' somebody exclaimed, 'Musa wants to tickle the miniskirted kaffir girls!' Another voice added: 'No, Musa's a decent Hizbullahi boy – just wants to sleep in his cousin's bed!'

Musa blushed with anger: 'Fuck off, you stupid Bashir! I just wanted to say that we will crush the Zionists one day, but you can't blame Nada for not understanding the whole situation. After all she's new here.'

Nadia was tempted to say something like "How sweet of you, Musa" but realized it would humiliate him even more. She tried to keep a low profile as the discussion moved from Israel's sins to her own.

Now Hani interfered. 'Ekhi, you're too young to allow yourself an opinion. First show yourself a man before you speak. But you, cousin Nada, I have to say you're a naïve American. Or else you've let yourself be brainwashed by that Dutch clerk you fancy.'

'That's enough, Hani,' Imad shouted. 'A host is not an enemy. Your guest is your lord. Or lady, I should say.'

The next morning, Imad took Hani and Musa with him to Friday prayers at a neighborhood mosque. Nadia was bored as she listened with her aunts to a sermon transmitted live over Resistance radio. She listened with half an ear, until she heard a mullah developing the theme that "the virtue of the women is the adornment of the umma". This was rather strange: Friday sermons were usually drawn up to make some political point. Was Hizbullah in the doldrums, or had a scandal erupted of which she was unaware? Regardless, she was curious. When the men returned from the mosque, she caught Musa fixating on her bosom with obvious interest. Hani cast, to nobody in particular, a contemptuous smile.

In the afternoon, Nadia was subjected to a "spontaneous" but well-rehearsed ladies-only chat with her aunts. First, they shared horror stories about mixed marriages and life in America in general, rehashing hearsay and propaganda that not only was incompatible with Nadia's life experience but didn't tally either with what they might have learned from other Shiite relatives living in the land of the Great Satan. After this, she was interrogated about her remarriage prospects. Nobody referred to Munder, and nobody hinted at any western men threatening her honor: if they had heard rumors of Daniel (as they must have), they were too polite to taunt. Her relatives were rather insistent and seemed unable to understand how on earth a well-formed female in her twenties, longing for protection and respect, could prefer to stay single. Nadia was amazed at the ease with which they listened and absorbed selectively what agreed with their prejudices, and blocked out inconvenient facts.

_Do I have that same tendency?_ she wondered.

Unfazed, she evaded their inquiries. Then, Wafa and the others prepped her for meeting a few suitable local prospects they had already mobilized. Nadia feigned ignorance of the finer points of conversational Arabic, and retired to her guest room as soon as she thought it decent to do so.

When she was alone, she pulled from her wallet the pictures she had printed. There they stood, next to the lighthouse, with red in their eyes from the flash, his arm around her. She gazed at it, then closed her eyes and tried to reproduce every last detail in her mind's eye. She repeated this until she was sure that his traits were etched into her memory. At night, she had trouble falling asleep. Had the Ja'afari clan somehow gotten an inkling? Was she doing something wrong? Tomorrow would be the day of decision. That much she knew.

Things did not improve the next morning.

'Stay a little longer, niece,' aunt Wafa commanded. Saturday had come. Nadia had left herself a good deal of slack and (much to his discontent) arranged to rendezvous with Daniel in his hotel no earlier than one in the afternoon. Now that the time had come at last to leave, her aunt reminded her it would be a breach of etiquette if she did not stay with them for a late breakfast. On a variety of pretexts, the women kept her at home, until Hani returned from some function in the movement. Wafa had meanwhile put pitas, olives and salads on the table. Nadia was trapped.

'Help yourself, cousin.' Hani said with a smirk. 'What's your hurry?'

'I've work to do, I must take a cab to my hotel now.'

'Nonsense. I'll bring you there myself after we've eaten.' Hani was hungry and took his time. A moment later Uncle Imad and Musa joined in. All were chatting and making jokes, paying scant attention to her. Nadia was a prisoner at their table. The clock kept ticking. By the time they left for the Ambassadeurs, it was well past two.

'I have to warn you, cousin,' Hani's said, once they were alone in his car. 'You can't go on behaving as you do.' His tone was threatening.

'And what do you mean?'

'Don't play stupid with me. Is my English good enough for you? I mean, no walking around with lipstick, and no hair coming out from under your hijab. Am I clear? And by God, no consorting with men! Or do you think we're not aware, miss "Madonna"? You're not in New York here. You put us to shame, and you'll pay. Okay?'

Nadia was trembling, but not surprised at this turnabout. 'What I do with my life is none of your business.'

'If I didn't need my hands on the wheel, I'd slap you in the face so your dirty lover could see what you are. Your father and brother requested that I look after you. So in their absence, I'm responsible for you. I don't mean to let you run wild and destroy our good name.' He stepped on the brake as they reached a sandy and deserted road.

'You're as ridiculous as Yunis, Hani. I'm a free and modern woman, and I'll do as I like.'

He parked on the side of the street. It was the hottest hour of the day. Nobody was anywhere to be seen.

'You listen, cousin. We don't want prostitutes in our family, understand?' She opened the door of the car, but he was faster and had her left arm in an iron grip.

'No way. Now close that door. Don't force me to use other means, yes?'

'You hurt me.'

'On the contrary. You're hurting us. And we won't let you. You don't make the rules here. You promise you'll behave. If not – I've got time.'

Nadia didn't answer. Hani turned off the engine and lit a cigarette. She looked at the clock. Two thirty. She was already late and remembered that Daniel might leave Beirut any day now.

'How dare you! Is that why your folks prevented me from taking a cab?'

'I'll wait another minute for your word. Else I'll bring you back home.'

'And then?'

'You'll see. Well?'

Nadia started to sweat. 'Okay,' she sulked at last.

'Say Wallah.'

'Wallah.' He looked her in the eye, and concluded, his voice rather pompous, 'I advise you not to add zina to perjury. Not with believers and not with kuffar. And least of all with your Holland wimp. You heard me.' She bit her lip. He restarted the engine, pulled out, and continued driving. Neither of them said a word. When they had reached Hamra, he dropped her off in front of the journalists' hotel.

'Wallah inshallah. I hate you, bastard,' she mumbled between her teeth, softly enough that it remained unclear whether he was meant to hear. With relief, she recalled: promises made under duress are not valid for God – but only if you add an immediate "If God wills it" after you swear "By God". Had the interval been too long?

Nadia ran to her hotel room crying tears of rage. It was a quarter to four. Would she still find Daniel in his hotel on that side street of Ashrafieh, a couple kilometers away? She called Samir's. The attendant told her that Prof. de Vries had been expecting her. He had waited from one to three thirty in the lobby, and just a quarter of an hour ago had left.

## 3.4

Daniel was not sure if Majid's ebullience was a bother, or a useful distraction. Majid was so sympathetic, but his voice suited Daniel's mood like circus music at a funeral. Curling his lips into a smile caused him physical pain. Then Daniel thought, _perhaps things don't happen at random_. He let himself be carried along, listening to the endless speeches, and made the acquaintance of a bunch of nice leftist militants. He was hardly interested in their struggle against "the Zionist entity" now and had trouble remembering the comrades' names. He wanted to yawn but Majid gave him no rest, so proud he was to show off his friend from the European NGO. After the meeting, they had arak in a dark bar.

He would never have been able to find that place again, and he didn't know how he reached Samir's. He only knew it was late at night.

When he woke up again, it was close to noon. Breakfast had long since passed. The Armenian who did the Sunday shift at the reception desk told him that yesterday, around five, a lady in Shiite chador had come for him. She had waited till seven and then left, desolate. He should call her at Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.

'Forgive me, Nadia,' he said as she entered the lobby. All his anger and resentment at being rejected evaporated the moment he saw her. 'I behaved in a stupid way. I should've waited awhile longer yesterday.' He ran to her.

'No, forgive me, Daniel. It was my fault. I should've called, but I couldn't.' She felt as awkward and anxious as he, and as relieved; the joy of meeting again had wiped away all lingering resentment. They embraced as old lovers and showered each other with kisses. She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

'Hani threatened me. I was frightened. What am I to do? Oh, I'm so relieved to see you again, Daniel. I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me anymore.' He looked at her, standing there as a Greek statue, the folds of her long garment molded by the afternoon light filtering through the milky glass of the ceiling.

'I thought just the same about you. I was desperate.'

'What's done is done. When is your flight leaving?'

'Tuesday at four.' She was feeling the same urgency now, he noticed. 'Shall we go out and talk somewhere?' he suggested.

'Let's go to your room.'

'It's a mess. I'd be ashamed.'

'Never mind. I'll see your shame and you mine.' He gave the receptionist two hundred and fifty lira and enjoined him they must not be disturbed.

Daniel knew that many women considered him handsome, but he was as clumsy in establishing physical intimacy as he was agile in creating a verbal bond. The room was small and rather poorly furnished, the wide bed taking up most of the space. He planted himself on it. She threw her abaya over an old armchair next to the window, hung her lady's bag on the armrest, and went to sit down next to him. He saw her for the first time as she must have been before her religious crisis – a white sleeveless T-shirt over tight blue jeans. He could see on her skin how uncomfortable the heavy abaya had made her.

_Even if you'd been ugly_ , he thought, _you would be beautiful in my eyes. But you're as beautiful as in a novel, period_. In all corners of the room, he saw his clothes, soiled socks and underwear. Papers, books, and a recorder had flown out of his bag, and littered the surface of the little table next to the window. What would she think?

But Nadia looked around and smiled.

'Look, here's a memento from our last walk.' She gave him her spare print of their picture at the seaside. He studied it and placed it on the night table.

'You look good in the photo, but you're even better in reality. Can you take off your hijab now?'

She undid her scarf, and he saw the lustrous hair. His hand played through the locks. She let him do that, quivered, and took his face in her hands. Then she came to sit next to him on the bed. Seconds later they were passionately kissing. For a long time, with boundless tenderness, their faces and bodies were searching each other. He didn't dare touch her blouse.

Then, with effort, he took control of himself, moved back an arm's length from her, crossed his arms, and said: 'First, we must talk.'

'Yes, light of my eyes, we must.... Do you really have to go? I'm not so independent or generous as I acted. I don't want to miss you again. And if you go to be with Evelyn again, then I—'

'Neither do I. I hope this parting will not be as long...'

'Daniel, my heart tells me it will be longer, not shorter. Please stay with me,' she beseeched, as if an evil foreboding impelled her.

'Nadia, we have until now avoided it. But, now you must tell me why you cut off contact, then. Was it some... umm, religious...? I'm afraid it may happen again, you see.'

She looked composed, but he sensed her heart was in turmoil. 'I wish I could promise you that. Daniel, you are my man. I know it.' She stretched out her hands and they found his, across the chasm that stood between them. 'I'll never give myself to another anymore. As long as I'm myself. Trouble is, I'm unsure if I'll stay the same, once your image and your voice are shut out.'

'So we can't be sure of each other, then?'

She didn't answer. Then, again in that imploring tone, 'Daniel, please, stay with me. Please. Don't leave me alone, with...' She squeezed his hands.

'Your family puts you under pressure because I'm not of your faith, am I right? Any chance you'll ever present me to your relatives?'

A wry laugh.

'Nadia....' he was having trouble finding the words, 'I love you.' Her eyes glistened. 'But we must not be unfaithful to ourselves. Islam for you is much, much more than belonging to some congregation. I, for one, would feel like a traitor to convert just formally, for your sake. But it would satisfy you even less, wouldn't it?'

'You're right again. Daniel, don't think I'm weak. I can stand up to others. I hope you believe me.'

He did. Yes, she radiated vulnerability, a butterfly emerging from her cocoon, wings still moist. Yet, this woman was strong.

'It's not just menaces from the outside, Daniel... I know Allah's observing me, right as I'm sitting here with you. That may sound absurd to you, but if you care for me, if you want to be with me as deeply as I want to be with you, then don't brush it aside. I must not only think what gives me comfort and pleasure now but what will happen to my soul later. You know why we go visit the graves...'

He nodded. Muslims do not go to the tombs to be closer to the dead but to be closer to their own death.

'You may not believe – I know you don't, Dan. But for me it goes far beyond faith. I know His presence, and I witness five times a day my submission to Him. And I...' – she closed her eyes, as if to fetch a lost object inside, then opened them again, those dark eyes that last week had taken him captive. She had made them up with a lot of kohl. '—and I pray that Allah will spread His compassion and include you among His people. For only God can give you that grace.'

It sounded like an evangelization campaign, and Daniel felt a resistance. He thought, _Oh no, not this. I want to make you happy, and your laugh fills my heart, but I can't be false. I can't see that deity of yours. And He doesn't seem to have noticed me either. So far._

Their fingers were still entwined. 'Much as I want us to share everything, I can't commit to that, Nadia.'

'But will you at least open your heart and see what happens?'

'Without expectations?'

'I'll do the expecting. Please promise me.'

'Why's that so important to you?'

'If something happens, then...I don't know how to explain it, I'll have a stronger case.'

'A stronger case?'

'Yes. A stronger case with God. I told you I'm conflicted. I know that Allah demands something from me. The issue is – I don't understand exactly what. According to the faith I received from my parents and my community, what we're doing is simply haram. I may die for it, and I'll be damned. Both by God and by men – well, you know those commandments better than I, don't you? You're the professional. I'm just a believer. Mumina.'

'As a nonbeliever, I'd say that's one way of looking at your Islam.'

'Don't rub it in, with your "as a nonbeliever."' She shook her head. 'It creates a distance between us. Hard things may come our way – I can sense it. One way or the other, we'll only overcome them if we stick very, very close together.'

Again, those eyes, wide-open magnets, looked at him as she said, 'You were right. "That's one way of looking at it" - you often wrote that to me. But I read and read until I arrived at another viewpoint. You want to hear it?'

Of course, he signaled.

'I think the holy book is really His word, but not in a literal sense. Perhaps... perhaps people heard a message and made something else of it. The Prophet received it – must have happened without any "noise": God wouldn't have chosen a prophet if the fellow didn't have perfect antennae. But Muhammad didn't write. So other people listened, it went from mouth to mouth. Generations passed before it was written down. We're not so naïve, you know. Some of the messages may have ended up garbled or lost altogether. Others, not authentic, may have seeped in. By accident. So it's probably correct that this book existed in all eternity. I mean, it is true. But that doesn't prove the little green book I've here (she pointed to her bag) is a faithful copy of the original.'

'You mean it's human handiwork?'

She sighed.

'If it isn't God's word literally, what are we to do? How can we know for sure what He wants to tell us?'

'You're on your own?'

'Yes. And I try to reconstruct as best I can what these words mean. Using logic.'

'What did you conclude, then?' Outside, dusk was falling, and it was very silent. The world seemed to listen for her insight.

'Well, this must sound like a bunch of new-agey blah-blah to your rationalist ears, but something like, God gave the same message time and again. And all religions have therefore a part of truth and together...'. She was motionless but her eyes smiled. 'I make my own religion, so to speak. The love I feel for you, I know that it's just a tiny, micro reflection of the same energy that created the universe and that sustains it. God simply can't be so harsh – condemn us for something so pure as the love and goodwill we have for one another. So we, who love, must keep together and be patient, until the heat of our love melts down all the hostility around us. For, I've come to believe, my God cannot be so unjust—'

'Either that, or else your God is beyond good and evil?'

She blushed a deep crimson, as if he had exposed her nakedness.

'Yes,' she whispered. 'You may be right, and I may be wrong. Many of our sages have said this. And what if that were the case? What if all the harsh rules that my parents and their imams have inculcated in me just happen to be true? If good and bad are just conventions God created for us, to keep our bad instincts in check, to keep us on a short leash, but that Good and Evil in no way commit Him? What if I'm wrong and they're right? That'd be the end...' she shuddered.

'Yes, but you don't know. And I find it a daunting and dark image of God. Such a gloomy view can't be proven, Nadia. God himself can't be proven. In that case, why not stick with the more sympathetic guy?'

'That would not be honest. I have to believe in what is true, not convince myself of what I'd rather prefer to believe in. Even if I can't prove it to you, I can feel Him.' Daniel was still, touched by the sincerity of her words. She continued, 'Some things that can't be proven are nevertheless true. And worse, some things that are proven may yet be false...'

They fell silent, exhausted – as silent as the street outside. How long had they talked? Night had fallen. He switched on the neon light – dreary, almost a desecration. They looked pale.

Nadia spoke. 'Let's stop talking. I can't reach you with words, but my heart is stronger. My love for you is stronger, inshallah one day we'll all be together, also in this. I don't know why I choose you, but I've taken this irreversible step.' He was moved, and he caressed her shoulders.

She approached his lips, ready to plunge in the deep, then held back once again, and said in an urgent tone: 'Wait, my love, there's something more I have to tell you. Look, something may come between us, something stronger than either of us. Don't leave me alone for one minute. Don't let me go. I don't want to lose you a second time. Hold me, okay? I'm afraid that on my own, I won't withstand the pressure. Because when it comes, I must follow. Then you must promise me not to go after me, for it would destroy you, too. And I couldn't live with that. To know you'll be safe, somewhere on earth, is the only thing that'll give me the strength to live on...'

'But I won't let you go away! No, I'll never make such a promise.'

'I'm afraid you'd lose everything if you try and follow me. You'd never find–'

'On the contrary, Nadia. I'll go after you, and I'll find you, however far away they hide you. I'll never give you up. Even if I have to wait for years...'

For an instant, he thought he saw sadness. Why were they speaking of parting at all? Then she smiled, brought her mouth to his ears and whispered so softly he hardly heard: 'I'd like to have a child with you.'

Had he heard that right? An intense emotion he had no name for began to churn his heart. He forced a smile.

'Isn't that a bit premature? So far, we haven't even touched each other.'

This was the sign that their long introduction was over. What started as words, sounds that yearned to bridge a ravine, in the most natural way, glided into deep passion. He felt her kissing him more intensely than ever before, and her emotion swept over him and carried him along with her. She said, 'Now you must switch off the light and close the curtains.'

The darkened room, still hot from the last sunrays, smelled of the musky perfume she wore and of their blended sweat. Daniel had lost all sense of time. Without conscious effort, he carried her over her barriers of shame, helping her shed layer after layer of modesty. No word was uttered, but their lovemaking was the most intense dialogue they had ever had. Being with Nadia was different from any of the bouts of fleeting sex he had ever engaged in. It was also utterly different from what he had imagined, passionate and serene at the same time. He was guiding her, with his hands and his mouth, feeling both her reticence and her desire. He sensed it was not easy for her and yet exquisite. At the same time, she was guiding him on a journey as well, transporting him outside of himself. Their attention was concentrating on a point where for one brief moment the boundary between two humans melts. For that reason, he was barely aware how old and broken the hotel mattress was, or how far they had undressed.

For the same reason, he was not paying attention to the screeching tires in the street below as they came to a full stop in front of the hotel, nor to the car door opening and slamming shut, nor the hurried steps of two men, or their shouts downstairs in the lobby.

Thirty seconds later, the phone rang in his room.

'Damn it, didn't I tell the receptionist to keep disturbances away from us?' he said. He hoped that the ringing would stop but thought that perhaps he should get up to take it. She lay on top of him, her breasts exposed to his caresses. She didn't move. The ringing stopped. They resumed their kissing, hoping to exorcize the outside world.

Less than a minute later, he heard again shouts below. The telephone rang again, but this time, it didn't stop.

'This has happened at least four times in the last few days: they call, it's for another room, a mistake. Let's just wait, it'll blow over. Sorry, Nadia. Samir's not as fancy as Les Ambassadeurs.' The phone kept ringing. He didn't answer.

'Daniel, pick up the receiver. Wallah, it might be Evelyn from Holland.' In the dark, he could see her sitting up on his bed, almost naked, arms clasping her knees. It was hot, but she was shivering. He took the phone.

'Professor de Vries?' It was the receptionist. 'Most sorry to disturb, sir, but we have an emergency. There are two young gentlemen here, who claim to be relatives of the lady who's come up with you. She must go down at once to see them. Yes sir, they are waiting here downstairs.'

'They'll have to wait. Where do you think we are we – in Kandahar? Tell them to fuck off, you hear.'

'Monsieur, I'm afraid this is not possible. The gentlemen are armed. Forgive me for insisting, but...'

'One minute. I'll call back.' He put the horn back on the cradle.

Nadia had heard every word. She threw herself in his arms: 'They've come for me. Hani and Musa. I knew it.'

'Stay here with me. I'll call the police. What's the number?' He jumped out of the bed, switched the light on, and looked for his little notebook among the papers on the table. Nadia blushed and shivering even more, rolled herself into the sheet.

'Daniel.' He continued looking in his bag.

'Daniel, come here. Please hold me.' He ran back and put his arms around her. 'Protect me. Hold me.'

'Of course, Nadia. But you'll be safer if the police protect you, too.'

'The police are useless. Say Nunu.'

'Nunu, I love you. Don't be afraid.' He pulled her against himself as strongly as he could. His own heart was raging. They heard steps coming up the stairs, then entering the corridor. Somebody knocked frenetically on his door.

'The lady must leave at once,' a shrill female voice called in street Arabic. He recognized the cackle of the house cleaning woman: 'Défendu visiteuses dans la chambre. Défendu. Yallah.'

Outside in the street, other voices could now be heard talking. The telephone rang again and again, incessantly.

Then Nadia escaped from his clutch and pushed him away. Alarmed, he watched as she stood up from the bed, girded her bra, quickly threw her blouse and trousers in her bag, and slipped into her shoes.

'Nadia, what are you doing?'

She looked more past him than into his eye, her face stiffened.

'I must go.' Her voice sounded adamant and hypnotized.

'Nadia, don't. Stay with me.' With a routine gesture, she swept the abaya around her shoulders.

'I can't. I'm sorry for everything, Daniel.'

He ran up to her, but she was closer to the door, swung it open, and rushed out without looking back.

Seconds later, Daniel was in the corridor, too. Nadia was already in the elevator.

Without waiting for the elevator to come up again, he hurried down the stairs. Long before he reached ground floor, he heard her voice reverberating throughout the stairwell. Below, a heated exchange was going on. A harsh voice was insulting her. Nadia shrieked: 'Shame on you and your parents, Hani. Go back to your medieval torture room and get away from me.' A male voice yelled something back. Daniel did not catch it.

'Don't call me Ja'afari, you killer! I'm no cousin of you anymore, you hear?'

At least one full minute had passed by the time Daniel arrived in the lobby. He saw her being dragged toward the entrance. Two swarthy, strongly built men, considerably younger than she, held her by her arms. She resisted, but he saw that her resistance was dwindling. The taller man, in the gray and blue camouflage fatigues that he recognized as the Hizbullah militia uniform held her by her left arm, then hauled her off as if she were a package. The younger guy – at most eighteen, Daniel gaged – had a baby face. He tore at her disheveled hair and held her by her other, right arm, trying to keep up with the faster moves of the first one.

Daniel shouted, 'Stop, for heaven's sake!' but nobody paid any attention.

Nadia yelled in English at the oldest and tallest of the two: 'Let me go, you asshole. And just for your knowledge, I didn't even do it yet!'

The man stopped, cast a look full of contempt and answered in Arabic: 'You liar, you adulterer, you whore, you thrice cursed! Didn't I warn you? Your behavior's shamed all of us. Now you come with me, or your fate will be even worse.' He gave a violent tug on her arm. Nadia cried out from pain. Without looking at her, the man dragged her toward the entrance. The younger guy, at their heels, added 'Yes, yes, dirty slut,' followed by an elaborate curse. Literary and articulate, the bastard must have learnt it at school, and prepared his odious little speech ahead of time, Daniel guessed. No doubt, these must be her cousins, Hani and Musa.

Daniel was now just meters behind them, and his blood boiled. He leapt in their direction. But before he reached her abductors, the younger fellow let go of Nadia, turned around, and ran into Daniel. With much greater force than he would have given him credit for, he punched him in his gut, then quick as lightning, jerked back to the door. For a second, Daniel felt dizzy. He heard a shot hitting the wall half a meter away from him. He looked up. The boy held a revolver. Trembling, Musa was taking aim. Instinctively, Daniel jumped aside and kneeling, took cover behind a table. Another shot. Glass shattered. Daniel felt weak but unhurt save for the fist in his stomach.

Behind him, the Armenian reception officer who had hidden under the counter called: 'Alarm! Take her with you, or I'll call the firemen.' The entrance flung open. Nadia, panting and protesting at a lower volume now, was dragged out. The door swung shut behind them. Daniel heard her voice, muffled, through the glass. Other voices too could be heard in the street. Controlling a rising nausea and oblivious of the danger, Daniel rose again. Now, in the street, unnoticed by the bystanders, he overheard yells of 'Ayb, ayb! Shame, shame!'

The younger man was pushing and shoving Nadia in an old Fiat. Her resistance had all but gone. Musa threw her bag inside, then jumped in himself. None of the men in the street lifted a finger. One young voice encouraged the kidnappers with rhythmic shouts. 'No prostitution in our quarter!'

At the wheel, Hani started the engine. Daniel raced towards the car, but before he could reach it, it sped away, honking loudly. Within seconds, it was out of sight. Gone. Daniel was speechless. Not so the dozen-odd men, middle-aged, young, and old, who were out in the street. Suddenly, he realized that he was naked save for his boxers. Coarse remarks were being made in his direction.

'Ayb, ayb!'

Daniel ran back into the guesthouse.

Inside, the manager had already arrived, and together with the receptionist, both pale, was taking stock of the damage. 'Quelle horreur, monsieur.' Daniel took the elevator upstairs. In his room on the chair he found the scarf she had forgotten in the commotion. He couldn't control himself anymore and started to tremble.

back to top

# _Chapter Four_

# Beirut: Love and Terror

# Part 2: Terror

## 4.1

The Fiat raced south through the night. Her arm hurt and was throbbing. Streets raced by in flashes. When they reached the highway, Hani accelerated well over the speed limit. A black cloud came over her. It had all been for nothing.

At once, she made a movement as if to open the door and throw herself outside. Musa, sitting next to her, shouted, leapt on top of her, and just managed to keep her inside. Hani brought the car to a full stop on the side of the road, jumped out, and within seconds was standing next to her. He jammed the half-opened door against her leg. She screamed.

A big truck with bright headlights overtook them with loud, irritated honks.

'I can hardly keep her under control, brother. Let me drive.'

'Yes, go, take the wheel, Musa. Take the handbag with her cell phone.'

Musa took the driver's seat and a bit insecure, turned the key in the ignition. They drove on. Hani pushed Nadia hard to the right, holding her arm in an iron grip. He could tell that under her abaya, she was naked save for her underwear. He was angry at himself for being excited at the touch of her skin.

'You'd make a good pro,' he taunted. You even enjoy your own lewdness, don't you? Any more of your tricks, and I put you to bed in the trunk, cousin. And where did you leave your scarf?' He grabbed a foul orange cloth, used to wipe the windows and lying at the bottom of the car, and rubbed it in her face and on her hair. 'There you have your hijab, sharmuta. This will teach you.'

Without warning, he gave her a vicious hit in the face. A thudding pain between her left eye and her upper teeth - Nadia nearly passed out. 'And that's just an advance.' Her upper lip bled. She screamed again, from humiliation no less than from pain. She raised her arms in front of her face and turned away from him. Then she hid her face in her abaya. Inside, she raged, but was unsure who was right: if Daniel, then why had he let her go? Why had he not defended her? But if her cousins were right, why had she allowed herself to commit such an unforgivable sin? Subdued, she wailed. Her cousins didn't seem to notice. Musa pressed on the gas.

'You shouldn't have used your pistol, ekhi,' Hani reproached.

'Why not? I didn't hit him.'

'The one who dishonored her? A pity, as my heart speaks. A pity you didn't kill him. But we must be rational, Musa, and control our anger until when vengeance comes without risk. You might have hurt him. Complications would have ensued.'

'That pimp – was that the Dutch lover Yunis spoke of?'

'Keep your tongue until you're old enough to distinguish between when to speak and when to hold your peace, you idiot!'

How did Yunis know? Had Yunis been talking of Daniel? To Hani?

Suddenly feeling stronger again, Nadia turned to Hani: 'Are you spying on my private life together with my brother? Hit me as much as you like, you sadist, you will not change my mind. You're loathsome.' She spoke in a mixture of English and street Arabic.

'Loathsome? You use chic words tonight. So you don't like me anymore? But last year, you were slobbering when you saw me, Nada. If it hadn't been for your disgrace with Shireen, you'd never have left. Don't deny, I was the one who rejected you. Because I'm the one who's true to values. You're no better than a bitch in heat. How much for opening your legs?' Hani uttered a gross laugh, echoed two seconds later by Musa.

'You're a liar, Hani. I never wanted you. I regret the day I ever saw you.' Nadia fought back her tears. But she knew Hani was not lying about everything.

'Your big mouth will shut up once and for all when God's law is enforced again.'

'Your muscles may be stronger, but they won't intimidate me, you monster. You're a coward, or you wouldn't hide your underhanded phone calls.'

She had to get this information out of him. Either he would hit her again – or he'd speak.

Musa rather than Hani took the bait. 'Tell her, ekhi, expose her shame.'

'It doesn't matter, does it? Yes, Yunis uncovered your dirty little secret,' Hani gave in. 'Yes, he called this afternoon. He warned us to keep a closer eye on you. Right he was. Look, your brother bumped into one of your Christian lovers. They can't keep a secret. Their shame is burned on their face.'

'Keith? With Yunis? They wouldn't talk to each other. They despise each other.'

'I don't know his name, and I don't care. Anyhow, the kaffir blurted out all your debauchery with that Dutch writer. So we knew enough. Didn't we, Musa?' The two brothers laughed, loud, sarcastic chuckles. Nadia was mortified.

After a while, she asked: 'Where are you taking me? What are you going to do with me?'

Hani answered with an open threat: 'In all honesty, Nada, if you were my sister, I would already have slit your throat and thrown your body in the sea. That's how I'd like to cleanse dirt.' She was turning pale, but in the dark no one could see. 'As of now, though, you don't belong to me, cousin, but to the whole family. The clan will decide your fate. Or else the movement. Count on it that my vote will go in favor of... as I just mentioned. And now you keep your insolent mouth shut, or I won't wait for the official verdict.'

Hani grumbled and cursed. Musa fiddled with the radio dial until he found a Saudi radio station.

## 4.2

Crushed. Daniel sat in his room for an hour or two in utter shock, realizing what the bullets might have done to him. He locked his door, wondering if perhaps the assailants might be back. But soon he reopened it. Let them come if they want! First, he must save Nadia! But how? And where?

He tried to make sense of what had happened, and where she might be now. Hani and Musa had coerced her, but she had also of her free will left his room, where he had been holding her by her shoulders. But why? She had warned that she might not be able to resist. She had said, 'Hold me', and he had held her, but she had struggled free. Free – to rush into a prison? Daniel felt like a coward, but what else could he have done? Nadia had cautioned him not to come after her. That warning he had disregarded, and he had leapt down to save her.

He sensed a dull ache in his stomach, unscrewed the plastic bottle of mineral water on the night table, and swallowed a few gulps. Then he rushed to the bathroom to vomit.

As he sat back on his bed, he felt a headache coming on. A sorrowful memory crept into his mind: he was in Beirut because she had broken their fragile bond once before. She had wanted, and opened her arms, then denied him at the eleventh hour. Or had she _been_ denied to him? What brainwashing incubus had taken possession of her? He felt dizzy again. Is this what heroin withdrawal feels like? He must find her. Exorcize _her_ jinn... Not a minute to lose... not a minute... not one...

When he woke up, it was still dark. He was lying diagonally across the bed, uncovered and chilly, clutching Nadia's scarf. He had collapsed from shock and exhaustion. Then he remembered his last thought: not a minute to lose. All the details were etched in his mind. Save her. But, in concrete terms, how? Although he was broken, he slowly pulled himself together. Somehow Daniel always possessed some hidden reserve energies to be called upon.

_Let's be logical,_ he thought. _Her cousins had acted like terrorists. They wouldn't bring her back to him on a silver platter. Nor to her own hotel._

He called Ambassadeurs all the same. The receptionist on duty sounded sleepy. Nadia wasn't there. Tuesday was his flight. One full day left in Beirut. The police?

He gave some thought to this option but discarded it: bringing in Lebanon's inefficient official forces? Those bombastic fellows, obsessed by attention to form and deference, yet split by contrary sectarian loyalties? Even if they'd react to a case like this – the likes of which they must see dozens of times a week – that wouldn't help. Even if they found her, God knows, their intervention might make matters worse.

Worst of all, he didn't have the Ja'afaris' address – she had spoken of Dahiyeh, but that was a huge Shiite neighborhood, an anthill; by the time he discovered her whereabouts her relatives could have taken her elsewhere. Moreover, he wasn't even sure whether Hani and Co. would bring her there. If the Ja'afari clan was even half as fanatical as she had painted them, he shuddered at the thought of what they might inflict on her.

Monday was one of the worst days Daniel could remember. He understood that with every passing hour, the chances of uncovering her tracks dwindled. He was no detective. He hadn't even been able to read the red Fiat's number plate. His network among Hizbullahis, despite his work for Allo, was thin on the ground. He made a few phone calls, but they lead nowhere.

Around noon, he took a cab to Ambassadeurs. There, he talked briefly with the manager, presented an expurgated version of what had occurred, and alluded to a question about honor. The affair, it seemed, piqued the man's curiosity, or else awakened his empathy. He brought Daniel to his office room and told him something he was perhaps not permitted to share. Yes, the American female correspondent was well known in the hotel, he said. She had, after all, a job to do, even if only as a freelancer. For that reason, Daniel learnt, she had held many conversations in the lobby.

The manager had a tantalizing bit of news. Mme. Iskander had reappeared at the hotel, today around nine in the morning; but she had left half an hour later. She had taken part of her belongings with her but left others in her room, she had not checked out. He could not tell him where she had gone but expected her back, one of these days, maybe even today. No, he could not allow him to see her room. It would be best for monsieur De Vries to check back from time to time.

'But didn't she at least leave a number where she could be reached?'

For a long moment, the manager took Daniel's measure. He sighed, looked in his notebook, and wrote a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

In the street again, a brainwave hit Daniel: her mobile number. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? There was nothing to lose. He took his cell phone and punched in her number.

'Aywa.'

A coarse male voice took the line. Daniel did not speak. Ten seconds passed. Then the man addressed him in a strongly accented English.

'You're Daniel de Vries. Denial is useless. Your number was in her contact list.' They had expected his call. 'I'm telling you, you'll never see your whore again. And don't you call again this number. Ever. If you want to live.'

The line broke off. Daniel was again trembling, but he still had the home number that the hotel guy had given him. He reflected a moment, then decided to contact Majid.

Khalifa was home. He sounded surprised but glad to hear from him so soon after their latest chance meeting the day before yesterday. He volunteered to come and see him at once. An hour later, they met in a nearby café. Daniel laid all of his cards on the table.

'I knew from your behavior Saturday that something was the matter, Daniel,' Majid said. 'And I guessed it must be a woman story. I'm sorry my intuition was right.' He tried to dissuade Daniel. 'Daniel, listen, take my counsel. Let go of this Nadia. Keep her memories and forget the rest. I understand your sorrow, but you must go home now. There's still time for you to turn around. You are not from here – there's no need for you to follow this path. It may trap you and never release you before its end.'

Daniel thought a moment, then shook his head. 'I may be an old-fashioned romantic, but for me love is not just a cloud of sparkling feelings: you're in it, you walk through it, you come out of it, you suffer for a while, it's over and past. I would leave her indeed, if I thought she'd come to a better place. However hard it would be on me, I wouldn't deny her the fate she wants for herself. But this is not what she wanted, I'm sure. I have to help her whatever the price. Even if I shan't be with her in the end. Whoever saves one life, it's as if he saved the whole world. I don't know... can you understand that?'

Majid sighed. 'I understand. That expression occurs also in our Qur'an. I am your friend and I will help. But I'm not optimistic. Hearing you, I agree you've reason to fear for her life.'

Together, they brainstormed. 'No, you can't call this phone number yourself. And neither can I. Too transparent. The one to find out must be female. Best Shiite, too.' He frowned and bit the nails of his thumbs. He always did this, Daniel had noticed, when searching for some solution. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

'Fatima Nasr can do it. And she will, if I ask it from her as a favor.'

'Won't it put her in a loyalty bind?'

'Leave it to me, Daniel. Can I tell her everything though?'

'Be as discreet as possible,' he answered. Then, with a hint of desperation, 'But do whatever you can to save her.'

Majid suggested that it was more advisable to use a public phone. Their café had one. He walked to the counter, dialed, and spoke for a long time, his hand in front of his mouth. From his table, Daniel saw him reciting from the paper slip. At last, he returned. 'She accepts, and she sends you every good wish for strength. She'll go after it and do what's possible to help.'

'You think she's reliable?'

'I know her, and so do you. She's pious and committed to the movement. But she's also feminist, in her way. She doesn't look for trouble. When it comes her way, though, she'll see it as a test and do the necessary. The critical problem is time. Don't expect an answer today or tomorrow...'

'I'm sick with worry for Nadia's safety.'

'There's absolutely nothing more you can do here at this point but pray. Look, I don't want to present things nicer than they are. I'm not very religious, but I know how they think. Their family honor must be avenged. There's another risk, too. Nadia can go berserk and become a radical. Either way, she's in danger. And from what you described of this Hani, I don't have a good feeling. But if he wanted to kill her, he'd already have done it. He said you'll never see "your whore" again, which suggests she was still alive when you called him. My hunch is Hani's not acting on his own. If that's the situation, there must be a family conclave; things will take time.'

Daniel sat on the tip of his chair but didn't interrupt.

'Meanwhile,' Majid explained, 'they might even let her move around and work, within limits. Honor killings occur of course, but it's never simple. Especially here. Lebanon is not a backward place. The more family members get involved, the smaller the risk they will shed blood. There are other ways to redeem honor. Most people won't take such a huge risk if something major isn't at stake for them, say, a personal insult. She's not their own daughter, she's an American citizen, and you told me her newspaper expects her articles. The Herald might investigate, involve the embassy, or the media might go after the case. That's all not good propaganda.'

'Unless you're an out-and-out barbarian.'

'Well, yes, terrorism happens. However, it's on the decline. Nadia may be too much trouble for them to get rid of in the time-honored way. The easiest solution would be to put her on a plane back to New York if you ask me.'

'Talking about planes – my flight... should I...?'

'You can't play Sherlock Holmes against seventeen Lebanese sects, Daniel. And you're needed in Amsterdam. Fly back to Europe as you planned. The minute I have the slightest news from here, I'll send you an immediate message.'

## 4.3

All of Monday had gone to seeking her trail. All in vain. Exhausted, Daniel went to bed asleep early. For a long time, though, he couldn't sleep. The images of Nadia being with him, running away, then being abused by her cousins hovered before his eyes. On Tuesday morning, he saw in the mirror that his eyes were red. He packed his suitcase, had lunch, checked one last time at Ambassadeurs, and then took a cab to the airport.

When he arrived to check in, around five in the afternoon, news of a terror attack had just broken. The news was something about the Twin Towers being attacked in New York, but nobody knew exactly what had happened. CNN and other news stations stayed blocked for two hours. Internet links were unstable. When news began to trickle in, the reports were so absurd as to appear incomprehensible. Four hijacked airplanes had hit major buildings in New York and the Pentagon in Washington. There must be at least 10,000 dead. The first images showed on TV screens in the airport hall.

'Oh my God!' somebody screamed. 'Serves them right,' another voice yelled, followed by another, then another, 'Oh, how terrible. They're human beings, too'. A pandemonium of voices ensued, only to die down within minutes as abruptly as it had begun. Many of the travelers were Americans and other foreigners, but the majority was Lebanese. 'My uncle works in a restaurant below the World Trade Center,' one plaintive voice exclaimed. And another: 'What's gonna happen to my flight, anybody know?'

Nobody had a clue who the attackers were, if they were, as was rumored, Arabs or Muslims, or why they had done it. No one dared to think if other attacks would follow. Was this the beginning of the Third World War? Beirut airport was in chaos. Many passengers, afraid that new terrorist attacks might follow, were seeking ways to postpone or cancel their flight. Concern and uncertainty wafted through the air. Standing in a long check-in queue that hadn't moved forward in forty minutes, Daniel also wondered whether his flight would leave at all. He concentrated on not thinking of Nadia, or of the world exploding around him, but of Evelyn and Lieve.

Delayed... Delayed... Delayed...

On the automated departure screens, one flight after another flipped to that word. Around five thirty, a loudspeaker announced that all flights to the US were canceled. After another half an hour, US-bound passengers heard instructions to present themselves at counters 17 through 21, whence they would be accommodated, in small batches, to European flights. From there, they might later fly to New York, Chicago or Los Angeles. And yet half an hour later, the loudspeaker informed that all western-bound flights had been postponed indefinitely. That included Amsterdam.

Another hour of shuffling in a tense queue, and Daniel found himself in possession of a taxi ticket and a hotel voucher. In his hand he also clutched a slip scribbled with the number of the airline he would have to call the next morning to learn when his flight would leave.

All around, people were exchanging over and over again the same snatches of information mixed with wild rumors. Osama bin Laden had done it. Who's that? The perpetrators were Islamist radicals. No, the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine had claimed responsibility. Bush was accusing the Muslims. A few expressed compassion for the Americans. A few said they were glad the imperialist Yankees had bitten the dust. Most seemed worried about their own plans and safety.

Traffic toward the city was more intense than ever. All around, he heard rhythmic honking, as if somebody were celebrating the victory of some soccer team.

The airline had directed him to a much better hotel than he could have afforded by himself. The television was showing footage – horrific to watch – of planes crashing in the towers, people trapped in the skyscrapers, condemned, jumping to their death, firemen. New Yorkers were running for their lives through streets closely followed by an avalanche of dust and falling stones. He zapped from station to station, from terrorist outrage to religious program to soap opera, and back to the Twin Towers: identical images, endlessly repeated. Telephone lines were overburdened. He emailed to Evelyn. Then he decided that probably the best place to be informed was one of those favorite haunts of foreign reporters – say, the Ambassadeurs. And why not? he told himself. He was by himself and had a long evening to kill.

It was early evening when he entered the familiar lobby again. Inside, the heat was stifling, despite the flotilla of fans rotating at top speed overhead. Far over a hundred journalists and local Beirutis had already crowded in, and more entered by the minute – German parliamentarians, NGO activists (he recognized some from Human Rights Watch, and two women activists from the Italian Palestine Committee people), quite a few consular personnel and diplomats, two Indian nuns, and a few Gulf Arabs in keffiya and flowing robes. New visitors joined in all the time. Everybody was drawn as if by magnets to a few niches, where groups of people were already convening: all stood glued to one of the hotel's six big TV screens hanging in the corners of the spacious hall. For the journalists' convenience, the hotel had set up direct connections with CNN, TV France, the BBC, Cairo Arabic News, and two Lebanese stations, one Maronite, and the other, Hizbullah's _Manar_. All stations were recycling what was already stale news, however shocking. From time to time, new pieces of the puzzle emerged.

After the visitors had had their full of prime-time fare, they spent their time with talk small and big. Most people were conversing in a chaotic pandemonium, with and through one another, screaming, gesticulating or (less often) listening. Everybody expressed utter surprise, but far fewer showed empathy. Embassy attachés, foundation reps and media people tried to connect the dots. Had the occasion not been so serious, Daniel reflected, it might have been a Hollywood staging of the global dialogue, or the clash of civilizations.

The world would never be the same– that was about the only claim everybody agreed on. Daniel thought he agreed too, but was uncertain as to what that meant. He struggled to relate to the momentous things going on around him. An earthquake had hit planet earth, and a chasm had opened along a fault line. He stood poised at the rim. Yet, numb in his cocoon, he didn't feel anything.

The place was getting livelier. Throngs converged on the Ambassadeurs' bar, famous for its collection of choice araks and its exotic long drinks. He took a beer, and then another, and let himself be swung to this side or that by the movements of the masses around him. A young man in a smart colbert struck up a conversation with him in English with a heavy French accent.

'I bet you are a German journalist. So, would you mind telling me what's your take, as seen from the Berlin perspective?' He had thinning dark blond hair, ditto alert eyes, and the sleek movements of a frequent womanizer. He offered his hand 'I'm from Radio Europe Numéro Un. Michel Laval.'

'Daniel de Vries, not Berlin, but Amsterdam. And I don't have a take, actually.' He didn't like the man, but shared his views with him nonetheless. 'I hear people accusing fundamentalists, and others blaming obscure western forces. I'll tell you, however, what I think. It's just a hunch, Laval – I'm kind of Arabist. If a western conspiracy were behind this – though what for I can't fathom... perhaps to have an excuse to invade some Arab country? – that would be terrible. Yet I'd still prefer that to the alternative. But perhaps truth is simpler than that: one extreme Islamist sect or another may be intent on setting the world ablaze. In that case, we'd stand on the verge of a—'

'Yeah, it's really all very unclear,' Laval interrupted, his intellectual thirst already slaked. 'Hot girl over there, don't you agree, Mister Vries?' He winked and pointed his chin in the direction of a young woman who Daniel took for, most probably, a reporter from Pakistan or India. He ignored Laval's hint.

'Beirut's a man's paradise, you know, Monsieur Vries, don't you? It's just a matter of making the accurate calculation where to look for the sweets. I come here at least six times a year and I can tell you, it's better than Paris.'

Daniel was starting to detest his interlocutor. His prejudices were insufferable.

'I'll give you another piece of my wisdom, Laval. We've got a serious problem with the Islamic world. And fifty percent of the problem is totally incompatible sexual mores – ours, theirs. You're a journalist but if you allow me, my guess is that your interest in the topic may transcend the professional. But listen. I see you eyeing those veiled Arab women as so many sweets to be unwrapped. To my mind you only help their male oppressors. You'd simply replace one form of exploitation by another. It's... colonial. And as a matter of fact, I—'

Again, Daniel couldn't to finish. This time, loud applause interrupted his impromptu analysis. It came from a far corner of the lobby, where the Manar program had attracted twenty-five or thirty young Hizbullahis – some uniformed, others in civilian, and the women in black. With them were a few sympathizers, western by their looks.

Militiamen, since the end of the civil war, were no longer a common sight in the upper-class hotels. Daniel had noticed from afar that their entry attracted attention, but it soon quieted down. He heard clapping and howling. Daniel looked at the TV screen and the Shiite group watching it, and couldn't believe his eyes. The soldiers were applauding the images of the crumbling Towers. Daniel had always felt contempt for those vile enough to rejoice at another's misfortune. He knew that, by far, not all Arabs or Muslims had such an attitude. Poor Nadia, wherever she was, shared his abhorrence. That was one thing at least he was sure of. In spite of everything, he and Nadia shared these values.

Michel and Daniel were walking toward the Shiite group. An adolescent boy held a plastic basket full of toffees in multicolored celluloid wraps and made the rounds offering his sweets to whoever cared to accept them. He repeated aloud in Southern dialect: 'Celebration, celebration! Enjoy the fall of the Great Satan!' The Hizbullah soldiers cheered him on, clapping their hands. Incredibly, some westerners smiled to the boy and helped themselves to candies. One or two even joined the cheering. Somebody yelled, 'Lo and behold, God's punishment for America's wickedness.' But as Daniel came nearer, he heard another Hizbullah man countering, full of agitation: 'No, no, Hussein, don't say that. We fight soldiers, not defenseless citizens!'

Another picked up the refrain of the man who had just addressed Hussein: 'Brothers, I've just learnt that sheikh Fadlallah condemns this dastard attack. For sure, no true believer would do such a thing. We Muslims should give the world an example of compassion, as God is compassionate.'

'Sami's right,' a third brought in, 'Our Iranian friends have not embraced this terrorism either.'

'So far, so far,' another protested. 'Can't we have one moment of joy at our enemy's bitter defeat? I say, celebrate, for now.' An elderly woman ululated. It sounded out of place in the hotel. Most soldiers clapped again. Some stamped the ground with their feet.

'I know that woman,' Michel whispered and tugged Daniel's sleeve, gesturing to the left. 'That one there. I saw her last year. And three weeks ago. She looks so devout, but make no mistake...'

Daniel was flabbergasted. Among the Shiites applauding, there stood Nadia! In spite of the heat, she was in a heavy abaya. She had knotted her checkered gray hijab to hide her left cheek. She was mechanically bringing her palms together with the others. Her gaze seemed vacant.

Daniel felt faint in his stomach. Was it the unexpectedness of her appearance, or the blow of seeing her expression of mirth? On an impulse, he turned around. What had happened to her? This behavior – it was not her – she was... she was like a robot.

He turned back to face her. Now she was standing with her back to him.

_She's noticed my presence, and doesn't want to recognize me_ , he thought. _How painful_.

He walked to the group of soldiers in whose midst she stood. They stepped back when they saw Daniel approaching, making room for him, unease showing on their faces, as if he were a ghost. When he was about a meter from her, he softly called her name.

She was like a frogwoman at the bottom of a deep dark lake – how could she hear him?

Yet, though with visible reserve, she turned, until their eyes met. As at their first encounter in the airport, her wide black eyes transpierced him. But tonight they did not shine with affection, but with bitterness. He noticed she was taken aback no less than he. And he saw that her lip was swollen. He bit his own.

'I have been looking for you.'

'I'm no longer here.'

'I can see that. What have they done to you?'

Her visible cheek folded in a pained grimace. If only he could put a comforting hand on that cheek, then everything might yet change. Out of the question.

'I saw you applauding. Was that to cheer the suicide bombers in New York?'

She had herself under control again. 'I'm not here,' she repeated. 'Maybe it was my sin that has caused all this. I stood at the brink. They stopped me... for my salvation.' Her words sounded abject. But it was her voice. They hadn't been able to take away that melodious timbre. Yet.

'Don't be ridiculous, Nadia. Your so-called sin's just not important enough in heaven to trigger a second Pearl Harbor.'

'How do you know?'

'Oh come on. I've been in this movie before. This is a replay on a grander scale of what you told me five months ago.'

It was strange, but none of the soldiers that surrounded them seemed to pay any attention to their conversation.

She cast down her eyes. 'This time it's final, Daniel! What happened today is just a small foretaste—'

'Of...?'

She looked hard at him. '— of how my people shall redeem the earth from filth and oppression.'

'Nadia, don't say that. You can't mean that.'

He approached her. Only his hand might break the spell now.

'If ever you touch me so much as a small finger, my life is forfeit. Go now, or I scream.' She continued looking at him. He thought he saw hatred. He wavered.

Then all of a sudden, from behind her, a tall young man in blue fatigues stepped forward. With a swift sway of his left arm, he grabbed Nadia's face and pushed it upward. His right hand held a big knife. He stopped it a centimeter from her throat. Hani Ja'afari. Nadia made a gurgling, impotent noise.

In the dispassionate tone of an usher, Hani addressed Daniel: 'This is the second time. Take a good look at her, kaffir, because this is the last time you see her. Either you leave her, or else I cut her throat – now. You hear?'

To make sure his point was understood, he pressed the knife against her throat.

Daniel could see its sharpness against her skin, the veins. Nadia tried to utter something. Daniel caught only her rolling eyes, which seemed to signal: 'Go, go, for God's sake.' Impassive soldiers had surrounded them in a little circle. They did not seem so friendly anymore, but cast menacing shadows.

Daniel hesitated. The scene imprinted itself in his mind like a diorama, frozen outside time. But in a moment, there would be the denouement. There was no time to think. She must live – no other outcome could he live with. He turned around, slowly, until she was out of his vision, and walked away. The moment he had turned, the statues unfroze, arms and legs began to move again, voices picked up their halted conversations, shouts pressed from lungs propagated themselves through the dense air as in slo-mo, until they reached his ears.

'She belongs to God now,' he heard an Arabic voice behind him. And another, 'She'll make up for past sins.' And, 'Just in time. One step nearer, he'd have plunged that knife in her breast.'

He walked on without looking back, away from the militants, through the masses, under the whirring fans, past the chandeliers hanging low. His body felt numb, but his head was feverish, spewing fiery thoughts like a volcano.

## 4.4

Early the next morning, Daniel learned that his flight, rerouted over Frankfurt, was scheduled to depart at noon. He rushed to the airport. Yesterday's chaos had subsided, but not the tension. At check-in, the stewardess explained that the flight had been delayed again, but just for a few hours. No use leaving the airfield any more.

At four in the afternoon, they boarded. His seat was next to the window just behind the wing. He opened the book he had taken with him, _My Father's Century_ by a famous Dutch historian, and tried to read. He went to the bathroom and saw in the mirror how haggard he looked. When he returned to his place, he noticed that the seat next to his had remained empty, so he tried to spread out and nap. It was past five, and they were still grounded. We're waiting for a few special passengers to board, a loudspeaker announced. Daniel felt restless. Then he dozed off, wandering through daydreams.

He woke up with a start and saw several passengers moving. A hijack! he thought, but it was not. The delayed passengers were boarding at long last. The seat to his right remained empty though. Then, at the very last moment, a passenger in a wheelchair was rolled in. Preceded by a steward from the airline, two pious looking men in white clothes and skullcaps helped the patient into his seat – the one next to Daniel's. They were blonde and tall – converts, Daniel guessed – and wordlessly made sure the disabled traveler was comfortable.

The paraplegic's head was shaven bald. To judge by his complexion, he might be Arab. He donned the white knitted skullcap of a religious Muslim and wore a long white flowing robe. Daniel knew that the outfit of a returning pilgrim made him look older than he was: he was no doubt younger than Daniel, half a head shorter and even in his miserable state, stocky and muscular. He looked rather fierce but sent him an affable smile. He rummaged through his handbag, embroidered with delicate patterns in green and gold yarn, and fished out a prayer book. Thumbing routinely until he found the page he was looking for, he began to mumble. A prayer for safe travel, Daniel supposed. Save for some indefinable, disquieting, mysteriousness, his new neighbor did not come across very different from those many exotic Middle Easterners who, whether they existed in reality or just in his imagination, had long ago inspired Daniel's studies...

Then he saw that the man was missing the little finger of his right hand.

The plane took off. When they were in the air, his neighbor put away the prayer book, and surveyed Daniel with penetrating, luminous light blue eyes.

'Gij zijt ook weer op weg terug naar huis?', he asked in an unmistakable Flemish accent: 'Also on your way back home?'

'How did you know I'm Dutch?'

'Easy enough when I see what you are reading. Well, you must be a cheese-head. No offense meant,' he teased. His Dutch was native, albeit from the Southern Netherlands.

'Well, then you must be a goat-fucker, Mister,' Daniel blurted before he had time to regret his no less offensive rejoinder.

The man bellowed a loud laugh. 'That's a good one, my friend. No, no. No fucking for me anymore. Neither goats nor bitches, ha-ha. Not because of my age or my desire, mind you, but because of this.' His index pointed at his legs. His face became serious. 'An accident. But God's will be praised.'

'I see. I'm sorry.'

'Nothing to be sorry about, habibi. John Abdu's the name. Johnny.' He proffered his mutilated hand. Daniel suppressed his disgust and shook it with a show of zest. He offered his name.

_If this fellow's gonna continue in this vein_ , Daniel realized regretfully, _I can say goodbye to any chance of resting before Frankfurt._

'Daniel, that's also one of our prophets: Danyal... May I call you Danyal?'

'I'm not a Muslim though.'

Abdu did not react to this last answer. After a moment, he asked: 'Well, Danyal, what did you think of our latest jihad exploit against Big Satan, brother?' It was hard to tell sympathy or sarcasm from his expression. _He wants to pigeonhole me_.

'Terrible. And I'll feel a lot better after we land. But why "our" jihad? You don't tell me you're in sympathy with the terrorists, are you? Or will you also give me sweets to celebrate?'

The answer was instantaneous. 'No, absolutely not. Islam forbids these acts.'

'You're sure?'

'I promise you. I come just from the wellspring. Literally – from Zemzem, Mecca's blessed fountain.'

'Yes, I noticed you're a hajji, Johnny.' That had been the reason for the long wait – the delay of a connecting flight of returning pilgrims.

'I see you are no mere religious tourist either, Danyal. Ha-ha. Was not easy, driving 'round Holy Kaaba seven times in a wheelchair. I can guarantee you that. Not to speak of running between Safa and Marwa hills. But I made it, God be praised. Took the fast lane of course, the one for the disabled.'

Abdu chattered away. 'Quite a crowd there – even outside the hajj season. You know all the facilities the Saudis have installed for handicapped pilgrims? Impressive, something you have to see. All the same, I was glad that my wheelchair was motorized. Makes a good difference, what with those extortionate cart pushers.'

While he was talking, Abdu was gesticulating: his arms were forceful. 'And what business brought you here, if I may ask?'

Daniel hesitated a second. 'I'm here to evaluate assistance programs for indigent Shiites, on behalf of Allo. A Dutch charity.'

Abdu fixated him with a gaze so intense that Daniel felt an urge to blink and cast down his eyes. He resisted and with effort kept looking back into the piercing eyes of this strange companion. Then Abdu answered.

'Yes. I know Allo. Oh, Shiites. Not my cup of tea, though, for me they're heretics. Still, Muslims. Tell me, did you go to the south?' – again making a circular movement with his arm – 'Did you get a chance to see for yourself the destruction wrought there by our Jewish cousins?'

'Not this visit.'

'To my mind, Allo and the rest, they're all complicit in the Zionist crimes. They give money to Jewish projects, don't they?'

'I'm afraid I don't agree. With the complicity part, I mean.'

'In time you will, Danyal.' He again looked intently at him as if to transmit something significant but as yet undisclosed. Daniel had no inkling of what he might mean. He thought John Abdu projected something creepy.

'And what do you for a living?' Daniel asked.

'It's a long story, but right now I'm teaching at a religious outreach center in Brussels. You should stop by, if you have time.' He moved to another subject. 'Now to come back to your question, my friend, no real Muslim could commit such horrible slaughter. So that already proves it can't have been a Muslim perpetrator.'

Daniel raised his eyebrows.

'I tell you,' Abdu said, 'it's from Shaytan. From... the Devil. Any attempt to coerce a man into submission is satanic. You know something about Islam? Remind me to give you a couple booklets before we part. Yes, I write them myself. Not that I'm such a great intellectual, mind you. More of an autodidact. But we all have to do our bit.'

Daniel gave a noncommittal smile. Unfazed, Abdu went on. 'Yes, New York. So many innocent victims. Could easily reach ten thousand. Now I ask you: Who's got an interest here?'

Daniel thought: _that's what I've been asking myself for the past thirty-six hours_. _Don't tell me_ you _know all the answers, Johnny._ Abdu pushed his hand on the armrest to move his rump and stretched his neck to bring his face closer to Daniel's. 'Easy enough, once you see it: Israel! They want America to take the hot coals out of the fire.'

'They?'

'The Zionists.'

'Seems farfetched to me.'

'Mark my words: within a year or two, you'll have the president of America bring his crusaders to the Arab world to do the Jew's bidding. It must be the Mossad's doing.'

One of the helpers who had brought Johnny in came walking down the aisle toward him. When he stood next to his seat, the helper or servant nodded respectfully and brought his hands to his heart. Then he whispered something in a Belgian dialect that Daniel didn't understand and handed Abdu a closed envelope. Abdu answered sotto voce in the same tongue, gave his companion a condescending smile, and put the envelope in his bag.

By now Daniel was annoyed. "The Jew's bidding?" If ever a German or a Dutchman had said something abominable like that, he would have punched him in his face. Gosh, that wasn't even theory! Ten years ago, he had actually hit a drunken neo-Nazi in the train – the one time in his adult life when he had been violent and come into conflict with the police. Later, he could no longer understand how he had been so audacious and foolhardy.

_So why_ , he asked himself, _do I tolerate the same disgusting smirch from Arabs that I'd never accept from Europeans?_

'Do you have any proof, John?'

Abdu's helper had meanwhile disappeared. 'Who needs proof where logic shows the way, Danyal? Oh, you're a real positivist! You know what – tell me, you're not a real aid worker, are you? You must be a professor or an intellectual or something.'

'To me, your theory sounds more revelation than reason, Johnny.'

Abdu disregarded Daniel's objection. 'Very misguided guys. Still, one could understand what brought them to it.' He continued with gusto, all the time fixating on Daniel. Daniel had trouble concentrating but thought it impolite to avert his eyes. Also, looking the other way might seem like surrender.

'I'm deeply sorry, Johnny,' Daniel interrupted at last. Johnny Abdu had just reached the part of his historical explanation when, back in the 1930s, Ben-Gurion was throwing sand in Hitler's eyes, according to his reading. He knew many details of history and spoke with the authority of a man who has seen the ends of the earth and knows from experience that it is flat. This promised to be a long session.

'I'm tired. Can we continue another time?'

'Oh sure, Danyal.' He did not appear to be surprised or insulted but smiled. 'I didn't mean to tire you. Truth will enlighten you in its own good time. I'm also tired. Mecca, then Riyadh, and then the waiting in Beirut... You'll also excuse me, yes?'

With difficulty leaning on his arms, he now turned his rump away from Daniel. Daniel fell into a torpor, but in his sleep visions of hypnotic eyes, a black scarf, and geometrical forms battling against each other, kept all rest at bay.

back to top

# _Chapter Five_

# A House Divided

## 5.1

New York, September 20, 2001.

Dear Ms. Iskander,

I hope this message finds you well. You know the value that Herald Tribune attaches to an ongoing and positive contact with our reporters and other personnel. Regardless of our editorial criticism regarding a certain emotional flatness and grammatical weakness in your article about last week's atrocities, we remain deeply interested in receiving your contributions. This would be true even if you were not stationed in one of our most critical listening posts in the Arab world. Despite nearly daily efforts throughout the last week, we have unfortunately not been able to reestablish electronic or telephonic contact with you. We have taken the liberty of contacting your brother, Mr. Y. Iskander, whose numbers you left with us before your departure. Mr. Y. Iskander has informed us of your wish no longer to write for us. We can only regret your decision and wish you every success in your future career.

In case there has been a misunderstanding, please contact our personnel instantly.

Sincerely,

Stanley Kaufman, Middle East Desk

Abhorrence filled Nadia as she read the email. Her professional career was over. Ever since she had posted that half-clandestine last article from the Ambassadeurs, mere minutes before Hani dragged her back to Dahiyeh, they had supervised her Internet access.

That was a week ago, now. The first day, last Monday, she had been locked in her room; the next day was September 11, that terrible day when God had visited His wrath on the idol-worshippers; they had let her return to the hotel for her work. She had screamed that she might lose her job. Hani opposed her leaving the house at all, but Imad overruled him. A small legion of armed Hizbullahis accompanied her to the "den of iniquity." But that Tuesday had ended with her being brought back under even stricter surveillance. They let her roam her uncle's house, but not outside: and she was cut off from the Internet. Then, her situation 'improved'. It had become a one-way street: they allowed her to read under surveillance but not to respond.

The _Herald_ 's entreaties became more urgent in tone from day to day. A week after her abduction, she was still living in semi-seclusion at the Ja'afaris'.

Her wounds had healed.

'You can be grateful that Hani's anger hasn't cost you your teeth,' Aunt Wafa had observed, after the two brothers dragged her in. And, 'You'll end up like your second cousin Nuzha.' Aunt Wafa tended to her injuries, gave her clean and decent clothes, and fed her but kept her distance. Perhaps she was afraid to become too attached to another niece who might not be around for much longer. Uncle Imad refused to speak with Nadia. Basically, they kept her under lock and key and would continue to do so until her fate was decided. And the decision, she understood, was still several days away, as various influential members of the clan had yet to arrive from the South, Hermel and Jabal Amil. Meanwhile, she was free to walk in the house and the garden.

Outside the gate, though, a distant relation was always standing guard. A taciturn fellow, he chaperoned her whenever she went for a walk in the crowded nearby quarter. She had gone out twice but noticed that most neighbors averted their gaze. They seemed familiar with her case.

She could still feel Hani's sharp blade against her throat. It had ached the whole evening and the next day. But worse than the wounds was the mortal fear that prevented her from sleeping. It might happen any night. To be dispatched, her body thrown to the dogs on a deserted beach, the ghost to be sucked into the everlasting fire, the dishonored name never again to be spoken out loud. Cases like that she knew all too well – they happened every month in poor neighborhoods of Amman or Baku or Karachi, even if they were rare in Dahiyeh.

'You see now what happens when you're too lenient, abbi?' Hani admonished his father after they brought her back from the episode where the entire world had been witness to her shame. 'From now on, she's not to go out anymore.' Abu Hani had not protested anymore.

Hatred kept her alive. She was full to the brim with hatred for Hani and his weakling brother Musa. And she loathed Yunis, who had always been her closest confidante, until he became a fundamentalist fanatic. In the name of tribal honor, her own brother had given her over to Hani and his knife. She didn't know whom she detested more.

But she also felt how her anger, the only thing that kept her standing upright, was seeping away, pressed out of her little by little by stronger emotions still: fear, depression, shame. _They'd cast me out, they and all the Ja'afaris._ Deep down, she knew.

They must be justified in doing so, she thought. However modern I have become, didn't I promise my parents and Yunis that I'd pray daily? That I'd refrain from adventures, keep chastity? Allah heard my prayer. How miraculous that my parents at least are safe: God is merciful. He hasn't made them pay for my transgression.

I did what was forbidden, and now I must face my punishment. But I'm losing my courage. How can I be courageous when God Himself raises His ire against me? And why did Daniel leave me? Why didn't he protect me against my cousins when they came to reclaim our family honor?

Then, a new insight arose.

How can my God be against love? He's no bully, is He? And Daniel, my Daniel, yes I saw you coming running down to save me. You came to the journalists' hotel to find me and save me, didn't you? You were kind, unlike the others. You were special, that's why I told you, I want you – or nobody. Only now I can't have you. But I won't forget, ever. Oh God, I'll do whatever you demand of me. But don't take away my memories.

In the loneliness of her room in the Ja'afari mansion, Nadia shuddered in terror. It was long past midnight, and the heat was oppressive. Save for the lone bulb in the old lamp next to her bed, the house was dark. All the family must be sleeping on their mattresses on the rooftop. Their animated chatter had ceased hours ago. Nadia wasn't allowed among them, to enjoy the relieving breeze.

Cautiously, she shoved the curtain open, and looked out the window. Downstairs in the garden, two armed guards were flashing their electrical lanterns on and off, bored. Hani had left nothing to chance. One of the two guards looked up to her room and saw her. She closed the curtain again.

She took the little green book out of her bag and recited suras of the Qur'an, hoping that God's word would give her rest, or at least resignation. More than anything, she longed to be whole again.

A sweet blackness enveloped her. She dozed off. Then she saw the toddler with black tresses. The girl wore green-and-red Oshkosh overalls. She sat on an inlaid wooden floor and stepped in Nadia's direction. She seemed unaware of Nadia's presence, absorbed in her own movements, fascinated with the toys in front of her: a ball, colored plastic geometric shapes, and a stuffed rabbit. Sunlight filtering through the shades littered the parquetry with tiny colored specks. The girl looked up, her black eyes catching Nadia's own. The little girl's eyes smiled, and her lips parted to form a sound of recognition.

Shireen!

Nadia awoke with a start.

Why am I just now thinking of her?

The sun had not yet risen. A cold gray light bathed the austere room. She was all wet with sweat and tears. A year-old shame that everybody in this house knew too well was crushing her. In vain did she try to exorcize it. She had not told Daniel anything of it. A weight like a granite slab pressed down on her bosom and throat.

### ***

Then, the day arrived.

Imad announced to all present, 'In America, her behavior already had a history. Nor shall we refer to last year's scandal. But what's happened here these days, as long as she's under our keeping, that's what regards us. And here, it all began by her refusing to live under our roof, in the manner of any virtuous divorcee. She insisted on disrobing herself in that hearth of iniquity, that foul hotel downtown. Now, we must find a way to wipe off the shame, God willing.'

The Ja'afari family conclave had begun; twenty men, most of them middle-aged, had come to pass judgment. First, they ate lunch on benches in the garden. Then, they said a prayer together and withdrew into the house. To accommodate them all, the long table had been dragged outside, and extra sofas brought in.

The womenfolk stayed upstairs save for Wafa and two maids who helped in the kitchen. Nadia was to be locked in her room. But she had argued so long with her aunt that Wafa relented and permitted her to sit in the kitchen with her, disguised. Through a crack in the kitchen curtain, Nadia followed the proceedings.

'You're pale, niece,' Wafa said. Nadia felt her heart pounding.

Imad let the congregation express its opinions. One sheikh after the other made his little speech. The more erudite family members sprinkled their analysis with Qur'an verses and religious allusions. Imad gaged which way the wind was blowing. Most opined that, unpleasant as the matter may be, and despite legal and other impediments, honor came before all else. Letting her live in Lebanon would be an unbearable blemish. Sending her back to New Jersey, after her parents and brothers had entrusted the Lebanese branch to uphold their honor, would be no less shameful, and liable to lead to worse effects than the chance disappearance of a polluted divorcee.

Chills ran down Nadia's spine as she listened in. She was unsure if the dark hints she heard were just for the gallery - or for real.

She still pinned her hopes on Imad, but he gave the floor to Hani and her heart sank. There was a surprise, however.

Hani declared, 'Yunis, the son of Wael, has sent us word. Cousin Munder has signaled that, by God's mercy, he's willing to take her back.' A wave of amazement washed over the meeting.

'That would be a miraculous way out,' an old man with a black turban and white beard said. All nodded.

'That's Irfan Fadlallah,' Wafa explained whispering to Nadia. They crouched together behind the kitchen curtain, careful not to give away their presence. Wafa had lost her iciness, was as anxious as Nadia herself, and tried to keep her spirits high. Nadia knew that Irfan – unrelated to the famous Hizbullah theologian – was an outstanding mullah, the pride of the Ja'afaris. He had also opened the session. Sheikh Irfan continued: 'A most generous gesture on the part of my nephew Munder.'

'Generous perhaps,' Hani retorted, 'but not entirely free. Munder demands fifteen thousand Jordanian dinars as compensation for the loss of face he must endure.'

Elation turned into consternation at the immense price that Munder demanded. Shouts echoed through the room: 'What an extortionist!' and 'Why should we have to pay for the life of a whore?' and 'Let Wael's wallet bleed, if he's weak-kneed enough to spare his daughter.'

'If no agreement can be found, then the time-honored solution is still within reach,' Hani reminded, to exclamations and shouts. His voice had an ominous ring.

'You speak like a spurned lover, Hani!' one of the uncles protested.

'But don't we have to take care of the intercalary three months, to make her pure again for Munder?' a voice from the far end of the room inquired.

'A fake in-between marriage?' somebody reacted in mockery. 'Now, now, and who'd want to sully his hands on her, I ask you?'

'The Prophet, peace be upon him, has forbidden the believers from marrying with the intent of divorcing,' Irfan warned.

'Of course, sheikh, fear God, of course,' Imad admitted. But after this formal bow to law and tradition, he resumed his initiative: 'I don't think we have to go that far, though. Our dear Munder never formally divorced her three times. So there's no need for nikah halala.'

All seemed relieved that this dilemma at least had been disposed of.

'Now, as for the indemnity, my dear relatives,' Imad pushed on, 'our cousin Munder must have miscalculated. Perchance the exact sum was jumbled by the transatlantic telephone cable, there on the ocean floor? I suggest we call America to iron out the misunderstandings. Let us phone both Wael and Munder.'

This was agreeable to all. Hani went to one corner of the room. On his mobile, he had soon reached Munder. In another corner, Imad talked with his brother-in-law over the fixed line. First, the parties exchanged niceties, then negotiations started.

Astounded, from behind her curtain, Nadia witnessed this auction for her life. Everybody was shouting offers as in a stock exchange. Within half an hour, Nadia was resold to her estranged ex-husband for six thousand six hundred dinar. Wael would wire transfer the first three thousand at once. The balance was to be divided among the Lebanese Ja'afaris, payable in three installments. Munder gave his word that he would accept Nadia back. With the money issue settled, attention shifted to other practicalities. Who would chaperone the sinner woman on her voyage back?

After some parleying back and forth, Imad declared: 'My youngest son will escort niece Nada back to New York.'

'Well said, Abu Hani,' a mukhtar from the South commented. 'But why not Hani? Hasn't the older brother priority?'

From behind her screen, Nadia felt a tremor run across her back. Last year, Hani had loved her. Now he hated her.

'I can't have him go away for so long,' Imad retorted. 'And the movement needs him here. He'll just bring her to the plane.'

Nadia sighed with relief.

'Hey Musa, don't blush, lad!' another voice teased. 'Now you get what you always wanted, young rake.'

It remained to apportion the amount contributed by each of her second cousins, uncles, great uncles, and other members of the tribe. In the end, the relatives arrived at amounts based on the proximity of their blood relation. Nadia noticed that most of those men who had spoken in favor of the harsher solution looked relieved. With a show of either dissatisfaction or chivalry they let themselves be persuaded to assume their part of the more-than-symbolic debt.

In the kitchen Wafa embraced Nadia. 'Don't cry, Nada dear, they might hear you.'

## 5.2

Once the family parliament had adjourned, Nadia's relatives returned to a more routine comportment. She was no longer a prisoner or an outcast, but Hani refused to talk to her. When she went to thank uncle Imad, he said, 'The Prophet has given us the example of forgiveness, and recommended emulation. Forgiveness, however, comes after contrition. Sin no more, niece.' These were the last words, curt and gruff, that he spoke to her, but his face was kindly.

The next day Imad transferred the collected honor money to America. With that, the way was free for Nadia to be flown back to New York. The sooner the better, Imad had decided. For greater security, Hani would accompany Musa and her to the airport. Hani looked sullen. Nadia was not thrilled at the prospect either. Where he had touched, her skin still burned, but she swallowed her pride.

At JFK, Yunis would pick them up. Together, Yunis and Musa would deliver her to Munder's doorstep. That would add another unbearable humiliation.

That must not happen, she decided. Nobody had asked if she agreed to be remarried to Munder. She feared he would pick up his violent habits again. But how could she get out of it? Once in the States, she would slip out of their sight before anybody could bring her anywhere. Then things would somehow work out, she would return to normalcy, forget her nightmare, and never come back. God willing... Or perhaps she'd go back to him after all...? Time would tell.

Nadia slept at peace for the first time in a week.

On Thursday, a swarthy teenager in a rundown Beetle delivered two tickets for New York to the Ja'afaris – one one-way, the other round-trip.

Early in the morning on the day before her departure, Nadia took a service to Hamra.

'Don't let her go,' Hani had warned his parents. 'It's immodest. And she might run away.'

'Not if she promises on her honor,' Wafa suggested.

Hani still had his misgivings. 'I don't know the value of her damn honor,' he said, 'but I do know what it has cost us. Keep her passport, for security. If she's honest, she won't mind.'

Disgusted, Nadia muttered her promise and handed Wafa her documents. Then, they let her 'take leave of Beirut'.

Through the minivan's open window, ocean air blew in her face.

How good to feel free again, if just for a day. What a difference to move around at the whim of one's own autonomous decision, instead of being pushed in and out of cars by extremists with daggers. Even if the bastard is your own cousin.

She had put on her abaya to avoid a fresh scandal. But even so, how different to fold your hair under a modest scarf by your own choice, not to hide, but to show you respect Allah's will foremost, instead of swaddling yourself in heavy black cloth so that no man will desire you.

She got out one block from the Ambassadeurs and walked the last few hundred meters. She enjoyed the tickle of sun on her face, the smell of cappuccino when she passed Afif's Bar, even the plaintive pitch of the shoeshine boys on the sidewalk.

All her belongings were waiting for her in her spotless room on the top floor. From her window, she observed the bustle of daily life in the depth. She lifted her eyes. There, on the horizon, the greenish blue sea seemed motionless far off - an ointment for eyes that had seen too much sadness. She thought back to her apartment. Would she ever look out again over her very own Manhattan skyline or was she fated to become a repentant wife in Munder's chic villa? Hidden in the safe built in the cabinet, she found her annotations for newspaper articles next to the jewels she'd no longer wear.

Free again? For a couple of hours at least she was on her own. Where would Daniel be? And where did _she_ belong, in that world there – or here? She had been kidnapped, kicked in the face, locked away. They had sold her like a donkey to carry a load or else like a canary, to be kept in a cage until death, for its yellow feathers and songs. Only a free person could tackle her dilemma, not a slave.

Should she walk up to Samir's, on the off chance that Daniel would still be there? Her fingers tingled as they remembered his features. Then she thought back to how Hani had dragged her through the lobby, how the people in the street had spit at her. Their filthy saliva sticking to her abaya. All of this must stay in the past.

She wanted to call Daniel but decided against it. Instead, she would wait till she was back in New York. She couldn't talk to him anyway, not in the state she was in. First, she had to rebuild herself.

She packed her things, ordered her luggage to be taken to the hotel storage, and checked out. Back in the street, she thought, _I deserve an ice cream. After that I'll head straight back for the Ja'afaris. Lest they worry._

She did not. Instead, after having savored a banana split at Afif's, Nadia closed her cell phone, and began to wander without a precise aim. She took a random left turn, walked uphill. She took another turn, entered an alley, merged in a crowded old-fashioned quarter, taking in all the colors, smells, and noises, oblivious to where she walked. Climbing, she entered another old street, turned right. This alley was deserted and did not feel safe. She turned around. But wasn't that the same old street of a while ago? She tried another side street. This also felt unfamiliar. More than once, she stood at a crossroads, one side descending and the other going up.

The way up always felt like the better choice, but the further she walked, the fewer people she met.

However, as if drawn to something only vaguely intuited, she continued walking, climbing higher and higher, losing herself ever deeper in a labyrinth of alleys. Soon drops of sweat were running down her temples, but she kept going. As if in a dream, streets passed by, and empty markets, mosques, a church, a deserted square, a crumbling synagogue.

Nadia had lost all sense of time. She heard a distant voice she could not make sense of, but that seemed to speak to her, and of her. She saw herself knocking on the gate of an old white house, drinking fresh water from a fountain in an enclosed green garden. As in a movie, she looked at herself looking in the eyes of a wise old man who saw right through her, and who seemed to understand her better than she understood herself. He told her things she forgot as soon as she had heard them but that somehow penetrated a level she could never reach or recall.

Where was she? And what was this stubborn force that kept her from waking up?

***

When Nadia came back to herself, she noticed that she was standing on a high hill, and the sun had just sunk in the sea. In front of her, bathed by the Mediterranean, lay Beirut. The air was hazy and the horizon veiled. She shook her head a couple times, as if to make sure it was all real now – the myriad little lights that illuminated the city below, the concert in her ears of thousands of cicadas playing in the gnarled trees around her, the soft breeze blowing in her hair. Her hand found her half-loose locks. With a fast movement, she adjusted her scarf.

She stood on a little grassy knoll planted with olive trees, descending toward rows of houses. Far below she discerned a few landmark buildings, and recognized the contours of neighborhoods she knew. At her feet, among the shrubs, a pebbled path was marked out. It sloped downward. Some stones lay loose, but the walking was for the most part safe and straightforward. From her bag, she pulled the little battery-powered flashlight she always carried, and tested it. It cast a fine bundle of light. She sighed with relief. In half an hour, she calculated, she could be in Hamra. She continued on her way. Soon she was back in the relative safety of the Ja'afari home in Dahiyeh.

Sleepless in her last night in Lebanon, Nadia tried in vain to recall what she had experienced. And yet, for the first time in a long time, she felt serene. She had a path to follow. Would she meet Daniel again, at some crossroad? Which way her destiny would lead her she could only dimly sense. It was not the dirt trail her relatives were driving her to. Duty told her that Munder had bought her life and now she had to submit to him. But every sinew in her body resisted – resisted the idea of returning to the severe and cold husband who had chased her away, and to their house where Shireen... but she barred that last thought fast, before it could invade her consciousness.

## 5.3

'Daniel, do you know who my daddy is?'

Lieve's question came out of the blue.

He was just reading a bedtime story from her favorite fairytale book to her, as so often.

He put down the book. They were in the middle of a story for which she was already too old, but she had wanted to hear it again. Already tucked into bed, Lieve had listened with breathless attention. Her little hand clutched Daniel's wrist. Daniel closed the book and looked straight into her eyes.

'No, I don't know, Lieve.' He read disappointment. 'But we all love you – mommy, Alison, and me. You're the child of all of us.'

She sighed. 'And of Grandma and Grandpa in Veere?'

'Yes, they love you, too.'

'And Grandma Yvonne?'

'Of course, she also,' Daniel reassured her.

'And Aunt Jacqueline?'

'Yes, she too.' Lieve liked this game of recalling more names. It would postpone the moment when the lights in her room would be switched off.

'Do you think Evelyn will walk again?' she asked.

'I'm sure of it.' The surgery had been a complete success. 'And tomorrow we're gonna fetch her from the hospital. Then, mommy will take care of you again, but I'll also keep coming here, to be with you.'

Lieve sat upright, her back against a cushion. She was very awake and watched him with intense eyes. 'Daniel, do you love mommy?'

'Of course, I do,' he answered, two seconds late.

'And me?'

'How can you have any doubt about it? Come, you silly girl, back under your sheets! I'll sing you our song, and then you must close your eyes.'

'Daniel, I think you will not stay with us. There's somebody else you love more.'

### ***

The next morning early, Nadia would be taken to Beirut airport. There had been a last-minute change.

Hani gave an important bundle of papers to Musa.

'The money you give in person to Yunis as soon as you see him. As for the tickets and your passports, ekhi, don't let them out of your hand under any pretext,' Hani said. 'Now you're responsible for her with your life.'

Musa folded up the documents in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Hani had claimed some urgent last-minute Hizbullah business, and with Imad's blessing, delegated the task of accompanying Nadia to his younger brother alone. She took leave of her aunt and uncle with mixed feelings. Wafa had prepared a huge bag full of pitas, labbaneh, fresh and dried fruits, and much else. She had cried and embraced her niece as if she'd never see her again. Nadia cried too.

The sight of the red Fiat made her shiver, but inside she felt relief as, with the first curve, the Ja'afari house disappeared behind them. With that, Nadia's life also turned a corner.

Musa was silent as they drove. In the shaking car, Nadia took out her lipstick and with difficulty, succeeded in putting some on. Then she took out her little mirror, blinked her eyes, and inspected herself. Musa made an effort to keep his eyes on the road. When they had stopped at a traffic light, he cast a disapproving glance in her direction. Nadia offered him a quick smile. With a jerk, he turned his head back to the road. She thought she noticed a slight blush.

'Have you already got a girlfriend, cousin?'

'I am devoted to the cause and inshallah I intend to keep myself pure.'

'That must not be easy for such a good-looking young man as you, Musa.' This time, she was sure he blushed. After a while, she continued: 'Last week, I saw you looking at my bosom.'

'I saw nothing, praise be to God.'

'That's okay. Many men try. It doesn't bother me.'

_How hateful!_ she thought. _But I have to go through with this. It's my only chance to escape._

She put her scarf looser, passed a hand through her locks, making them visible, and under her abaya parted her knees ever so slightly. He looked again, with eager eyes.

At the airport, security control had increased in the wake of last week's attacks. To make matters worse, an overbooking had occurred with their ticket.

'Damn it. That must have been why Yusuf got us a cheap price,' Musa cursed. The broker had sold them a problem.

All direct flights to the US had been taken, and there was no choice but to accept the airline's offer of new tickets over Europe. Upon arrival by Sabena in Brussels around five, they would make a stopover with more than enough time to change planes. Standing in queue to check in her luggage, Musa put a clumsy hand on her shoulder. He looked hopeful and mixed up. At the counter, he handed the attendant their passports, and the rerouted tickets. He lifted her suitcase onto the weighing scale, and they attached a label reading "JFK." As her suitcase rolled away on the conveyor belt, the steward handed back the passports and boarding passes to Nadia who reached for them first. Alarmed, Musa said, 'Give me the passports.'

'It's in order, darling,' she said, smiling. He relented, too abashed to make a scene. 'At what time will we arrive in New York, Musa?'

'I'll have to check it out.'

'You should. I'll be many hours later there than Yunis imagines. Shouldn't we call him to tell when to expect us?'

'Yes, maybe we should.'

At a bar near passport control, Nadia bought an orange juice and offered Musa her glass.

'We can drink from the same glass, can't we?' she asked.

He blushed and drank.

'I'll keep an eye on your hand luggage here, while you find a public phone,' she said. He looked unsure about the arrangement, then she stepped toward him, put her arms around the young man barely out of adolescence, and kissed him on his lips. She entwined her tongue around his, and he was defenseless. Somebody whistled, but she paid no attention. When she released him, she exclaimed: 'Gee, we don't have a lot of time left. Go now, my darling. Make that call! Run!'

As he ran off, she installed herself on a stool. Then, as soon as he was out of sight, she took her own little backpack and the briefcase, and ran to passport control.

She prayed. Her prayer was heard: there was only a short queue, but it grew behind her as soon as she had entered. Within minutes, she was in. She went to the ladies' room, put on another, brightly colored hijab and sunglasses, flushed Musa's boarding pass down the toilet, and tossed his passport in the garbage bin.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was looking out of the oval window as her plane lifted into the air. Beirut wheeled out of sight as they climbed into the sky. The sun reflected on her sunglasses. Musa's seat next to her was empty. At once relieved to have her freedom back, wept. The airhostess brought her a glass of water. She took a few sips and soon fell fast asleep.

back to top

# _Chapter Six_

# Flight Forward

## 6.1

Four hours later, Nadia disembarked in Zaventem airport with another four hours to kill before her plane to New York. In America, scandal and maybe violence awaited. Unless she eluded her brother and her Lebanese relatives, she realized, she would be safe nowhere. She exchanged two hundred dollars and walked toward one of the cafés in the duty-free. After a quick espresso, on an impulse, she took the escalator down, walked to immigration, and presented her US passport. For a long time, the officer compared her hijabed face with the picture in the passport. He seemed not sure what to do.

'Do you speak English, madam?' he asked.

'It's my mother tongue.'

He sighed and let her pass. She was in Belgium. Her heart beat with excitement and anxiety.

What now? Uncertain of her steps, she entered the metro, deciphered all the steps needed to buy a ticket from a vending machine, and boarded a train. Twenty minutes later, she emerged near the Grande Place. It was much cooler than Beirut but still a beautiful summer evening. The ornately lighted renaissance edifices – full of tinsel, legendary animals, and Christian heraldry – amazed her. Brimming with curiosity she walked through this old city full of tourists, high and low civil servants from all countries of the European Union, and foreign workers; some looked like Muslims.

Every new step pumped fresh energy into her. She explored the little streets, looked into restaurants and bars, scanned the window displays of bags, perfumes, and newspapers, and then on the spur of the moment, entered one of the souvenir shops. For a long time, her hands browsed through heaps of lace handkerchiefs, caressed tablecloths painstakingly embroidered with floral motifs, and played with the miniature cuckoo clocks.

'Anything you looking for in particular, mam'zelle?' the elderly shop owner tried. As if caught in some forbidden act, she instinctively shook her head. When he insisted, she quickly left. As she crossed the threshold, she thought she heard the salesman grumble something about her scarf, but she might have misunderstood. Most people seemed not to notice her attire. Then, across the narrow medieval alley, in another boutique, she lost herself among shelves crammed with tea cups and coffee mugs decorated with cats and dogs, miniature ceramic replicas of medieval houses, and pewter statuettes of a little peeing boy who, she was amazed to learn, symbolized the proud capital of the European Union.

Yet, Nadia didn't succeed in concentrating on all the kitsch surrounding her. Unsolvable doubts assailed her – what to do, where to go, and whether she had been right or wrong – until she drifted into a next shop, featuring the largest variety of ice cream and chocolate she had ever seen. For a moment, the sweet temptations focused her attention. She made her choice, paid, and indulged. Only when her treat was half finished did she recall how short on money she was.

Her backpack grew heavy on her tired shoulders and legs. She must eat something more substantial, she thought, and entered an Italian snackbar and ordered a pizza without ham. The waiter understood English and spoke it with an East European accent. Her mobile rang. A call from the States – Yunis' number. She let it ring. She didn't dare touch it. It continued ringing. Guests at neighboring tables cast disapproving stares. When the ringing stopped, a sudden dizziness overcame her, then subsided; she was so hungry she ate the whole pizza.

She was tired but her thoughts gave her no rest. In her mind's eye, Yunis and Hani competed for attention with the image of some old Sufi master she must have seen somewhere. Then, for a minute, she dozed off.

_My plane!_ With a sudden shock, she realized she had missed the connection! What to do? The best thing would be to rush back to the airport, explain her situation, and obtain a voucher for the next transatlantic flight. Her luggage must already be underway to the States. Her heart beat in her throat. Save for her papers, credit cards and a couple hundreds of dollars, makeup and a nice nightgown, her laptop, and whatever was left of Wafa's picnic, she had nothing – not even a clean change of clothes.

Nadia arrived at a fateful decision. America – Land of the Free – had become her land of enslavement. Whatever God would apportion her, she must not return now. If she wanted to escape, she must somehow build an existence here. But where to begin? Nadia had, more than once, visited France and Italy, and at one point even worked on an assignment in Athens, but here in Belgium she knew no one.

Then, the forbidden thought popped up which for days she had pushed under the waterline of her consciousness. Daniel! Would he still talk to her? She found the number in Amsterdam that he had scribbled in her Filofax. Without wanting to, she found herself caressing with her finger the penciled figures.

She dialed, and after a couple rings, there it was, that familiar baritone she had grown so fond of, speaking an ununderstandable tongue replete with throaty and dull, gray sounds. His voicemail, in Dutch of course.

She trembled. The last days had been too much for her. If only she could hide in that telephone, be surrounded by his voice, as if he could with those harsh gutturals erect an impregnable wall to shelter her. Then, there was silence. No words came from her lips. Seconds passed. She felt abashed and closed the line. She'd try again in an hour.

But God might be unhappy, it seemed to her, with her childish dependence toward this nonbeliever with whom she had nearly debauched herself, and who was now forever forbidden to her. She saw Munder's face, Yunis', Musa's, and thought herself wicked.

Time to find a place to rest my head tonight.

Nadia returned to the metro station. By the time she reached the airport, it was close to ten. In the departure hall, she searched for some chairs to sit in; with any luck, she thought, her press card might gain her entrance to the VIP lounge.

But then a new thought struck her. In order to enter, she imagined, she'd have to explain her missed connection, get a new boarding pass, and go again through security. And what if she repented later? They might let her reenter the EU – or maybe not. Going in meant recommitting to Munder. The alternative would mean – she didn't know what.

For a while she wandered aimlessly along corridors. Most shops were closed. One after the other, the few bars in the airport hall also shut down for the night. Only one stayed open. The waiter kept looking at her with an odd expression. Nadia couldn't help but laugh at herself.

Either he's afraid I'm a terrorist, she thought, or else an eccentric-looking whore. Wouldn't that make a good opening paragraph for a Herald reportage on, say, postmodern schizophobia?

She ordered water. A radio played a kitschy rendering of a Viennese waltz. After half an hour, she couldn't stand the muzak anymore. She was groggy with sleep and had no idea where to go from here.

After a few calls, she found a nice, not-too-expensive hotel close to the metro station. Her room was clean and pleasant, and the hot bath did wonders for her morale. A pity, she thought, that her money wouldn't cover more than a night or two. After cleaning herself, she curled up on the hotel bed.

_I'm not miserable... I'm not miserable. I'm free!_ She repeated to herself as a mantra, until she fell asleep. She only woke up at noon.

In the hotel basement, where the Internet was free, she opened her Hotmail and spotted a message from Yunis.

It was not pleasant. Her younger brother had waited in vain for fifteen hours at JFK. In the end, he had only received her suitcase, which security had pried open and badly closed again. He had been scandalized, he said, by its contents but he didn't elaborate. Meanwhile, Musa's tragicomic story had reached him. Musa had gotten into trouble with the authorities in Beirut who had found incendiary Hizbullah literature on him, but no personal identity papers whatsoever. They had him beaten up. The Ja'afaris had to pay a serious sum to get him out. Then, back home, he was beaten again, this time by Imad's belt.

As for Munder, he was livid at Nadia's treason and had taken it out on Yunis, suspecting him of double play. Announcing that they had cheated him, he had broken off contact with their parents. Zahra had taken the quarrel with her cousin badly. Meanwhile, the Ja'afaris in Lebanon were furious with Yunis and demanded their money back: Munder refused to return one penny, alleging a plot to humiliate him. So now the Ja'afaris were accusing him, Yunis, of protecting that donkey Munder! Yunis was between a rock and a hard place.

If Nadia didn't justify herself soon, he threatened, he would find her and make her pay.

She closed the email and walked out through the streets.

At once, she plunged back into the black hole out of which she had just crept. Clueless as to how to go ahead, she no longer dared to call Daniel.

After one night, she relocated to a much more modest pension in the north of Brussels. It was none too clean – in fact, it was barely acceptable, but it was affordable. Monday had passed, and Tuesday was no different. She wandered without clear aim, burning each hour without knowing what the next would bring. She sat in a café until she became annoyed with the stares.

Oh yes, that terror thing, just yesterday.... They were seeing a terrorist in every Muslim.

She tried to read newspapers in a public library but soon became sick of the screaming speculations about the dangers of radical Islam. She spent an hour or two in the Natural History Museum. In the Galeries Anspach, she looked at sneakers, lingerie, and CDs until she couldn't take the boredom anymore. One time, she felt so down she simply sat on a bench and hid her face in her arms. Then she noticed someone bend down close and with a delicate gesture, place a euro next to her. She was so ashamed that she kept her face hidden until she was sure the gentle stranger had moved far off.

The day before, an elderly man in a suit had admonished her: 'Mevrouw, Brussels belongs to Flanders, and we Flemings are neither Moroccan nor Islamic. We're Christian. This is not your home. I have to warn you, either adapt or go back to your own culture.' She, the experienced reporter, the dyed-in-the-wool political activist who used to take the floor and improvise fierce addresses in antiracism meetings, was at a loss for words.

The sun had been shining, and the food was delicious, but it wouldn't be easy to make friends here in Brussels. Her weary feet rested on the edge of a fountain at Le Sablon. Clouds darkened the sky. The atmosphere was growing heavier. Anyway, acquaintances were the least of her worries now. She must decide what to do, to stay or to go, how to make a living, and if she stayed, first and foremost, she must arrange for a decent roof above her head.

The whole mess was her fault. The longer she thought, the clearer it became to her. There were only two options – either repent and dedicate herself once and for all to religion, in the perhaps vain hopes that Allah would forgive her or else... take her own life. What else was there to do?

### 6.2

'Hey sister, can I help you?'

The voice had an unmistakable American East Coast accent. Nadia looked up. A paunchy middle-aged black man was standing next to her. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, a pair of soft brown eyes watched for her response. A white knitted skullcap covered a part of his graying curls, he seemed debonair, perhaps naïve. And he seemed out neither to mock her religious attire nor to seduce her.

'Thank you. You're the first person to say a kind word in days.' She felt shy – how could she be sure he had no devious intentions? 'But no, thanks, I don't need anything.'

'I doubt that, ma'am. You look... exhausted. You're from New York, aren't you?'

'I live in Manhattan... lived, that's to say,' she added when she noticed his astonishment, tinged, she thought, with irony.

'There must be an interesting story there, sister. And you must know, I collect interesting stories.' His smile showed perfect teeth. 'Oh sorry, I should have presented myself. Donald Butler. You may also call me Bilal.' He touched his chest where his heart was. He appeared so sincere that she could not find it in her to reject him and gave her first name.

'You a convert?' she inquired.

'Long ago. That's also a story.' He looked at the sky. 'It's gonna rain, may I offer you a cappuccino? I know a nice little place around the corner here. An "eetcafé" – a café with food. They serve also a good pita with shawarma. Halal, by the way.'

Two and a half hours later, they were still chatting in the Tunisian snackbar. There had been a downpour, but then the sun had reappeared just in time to lighten up the long dusk of the Low Countries.

_This guy_ has _something,_ Nadia thought. _He's nice, communicative, humorous, and seems to have no agenda beyond spending a nice couple of hours. And he's not shy talking about himself either._

Strange how their paths crossed. Donald was a computer specialist from New York, more or less salafi, and had been living in Brussels for just over a year. He had, she understood, fled from a shipwrecked marriage, and was now active in a Belgian Islamic community of sorts. Allah was obviously central to his life. His religious identification explained well enough why he was looking to do good deeds to coreligionists.

By now, he must have figured out that she was Shiite. Well, probably within the first thirty seconds, given her outfit.

That didn't seem to bother him. He had already shared his conviction that all men are equal to God, and a fortiori all Muslims. _A fortiori._ Hmm. Works with IT. Hmm. And Donald also seemed to have hundreds of hadiths at his fingertips. He was erudite. What a combination! And then, Donald put her so much at ease she was now sharing with him things she had planned not to discuss with anybody. She had a sensation of, in a word, trust.

'Sister Nadia, you've been through a lot, you know? What are your plans? If I may ask...' The inquiry came out in his nonchalant, engaging way, as he was signaling with his hand to catch the waiter's attention and order another coffee.

'I wish I knew...'

'One more for you, too? Oh, you will know. Inshallah, the Lord will show you the path.'

'You think so?'

'No, I don't _think_ : I know. Yes. Well, that'll be my last coffee, for now. Look Nadia, you're standing at a crossroad in your life. And you're alert enough to know it. So why not enjoy this extraordinary conjuncture? Give it some time, and with God's grace the right decision will... decide itself.'

'I wouldn't mind that.'

'You know what? Why don't you come to my home tomorrow night? I'm not a bad cook, if I may be so presumptuous, and we can continue our dialogue.'

Suddenly, she became reticent. 'Don't you worry, madam. I wouldn't threaten your modesty if Shaytan and all hell's angels bade me to. Upon my word as a believer. You don't mind walking a quarter of an hour from the tram stop, do you?'

She let herself be persuaded. He gulped his coffee, stood up, and went to pay their bill.

Early next evening, she got off the tram in a quarter called St-Gilles, which seemed nondescript at first. This zone of the city comprised rows of early twentieth century buildings, all designed in a roughly similar style, but replete with wildly different details. In the drizzle, the paving slabs reflected the headlights of cars. Though his street was poorly lit, it still appeared to be safe.

Trying to shut out the hypnotic ticking of the raindrops on her umbrella and hijab, she followed the directions he had given. As she walked, she breathed the damp city air, and absorbed with keen interest the asymmetric floral and animal motifs in the stone and glazed tiles that decorated the houses. As Donald had explained, Brussels was a crazy pastiche of -independent little boroughs.

Then she found his number at the end of the street – a whitewashed house, its walls decorated with yellow and purple art nouveau arabesques. She rang.

An old-fashioned elevator with cast-iron latticework brought her to Donald's apartment on the second floor. Nadia's first impression of the place, as she stepped inside, fitted the man himself: untidy, cozy, multifarious. Old chairs, a table covered with a fine linen cloth stained with red wine, and shelves upon shelves overflowing with books. While Donald disappeared in the kitchen, Nadia had more than enough time to study his library.

It was an eccentric mix of Islamic religion and lore ranging from Sufi to Wahhabi, computer and math, tracts about UFOs and mind control, the Vietnam war, travelogues of East African countries, publications on vegetarianism, and hundreds of science fiction novels – most were cheap paperbacks from the seventies, their pages yellowing. The spines showed titles in English, Spanish, Arabic, French, and a couple languages she couldn't identify. She nestled herself in an armchair under the soft light of a standing lamp and opened Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land".

While Donald prepared the food, the telephone in the living room rang several times, twice from some mosque or religious institution. He spoke an atrocious but quite fluent Arabic. The third call, which was in English, had something to do with a freelance IT job.

Donald was good to his word and prepared Arab snacks. They sat at a small table across from each other.

'Terribly kind of you to invite me. You seem to know your way around our cuisine?'

'The way to a man's love is through his stomach. And that holds also true for the love of God. What we prepare with love brings us nearer to His love. Help yourself. Care for a glass of red wine?'

'I don't drink. But... how can you, if you call yourself a Muslim?'

'Ever read Rumi? Omar Khayyam? Not to speak of the Qur'an itself.'

'Donald, those early verses that allow alcohol were later abrogated! I'm sure you know that.'

_This fellow is quite a liberal. And I'm talking like a prim little schoolmistress_ , she thought.

'You believe in that theory of abrogation?'

'But that's not just theory, Donald. All the mullahs adhere to it.'

Unperturbed, Donald poured himself a glass. He was not easily out of arguments. 'So... would you also say, then, that we no longer have to take into account the verse "There is no compulsion in religion," just because the Prophet, peace be upon him, later received that other one: "Kill the unbelievers wherever you find them?" Remember, that last one came down to him, just when he needed a verse to justify his expedition against the Jews of Medina. Allah was very obliging, wasn't He?'

Nadia was scandalized. She didn't want to show that she was also, as always, intrigued by critiques of religion coming from believers. It was clear, though, that Donald was no hypocrite.

'I don't understand you, Donald. How can a true Muslim speak like this? Are you really one, or are you just impersonating? I mean, I don't want to insult you, you're so gracious, but... is the Qur'an, then, not God's Uncreated Perfect Word? That's what I've always learnt.' These last words came out with a hint of doubt. Her own musings, that evening which seemed so long ago in Daniel's hotel room, hadn't been the most orthodox either, she recalled.

'You don't believe that yourself, do you? Or are you a fundamentalist?'

'I don't know. I know that to be a Muslim is to submit to God's word, not to invent our own religion according to what's convenient for us. Or do you think it's easy for us women to keep our modesty, for instance? Just for once, you try on an abaya on a hot summer day!'

He listened attentively, nodded, and without a word offered her more food. For himself, he took another serving of grilled kebab with parsley. Then he opened with his fingers extra space on his plate, landed there a good portion of stuffed eggplant and tahini, and sprinkled the leftover little holes with tabouleh.

'Sorry, I have a bad case of horror vacui.'

He ate a bite, wiped his mouth with his napkin. Obviously, Donald was the type who enjoyed serious discussion as the adornment of a good meal. With a broad smile, he counterattacked.

'Well now, my Madame Nadia! If your behavior were as scrupulous as your words, we wouldn't be sitting here together at this table, would we? Imagine, you, the pious housewife – didn't you tell me your husband bought you back for a tidy sum? – sitting in the house of an unknown, potentially dangerous male!'

He scared her.

'Na, don't worry, sister. Didn't I give you my word that your virtue is as safe with me here as if you'd be in the Kaaba compound itself? But you know, as much as I do, that an orthodox Muslima wouldn't enter any room with an unrelated man, let alone sit on a sofa in his disorderly apartment! So what? I don't blame you. We're not in the Middle Ages anymore, are we? Excuse me...'

Donald took the telephone whose repeated ringing he had ignored. 'Rita!' His voice sounded cheerful as he produced a few sentences in Flemish, but soon retreated into a passable French. 'Of course, sister! And bring Jeff along. I want you to meet a new friend...'

After the call, he explained to Nadia that he was expecting friends, a couple. 'She's a recent convert. You'll like her... Well, as I said,' he went on, 'Everyone has a God-given right to fashion her own faith. Until we find what fits us. Did Muhammad do any different?'

'You're quite adventurous in your interpretations. But listening to you, it's hard to say what is still specific to Islam?'

Donald stood up, approached one of the shelves, and picked up a heavy tome bound in red imitation leather and stamped with golden Arabic letters: a collection of sayings of the Prophet. He looked up the hadith he had in mind and passed the book open across the table toward Nadia so she could read.

'You familiar with Zaynab's story? You must be. Anyhow Aisha was. And more than she had bargained for.' He giggled. His voice was rather high-pitched for such a bulky man. 'Yes,' Donald explained, 'the Prophet had his adopted son divorce his wife, Zaynab, this woman who he, Muhammad, peace be upon him, had taken a fancy to. And sure enough, next thing, he received the justificatory Revelation. You know what Aisha quipped?'

Donald put his index finger on a verse in the book and read aloud the upside down Arabic, improvising the translation: '"I feel that your Lord seems to be very quick in fulfilling your wishes and desires." That's her – Aisha. Wife number three.'

He laughed.

Nadia felt alarmed. Where was all this leading to? Donald looked a moment in silence at his guest. He seemed concerned.

'Don't take me so serious, Nadia. Forgive my excited excursus. It's just... I get carried away. You look pale. Why don't you close your eyes for a moment? Meantime, I'll put the last touches on the desert. I'll bring you fresh figs with my homemade walnut ice cream topped with grated bitter chocolate. You'll lick your fingers, and you'll feel better.'

He went to the kitchen. Within a minute, he reappeared with the promised goodies.

The aroma revived her – that always happened with chocolate. She was grateful and shocked at the same time. 'I must think your ideas over, Donald. Yes, I've been through some rough spots. I have to take stock. To tell you the truth, I don't know where to head next.'

Donald took another tack. 'It's not so long ago since you danced with a man who loves you, and who disappointed you. True?'

What now? Could these intense brown eyes read her memories, then, as easily as they deciphered a medieval Arabic text upside down, and God knows what else?

'We didn't exactly dance. Well, in a certain way you could call it a dance, sort of...' she admitted. She hesitated. 'Anyhow, things happened that shouldn't have... He disappointed me, yes and no. And, perhaps, I disappointed him more. It's so raw I haven't been able to work it all out in my mind... But how do you know?'

'I just do. Your Islam may come from your parents, Nadia, but in you it's still a recent, tender shoot.'

There it was again, her eyes filled up with tears, whether she wanted it or not. _Damn it, why am I always so emotional?_ she thought.

'Okay, Donald, you win. Pour me a glass of wine.'

She put the glass to her lips. She hadn't had a drop of alcohol since March. Save for that one beer with Daniel... She didn't want to talk about her affair with Daniel. But then again she did. Donald was someone, at last, who might listen. Somebody she could confide in, from her own faith – even if he seemed to twist it in strange ways – and who might offer forgiveness.

The wine loosened her tongue. Anyway, how could she explain where she stood now, without telling what had happened? Impossible, but she wouldn't mention his name.

It slipped out of her mouth before she knew it.

'Devries, Devries,' he mumbled. 'Yes, sounds like a Dutch name. Makes sense. A Jewish, Dutch name,' he emphasized. She blushed. 'Well,' he continued, 'Allah's ways are inscrutable, aren't they? I think that I've come across articles by some university lecturer of that name, on Palestinian politics.' Her heart skipped a beat. Although Donald tended to look in the air when he talked to her, she sensed that he kept a systematic finger on her pulse. She noticed his acuity to every little nuance in her words; it seemed second nature to him. Perhaps he's also a psychologist, she thought in a flash.

The bell rang. He greeted his friends jovially as they walked out of the elevator. The woman was in her late thirties. Her long and faded but efficient raincoat and her old-fashioned sensible shoes accentuated rather than masked her tall, bony figure. A brown scarf partly hid her carrot-colored hair. Rita had strong features and a warm, maternal smile. Nadia found her at once sympathetic. Her husband or boyfriend, was insipid, taciturn and it seemed, not Muslim.

Rita embraced Nadia and nodding to the wineglasses, mock-reproached her host: 'But Bilal, are you _again_ bringing a sister on the wrong path?' And, turning to Nadia: 'You don't have to accept it if you think it's a sin. Don't follow this strange brother if you don't want to. He makes – and breaks – his own laws!' From her laugh, she knew they must be good friends.

Rita didn't drink but with an eager smile accepted ice cream. Jeff accepted a beer and routinely fished a pile of comic books from of the shelves. 'If you want to learn good Dutch, this is the best way,' he told Nadia, showing her the Flemish edition of Tintin's "Men on the Moon." Then he withdrew to the sofa and didn't speak.

Donald gave Rita a summary of Nadia's situation. Nadia filled in the details.

'That hotel's no good, my child,' Rita told her. 'That's no place for you. We bring you there in our car, you take your stuff, and you come with me. I have a decent guest room – not like the chaos of this nerd here!'

She had a motherly way that brooked no refusal. Nadia was too worn out to even try. She gave Rita a grateful smile.

## 6.3

'Danny, you know what you forgot here in our house last week?' Lieve giggled as she teasingly held her hands behind her back. She shot out her tongue and tried to make him laugh. The young girl was the only one able to pierce his armor.

Daniel was visiting Evelyn after an interval of several days. Since Beirut, he had been moody, withdrawn, and on edge. Wherever he went, he suffered as if he were walking barefoot on shards of broken glass. Better to stay home, then, and close all doors as tight as possible, he concluded. Every day Evelyn would call him at his apartment in the Statesmen Quarter, inquiring and entreating. It was all well-meant, but he resented her insistence. He'd lick his wounds in his own good time. But then Lieve herself had called to invite him to "her home," and he couldn't say no.

He could guess what it was she hid behind her back but played along, making an owlish face.

'Not the foggiest, Lieve.'

She brought her hands in front of her and put the cellphone in his.

'Oh my! But how could I have forgotten? Thank you so much for keeping it for me.'

He knew that he had not forgotten. He had simply abandoned his mobile at Evelyn's and never bothered to come back and pick it up.

'Because you're a distracted dad,' she retorted.

'And whom shall I dial now that I've got it back?'

'Why, _me_ of course!' she laughed. 'Count to ten and then call me, all right?' Lieve ran up the stairs to wait for his ring in her mother's bedroom.

Lieve was delighted to see him, and so was Evelyn, her foot still in pain but already walking much better. She had prepared for dinner all the food he liked and put on some soothing music. Later, she promised, they'd watch together the newest Star Trek. Dusk was invading the garden. Evelyn lit candles. Lieve showed new drawings of monkeys and fishes she had made during yesterday's school trip to the Artis zoo and aquarium. Daniel applauded how she had progressed over the past months.

'Would you like to go with me to the Tropical Museum next Saturday?' he asked. 'They have an exhibit with Javanese puppets, I heard.'

With an enthusiastic beam, Lieve accepted.

After dinner, she affectionately nudged him to tuck her in, and he felt moved. Then Evelyn talked with him about her philosophy classes – she needed his help. Her students wanted to discuss "terrorism." What had the sages taught about that? It was a subject she was not familiar with. While they were chatting, Daniel received three calls – various newspapers soliciting interviews and opinion pieces on the looming Western counterattack against the Taliban in Afghanistan.

'Those mullahs are a catastrophe for the Afghans,' he improvised, speaking into the mobile, his voice much more forceful and persuasive than he had expected of himself. 'But if Bush thinks Osama bin Laden is low-hanging fruit, he may be in for a surprise... And no sir, I don't believe that the current global wave of commiseration with the Americans will persist. The moment they enter Kabul, it's those al-Qaeda boys who'll be everybody's underdogs again. Sooner or later. Mark my words.'

'See how fast you're back on your feet again, Dan?' Evelyn remarked, her green eyes twinkling, after he hung up. There was a hint of admiration in her tone, and he hadn't heard that in a long time. 'I bet you're already putting behind you that incident in Beirut. Aren't you?'

He ran his fingers through his hair and changed the subject.

The evening passed quickly. Then, his rain jacket zipped open, he biked home pedaling as leisurely as he could manage without losing his balance. It was dry again and unrushed, he wanted to enjoy the mellow breeze. He crossed a bridge and noticed clusters of fresh fallen leaves whirling in the dark water. Tomorrow, they'd clean up the canal.

For the first time since his return, he felt relieved, without knowing about what, or why, or if that was alright. When he arrived at his own room, for a long moment he didn't switch the light on. Instead he looked down from his window at the lanterns casting their yellow light circles on the peaceful nocturnal gracht below. New York, Jerusalem and Beirut all lay far away – far beyond those tranquil magic circles.

Only then did he remember to check his missed calls. Reluctant to enter again a violent sphere that, he sensed, was as unpleasant as it was resistant to any attempts to soothe or help, he sat down at his desk. He picked up his cellphone, and dialed his voicemail.

He found at once a call from the US number he immediately recognized. He pricked up his ears. His knee rhythmically bounced against the desk. In the distance, French and Italian words could be made out. There was an indistinct noise that might be the clanking of plates: perhaps a chic restaurant in Hamra? But she had recorded no message. Of the caller's identity, there could be no doubt. But Daniel understood neither why she had dialed nor what her silence signified.

The scene in the Ambassadors hotel full of militias flashed back into his mind, and he heard again those harsh last words: 'Danny, you'll yet taste how my people shall cleanse the earth from your Western pollution. Let go of me, or else I scream!'

_She belongs to God now_ , her killer cousin had said, declaiming in a loud and solemn voice, and all those witnesses around him had been nodding, while he held his kitchen knife as if he were Abraham himself sacrificing his son. The worst was the earmarked victim's apparent resignation, nay willingness.

His knee had come to rest. Daniel understood that he had better make an agreement with himself to bury that episode as deep as possible.

And so he tried. With one decided click, he erased the message. And over the next days and weeks, there was no time to think back of unpleasant memories, for Daniel was reading and writing nonstop. Last spring, Allo's Mideast projects had been mildly fascinating and uplifting, and his reports had succeeded in irritating a couple foundation honchoes – but no one beyond that limited group. Now, though, something far more dramatic and grim seemed at hand. Since September 11, everybody was sure "nothing would ever be the same again," although nobody understood where the world was really going. Anybody who could remotely pass for a specialist was called to the airwaves.

Daniel was way beyond "remotely." His knowledge was in sudden demand, and he realized how important it was to make his voice heard, as an antidote in a climate turning more sour by the day. The burning Towers, he soon understood, had kindled a fire under coexistence. Who could douse it? He learnt of hate crimes against Muslims in Houston and California and Arras and Dresden – of menacing anonymous phone calls, of innocent turbaned Americans and Europeans being punched, teachers assaulted on account of their scarf, Muslim-owned stores set to fire, even graves desecrated. Something awful was approaching, and he had to argue against such senseless intolerance. Even in Brussels, a neighborhood mosque had been vandalized.

For a while, Daniel managed to blot out her image. Then, around ten days later, uninvited and without warning, Nadia entered his mind again. He heard again her softly whispered "I can't reach you with words, Dan, but my heart is stronger," saw her loving gaze light up their dark hotel room, and felt himself again in their embrace, that one that should never have ended.

Something tugged at him from within. She had called, and he had deleted it. Why? Out of nowhere something was spooking him. Why hadn't he answered her call? What if she needed help? His heart beat ferociously. He grasped his mobile. Within a minute, he had found her number and, lips trembling, dialed.

An anonymous female voice greeted him, stating in four languages: "The number you have called does not exist anymore."

Slowly it dawned on him that something in him might not exist anymore either. His tongue dry, he opened his drawer and took the picture of them together, there on the boulevard not far from the lighthouse. Her City on the Sea. He looked for one last time. His eyes took in every detail of her face – the intense black eyes, the straight but slightly too big nose, her laughing mouth – and his own arm on her round shoulder.

He thought he felt nothing. Better throw this memento out with all the other garbage, he wanted to tell himself, but his inner archivist opposed such wanton destruction of evidence. Daniel walked up to his cabinet. Among kilos of files and boxes with his own yet-to-be-organized old papers, he deposited the fatidic picture, hiding it with the strongest intention of forgetting forever where he had put it.

### ***

Since Rita Peeters had taken Nadia in her house, over a week had passed. Each morning, they'd have breakfast and pray together. Then, Rita would go to her work. She was an administrative assistant in a municipal social service, and dealt with foreigners, legal and illegal, in need of housing, jobs, or medical care. This was a growing industry in the Greater Brussels area, she explained in a sardonic tone. For all that, though she believed very much in what she did. Afternoons, she moonlighted in odd jobs for a local politician. Warm-hearted and practical, she had taken Nadia to work with her one day. The bureaucratic part was for the most part in Flemish and thus lost on Nadia, but visits to clients – Poles, Congolese, Kurds, every one with a harrowing story to tell – were eye-openers.

Nadia noticed that the foreigners' lot had become much harder since her last visit to Europe.

Most days, Nadia was on her own, though. She felt accepted, but she was also frightened lest Yunis come after her and take her back to America, or worse.

'Nobody knows you here, and nobody knows where you are,' Rita reassured her. 'Just stay underground for a while. Even if improbably, your brother hires a detective, he'd have a hard time finding you.'

'But my parents...'

'If you go back, it should be by your own decision, not the pressure of tradition, okay? You can be a perfect Muslima and still an assertive woman. Nadia, you think that my parents were glad when I recited my shahada? You think that Jeff's happy I don't let him live here? Well, I told him, only if you marry me first. And you may marry me when you have the same faith as I. And mind you, even then, I'd make him sign a contract to protect my rights.'

While talking, Rita chose clothes for Nadia to wear. The weather was getting chillier. 'Here, we've got about the same size,' Rita said. 'This should fit you. But you know, you can look around my cabinet. Use whatever you need.'

'A pity I don't write articles anymore. If I call the Herald, my whereabouts will be in the public domain in no time! I would have loved to interview you.'

'Let yourself be carried forth by time and eventually you will rule over it. But now I have to go. See you later.'

But Rita turned around before she had left the room.

'I'm not sure if I should leave you here alone, Nadia.'

'Oh, but I'm okay, Rita. Thank you, but I can handle it all perfectly well. Here in your house... it's like a protective shell.'

'My sister, perhaps one day you'll be the pearl in that oyster. But honestly... I think you're between two worlds. It must feel terrible.'

Nadia's eyes glistened.

'You're afraid that someone or something will summon you from that world you fled. But at the same time, you crave it, don't you? I know how it is.'

Nadia bowed her head one centimeter.

'You told me you wanted to open yourself to new possibilities, isn't that so?'

'Yeah... right,' Nadia answered. She was wary of what was to come.

'You can't open one door, the one in front of you, before you've closed that other one, behind you.'

'How can you be so sure, Rita?'

'Because I've been in the same place, my sister. And because I'm your friend. Can a woman have two lovers at the same time?'

'I guess not,' Nadia said, after a brief silence. 'What do you think I should do?'

'You know it, my sister.'

'Do I?'

Rita held out her hand. Slowly, Nadia took her phone out of her bag. With a little hesitation, as if taking leave of an old and dear acquaintance, she put it in Rita's hand.

'You're very wise, Nadia,' Rita said as she carefully put Nadia's mobile in her own bag. 'I know how hard it is. But you're setting yourself free. One step at a time.'

'Thank you for helping me, Rita.' A smile of relief came on her face. 'I think you can safely go now.'

'I think so too, Nadia. See you later, and may Allah protect you.'

Rita would return home late in the afternoon. Then, they'd spend time in intense dialogue. Rita had converted from Catholicism and come to her decision through talks, meditation, and voracious reading. The two women had much to share with each other.

Nadia read and rested and was nurtured. Overruling Rita's objections, she made herself useful by cooking meals and taking care of her abundant collection of plants. In her many free hours, she'd read. Most of Rita's books were in Dutch, but Nadia found some in French and English, too. She surfed the net and encountered sites that addressed her own dilemmas.

One evening, Rita presented Nadia to her circle of friends, most of them converts. Wasn't Allah's hand manifest? Who else could have engineered her meeting with Donald, and through him, Rita and her friends? Coincidence, Nadia concluded, doesn't exist – that's just one of those excuses that the kuffar like to use.

In the depth of her despair, a ray of light had entered her existence. And this ray came from a place... well, from an orthodox place, from something that pointed back to the Prophet's beaten path. It was not her own modernistic do-it-yourself Islam, with its effusive, feel-good pantheistic leanings, and with its Nadia-friendly watering-down of God's strict rules... True, you couldn't exactly describe Donald as a paragon of orthodoxy, but Rita and Hilda and the others were not so wishy-washy. Everything under the sun has a meaning, Nadia thought. If she hadn't first met Donald, who made her drink wine, yet opened her heart to God again – would she now ponder a return to God? Maybe Allah in His incommensurate wisdom had sent to Nadia, in the bulky shape of Donald, a messenger liberal enough to help her reenter the ranks of those He had earmarked for salvation? That would be too good to be true.

Hey, the ruse of reason!

A long-forgotten lecture in a brightly lit cool hall in Columbia came back to her.

Hegel!

Her philosophy prof had once explained how Reason moved the universe to self-awareness by means of laws that, though immovable, worked through surprising twists that enlisted unaware subjects for Its own purposes.

Nadia had challenged, "But Reason, isn't that the same, then, as God?" Before destroying her argument with one irrefutable sentence, the lecturer had cast a look at once penetrating and engaging. And now, without her willing it, Nadia's thoughts wandered to that other look that knew how to pierce through her defenses. Daniel... How come her urge to contact him, so strong in the first days, had abated somewhat?

### ***

On Friday morning, Donald stopped by. The three of them walked the few blocks to a nearby mosque. On their way, a growing stream of Muslims joined them, all heading in the same direction – most of them Moroccans but also Senegalese, Turks, as well as a dozen blonde, northern-looking converts. Out of solidarity with the downtrodden, as she explained, Rita frequented this mosque, one of Molenbeek's poorer houses of prayer, which catered to foreign workers and their families.

The mosque was an unobtrusive, modest affair, not much more than a converted garage, on a poor street of workshops and humble shops, but Nadia easily recognized from a distance which house it was. At the entrance, about twenty worshippers had gathered and were shouting over one another. One of the Maghrebins was shaking and uttering a stream of excited and shocked words. Nadia read dismay on their faces.

From nearer by, she understood the cause of the tumult. A simple iron door with a glass window served as gate. The glass had been smashed. Splinters lay strewn across on the pavement, meters around. Among the congregation, one man stood out – a tall fellow with a short hennaed beard, dressed in a gray kaftan. He wore the white-rimmed red turban of the Sunnis.

'That's Alfassi, the imam,' Rita whispered to Nadia. 'He's a sweetie, but what the hell's going on?'

The imam had a severe expression but was trying to calm everybody down. He spoke in a mix of Moroccan Arabic and French interspersed with Berber and Flemish words. Nadia, Rita and Donald waited at a few meters' away. Nadia saw Alfassi talking to a bewildered North African man whom she had noticed from afar – he had come to the mosque with his wife and four young children. After listening to the imam for a minute, he bowed his head and appeared calmer. Alfassi put his hand on the man's shoulder and addressed him in a quiet voice. The man nodded in approval and walked in through the broken door, followed by his family. One after the other those still standing outside did the same.

Approaching the imam, Donald greeted him respectfully. They exchanged a few words. Rita and Nadia approached. On the carpeted floor inside, Nadia noticed a round stone big enough to kill a man. Alfassi mumbled 'Salam alaikum', then showed them a ball of paper. He opened it. A clumsy hand had written some words in Flemish.

'What does it say?' Nadia asked.

Donald translated: "This is just the beginning. Death to Islam."

back to top

# Chapter Seven

# The Drowning

## 7.1

'You're living in this country, Donald,' Nadia said, 'As for me, I doubt if I ever could handle the hatred. If this isn't hate crime, what is?'

'I was shocked, too,' he answered, 'But let's not get carried away – a broken door and one A4 besmirched by an illiterate idiot don't prove we're on the verge of a war of religions. For all I know, a schoolboy might've done it. The congregation has received literally tens of solidarity messages. And from the most diverse organizations – interfaith, NGOs, the municipality, professors, the Catholic church. Even from that nice secular Jewish outfit here in Brussels. Alfassi told me himself – and he's not given to exaggeration. The police were also much more cooperative than I would've thought.'

'Still it makes me feel very unsafe – even more a stranger here in Belgium than I already am,' she said. 'In America, that kind of thing would be unthinkable.'

'What planet are you living on? And you're a journalist!'

He shoved the USA Today he had been reading across to her side of the table, on the page where the arson in Dallas was described, along with several other anti-Muslim incidents from the past few days. As she read, the blood rose to her face.

'Don't forget, Nadia Iskander, you're a girl from a nice, middle-class family in one of America's more tolerant cities,' he continued. She was finishing the article and looked up at him, doubt written all over her face. By now, Rita and he, along with a few confidantes, knew her full name and story. 'And besides, you're white.'

'It's all the fallout of this tragedy of the eleventh,' she said.

'No doubt. And we have our comrade sheikh bin Laden to thank for that.'

But Wallah, who was this Osama bin Laden everybody was talking about?

Among the myriad scum that filled the bad news section about "her" region, she had hardly ever before paid attention to this name. She just said, 'If he did it.'

Through his thick glasses, Donald looked at her with that gaze full of compassion, mixed with skepticism. He sighed. 'If he did it, yeah... Okay, let's talk of happier things. How did you enjoy last Friday's service?'

'Beautiful. I felt a sense of solace. It feels so good to again to belong to a community, even if only for an hour.'

'An hour, or a lifetime – the choice's yours... Yes, I agree, it's a nice jami'. My own habit is to pray every week at another community, though. I'm a bit of a wandering Muslim. I've visited, over the past year every mosque in Brussels and the surrounding area.'

'Oh, as long as one prays, what importance does the place have?' Nadia said. 'I saw so many different nationalities in just this one mosque. The Turkish woman next to me offered to introduce me to the Flemish language class she's following. Of course, that'd be only relevant if I'd stay here longer. Maybe that's what I'd have to do. You're all very kind.'

After a little while, she continued: 'If I return to religion... would they accept me even if I'm not Sunni? Certainly, the other believers would insist on punishment for the past I'm trying to forget, wouldn't they?'

'Depends where you go. I for one believe reward and sanction are with Allah. Not for us to sit in His judge's chair.'

'Still, I feel sinful.'

'I see in you the material of a true believer, but how often do you read Qur'an? How often do you pray?'

'Not enough.'

'It'll come,' Donald said. 'Don't forget, belief is ninety percent discipline – and ten percent ecstasy.' His next words came out in a deliberate way and she absorbed them each. 'When do you plan to go back to the US, then?

'I don't.'

'I see.'

'But I can't stay forever as a nonpaying guest in Rita's house. I've done a lot of thinking these days. I should be happy if you'd welcome me in your little group, but I also have to make a living. You think I could talk with Alfassi?'

'Alfassi's a good, wise guy. I like him. Talk to Rita, she's close to his congregation.'

How had this man become her confessor in just ten days? How nice to have somebody genuinely interested.

When Nadia brought up the subject, Rita had a better idea.

'If you ask me, you should meet Noureddin. He might have use for your talents.'

'Who's that?'

'Noureddin Malik. He's an incredible leader. You should see him. He'll blow you away.' Nadia had never seen her so enthusiastic before. 'He changes your life. He's changing mine, you know. And he needs more people in his... army.'

Rita's words sounded honest and enticing.

Nadia continued staying with Rita and Jeff, helping with shopping and other chores. She was floating in a state of expectancy she did not understand herself. Was something lacking? Or was something else pinning her to the house of these kindly people, and the cause they were so enthused about, every so often?

A couple days later, they talked again. Both had enjoyed Nadia's cuisine. Then Jeff had gone to his hobby club. Soft Turkish flute music was playing in the background.

'You're any further with your plans, my sister?' Rita asked.

_Not really_ , Nadia thought. _But to say it like that would sound like I intend to stay here forever..._

'I've been giving some thought about that leader of your group – you know, the one you mentioned a while ago...'

'Sure.' Rita cast an intense look at Nadia.

'Maybe... could I see him? Would you bring me to him?'

She did not know herself why she said it, but she felt like a spiritual soldier ready to enlist. Was someone calling her?

'Will you bring me to him, Rita? When can I see him?'

'Hopefully coming Friday. But Nadia, I have to warn you. What happens between him and any new man or woman is totally unpredictable. No way of knowing ahead of time. He throws you in the deep. And, he only takes on board those who accept _him_ , unconditionally. You have to feel in your guts it comes from Allah. It might work. Or you might drown. Whichever way it goes, you'll never be the same. No, in all honesty, you have to be prepared for an ordeal.'

She sucked in a mouthful of air. 'I'm prepared. Whatever it takes.'

### ***

'Ismail seemed likable, at first,' Leila admitted to the psychologist who had been assigned to her case. Her eyes had become wet, and she dipped them dry before they would grow into real big tears.

So here she was, speaking of her first date in all those years, even though he wasn't even the reason why she had to come here. Couldn't the Department for Mental Advice have found someone a bit more professional than this intern? His skin looked thin and white and crumpled like parchment, but he couldn't be older than she was. He dressed far too formal. Who in Amsterdam gives psychotherapy in a suit with a tie? Thick horn glasses accentuated his myopia. He sat across from her, and from time to time jotted down observations on his notepad. Then looking up, he would cast a furtive glance in the direction of the little clock behind her chair she had noticed when she entered.

She knew at once she didn't like this shrink her superior had recommended. She had requested a female psychologist, but none had been available. When he had presented himself and shaken hands at the start of the session, his palms were clammy. Mr. de Wit was the wrong man in the wrong place, and the polar opposite of the experienced lady who had helped her rebuild herself after... But Leila understood. Her work must not suffer from her personal complexes. And although nobody had spelled it out, her career in the police force depended on it. She would try to cooperate.

'Why did you think he was so likable?'

'Ismail was funny. He's, for instance, a master at parodying our politicians. But first of all, he was civilized and urbane. All the months we dated I don't think he skipped one Saturday evening to take me to dinner or to a show or something. And then all those flowers... He did make an impression. And not once did he let me share in the bill.'

'A well-to-do allochthone?'

'Oh, you mean if he's a Moroccan? Yes, he is. A Muslim and an Arab. Just like me.'

'Did you have intimate relations?'

Leila wanted to disregard the question. She was not afraid to open up, even about the most personal matters – but things needed their time. Trust is earned, not given as a freebie. But then perhaps the trainee therapist had just a limited time at his disposal.

'Ismail was courteous. As I said, we dated for a good time. He'd call every other day. But the furthest he ever went was to place his hand on my shoulder a bit too close to my neck, one evening late, when he helped me into my coat.'

She had to smile in spite of herself. De Wit wrote down something, and she couldn't see his face.

'I told you, he's nearly ten years older and rather conservative. But he liked not only to talk – about his firm, his first marriage, etcetera. He also let _me_ speak. About my work, my studies. He's from The Hague. We might never have met if he'd known beforehand...'

Her last words trailed off.

'Why did it end, then?'

De Wit needs every iota dotted, she thought. How irritating.

'He terminated it as politely as he had started. Through a common acquaintance he had learnt that my family had, as he put it, a problematic reputation. That's what he told me one night. In fact, I had expected he would propose, although I was still uncertain about my own feelings. So I was shocked. It was the opposite of what I had hoped for. "How so?" I inquired. "Because of what's happened to you." He said it in a delicate manner, using some circumlocution or other. But, he explained, continuing to see me so often might harm his business contacts in the community and—'

'—Is that easier to express in Arabic? I mean, isn't it a florid language well-suited for such... evasions?'

'We spoke Dutch. That's our mother tongue.'

Even without her training, Leila would have noticed the transparent detours de Wit made, a moment later, to goad the intake conversation back to her next boyfriend. Dennis. The second and most probably last-ever. The one who had led to the fortnight of medical leave that had now brought her here.

'Of course I don't reject white men. But that doesn't mean that I jump—' She interrupted herself. 'Dennis was very charming, though. Like a younger version of George Clooney if you see what I mean.'

De Wit's expression was blank.

'I'm not the only one to think so. He had all the time admirers thronging around him, but he was somewhat elusive. You mustn't think, though, that I enter and leave relationships just like that. In my student days, I used to have one lecturer I really trusted. With him I could speak about many things. But later... The police are in many ways a fantastic environment. But not for talking about one's private problems. So when Dennis came on the scene, he was the first man with whom I could talk about my grief, who would listen—'

'—but didn't you just say you also spoke at length with Ismail?'

_What a boorish interrogator!_ Leila thought. She decided to give the Department for Mental Advice one more chance.

'Look, sir, I thought I had made clear that some subjects remained off-bounds between me and Ismail. Dennis didn't have these taboos.'

'That may have to do with his profession?' de Wit ventured. Was that a question or a statement?

'He's a facilitator in a personal growth and communication organization. So he's used to... He gives trainings, for companies as well as for individuals. There is a demand, it's trendy, and he's successful. Many people attend. And what he does with the public in those meetings is interesting too, so I thought. Although I'm rather too hardnosed for all that meditation stuff. But it's nothing mumbo jumbo.'

'So... He invited you?'

'I joined a couple times. He's not superficial, taught how you have to go deep inside yourself. Talk to the parts you encounter down there, make peace with your inner self, that sort of thing. I liked it. I also liked the group. I took part perhaps six or seven times.' She cleared her throat. 'Then there was this weekend, in a retreat in the Veluwe. It wasn't cheap, but I thought it would help me. And to be truthful, I fancied him. They didn't object to me paying the full price. Well-to-do _autochthone_ , to quote somebody.'

Leila looked hard but could see nothing written on the parchment of his face.

'There were two other trainers,' she went on, 'but Dennis was the main instructor. We did a range of interesting exercises. At night, they held a party. Music, some dancing. They had darkened the place save for little colored lights. All around, just heath, and the endless forest. Can you imagine, at one point I even saw through one of the windows a deer approaching.'

She smiled at the memory.

'Meanwhile, they screened old movies. It was at once serene and exciting. All of a sudden I felt two hands on my shoulders. His. I couldn't resist. Dennis kissed me, and I couldn't resist that either. It had been such a long time since—'

She blushed, and there was a little silence.

'It ended of course in his bedroom.'

'But... you were no virgin anymore.'

'You know my story.' How could this so-called psychologist be so insensitive? 'But this was the first time I... I went all the way of my own free will.'

She stopped, and it was silent in the office. She swallowed.

'He was as good a lover as in a novel. Tender but determined. I was blown away. I wanted to sleep in his arms, but he objected. It was against the rules or something.'

'How did it continue?' de Wit asked.

'It didn't, and that's why I'm here today.'

Leila felt somehow weak and hated herself for it. She shifted in her chair, trying to sit upright.

'You can guess how it ended, can't you? The morning after, at the breakfast buffet, I caught some grins and smirks, some of those "significant gazes." Dennis was nowhere to be seen. Nor was one of the other female participants. I'd seen him talking with her at length, the day before. When Dennis reappeared, he smiled but hardly looked at me. We did more exercises, of a sensitivity training type, and more group work. Perhaps I shouldn't say that I learnt little that Sunday morning. I wasn't totally there with my head.'

The trainee scribbled something more.

'Well, to make a long story short, in the afternoon, as we were sitting down for tea, I saw him and this girl engaged in some heavy-duty petting. On the sofa and in full public view. It went on for at least ten minutes. Then they walked out into the corridor, toward his room – the same room where he had taken me less than twenty-four hours earlier.'

'How did the others react?'

'I don't know. I gather I held my head down. I felt destroyed. Betrayed. And I felt like a whore. A terrible headache rose, I could barely see anything anymore. Within half an hour, I was out of there. "Don't be upset," somebody told me before I left, "he's always like that on the weekends. You're not the first one." How I managed to drive back home, I'll never know. Sorry, for a police officer I don't think I gave a good example of responsible driving.'

'That's when you asked for sick leave.'

'Next morning I had a fever and my whole body ached. After a week, they concluded a severe depression and sent me to you. The rest you know.'

De Wit also moved in his chair. He sat so far forward that his knee nearly touched hers. Leila caught a whiff of some outmoded, slightly sickly perfume. She was disgusted and could not believe her eyes. Her muscles tensed. On instinct, she withdrew a few centimeters.

'What were you writing down, Mister de Wit?'

'Leila, you have a sexual problem. And I think it comes from your culture.'

Now the disgust mixed with a new anger. And suddenly Leila sensed something strong surging in her chest.

'Yeah, I understand. Sure. A sexual complex coming from my Thousand and One Nights culture, right? But it won't take more than twenty sessions to fix, will it?'

She stood up.

'But— you don't have to leave yet,' de Wit said, flustered. 'We still have twelve minutes.' He stretched his arm in her direction, but she was already two meters out of reach.

'It was enough for today.'

He got a grip on himself and produced a smile. 'Naturally, Miz' Bouazza. I'll see you again next week Thursday then, I presume?'

'I fear not.'

'How so?'

'Now you listen to me, Mister de Wit, before I write down something! I may or may not have a "sexual problem." I see my own problem in a rather different way. As I explained, I haven't had a normal night's sleep in two weeks. And lately I've got that frightful conviction that nobody loves me. Or will ever. You think that's a typical Middle East complex? Well, I don't believe one word that—'

He interrupted her. 'Oh, but you didn't understand what I—'

'—I understood perfectly. But thank you all the same, Mister de Wit. I learnt something valuable. I refuse to make myself dependent on either medicines or any of your talking cures. You won't see me crying again, like uh... thirty-eight minutes ago. In fact, you won't see me at all. I may suffer. But from now on, I won't cringe again. I'm strong enough to look after myself. And the service will have to take me as I am. Even if they banish me to the department of petty thefts!'

Leila was out the door before he had a chance to answer. It had all happened in a matter of seconds. When she had first entered his room, she had felt dejected, as if hidden in a heavy cloud – the same cloud of despair that had immobilized her for two weeks. But de Wit's cruel words swept the fog away.

Now Leila was indignant, but it was a cold fury. She knew that she was in control of herself again. Outside, the autumn sun was shining and the wind, strong but still warm, was chasing away the clouds. No, she needed nobody's help. Nor anything else. Just to get out of here. Get out of the stately building of the Department for Mental Advice, get back to her desk, and resume her work. With somebody else's love – or without. Return and be in charge again. There was terror out there in the world, and they had hired her to fight it. And fight she would. The terror within could wait.

## 7.2

Amsterdam 12 October 2001

Evelyn planned a brunch a few weeks after her homecoming to celebrate her healing, and all her friends had come to congratulate her and gawk at the pins in her foot. She had still a slight limp but had, for the occasion, decked herself out as an intellectual vamp – a cross between Juliette Gréco and Britney Spears. The house was full of flowers and the atmosphere convivial. In the background, Billie Holyday warbled. Jacqueline had popped over from Ghent, just before the onset of the university semester. Later that evening, she'd drive Evelyn and Lieve to their parents' in Zeeland, in the south of the country, where they'd stay the weekend.

Daniel was there and had also been invited to Zeeland but had declined, alleging work. That was more than a pretext. Lately, he had been taking on more and more in-depth and high quality journalistic research and writing. His Lebanese misadventure had set his whole workload back. And since his return, his concentration had been far from optimal. He had a strange, tragic foreboding of something he couldn't lay his finger on.

One by one, the friends took leave. Alison's embrace of Evelyn, in the doorway, was so brazen that the other guests, who were not known for excessive prudishness, looked away. Martijn, turning toward Daniel, wrapped up his comic anecdote and said goodbye. Jacqueline took Lieve with her for an afternoon of fun-shopping in the Kalverstraat and the design palace in the Leidsestraat. Lieve with her red umbrella looked like a little lady, and could always be depended upon to share in style her aunt's high tea at Américain. The expedition would culminate in the huge bookshop at the Koningsplein, with a couple of expensive children's books for Lieve and they'd come back by six.

After the last guests had left, Evelyn stood up to clean up the dishes.

'No, you sit down, or they'll have to operate again on you next week,' Daniel interrupted, adding, 'And I'll sit down, too. Tomorrow morning, I'll come again to put everything back in place.'

After placing the dirty plates into the dishwasher, he poured two glasses of wine.

'To your speedy recovery.'

Grateful, Evelyn smiled. Her healing had in fact been extraordinarily swift, and she no longer felt much pain. She looked radiant again, vivacious, and eager to make up for the lost hours and days. She wanted to do things – travel, teach, read, talk.

'You may still change your mind and come with us. Join us, we'll easily fit in two cars. You have also some healing to do, don't you?'

'I do, but I won't. The text I promised to the _Spiegel_ is persecuting me. And I can't miss the television program in Hilversum tomorrow either.'

'I would've liked to have you around in Veere, Dan. Not to speak of Lieve – I noticed she's grown closer to you while I was away. And besides, my father's always happy to have political discussions with you.'

She brought the glass to her lips, then shifted to another subject. 'You know, Daniel, this terror attack last month – don't you think our sympathy for Islam was a trifle too naïve?'

'Of course, everybody was shocked. But it doesn't have all that much to do with religion – more with poverty, humiliation, western interventions, I guess. Why are you thinking of it, so suddenly?' he asked.

'It's frightening how all is coming so close. And well, it's not my field but – poverty? This Osama bin Laden, he's no beggar, is he?'

'To millions of frustrated Muslims around the world, he's the underdog, and he's their hero. And it'll just get worse if Bush invades Afghanistan. Getting in will be easier than getting out.'

'I don't follow you. Now you're also saying yes, it's frustrated Muslims, but a minute ago you said it's not about religion...'

'I can already see that your father will have a great debate without me...'

She laughed.

'I've got other things to discuss with him, Danny. And don't you flee from the subject. You know what? I don't give a damn about al-Qaeda and Co., but I'm sure they're not alone. Isn't it something in their culture? Guess what I was most shocked at, from your whole Beirut craziness? Sorry to bring it up again. You're still suffering from it, I can see that. You know how much I'm on your side, and what I think of your Nadia. As a woman, I may identify with her, but don't tell me you're gonna defend her Islamic worldview on TV. Not exactly defend it, I mean, but turn it into something acceptable, somehow? But, explain this– how can Islam allow, or even prescribe, that cruel act you described? I mean, her own blood brother threatened to cut her throat? How can you defend that?'

'I never did. I was horrified, and afraid myself. I just said...'

'Is she a goat, or a lamb, to be sacrificed? That's barbaric.' Evelyn put her wine glass down with exaggerated aplomb.

'Naturally, Evelyn! I was never so shocked in my life as when I saw that knife. But those backward tribal customs don't define Islam. It isn't as you describe. The overwhelming majority of Muslims in all countries would be just as horrified as you and I. Fanatics such as her cousin don't stand for more than a tiny minority.'

'Why don't these majority people open their mouths then?'

'They do, but their words don't get the audience they deserve. It's only considered news when Muslims blow themselves up.'

'So I should feel compassion for the poor downtrodden and intimidated Muslims? Well, I'd like to hear the voice of that silent majority, then... It's a little _too_ silent!'

'You're giving me solid preparation for the studio where I must confront our Muslim-bashers tomorrow. But let's not measure by two standards – one for Islam, and another for the rest of us. Look, not everyone can be a hero. Speaking out becomes a risk when—'

'Precisely! Why is there no freedom of expression with them? If I were a woman living in Teheran, I wouldn't have the choice to not be Muslim, would I? Or Shiite? By the way, you've still got to explain that difference... Nadia – she was also Shiite, wasn't she?'

'Yes, but not of an extreme current.'

'You think, for instance, that she'd append her name to that manifesto against Islamic terrorism, in yesterday's newspaper? Or is opening one's mouth also too dangerous for her? I mean, I presume she must be more enlightened, living in America and all that.'

'Evelyn, don't be so black-and-white. Was Farag Foda not courageous? He paid with his life. And what about Salman Rushdie? And those thousands of Iranian students, are they not speaking out? It's easy for us here to criticize. They have heroes there, just as we've had cowards here. How many Dutch opened their mouth when the Germans carried off the Jews?'

'Not enough to save your grandparents, but enough so we both know some who did, don't we? However, what you say has strictly _nothing_ to do with it!'

She stood up and poured herself another glass of wine. Daniel was not sure how to convey his view. He understood Evelyn's point well; in fact, compared to other opinions he'd come across lately, she was rather gentle in her criticism. And he himself had seen enough to understand the profound roots of rage in the Middle East. He abhorred fundamentalists of all colors; in a roundabout way, he too was their victim. But he did not believe that any side came out clean. He took a sip from the goblet and pondered how to explain himself.

'I'm totally against their violence, but you have to try and understand where they come from.'

'Yes, Danny, I've heard that story – their background, values, divine revelations, and what have you. And if we dig deep enough, then it's even our own doing. But is that the bottom line? I don't hear you admitting that Islamic culture is in and by itself violent. Or do you? Because then we'd agree...'

Daniel's thoughts raced. Why was she so talkative? True, Islamist fanatics were all over the place these days. They and their interpreters. It was becoming an industry. However, it had never interested her much.

'Madam Chairman,' he joked, 'I don't think we've reached a consensus yet. I may be a hundred percent against terrorism, and yet find good reason to put it in the context of our own violence, of indignities suffered, of shame.'

Ayb. Shame.

For a moment, he was transported back to the street in front of Samir's guesthouse, that Fiat racing away, the shouts of 'Shame, shame'. He looked down and saw himself standing there in his underpants, an object of ridicule.

'What's the matter, Daniel? Don't try to hide it from me. I can read your thought balloon. Fifteen years of experience.'

He was silent.

'You're obsessing again. I told you this would end in a bad way.'

'I can't forget her.'

'Cut the shit, Danny. This whole adventure is way, way overblown. What are you doing to yourself? Wasting away there in that lonely floor of yours that never gets warm! What are you – the young Werther?'

She wanted to offer him consolation, but was she really able to understand what Nadia meant to him?

'Listen, Daniel.'

He looked up.

'The girl's not normal. She may be fascinating, but she's a religious crazy, she sees and hears things that aren't there. Perhaps it's cultural, or perhaps genetic, who am I to tell? One thing, though, I can say for sure. Because I'm a woman myself, I understand these things. She doesn't feel for you what you feel for her. Your love goes unrequited. So, she's not for you. Finito! A pipedream. You deserve somebody more solid, who can commit. Let go of her.'

_Commit?_ Was that supposed to be, a promotional ad?

It was.

'Listen to me, Daniel. I've done my bit of soul searching while my leg hung in that plaster casing. You and I, with all our ups and downs, we've built something beautiful over the years. Let's not throw that out the window for a ridiculous whim. I see our friends. One by one, they're settling down, building their little nest. They shut the curtains, and close the world out, and become – boring. Or else, they become bitter losers.'

'Don't you also have your little own nest?' Daniel said. 'You've even struck a nice balance between settling down and enjoying your own ménage à trois. You're better at having your cake and eating it too than I can say of many of our acquaintances.'

'It's not the same, Daniel. There'll be no more children after Lieve. You know that. I'm not looking for a provider or a protector but for company. Not that sex is unimportant to me. But apart from that, we're super suited for each other. You fill the house here with your ideas, your plans, your fire. True, I can't give you everything you want; and you can't fulfill all my needs. No two people ever can. But we've come a long way with each other, don't you agree? And perhaps I can give you a few things you don't want but need. And besides me, there's somebody else here who needs you...'

'Didn't you say that Alison could just as well fit the father role, that biological gender was not decisive?'

'You really want everything spelled out, don't you?!' Evelyn sounded like her old assertive self again. 'So okay, here goes. Yes, Alison's terrific in bed. In another way than you men, though I don't think you can begin to understand that. And she's a funny mate to go out with. But she can't substitute for the partnership you and I have, intellectually, politically, and – you know... I knew you when you were a boy of twenty-three. We traveled together through the Sahara. You gave me courage when I didn't dare start teaching classes in my little own school. You held my hand when Lieve was born. And I picked you up from the floor when things fell apart between you and Ingrid. All that history we share, and nobody else. You hold the keys to where I come from, to what made me into what I am; there's simply no one else who does. Besides, Alison's not maternal.'

For Evelyn, this was quite a confession. She offered him more than she ever had. He was not impervious to her melody. And Lieve was to him the little girl he had followed since her birth. He loved her as a father loves his own offspring. If she'd been his own daughter, it would have been no different. Yet, no matter how much they shared, there was a crucial point past which Evelyn did not follow, and never would. She called his connection to "that Arab girl" or "Our Lady from Beirut" ( _Olfb_ for short) an adolescent infatuation, and he knew it went far beyond that.

'Evelyn, let me think things over.'

She cast her eyes down. She was a proud woman, not used to entreating. Her eyes gleamed; the muscles of her face tensed. 'I respect you a lot, Dan. We can be together again, and you can still be as free as you want. And me, too, naturally.' He hadn't seen her so emotional in months. 'Please, Danny. Put that ghost out of your head. She'll destroy you. Isn't one bird in your hand better than—? Wait, let me put on a new disk.' She stood up and before she left the room, added: 'Hey, think it over!'

Evelyn didn't return for ten minutes. Daniel found that he had less to think over than he had imagined.

### ***

He smelled her perfume before he heard her footsteps returning. She tried to tiptoe inaudibly but her slight limp betrayed her. He grasped the unexpected, nervous passion in her body before she had reached him. She came to his chair, pulled him by his shoulders until he rose, and kissed him. She clutched his arms, caressed his back. Daniel felt unsure. He answered her kisses but delicately tried to disentangle himself.

Evelyn knew what she wanted. She stepped half a meter away from him so he could well see her, long blond hair loose, her lips too red. Then with her hands, she grabbed the hem of her black sweater and in one smooth move pulled it over her head. There she stood before him, arms in the air, her small breasts pouting forward. The window had no curtains; the neighbors, had they been aware, might have enjoyed the scene from the opposite side of the narrow street. She was exhibitionistic enough, he knew, not to give a damn. She took Daniel's hand and gave him her most seductive smile.

'Come here. We have a full hour before Jacqueline and Lieve return.' He let himself be embraced and drawn into her sleeping room. For the first time in a long time, he noticed in her lovemaking a passion beyond the addiction to mere pleasure. It was hard not to be entranced by the wild movements of her body. She was on fire, it was beautiful to behold, and exciting to sense he was the privileged trigger who released that all. But he also knew that the most important part of himself was not there. While his body let itself be made love to, and did what was expected of it, his soul, passive and half-unconscious, was elsewhere.

_If the soul exists, that is_ , he reflected absently.

They dressed again. She was far more withdrawn and meditative now, and neither one talked about what had happened.

'I'd better go now, Evelyn.'

The direction was home, but he took a detour through the park. A lazy dusk was descending over the trees whose overripe red and brown leaves were still clinging to branches that were already losing their grip – a mature glory, now passing fast. He knew their bareness was close at hand. In fact, a strong wind was just blowing. He was biking against it, pedaling with all his strength. It was warm for the season, but thick raindrops sprayed his face.

What was he doing at Evelyn's? He had always wanted to be the object of that passion which she had given to others – Alison, for sure, others perhaps... A row of names passed through his mind. And now that she gave herself to him at last, why couldn't he accept her gift, and be fully in the moment?

Of course, he knew the answer. He cared for Evelyn. He found her sexy. And yet she, with all her sparkling ideas and deliberate, enticing movements, couldn't compare to the softness of Nadia's eyes when they first met. The tingle of all of Evelyn's quick-witted jokes didn't weigh up against the fleeting, postponed, then brutally interrupted moment of merging he had experienced with the woman from overseas. That much too vulnerable woman, the one her torturers had skinned.

That loss was far greater than what Evelyn could make up for. No one could make up for that but the one who had been taken away. So should he follow Evelyn's advice and give Nadia up, or trust his own perceptions? There was not even a question in his mind.

_I'm as sure as can be_ , he thought, _that something deep and authentic was going between Nadia and me. I was there_.

Memories of their episodes in Beirut fiercely resisted being entombed in his private pantheon and drove him into despair. At times, he sensed that just by thinking and remembering, he could keep something of her. Perhaps, by refusing to forget, by refusing to let go of her, he might still save her somehow.

One day, the obstinacy of my love will break through the crust of indifference of whatever Greater Force governs this universe. I will fight for her and then she and I will find each other. But of course, no such Force exists. Never mind, I'll hold on to her with all my own meager force and dignity in the face of that absurd and unfeeling universe they've thrown me in.

A gust of wind shook the trees. Leaves whirled. He was passing the pond now, its gray wavy water already carrying a sprinkling of dead leaves. Suddenly, Daniel blacked out. He braked, stepped down, took a deep breath, unsure what was happening. He didn't see her, but he felt her presence, as undeniable as when she had been sitting on his bed in the hotel and her knees were touching his.

_I'm no medium, nor an epilectic_ , he panicked, _just a writer on Mideast affairs who met and lost a beautiful woman. Right?_

But the sensation didn't fade. He had a clear sense that she was being menaced by suffocating clouds, that she was sinking into some poisonous swamp. He plainly heard her screaming for his help. He heard her call his name: 'Daniel!' – once only but very loud. His heart pounding, he looked around. Where was she? Was she near? This sensation – was it real, or a hallucination? Was he going crazy? Was Evelyn right?

A thought arose – what if he continues on his "Nadia" path and becomes ridiculous to his friends and himself. Martijn's cynical voice: 'She's your perfect Orientalist harem fantasy, Dan. Edward Said would have given money to have her in his collection.'

He waited a second, hurt, torn. Then a curtain lowered. Where was the voice he had heard? He tried to recapture the feeling that had hit him, but the moment had passed. All he saw was darkening trees, falling leaves, dirty water. He lowered his head, pulled himself together, and with slow motions started bicycling again, passed under the little viaduct, and moments later emerged in front of the Leidseplein.

Tomorrow he'd try to reconnect with Nadia. He didn't know where she was, but he had her email address. He'd send her their picture of the Corniche. Perhaps her evil cousins had taken that photo from her. Then, when she opened her mail, she'd remember.

## 7.3

Brussels, 12 October 2001

Nadia stayed up the whole night from Thursday to Friday, immersed in prayer, just as she had been instructed. Rita had told her it would yield more merit if she fasted and were alone with God. Rita brought her up to the guest room, lighted a tall white candle next to her bed, and switched the lamp off.

'It's a Catholic leftover,' she explained, over Nadia's doubts. 'I don't believe Allah is against it. The flame helps concentrate your mind on that which lies beyond our daily life.'

It did. Many episodes of her life passed and Nadia saw them reenacted on the stage of her internal theater, incidents she wouldn't recall later. She knew that what she was doing now was somewhat heretical, but if Rita could get away with candles, why couldn't she? Closing her eyes, she asked the Imams Ali and Hussein, to intercede for her and give her strength.

Around three in the morning, her eyes became heavy, but she understood that she must not give in. She opened the window and breathed the chilly air then returned to her prayer.

At seven, Rita knocked on her door. Rita was already dressed, looking austere in a rather formal white abaya. She gave Nadia a mug with water to drink and spoke little. When Donald came to fetch them around nine, Nadia felt weak and transparent.

'Donald...' she started. 'What do you think?'

'My opinion is irrelevant now. You yourself expressed the wish to be enlisted in God's Army. I don't know if you're worthy – nor if it'd be good for you. But be prepared and pray for Allah's compassion.'

'But how well do you know this Noureddin?'

'He sure is a charismatic guy. I feel that too. Maybe God has elected him to lead us.' She noticed his ever-so-slight hesitation.

'Maybe?' Nadia insisted. Rita was paying close attention.

'Hush, sister. And it's Bilal now,' he enjoined with a kind of rigor she had not seen in him before.

Their destination was a long ride away, somewhere in the outskirts of Brussels. They passed viaducts, factories, multilane highways, and a huge park-like forest. The trees bore their autumnal crowns of yellow, brown, and reddish leaves. The air here was clean and cool, but the atmosphere tinged with sadness. She closed her eyes. Rita poked her with an elbow: 'You must not sleep now.' Nadia stifled a yawn and opened the window a centimeter. Soft raindrops were falling on the car.

The forest gave way to more cultivated zones. They drove into a poor town in an isolated part of the agglomeration. Although the puny brick houses with their slate roofs couldn't have been more Belgian, the place reminded her more of Beirut, or the better parts of Cairo, or a market in Tunis. Next to cheap furniture stores and shops with baby clothes, she saw halal butchers, bakers selling pitas, and religious bookstores. Most people in the streets were North African. All women had their hair covered; a few were in black niqab. Many were pushing strollers or held small children by the hand. Many local cars bore scratches and dents. Loud honks protested the congestion of creeping vehicles.

Donald had to stop for a moment at a traffic light. She heard strange rhythmic music wafting from a video store. Martial arts cassettes and hip hop movies filled the window display. Two colorful posters caught her attention – one showing Jerusalem's Golden Dome, the other a smiling Obama bin Laden clutching a rifle. A text in fiery Arabic letters appeared to glorify the man. She could spell out the Urdu but had no clue what it said. A throng of adolescent boys, some in leather jackets and expensive sneakers, stood about the open door of the shop.

A few hundred meters further, past the market, lay the headquarters of God's Army, Jundullah. Here, the village narrowed again to a long, single street planted with trees. They parked in front of a lone building, constructed in the ugly businesslike sixties style that Nadia remembered from the Art History class she had taken for her BA, years ago. The door stood ajar.

Through a dark corridor, they entered an ample, high-ceilinged space that had been repurposed as prayer hall. Rows of believers had already taken their seats on the floor, facing Mecca. From the looks of the crane next to the minbar, the place was still under construction. Nadia recognized several faces she had met in the Molenbeek mosque last week. Prayers had not yet started. Save for the extremely pious who were accumulating extra prostrations, most of those present still relaxed. Some worshipers conversed in hushed tones. She saw Belgian converts, Britons, but mostly nonwestern foreigners: Pakistanis or Indians, she thought, and Arabs – most, she gathered from their aspect and speech, were from Morocco. Besides Palestinians, Iraqis, there were also Black Africans – a few looked like Somalis. She heard many different tongues.

Altogether, the congregation formed a sizable group of people who seemed to know each other – men on this side, women on the other. When she and Rita were passing the rows, they looked. One or the other nodded or smiled in recognition. Rita's hand on her back pressed her forward. They found an available space in one of the farthest rows of the women's section and sat down. Practically all the women were clad in white. In her conspicuous dark scarf and Shiite black abaya, Nadia felt shy.

As if by a secret signal, absolute silence fell over the hall. A short dark man stood up to lead the prayers. Nadia turned to Rita to ask if this were Noureddin, but Rita was not sitting next to her anymore. Her new neighbor was an elderly woman with deep lines in her harsh face. The woman hissed to silence her. Nadia looked around. Nowhere was Rita to be seen.

In unison, the believers stood up, made the prescribed hand movements, knelt, pressed their front to the carpet, and recited the prayers. On automatic pilot, Nadia followed their movements. This part she knew well. With a full heart, she declaimed the shared, "I witness that there is no God but God and that Muhammad is his messenger." Losing herself in a mass of people who all thought, experienced, and expressed the same sentiment at the same moment offered her a deep sense of relief. To be able to shed, for one moment, the burden of being one isolated individual. To bask in the certainty that all choices had already been made, that she just had to do what was commanded and abstain from what was prohibited. The more numerous the faithful who surrounded her, the easier it would be to stay on the right path. The louder the din and hum of simultaneous prayers coming out of so many mouths, the better she was guarded against her own evil thoughts.

She understood: the less one thinks, the more space there is for the fear of God to enter one's innermost soul. One must firmly concentrate on the world to come, its promise and its terror.

The prayers went on for much longer than she recalled from other Friday prayers. The service included endless repetitions of the same words, as if their multiplication would chase away Shaytan and his fitna. She listened to hymns she had never heard.

How many hours had time passed she could no longer guess. From the light streaming through the high windows, she concluded it must be afternoon. Had the whole day passed? She dozed off, but a nightmare vision of dark water churning and gushing into an immense abyss woke her up, or else the noise of prayers at long last receded. Women around her were shifting their hulking bodies, stretching their stiff legs and arms, and seeking a more comfortable position. Nobody took any notice of her. So was it all over now?

She tried to think clearly. It had been beautiful, but not what she was looking for, what she needed. Donald was nice, but here she was a little disappointed.

In her mind's eye, the unsolvable dilemma opened again – the crossroads with on one side Yunis, Munder, Hani, ire contorting their face, and on the other... she tried with all force to banish that other image.

At that precise moment, everything started to shift and tilt for her. From another entrance at the far end of the hall, two blonde, tall, and strong-looking men rolled in a fellow in a wheelchair. They brought him to the front, where a kind of pulley had been prepared on the crane next to the pulpit. Then they hoisted the wheelchair up to its highest point. From there, with painful effort, the disabled man crawled into a banister-protected chair. He was about three meters in the air above the crowd.

From this distance, Nadia found it difficult to make out his countenance in any detail. Like his flock, he was dressed all in white, and his stature appeared smaller than average. He was very square. Nadia noticed dark bushy eyebrows, and a pair of light and penetrating eyes. Under his cap where they had shaved his skull, short black hair was sprouting.

Everybody around her fell silent. The crone at her right jabbed her. 'Noureddin,' she said, and made a hand movement toward the ceiling. One by one, the congregation stood up. So did the old woman. Nadia followed suit. They mumbled a ceremonial greeting she did not catch. The silence was all-encompassing.

A shiver ran down Nadia's back as she focused on the man. She could see him better now.

He looked repulsive, yet she couldn't avoid thinking he also radiated a weird magnetism... an attraction, in a... well, perverted way. His broken body exuded a queer, indomitable strength. Nadia thought of an astronomy book she had once read. Incredibly concentrated extinct stars that suck up everything around them, all matter and energy and even their own light, so you could not see them. They're called white dwarves. Their gravity pulls apart every bit of matter that enters their orbit. The pain of being dismembered by a black hole must be excruciating. But beyond it, lay the sweet promise of never having to feel pain anymore, the promise of eternal fusion with elements stronger than her frail self.

Noureddin signaled with his arm, and all sat down again. Then he opened his mouth; his voice was soft but forceful. To her surprise, his sermon, spoken in classical Arabic, came out with a familiar Lebanese accent.

'Brethren and sisters, the peace of God be on all of you. Today, I have a question for each and every one of you. No, two questions. First question. The past weeks, have they not been among the hardest in memory? You all know why. Because of what happened in America. And what this has unleashed in the lands of unbelief. Also here. Look at this.'

He brandished a piece of crumpled paper.

_There's something weird with his hand_ , Nadia thought. _Like, something's missing_.

'The cursed words scribbled here by some Christian dog should not be spoken here, in this house we built to God, His name be praised. Yet, it regards us all, and I must tell you what it says: "Dood aan de Islam." For those of you not conversant with Flemish: "Death to Islam".'

A wind of consternation swept through the congregation. He went on.

'This was found on the broken door of one of our houses of worship, in this city of Brussels sunk in ignorance and corruption. In the mosque of brother Muhammad Alfassi. The perpetrators destroyed the mosque door, broke in, and once inside, tried to burn our Holy Book. They even threatened the life of Imam Alfassi, may God grant him long life. Whoever has dared utter these sacrilegious words and commit these diabolical acts had not just the All-Powerful Lord of Time in mind. He was thinking of us, His humble followers. Yes, of us Muslims! We, the crusaders' poor, downtrodden laborers! We, who sweep clean his house, dirty as it has become with sin and vice! We, who build his cars and computers, and who serve on him in his restaurants...'

_Quite the orator_ , Nadia the journalist observed. But Nadia the lost soul, the hurting woman, couldn't help but be swept away by the surging strength of his words.

'We, whom Divine Providence has sent to these cold places, so that His Holy Word may be spread in all the earth's corners: we bear the brunt of the hate that wrote these foul words. Well, to him and to his hell-bound underlings, we proclaim: Not death, but _life_ to Islam. And to polytheism and hypocrisy we proclaim out loud: you servants of the Great Satan, death awaits you, and everlasting fire. Islam lives! Death to kufr! So, let us together repeat these words....'

As if they were one body, all stood up again and shouted together "Islam lives! Death to kufr!" As if by a force beyond her will, Nadia screamed along with the others: 'Death to unbelief!' The echoing words were repeated over and over again, blasting each time louder and more menacing. Two young girls in white raised their fists to heaven. Not to be outdone, all the men followed suit. Nadia heard shrieks of 'Revenge!' and a somewhat incongruous 'Long live free Palestine!' In the first row, two or three women fainted and sank to the floor.

She couldn't believe her eyes, but she was unable to stay separate. So irresistible was the effect of Noureddin's words that she began shouting along with the others 'Vengeance!'

Noureddin lifted his hand, commanding instant calm. Continuing his diatribe against the corrupt West, he spoke of the need for the faithful to turn their backs on that sinful world. Again, his words struck a chord in her and gleamed. Yes, she thought, that would be good. If we withdrew, then the evil jinni that resides in the chest of each of us would not dare open its foul mouth. Each one of us would keep the other in check, and community censure would do the rest. Then, when the time had come, our community of virtue would lash out, spread the message.

But it was easier said than done. Part of her objected and started a tacit discussion: wasn't that prescription more practical in Saudi Arabia than here? In fact, she seemed to remember they had tried it out there... Her thoughts drifted. Noureddin's thundering brought her back. He was driving at something – but what?

'Yes, brothers and sisters, there's a second question that each of us must ask himself. Outside these walls, the enemies of Islam are sharpening their knives. It's true. But the enemy outside can only assail us if the greater enemy is within our gates! Yes, Shaytan works by tempting those among us of weakest faith. Here, in this very room! I beseech you, my friends, answer me.'

Nadia sensed a cold wave coming her way.

'What shall we do with the sinner?' Noureddin fulminated. 'What shall we do with the apostate in our midst? For we are not living in the purity of the Arabian desert hallowed by the Prophet's presence. We are rotting in the portal of hell. Corruption and temptation surround us. Injustice, discrimination, adultery, unnatural inclinations...'

Broken only by the hypnotic voice, the silence thickened all around Nadia, covering her like a suffocating blanket. 'No friends, don't trust your own senses. Don't trust your fallible judgment. Trust God's word. The Evil One lurks in every corner. Isn't that why we dress in white, to protect ourselves against the lure of the forbidden? Isn't that true, brothers and sisters? Isn't that true?' he repeated.

Yells of 'Yes, Yes, oh amir' answered his provocation. Nadia felt embarrassed in her black outfit.

'Yet I see that the source of sin has infiltrated itself here!' he went on. 'What would you do with the man who dares to call himself Muslim, but who is a sectarian, who has revolted against God and His prophet! What does such a one deserve? What do _you_ think, brother?'

Noureddin pointed his arm at a worshipper who sat crouched in the first row. The man addressed, surprised, uttered in a shy, soft voice: 'Punish him.'

'And you?' Noureddin asked a second man, on the far side of the hall. 'What would you do?' This time the answer came fast and loud: 'Punish!'

Then, pain contorting his face, yet moving much faster than she expected, Noureddin turned his torso in the direction of the women. He pointed his index at one sister sitting a mere three of four rows in front of her, and asked 'What do you say, woman? What if the sinner is a woman? A woman of troubles, mistakes, grievous impulses, and zina!'

He emphasized that last word with slow, hissing articulation. A din of loud disapprobation filled the hall.

The woman addressed rose with great dignity. Nadia could see her face. With shock, she recognized her. Without hesitation, in a calm and clear voice, Rita pronounced: 'Death is her lot, amir!'

And who was this sinner? Of whom was he talking, that cripple hovering there, whose voice she couldn't shut from her skull? He would not... Was he talking of her? Nadia was in horror. All of a sudden, she had a sensation as if hundreds of worshippers were turning and watching _her_. Or was that only an illusion created by her guilt? She felt her heart beating strongly and too fast. Drops of perspiration ran over her brow. She took a handkerchief and wiped them away.

With a little nod from afar, Noureddin acknowledged Rita's words. Then, shifting back to the bulk of the congregation and not speaking to anybody in particular, he changed his tune again.

'No, no, no, people! Harsh penalties may yet be Allah's verdict on her. But lo, He is Compassionate, too, Merciful. O ye who stray from the straight path,' he spoke in a loud tone, 'Hearken God's voice, Who speaks to you so ye may be saved!' Then he lowered his voice to a near-imperceptible whisper: 'Hush, oh God's people. Allah is All-Knowing. He knows all the shameful secrets of your heart. Not to condemn you, but to throw you a lifeline – before your soul sinks into impenetrable pollution. It is not too late for you yet.'

Nadia barely dared move a muscle.

She heard: 'Give the sinner a moment's respite, believers! Let him be with his abomination. And the harlot, leave her a moment alone, my people, before her corruption infects the earth. Do not look at her, for evil is contagious. Do not touch her, for she is sullied. If she is condemned, it's enough for God to smite her. She is free to go, like the idolaters and conspirers and whores are free to go... for now. But as for us, let us draw inside for a moment, let us pray for her soul, let us pray that Allah All-Powerful break her will so that hope may yet enter this lost soul. Perhaps she wants to stay with the Army of God... And if so, will she make the confession?'

A terrible silence descended. Nadia swayed in the core of this whirlwind, something strange taking place within her mind. Part of herself seemed to detach from her body, and in a split second floated up. There, from on high, she, Nadia the observer, looked down on herself: a small, grieving and confused woman in a long black cloth, sitting in the middle of a circle of foreigners. She saw the worshippers in white, but not in regular straight rows facing Mecca. It appeared to her that they were sitting in circular waves around her like concentric ripples in water around a stone as it sinks.

They were not smiling anymore. She saw grimaces, abhorrence, menace. Never had she felt so alone. She was drowning in a deep dark pond, and those people were approaching her, taking her arms and legs, pulling her under. Dirty, brackish water, yellowish and contaminated, entered her mouth. She couldn't breathe. Her life, she saw with intolerable clarity, was about to be destroyed.

She tried to yell: _Stop! I'm a believer!_ , but a black fluid rushed into her lungs.

At that point, an intuition came to her, she knew not whence. "Yes, Nadia, you believe, but in the modern way. And you know there is one person who can save you, and his religion is unimportant."

Or was that Shaytan's whisper?

But where was her savior now? She looked around, hoping in vain he'd show up, out of nowhere, and drag her from this darkness, out of this sect, and take her to a place of light and serenity and reason.

The one man who understood her, and who had respected her in all her ambivalence.

_Yes_ , she felt, _I'm ambivalent, so help me God._

But was that reason enough to condemn a poor soul to flames? Or was hell perhaps not fire but this mass of deep water that dragged her down, full of algae and rotting bodies?

She was at the waterline; she could go either way. Up there was air to breathe, and light. And up above her, she saw his hurt face, as she had left him in the Beirut hotel. In twisted sounds, she heard her own voice echoing, 'If you touch me so much as a small finger, I'm lost. Go now, in the name of Allah.' He was walking away.

The image faded, then another emerged: big trees with red and yellow leaves being torn from their branches by strong autumn gusts. The wind was tearing at the surface of the pond. Rain lashed a figure bicycling among trees by a park. Dead leaves were whirling around him. The image amplified as if she looked through a magnifying lens at a silent movie. She recognized the hands holding the handlebars, the face, grieving a stillborn love. But... he was moving.

A draft passed through Nadia's body. She saw herself there too, floating in the air mere meters from him, but on the inside of a cold glass dome. If only she could hold on to the image, contact him. A wordless supplication: 'Save me, please'. He seemed to hear something, but he saw only raindrops.

No answer came.

A sudden shriek escaped her lips: 'Daniel!' He jumped off his bicycle, shifted his head from left to right, bewildered, looking around.

Nadia suddenly saw a crowd of mad disapproving faces. Pressed down by the weight of two hundred urgent voices calling her away from him, she didn't know what to do. Where was Daniel now? Dark, foul water rose over her lips, wetted her hair, and entered her nose. She was dying. She knew.

Quick, I must say my shahada before it's too late. Help! Is there nobody?

She scanned the angry faces in the white hijabs circling around her.

Are you the dead?

Later, she would recall only that she began to speak aloud, but in an incoherent voice. First, the brothers and sisters in white listened in silence. What she said, she didn't know. In her recollection, people whom she did not know, whom she had never met before, were accusing her. She felt in every sinew of her body that Allah would doom her soul unless she repented. Here. Now. . Then, there was the breakdown, the uncontrollable, hysterical crying, the crumbling of her being, her identity shattered – the one who had been Nadia. From where she had been watching with as much distance as she could muster, the detached portion of herself, the observer, the journalist, came crashing down. She lay squirming on the carpet.

Now the white-veiled faces approached her, but their tone had changed. The women draped in white hugged and comforted her: 'It's not too late. God is compassionate for those who repent and accept His will. Salvation's still an option.'

'If you want, Nada,' she heard somebody speaking to her, in the voice of Rita, 'you may stay here. Believe totally in the One God, embrace as your own our ideal. Join our community of the pure. Promise utter devotion to the one who's nearest to Allah, to Noureddin, Light of Faith, King. Willingness to sacrifice anything – even your life. Yes, the price is high, but is any sum too high for your soul? Cut off all links to your earlier, corrupt existence: western journalism, frivolous phone calls, lascivious emails. From now on, all thoughts, all memories of your old life must be burned to ashes.'

Every desire should flow to Noureddin, and through the Leader, to God. At once, as if coming from outside her own will, a wave of love for Noureddin surged through her body. She was on her knees, stretching her neck to see him. The paralyzed seer was being dragged down again from the minbar. He didn't look at her.

Somebody kicked her in her side: 'Ayb! Shame on you – one does not lift her eyes like that at the Amir. It would be indecent.'

The last she remembered was him being wheeled away, while one of the women in white close to her, recited verses about giving up wickedness and illicit sensuality. Were they from the Qur'an?

From now on, you shall be Nada.

Nadia – is dead.

Nada – reborn.

She fainted.

### 7.4

The next morning, as he opened his mailbox, Daniel found the long-awaited letter from Beirut:

Saturday 13 October 2001.

My Dear Dr. DeVries,

Apologies for not writing earlier to you. Certainly, you will understand how the political consequences after 9/11 have demanded a lot of our energies here. It cost me some time to contact Fatma Nasr again. You may know that she has married and is now living elsewhere. That is why she also needed awhile. She has now finally communicated the findings of her investigation, which I copy for you below, except for a few details which she preferred to keep to herself. In recognition of her efforts, I have made the donation as per your request. I am deeply sorry that I am unable to give you better news.

Yours sincerely,

your friend

Majid F. Khalifa"

Underneath, he read:

Nada Iskander, born in Beirut in 1975, daughter of Wael and Zahra, of the Ja'farite sect. American journalist, resident in New York, New York. Married to Munder Ja'afari from 1998 to 2000, marriage ended by husband on account of wife's disreputable behavior. In June of current year, obtained leave of her parents and her brothers in New Jersey to visit Beirut for newspaper assignment, arriving on August 10. Due to behavior estimated dishonorable by her relatives, i.e. seeing a Calvinist Dutch scholar of Judaic blood [name withheld], was taken under the guard of Imad Ja'afari, cousin to Zahra, in Dahiyeh. Confronted with her crimes, made full confession and repented; however, adultery with penetration not being proven by required number of male witnesses, customary measures were not implemented. Further juridical proceedings were dropped after husband agreed to take her back, in return for [sum omitted] to be split among the Ja'afari family members. Sent back to Munder Ja'afari in the US, accompanied by her second cousin. At Beirut airport, an issue of discrimination of Mr. Musa by a Maronite officer led to the loss of former's passport, and the inability to accompany her. Party of God lodged an official complaint. Nada Iskander thus flying alone with Sabena to Brussels, and due to ship to TWA carrier from Brussels to New York, failed to report for embarkation. Disappearance reported to US authorities. Investigations by family suspended due to disunity between two Ja'afari branches. Current whereabouts: unknown."

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# CAST OF CHARACTERS

### NETHERLANDS

DANIEL'S FAMILY

_Daniel de Vries_ ( _Dan, Danny, Danyal_ ; also spelled _Devries_ and _DeVries_ ): A Dutch Arabist living in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, university lecturer on Middle Eastern affairs and freelance researcher

_Ingrid Overveen_ : the former wife of Daniel de Vries, a Dutch local politician

_Evelyn Willems_ : a Dutch psychologist in Amsterdam, house friend and on/off lover of Daniel de Vries

_Lieve Willems_ : Evelyn's daughter

_Alison Davies_ : an American ceramics artist living in Holland, lover of Evelyn

OTHERS

_Martijn Jansen_ : an anthropologist and friend of Daniel de Vries

_Leila Bouazza_ : a Dutch Moroccan political science student, later a police officer in Amsterdam

_Gerrit Lafontaine_ ( _Woody Woodpecker_ ): a leader of a Far Right outfit, later a Christian convert in Groningen

_Mona Elhag_ : an Egyptian anthropologist, university professor in Amsterdam, and later in New York

### NADIA'S FAMILY

THE ISKANDERS

_Nadia Iskander_ (also _Nada_ , or _Nunu_ ): an American Arab journalist of Lebanese Shiite background, lives in New York, and later in Belgium

_Wael Iskander_ : Nadia's father, in New Jersey

_Fouad Iskander_ : Nadia's elder brother, a cardiologist in the USA

_Yunis Iskander_ ( _Yuyu_ ): Nadia's younger brother, a law student in the USA

THE JA'AFARIS

Zahra Ja'afari Iskander: Nadia Iskander's mother, in New Jersey

_Munder Ja'afari_ : Nadia's second cousin and first husband, in New York

_Hani Ja'afari_ : Nadia's cousin in Beirut, Lebanon, activist in Hizbullah; later with Jundullah in Beauvigny, Belgium

_Musa Ja'afari_ : Hani's younger brother

_Imad Ja'afari_ : Hani and Musa Ja'afari's father

_Wafa_ : Hani and Musa's mother

THE JAMALIS

_Hussein Jamali_ : second husband of Nadia Iskander, in Belgium

### LEBANON

_Majid Khalifa_ : a Sunni ex-communist, point man of the NGO Allo in Beirut, friend of Daniel de Vries

_Dr. Khaled Karam_ : a physician and the director of the Mi'raj project in Beirut

_Dr. Bernard Berberian_ : a physician in St. George Hospital in Mar Ilyas

_Fatima Nasr_ : a Hizbullah woman and acquaintance of Majid Khalifa

_Michel Laval_ : a French journalist stationed in Beirut

### BELGIUM

_Johnny Abel_ : a young ultra-Rightist militant from Antwerp

_Jacqueline Willems_ ( _Jackie_ ): Evelyn's sister, a professor of philosophy in Ghent, Belgium

_Ludo Vermeulen_ : a police academy student, and an extreme racist

_Serge Mathieu_ : a student of Prof. Jacqueline Willems in Ghent, boyfriend of Lieve Willems

_Jérôme Durand_ : the director of a private security firm in Brussels

_Claus_ : a police commissioner in Antwerp

_Frank Pioen_ ( _François_ ): the deputy chief of counterterrorism in Brussels

JUNDULLAH (God's Army)

_Donald Butler_ ( _Bilal_ , also _Billy_ ): an American convert, an information specialist living in Brussels

_Noureddin Malik_ ( _Nour_ ; also _John Abdu_ , or _Johnny_ ): a Flemish-Lebanese criminal who becomes the leader (amir) of the Jundullah sect, in Brussels and Beauvigny, Belgium

_Mohammed Alfassi_ : an Islamic leader in Brussels who had once been a prison chaplain

_Qais Tarabulsi_ ( _Christian Vanecke_ ): a convert from Antwerp, later lieutenant of Noureddin in Jundullah

_Rita Peeters_ : a Flemish convert, social worker, later kitchen aid in Beauvigny; the confidante of Donald Butler, and a friend of Nadia Iskander

_Hilda Verellen_ : a Flemish convert and a primary schoolteacher

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# GLOSSARY

(Arabic, unless otherwise mentioned)

_abaya_ : cloak, loose overgarment

_abbi_ : dad

_abu_ : father of

_ahlan wa-sahlan_ : welcome

_Alawites_ : Shiite sect in Syria

_alhamdulillah_ : God be praised

_alim_ : (pl: _ulama_ ) religious scholar

_Allah_ : God

_Allahu akbar_ : God is the greatest

_Allahu alim_ : God is the knower, God knows

_allochthone_ : stranger by birth or culture (Dutch)

_Amal_ : 'Hope', a Shiite political movement in Lebanon, considered less radical than Hizbullah

_amir_ : (or _emir_ ) prince or general

_Ashura_ : 'tenth', Shiite day of mourning, commemorating the martyrdom of Husain in 680 CE, on the tenth day of the month Muharram

_Ansar_ : 'Helpers', citizens of Medina who supported Muhammad and the cause of Islam after the Prophet's flight from Mecca; today, various militant Islamic groupings call themselves thus

_Assassins_ : from _hashishiyin_ or 'hashish-smokers, 11th century secret order of dissident Shiite warriors who used "suicide terrorism" to assassinate their Sunni enemies

_astaghfarullah_ : I ask forgiveness from God

_a_ ' _udhu billahi_ : I seek protection in God; God forbid

_autochthone_ : someone native to the country (Dutch)

_aya_ : verse of a Qur'an chapter (sura)

_ayb_ : shame

_aywa_ : yes

_azan_ : the call to prayer

_basturma_ : seasoned dried meat

_bin_ : son of

_bint_ : daughter of

_bismillah_ : In the name of God

_burqa_ : feminine outer garment covering the body from head to toe, including the entire face, with a semi-transparent net in front of the eyes (Urdu)

_caliph_ : successor to the Prophet Muhammad as leader of the Islamic community (in Sunnism)

_chador_ : black open cloak for Iranian women covering the whole body (Farsi)

_cheese head_ : derogatory Flemish epithet for 'Dutch'

_Dahiyeh_ : Shiite quarter in Southern Beirut

_Dar ul-Islam_ : 'House of Islam,' territories under Muslim control; in conflict with _Dar ul-Harb_ or 'House of War'

_da_ ' _wa_ : call, Islamic mission

_dhimmi_ : see 'People of the Book'

_Diets_ : hypothetical ancient "All-Netherlandish" language that inspired a fascist movement favoring union of the Netherlands and Flanders based on shared Germanic roots (Dutch)

_Druze_ : religious community in Syria, Lebanon, and Israel, stemming from an 11th century schism among Isma'ilis (a branch of Shiism)

_dughri_ : straight, honest

_effendi_ : Sir or Lord, title of respect

_Eid_ : festival, _Eid al-Fitr_ or Sugar Feast marks the breaking of the fast at the end of Ramadan, _Eid al-Adha_ marks the sacrifice of Abraham

_ekhi_ : my brother

_ekhti_ : my sister

_Fatiha_ : the opening chapter of the Qur'an

_fedayin_ : martyrs or guerrillas

_finjan_ : small pot with a long handle used to prepare Turkish coffee

_fitna_ : fascination, temptation or seduction; can refer to either female attraction or to anarchy or civil war

_Flamingant_ : follower of the Flemish nationalist movement (French)

_ful_ : dish of cooked beans

_gracht_ : canal (Dutch)

_habibi_ (f.: _habibti_ ): my friend

_hadith_ : tradition about words or acts of the Prophet Muhammad

_hafiz_ : 'guardian', someone who has completely memorized the Qur'an

_hajj_ : pilgrimage to Mecca, undertaken collectively during the month of Dhu al-Hijja

_halal_ : permissible, e.g. food in accordance with Islamic dietary laws

_hamula_ : extended family

_hanum_ : lady (Turkish)

_haram_ : prohibited

_harira_ : Moroccan soup

_Hassidism_ : from _hasid_ , 'pious', branch of Orthodox Judaism that focuses on the mystical and popular, in opposition to the legalism of rabbinic tradition (Hebrew)

_hijab_ : screen or curtain; feminine veil or scarf covering the hair but leaving the face visible

_hijra_ : migration; the Prophet Muhammad's flight from Mecca to Medina in 622 CE

_Hizbullah_ : Party of God, a Lebanese Shiite Islamist party

_houri_ : pure and beautiful companion of the souls of the blessed in paradise

_hummus_ : a dip made of mashed chickpeas and sesame sauce

_Hypocrite_ : _munafiq_ , the heresy of someone who outwardly practices Islam but hides his disbelief

_Iblis_ : the Devil

_ibn_ : son

_ibni_ : my son

_iftar_ : meal that breaks the Ramadan fast after sunset

_imam_ : one who leads the congregation in prayer; in Shiism, successor of the prophet Muhammad

_imshi_ : Go away! Get out! Go forth!

_inshallah_ : God willing

_Islam_ : submission (to God's will), the religion revealed to the Prophet Muhammad

_Islamophobia_ : 'fear of Islam', prejudice against or hatred toward Islam and/or Muslims

_istishhad_ : self-sacrifice

_jalabiya_ : traditional long robe, often with sleeves and sometimes with hood

_jami_ ': mosque

_Janna_ : the Garden (of paradise)

_jihad_ : striving; struggle in God's path, can refer either to nonviolent self-control or armed struggle against infidels. Followers and practitioners are _jihadis_ or _mujahedin_

_jilbab_ : long and loose coat for women

_jinni_ (pl. _jinn_ ): genie, invisible supernatural spirit

_Jundullah_ : Army of God

_Kaaba_ : a square sacred building in Mecca that houses the black meteorite that was part of Abraham's first temple

_kaffir_ (pl. _kuffar_ ): infidel, nonbeliever

_karim_ : noble

_keffiya_ : traditional Arab and Kurdish headdress fashioned from a scarf

_khalas_ : Shut up! Enough!

_kismet_ : fate or destiny (Turkish)

_kubbeh_ : croquette of minced meat with onions and bulgur

_kufr_ : unbelief, rejection of faith or denial of God

_labbaneh_ : strained yoghurt

_Lailat al-Qadr_ : during Ramadan, the Night of Power or Night of Destiny, when the first verses of the Quran were revealed

_ma_ ' _a salama_ : Go in peace, farewell

_mabruk_ : congratulations

_mahr_ : dowry, bride price

_mahram_ : blood relatives from the opposite sex whom one cannot marry or have sex with

_maktub_ : it is written (expression of resignation in the face of God)

_Manar_ : lighthouse; name of Hizbullah broadcast station in Lebanon

_markaz_ : center

_Maronite_ : Christian religious community mainly in Lebanon, part of the Catholic Church since 12th century

_masa al-kheir / masa an-nur_ : Good evening

_Mashriq_ : the Arab East, i.e., the Arab world east of Egypt

_Mevrouw_ : Mrs. (Dutch)

_mezze_ : small dishes, hors d'oeuvres

_mihrab_ : niche in mosque facing the direction of Mecca

_minbar_ : pulpit

_mi'raj_ : 'ladder', the miraculous nocturnal journey of Prophet Muhammad from Jerusalem to the heavens

_miswak_ : tooth cleaning twig recommended by Prophet Muhammad

_muezzin_ : person who calls the faithful to prayer

_Muhammad_ : the Prophet of Islam (ca. 570-632 CE)

_muhareb_ : one who makes war (against God)

_mujahid_ , pl. _mujahedin_ : warrior in the jihad

_mumin_ (f.: _mumina_ ): believer

_mish mumkin_ : impossible! no way!

_mukhtar_ : village headman

_musharabiyye_ : window with carved wood latticework that shields viewers from being seen from the outside

_Muslim(a):_ follower of Islam

_mut_ ' _a_ : delight; _nikah mut'a_ is a temporary "pleasure" marriage (in Shiism)

_Nasserists_ : followers of the pan-Arab politician Gamal Abdul Nasser, popular leader of Egypt, 1952-1970

_nikah al-misyar_ : traveler's marriage (in Sunnism)

_nikah halala_ : purification marriage; a woman who has been thrice divorced and remarried by her husband cannot remarry him again until she is "purified" by marrying and divorcing another man

_niqab_ : face veil covering all but the eyes

_People of the Book_ : Jews and Christians. They believe in the Bible, which is according to Islam, a partly correct and partly flawed scripture. As monotheists, they have unequal rights under Islam, including the freedom of religion under the status of "protected people" or _dhimmi_

_pita_ : round flat bread

_purdah_ : 'curtain', segregation of women (Farsi)

_qadi_ : judge

_qatayef_ : sweet dumplings filled with nuts or cream

_qibla_ : direction of prayer toward Mecca

_Qur'an_ : 'recitation', Koran, the text of revelations received by Prophet Muhammad, Islam's holy book

_Ramadan_ : month of fasting

_Ramadan karim_ : Blessed Ramadan!

_sabah al-kheir / sabah an-nur_ : Good morning

_sahtein_ : good appetite

_Salafi_ : follower of puritanical Islamic current that tries to emulate _al-salaf al-salih_ , "the worthy ancestors", the pious Muslims of the first generation

_salam alaikum_ : Peace be upon you (greeting)

_salat_ : prayer, worship of God, obligatory five times per day

_sayyid_ (f.: _sayyida_ ): Mr., Ms.

_service_ : collective taxi

_shahada_ : testimony, public affirmation of God's unicity and of Muhammad's prophecy; proclaiming it converts one into a Muslim

_shahid_ (f: _shahida_ ): 'witness', martyr, one who sacrifices his or her life for the cause of Islam

_Shamsun_ : the Biblical judge Samson, a prophet in Islam

_shari'a_ : Islamic legal code

_sharmuta_ : whore

_shawarma_ : grilled meat shavings in a sandwich wrap; döner kebap

_Shaytan_ : Satan

_sheshbesh_ : backgammon

_sheikh_ : old man, sheik, title for a learned person

_Shi'a_ or _Shiism (Shi'ism)_ : 'faction', i.e. the party of Ali, nephew and son-in-law of the prophet Muhammad, in the struggle for his heritage; followers are called Shiites, who nowadays comprise the minority of Muslims

_shirk_ : association, i.e., the heresy of associating or partnering another entity to God; polytheism

_shukran_ ( _jazilan_ ): Thank you (very much)

_Sidi_ : Sir

_sinjoor_ : (from Spanish _señor_ ) inhabitant of Antwerp, Belgium (Dutch)

_subhanahu wa ta'ala (SWT)_ : 'May He be Glorified and Exalted', said or written after mentioning God's name

_Sufi_ : practitioner of Sufism, a mystical tendency within Sunnism

_sulha_ : reconciliation

_Sunni_ : follower of the _Sunna_ , the Islamic customs and manners as sanctioned by tradition. _Sunnism_ opposed Shiism in regard to the succession of the prophet Muhammad. Nowadays, Sunnis constitute the majority of Muslims

_sura_ : chapter of the Quran

_tabouleh_ : salad of bulgur, tomatoes, cucumbers and parsley

_talaq_ : divorce initiated by husband

_taqiya_ : prayer cap

_tahini_ : sesame paste

_toubib_ : physician

_Twelvers_ : largest group of Shiites, they accept a lineage of Twelve Imams, from Muhammad's successor Ali to Muhammad al-Mahdi

_ud_ : Arab lute

_ulama_ : (plural of _alim_ ) religious scholars, learned specialists in Islamic law

_umm_ : mother of

_umma_ : the community of the Muslim faithful

_ummi_ : Mom

_umra_ : pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina outside the month of the Hajj

_völkisch_ : 'relating to the people'; racial-nationalist (German)

_wahhabi_ : followers of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab, a puritanical 18thcentury Arabian preacher

_wallah_ , _wallahi_ : by God (oath)

_yallah_ : come on! Hurry!

_za_ ' _atar_ : thyme powder

_zagharid_ : ululation, sign of joy

_zakat_ : religiously ordained tax on all Muslims, proceeds go to social welfare benefitting poor Muslims

_zemzem_ : holy spring in Mecca

_zenana_ : 'of the women', women's compartment in a house (Urdu)

_zina_ : unlawful intercourse (fornication, adultery)

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#  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Although the incidents related in this book (particularly those in Book 5) dominated headlines for a few days not long ago, so much has occurred in the meantime that many readers may have difficulty recalling more than one or two highlights. Many more, I suppose, have forgotten everything. And yet it would be hard to overstate the importance of the drama that played itself out in that hilly and forested, calm and isolated corner of Europe. In those heady weeks in late summer of 2011, the events seemed a strange counterpart to the revolts then erupting all over the Arab World. In retrospect, they seem in an even queerer way to prefigure the tragedies witnessed in our own days in Syria, Iraq, Pakistan, Nigeria and elsewhere.

And yet, despite the appalling outcome then, how could one fail to feel compassion for those individuals who, on either side of the divide, found themselves entangled in a quandary not of their own making? How could one not admire their courage, commitment and sheer grit? I believed from the beginning that their story was not just gripping in itself, but that lessons might be learnt from the agonizing choices the protagonists made during what the media labeled (all too superficially) the "Beauvigny hostage drama" of the "gang of God's Army". I remain convinced today that there is a message here not without relevance for our own much less optimistic time.

This alone seemed reason enough to present again, in a coherent whole and for all interested readers, the story of the rise and fall of Jundullah, and the personal drama of those caught up in it. However, there is a second and perhaps more compelling justification for adding yet another tome to what is already a small cottage industry of journalistic and scholarly works on the enigma of Noureddin Malik, his followers, and his deplorable acts. The following reconstruction may modestly claim to include an unprecedented amount of important and hitherto unknown information. Even among informed observers, few until now had knowledge of the hidden background of the "Amir of the Ardennes". Even less accessible to the public (for obvious reasons) was the personal odyssey of Professor Daniel de Vries, which, as the pages below prove, dates back to 2001. This scholar, so outspoken in his academic and political opinions, always kept a screen of discretion over the private and highly charged aspects of the adventure in which he played such a central role. Presented here for the first time is the uncensored story of his inner struggle. We may affirm today that our discovery of these "missing links" allows us finally to understand the puzzle of why the siege ended as it did, and in particular what role the mysterious Nadia Iskander played in its outcome.

In the interests of disclosure, a brief note on my sources. Personal contacts permitted me access to several still classified papers of some of the institutions that played a part in my investigation; however, what follows is foremost a work of oral history. I succeeded in interviewing at length most of the actors who survived this peculiar drama (besides having talked earlier to some who did not). To all who graciously gave of their time to share with me their experiences and insights, and whose identities must understandably remain anonymous, I give my heartfelt thanks. It is thanks to the input of all these informants that this book not only provides a novel analysis of the events but also sheds new light on the motives of its main protagonists.

Acknowledgment is also due to the generous support provided by the Borboleta Foundation in Los Angeles. Although I have tried as much as possible to check the data that follows, I bear sole responsibility for the reconstruction.

To make this story more accessible, it is presented in the form of a novel. Names and locales have been changed to protect the privacy and, in a few cases, security of the dramatis personae and their families, including but not restricted to involved Dutch, Belgian, and Lebanese security personnel. Those in the know will readily recognize who is who.

Frank Emmanuel, January 2015

###

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# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frank Emmanuel is a European social scientist with a multicultural background and years of experience in studying conflict, anger, and hope. He has traveled, lived and worked in different continents, from Europe to Asia and South America, but it is the Middle East which is closest to his heart. There, over the years, he has made contact with people of many different cultural and religious backgrounds. He has taught and written about Islamic movements and their conflict with the West for twenty years before deciding to put his insights and life experience into fictional form. Now in his fifties, Frank is married and a father of two. This is his first novel, and once you've read it you'll see why he had to assume a pen name.

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# OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

Book Two: _God's Army_

Book Three: _The Naked Statue_

Book Four: _Among Brothers_

Book Five: _Sacrifice_

Book Six: _The Living Picture_

### BOOK2: God's Army

As A Sect Turns Radical, A Daughter Is Lost.

Eight years after having lost but not forgotten the love of his life, Daniel watches his adoptive daughter Lieve, now a young woman, drift into a secretive puritanical Islamic sect. The path that once led him to Beirut now points to Brussels, where he approaches Donald "Bilal", the eccentric representative of "God's Army". From him he learns of Noureddin's mysterious healing - for his followers, a sign from heaven that God's Army must become more active in spreading the Message. When Lieve disappears, surprisingly Donald agrees to help Daniel in an attempt to rescue her. Or is it a trap?

A kidnap, an escape, a capture. And a wild race. But who is chasing whom? And where is Nadia?

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# SAMPLE A SCENE FROM BOOK TWO:

# "GOD'S ARMY"

'Hey, is that you... Bilal?'

Covered in her black niqab, the woman on duty guarding Lieve was surprised to see him there.

'Yes, still the same. Good morning, and glad to see you, habibti,' he answered her, also in English.

That's it. No denying, he had recognized her. Some men, she had learned, they recognize you no matter what. They know to undress you by their eyes, whether you're in a bikini or all burqaed up.

He gave an affable smile yet appeared startled. Wallah, why did Bilal look so upset?

'I take it you're a tad late, sis,' he said, 'tying up your shift? Who's to replace you?'

Donald had instantly controlled himself again. But she noticed something contrived in his behavior. Her brain rattled as fast as ever. Strange rumors about him had reached her: his wanton criticisms, doubts about the path, growing distance from the amir and from Allah. She hadn't seen him for more than two years, except from afar, at a few ceremonial functions. And at those occasions, she had always focused her gaze at the amir. As much as decency permitted.

Bilal looked haggard, less fat than she remembered, and more insecure. And why was he carrying that shoulder bag with him? Something was the matter.

'Morning of light, Bilal. Make yourself at ease. On the contrary. I just arrived an hour ago to take over from Hilda. She called me to come a bit earlier. So I'll have a longer tour of duty today. Why?'

'How's that?'

Strange. It had never been Bilal's style to go into all kinds of insignificant details _._ 'Oh, her lawyer summoned her to an urgent meeting. Something to do with her custody case. But she can better explain that to you by herself, if she cares to.'

'Sister, I brought the medicines for the girl. You'll let me be a moment alone with her, will you?'

The girl. Beautiful Lieve. They had brought here against her will. Lieve's regal fair hair was only partially covered. Those green eyes she imagined radiant in better circumstances, were cast down now, as she sat on the plastic chair, as if frozen, commanded not to look left or right. Impassive, she stared at the blind wall of what must have been the social room that looked onto the back garden.

Lieve was her ward, for now. At least for the few hours before they'd transport her on. Something told her not to give in to Bilal's request. It sounded a little too forced. She did not know the whole plot, just followed the instructions: if Noureddin had elected her to watch over the candidate's honor, she must not disappoint him. She was in thrall to the leader who had once saved her, and whose generosity kept her safe every day.

'Qais must have explained to you that the amir himself ordered me to assume guard. I'm not to leave her out my sight.'

'But sis, the amir has entrusted her to me for religious instruction.'

'I'm afraid your demand can't be met, brother. Miss Willems's unmarried. You may, however, address her in my presence. For you, I'll stuff wax in my ears.'

He continued pleading in a friendly but increasingly insistent tone, and she felt more and more cornered. He was on the verge of mentioning that formally, by the amir's word, he - not Qais or anybody else - was in charge of operations.

At last, she uttered, in as irrevocable a manner as she could muster: 'I'm sorry, Bilal.'

Donald looked upset. But what would have happened had events taken their regular course, she would never know. She did something very small and had she not done it, the whole story might have ended differently. Something out of the ordinary was catching her attention. From far away, she had heard a noise. It was coming from the front. A male voice, shouting unintelligible words. It sounded now nearby, then vaguer, softer, and more distant, only to approach again, as if the speaker of those words, or screams, was walking to and fro. This had gone on for the past minute or two.

She did not recognize it as Qais' voice, nor as that of the Yemenite jihadi or the other guard. The commotion made it hard for her to focus on Bilal's entreaty. Something in the voice was... as if... calling her.

'Quick, Mizz' Jamali, here's something you ought to see,' Qais called her from the front room in his sort of English. Respectful, obsequious even, and mean at the same time, Qais used her late husband's name.

'Excuse me one moment, Donald,' she said as she rose and walked to the front room. In the heat of the moment, his old name had come back to her. Before disappearing through the open door, she turned around, gave her niqab a pull to smooth its creases, and addressed him once more: 'Bilal, I mean. See, you can have your private minute with her.'

Reaching the front room took five seconds, accustoming her eyes to the semi-dark a little while longer. The heavy curtains were drawn save for a slit of at most five centimeters wide, and blocked the view to the street. Through the narrow gap, a thin ray of sunlight was all that was allowed in. All lamps were switched off. From the outside, the house must look unoccupied. After a moment, she could identify the silhouettes of the three men standing inside the room: Qais, and two guards in Afghan-style fatigues, with kaftans, turbans hiding most of their face, AK47s at the present, and belts with cartridges slung around their rumps. Soldiers of her own struggle – and yet sinister.

Outside the shouting continued, and she could hear it more distinctly now. Screams in Dutch which, after all her years in the country, she still could hardly understand. Their tenor was patently gross and angry: 'Geef me godverdomme mijn dochter terug!' and 'Stelletje lafaards, klootzakken.'

'What's that jerk saying?' she whispered to Qais.

'Give me back my daughter so dooms me God, and You bunch of coward shitheads,' he translated.

She could not see the expression on his face. _What the bleep "my daughter"?_ she thought.

Then, she recalled that voice. Long ago. It could not be, could it? She must know. She walked to the open split between the two curtains. For a few seconds, she peeked outside. Two cars had parked along the sidewalk. She recognized Donald's dilapidated Volvo; next to it, someone had parked a silver Golf. Behind, on the street, a figure of middling height and with thinning brown hair was jumping and screaming at the top of his voice.

'Wallah, don't do that, ekhti,' one of the guards hissed in Arabic. 'The kaffir will see there're people in here.'

She barely noticed the guard and did not heed his warning. She looked and looked and felt an invisible hand throttling her. She didn't care any longer if he who was making all that fuss would see her. In fact the man must have seen her, though he obviously didn't recognize her in her full body veil. But she recognized him. No, there could be no doubt. Despite the changes that ten years had wrought in his appearance, she recognized him beyond question: dancing wildly like a loon, some ten meters away, was the man she had met in an earlier lifetime, in Beirut – Daniel. And he was screaming about – the girl entrusted to her, was she, then, his daughter? A'udhu billahi, God forbid!

He was yelling, running from one side to the other, waving his arms in the air as if they were windmill vanes. It was obvious he was trying to make as much of a scandal as he could. Perhaps he wanted to catch the attention of the neighbors – if any were home. Nothing seemed to move at the neighbors though.

She was speechless and stood as if petrified. Seconds passed.

'Who's with the infidel girl?' Qais' voice suddenly rang.

'Bilal, ekhi,' the mujahid with the Yemeni accent said.

Things went very quickly. In between Daniel's shouts, came from behind the noise of an engine starting.

'Something's happening back there. Quick! You!' Qais shouted at one guard. 'Follow me!' The two of them leapt out the room toward the garden, but they were too late. At that very moment, she saw a black car turn out of the side street. She recognized Donald at the wheel. He seemed to be alone and slowly drove in the direction of Daniel.

A sudden scream came in from behind: 'Alarm! The virgin's escaped. Stop them. Stop!' Qais' voice. The guard who had stayed with her in the room ran to the curtains, wrenched them open, took his rifle, put the barrel against the glass and aimed through his visor at Donald in his car. But then – realizing the risk, or perhaps fearing its recoil – he thought better and ran with his weapon into the corridor. A moment later he was outside. Meanwhile, the Yemenite had also come running from the back garden, followed by Qais. Would the three armed Jundullahis be fast enough to overcome the renegade in his car?

And, where was Lieve?

She stood alone in the room. An intuition flashed through her head. She opened the window and screamed at Qais and the mujahedin: 'The madman, brothers, the madman. Don't let him escape. Capture him!'

She did not understand her own motives: was it because she knew that Daniel would be the more valuable prize for her amir whom part of her desired, though he was of course inaccessible and incapable of ever reciprocating? Or else – what did that strange excitement signify that she tried not to feel, as she recognized the man who ten years before had turned her head, body and soul?

Everything happened in a hurry. Trained to follow orders, the guards did as she commanded. The two of them were now closing in on Daniel, but had not caught him yet. Donald surged as close to the sidewalk as he dared. A mere meter or two away, Daniel was trying to reach the car, and ran faster than his pursuers.

Then Nadia saw him making a mistake. Daniel looked at the seat next to the driver, appeared to recognize something or someone. Only then did he run around the front bumper of the car. He was already stretching out his arm to open the back door. He had lost just one second, but it was enough for the Yemenite to jump on him from behind, and swing a strangling arm around his neck. Daniel's elbow kicked his attacker in the belly. Both men fell to the ground.

Driving almost at a standstill, Donald seemed to waver for a split second. Qais and the other guard were now so close they could practically touch his car. Qais shouted something at Donald – a curse, she imagined, and took his revolver. Suddenly, Donald sped up and abandoning Daniel, raced away. Irate, Qais shot two or three times at the tires. He missed. Within seconds, Donald had turned the corner and was out of view.

Now she heard voices from one of the neighboring houses. The shots had apparently awakened some residents out of their torpor. Most of the houses seemed to be empty, but from a far house, about two hundred meters away, two elderly men walked out, inquiring in loud French what the matter was and why the uproar. From a second, even more distant house, a young couple came out, also in her direction. But it was still some distance away. By the time they arrived in front of her window, Daniel had been bundled inside.

She was still standing there in the window, when one of the elderly men approached her, and said: 'Don't you tell me that nothing happened because everything looks superficially normal'. She did not answer, but with a dignified gesture closed the window, then drew again the windows down. Outside, muffled voices were talking in a tense tone. She understood that they were discussing whether to call the police.

Then she perceived Qais standing behind her, livid at Donald's perfidy – and at her negligence. He grumbled in his heavily accented English: 'I warned the amir that it is a bad idea for weak women to take part in the guarding of hostages. As for Bilal, he'll pay for his treason.'

Qais dialed a number on his mobile, left to the corridor to speak in private, and returned a minute later. In broken Arabic now, he said to all: 'We can't wait for the neighbors to disperse. Let's clear out to Beauvigny, with that idiot – the new hostage. Quick, or we'll have the police on our heels. We'll drive out from the back.'

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# Connect with Me

Facebook: frankemmanuel.author

Questions for the author? Email me at

frankemmanuel.author@gmail.com

### A Personal Request

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed this first part of the "Martyr" series, won't you please take a moment to leave a review of my book at your favorite retailer? I'd be honored if you'd post your thoughts. Thanks!

All the best,

Frank

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