Eighty-two steps, Lawrence had said – well not so much said, as insisted. And when people are that adamant about their facts, you can’t help checking. So we counted them aloud as we went up, me carrying a sleeping Jason on my shoulder, Claire with the bottle of wine we’d learnt was obligatory when going visiting in Beirut.
– … seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight …
We turned the final corner in the stairwell, and there, precisely four steps above us, was Lawrence with a glass nestling in each hand.
– Welcome, weary travellers, to this little island of repose. And now divest yourself of your burdens and partake of the sweet fruits of this house. It’s a 1974 Latroun, not exactly vintage but better than the name suggests. A few of these and you’ll be legless.
Taking the wine could have been a complicated procedure, but we carried it off perfectly. First Lawrence gave one glass to Claire and took our bottle. In one movement he gave her the other glass and took Jason from me; Claire gave me my glass. Before it was in my hand Lawrence had disappeared into the apartment with Jason and the bottle, and we could hear him crooning, none too softly and only vaguely in tune – Rock-a-bye Jason on the tree-top. Claire glanced nervously at me, but if Jason was awake he obviously enjoyed the serenade. Not a whimper. I shrugged and took a reassuring gulp of wine. Hmm, Lawrence was right: the Latroun was less delicate than the glasses he served it in, but if you were after something strong, heady, full-bodied, then this was undoubtedly it.
Lawrence re-appeared in the doorway, without Jason.
– Are you two virgins waiting for me to carry you over the threshold? I hope you’re not waiting for me to ask you in. Life’s too short for good manners.
We went in, and immediately I was reminded of the Viking in Lawrence. This was his abode, and it was a triumph of carefully organised chaos. We were standing in what must once have been a fairly ordinary whitewashed room, but a room which had long ago succumbed to Lawrence’s creativity. Everywhere cloths and covers and blankets were strewn in a glorious array of colour – the bold blacks and reds and blues of traditional Bedouin dyes contrasting with the fragile greens and yellows of oriental silk. It was a room where you sprawled rather than sat: there were soft fat cushions on divans, in corners, against walls. The only two chairs in the room were safari chairs – the ones that come in a kit as two pieces of leather and seven pieces of wood, and which make wonderfully comfortable loungers if you’re willing to risk crashing through the seat and onto the floor. Both were safely occupied – by Lawrence’s two cats. As if to blend in with the decor they were the typical Lebanese calicoes, mottled brown and black and orange and white. The walls showed the same confusion of catholic tastes: here, a cluster of pen and ink cartoons – impressions of Lebanese life; there, a glaring canvas, slashed with bands of colour; and there, a shadowy nude, a half-life-sized photograph, coyly turning her shoulder and her face toward us. All of them originals, the work of Lawrence’s friends and acquaintances. A mad medley of styles, yet everything was in its place.
Lawrence pulled aside a curtain – there were no doors, he’d seen to that – and we found ourselves in the study. Once again the actual furniture was sparse: a writing-bureau, an IBM typewriter, a cassette recorder on a coffee-table, and, precisely positioned on a hessian rug in the centre of the room, a battered ironing-board. But nobody could call it a bare room. Each wall had been put to a different use. One was crammed with posters and publicity pictures from the various shows and plays Lawrence had appeared in with the local drama group. Backed up against another stood an immense multi-storey bookcase containing everything, Lawrence assured us, from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf. I checked. M: Masters and Johnson, Marlowe, Mailer, MAD magazine – yes, certainly a comprehensive collection. The third wall boasted a set of home-made shelves housing Lawrence’s cassette collection; every song and every piece of music on every tape was catalogued in alphabetical order in the file lying next to the recorder. And finally the wall above the writing-bureau was entirely covered with softboard. To this were pinned snapshots, messages, invitations, addresses, reminders, shopping-lists, telephone numbers, postcards, bills – the essential paraphernalia of Lawrence’s life.
– I’ve lived here ever since I came to Beirut.
It showed.
– Where did you put Jason?
– In there, in the bedroom. He says he’s trying to get some shut-eye, and he doesn’t want to see you grown-ups or hear a peep out of you till it’s time to go home.
– OK. And where’s Monique?
If you’ve ever yearned for dramatic effect in your life, try substituting curtains for doors in your home. Cue left – the swish of silk, the clatter of brass rings. There stood Monique, framed in what used to be a doorway, in a sort of tableau vivant: the kitchen-maid. She had her hair loosely tied back, she was wearing a simple black dress that covered her from throat to mid-thigh, and she was holding a ladle.
She stepped out of her frame into the room and kissed Claire on both cheeks. Then me. The same intoxicating perfume as yesterday. The same English weakness: as her lips touched me, I wanted to throw my arms around her and pull her tight against me. But I didn’t.
– It’s nice to see you, Richard.
– Not half as nice as it is to see you.
And of course I didn’t say that either. It wouldn’t have been my style.
Then she was gone, back into the kitchen, taking Claire with her. And so, while the women exchanged recipes, it was Lawrence’s duty to show me all the improvements he’d made to the apartment.
– … And right here we have the catwalk – see I knocked out the glass and put the little door in so the cats can go take a stroll on the balcony any time the going gets too tough in here.
– Did it take them long to get used to it?
– Not Tabitha, no, she’s really smart. But Emily, well she’s dumb and I guess the hole’s kinda small for her, so it took her a couple of days. I had to keep dragging her through till she got the message.
In confirmation, Emily sauntered up to investigate, then jumped back in alarm as the door snapped shut at the end of Lawrence’s demonstration. Recovering, but still alert and angry, she stalked away, then turned back to give the contraption a baleful stare.
We were distracted from these antics by the phone ringing in the study. Lawrence went to answer it.
– Lawrence… Hi, Helen, what’s up? … What!? SHEE-IT!!
He started jotting things down on a notepad.
– When was this? … No, not a thing … How many? … The whole bunch? How did it start? … Christ, now the shit’s really gonna hit the fan. Who’s on it? … He’s over there? … Right … Yeah. Look call me back when you get any more. I’m here if you need me, right? … OK … Thanks for calling, babe. ‘Bye.
He stumbled back into the room, almost tripping over himself in his excitement.
– Hey, Monique!
He need hardly have shouted. After all, with no doors, there weren’t too many private conversations in this house. We’d all heard the sudden tension and urgency in his voice, and we were already assembled, like a Greek chorus, to hear the news. Lawrence took a breath to compose himself, then delivered his announcement slowly and deliberately, as if he’d been rehearsing it for months.
– Well, it’s started in Ain al-Rummaneh. It looks bad. Someone tried to get Gemayel this morning and did well enough to kill four of his bodyguards. So the old man calls for vengeance. They’ve just ambushed a bus-load of Palestinians and shot the whole lot of them.
Lawrence paused. Claire and I said nothing: none of it meant very much to us. But Monique, who had visibly paled beneath her tan, sat down heavily in one of the safari chairs. Tabitha had a narrow escape.
– How many?
– They’re saying twenty-two. Maybe more. I’ve seen this coming. It’s war.
Six weeks in Beirut had been long enough to get acquainted with society gossip. Politics was chic, and by now we knew most of the labels – Christians, Muslims, Shia, Sunni, Maronite, Druze, Palestinian, Israeli – if nothing more. Every day, we’d been reading about Palestinian attacks across the border into Israel and about Israeli air-strikes on the refugee camps. We’d seen for ourselves the planes slicing the sky in two, making the air above the city thunder and roar in protest. We knew we were living close to danger, but none of this was war – not WAR the way Lawrence said it, drawling out the word, coldly relishing the sound and feel of it.
– Where is this place …Ain … what did you call it?
– Ain al-Rummaneh. One of the suburbs. East. South-east.
– And Gemayel? I’ve heard his name of course.
– Pierre Gemayel. One of the Christian bigshots for the last thirty years, ever since independence. The man with the biggest private army in the country, maybe the biggest army, period. Certainly the best-trained, strictly on the Franco model, if you know what I mean. The Phalangists, they call themselves, after the Spanish.
– And the Palestinians are against him?
– With some reason. He’s been dropping the hint that Lebanon doesn’t really need its Palestinian brothers – leastways not the guys who carry the guns, the bums in the camps, the guys who threaten his authority. Maybe if they would just go away, he says, or vanish, Lebanon wouldn’t be having all this trouble with the next-door neighbour.
– So the Palestinians tried to kill him?
– Richard, play fair! My paper pays me to get stories, not to draw conclusions. But as a private citizen, yup, I would say that’s a pretty fair assumption. Seems that’s what Gemayel thinks anyway.
Lawrence glanced at his watch and hurled himself back into the study.
– What is it?
– The BBC!
The loudspeakers above us boomed out a few solemn words in Arabic, then babbled like an electric stream – a micro-world of information and entertainment – as Lawrence spun the dial. We were just in time: the signature tune was already playing. Lillibullero. An old Irish rebel song, somebody told me. Or was it anti-Irish? Whichever … it’s always struck me as an odd choice to herald in the British version of world news. The headlines began:
North Vietnamese guerillas today attacked military installations …
And then –
News is just reaching us that in the Lebanon today, a bus containing Palestinian passengers was attacked …
Lawrence was beside himself in the study.
– Number two on the World Service! Number two! That’s the highest we’ve been in years.
His excitement was infectious. There was a curious elation, a swelling of self-importance and pride that began in the pit of the stomach. I remembered the same sensation once before, back at home, when a housewife on one of the estates was found hacked to death. For two weeks it was headlines in the Gazette and for two days we were even worth a few lines in the national press. But nothing like this. Not number two on the world news. What would people say?
– You remember Claire Devine – Claire and Rick? They’re out there.
And now the news in detail.
It was the BBC voice, authoritative and assured, used to dealing with crises. The voice filled the room and there was a slight echo, as if the World Service was being broadcast from the kitchen in the apartment downstairs.
In Lebanon this afternoon, fifteen Palestinians were reported killed and many more seriously wounded when the bus in which they were travelling was attacked in a suburb of the capital, Beirut. This follows an attempt this morning on the life of Mr Pierre Gemayel, a prominent right-wing leader, in which four people were killed. The attackers have not been identified, and Mr Gemayel escaped without injury.
Our correspondent in Lebanon reports that this is the latest and most serious incident in a series of disturbances which began in March in the southern port city of Sidon when a leading left-wing politician was assassinated. Leaders of left- and right-wing factions are said to be meeting this evening, and the Palestinian leader, Mr Yasser Arafat, has called on Arab heads of state to intervene and foil what he described as a conspiracy to disrupt Lebanese-Palestinian relations.
Lawrence jabbed a finger on the off button like a full-stop. He stood there with a smile of grim satisfaction.
– A-men!
– You think there’s going to be fighting?
– Who am I to doubt the BBC?
– But they didn’t say anything about …
– They never say. But they always mean. That’s why I love the British.
Monique abruptly stood up and went to the kitchen.
– Dinner will be soon ready. Just a few minutes.
The curtain fell back behind her.
An explosion thudded through the apartment.
A cat hurtled from the kitchen.
Jason howled.
Lawrence ripped open the kitchen curtain. Monique sat on the floor with her back to us. Claire was halfway to the bedroom, looking for Jason. I started for the bedroom too, but as I turned, I saw Monique’s head fall forward into her hands. Why the hell wasn’t Lawrence helping her? He seemed to be fiddling with the oven. As I went into the kitchen, I realised why. It was full of gas.
– Are you OK, Monique?
There was no answer, just a single half-stifled sob. Her shoulders were trembling.
While I stood feeling useless, Lawrence knelt down beside her and took her two hands in his. Gently, very gently, he prised them away from her face. She held her head down for a few seconds more, but then suddenly looked up, directly at Lawrence. She was crying, holding her lower lip in check with her top teeth, and trying to give us a brave smile, all at the same time.
– Are you OK, hun?
She nodded. At the front, that silky hair was brown and frazzled, melted by the heat. Her eyebrows had been burnt too. But otherwise, miraculously, her face was untouched. I noticed little rings of singed hair on her arms and an ugly red weal darkening on her wrist.
Claire appeared in the doorway, carrying Jason. He was quiet now but still angry with us for waking him. He frowned and blinked until he was able to cope with the light, after the darkness of the bedroom and sleep, then turned and fixed us with a fierce steady glare. Claire turned to Lawrence.
– What happened?
– It was the oven. She must have opened the tap before the news and when she came back in here and put a match to it … whoomff! Didn’t you smell the gas, baby?
Monique shook her head.
– Well it’s an interesting idea, converting the whole kitchen into an oven. What do you say, Jason? No you’re probably right, not such a hot idea. But I’m forgetting, we haven’t been formally introduced.
Jason was in no mood for introductions. He turned away from us all, burying his face into his mother, who sprang to his defence.
– Lawrence, this is no time for joking. Don’t you think the two of you ought to help Monique up?
– Yes ma’am.
As I took one arm, I could feel her still trembling. She fell slightly backwards, letting us take her full weight. As she did, her dress rode up to the top of her legs. There were suntanned thighs and white underwear.
I think I must have blushed. Certainly I was hot with embarrassment and shame. Monique had just been hurt in a gas explosion, could easily have been maimed or killed, and all I could feel was lust. Even while I was pretending to help, I was getting a sexual thrill from touching her. For the first time in my married life I was coming face to face with the seamier side of myself. I realised that my conscience had no control over my imagination. Even now as I rationalised, this demon whispered to me – if you are ever unfaithful to Claire, it will be with Monique. I felt repulsed. And excited.
We got Monique to a chair and Claire was fussing over the burnt wrist.
– I don’t think it’s too bad – it’s just going to hurt for a little. The one thing you mustn’t do is cover it.
You could always rely on Claire in emergencies.
– Should we get her to a doctor?
– No, it’s not really a very bad burn, thank heavens. I don’t think you need to. Look, shall I finish getting dinner ready?
Monique shook her head – and then the tears started streaming down her face, and at last she was sobbing openly and without restraint, pausing only to take in sharp gulps of breath. Jason, now on Claire’s knee, joined in sympathetically.
– I’m sorry … It’s not this … It’s … Everything!
Lawrence was pulling at his moustache pensively.
– It’s the shock hitting her now. Hey, you two, I’m not a great host for saying this, but do you think we could do this another time? I’ve just got a kind of feeling tonight is not the night.
Perhaps the shock was hitting him too.
Jason bawled even louder.
– You know I think Jason would go along with that idea too.
– You will forgive us? I mean you will come back, won’t you?
– Oh Lawrence, don’t be so silly.
And Claire took Lawrence’s hand and squeezed it.
– Yes, I think that’ll be best. I’ll keep Monique here for a while till she’s feeling better, and then I’ll drive her back home. You know, maybe it won’t be such a bad thing if we’re all tucked up safely at home in bed, just in case there’s any trouble out there tonight.
And so five minutes later we were saying goodbye.
Claire kissed Monique, who was trying to apologise, while I was holding Jason in one arm and shaking hands with Lawrence with the other. Then it was Claire’s turn to kiss Lawrence – and mine to kiss Monique. I hardly dared touch her cheek.
– Drive carefully. Life can be dangerous down there in the jungle.
And we were on our way down precisely eighty-two steps.
At the bottom, on the Corniche, cars were speeding past. There was a squeal of tyres as someone took a corner too fast. A group of three men were shouting and waving their fists at one another. It was a normal Sunday evening in Beirut – as if nothing had ever happened.
