Your fiancé is keen to become your husband. Anyway, how can you do a doctorate when you only got a second-class degree?”
“Not here. Bristol. Or maybe Edinburgh.
” He stared at her blankly. “What’s wrong with St. Joseph? Or the American University in Beirut?”
“They’re
in
Beirut; gracious, isn’t that enough?”
“Oh, come, poppet.” He laughed, gave her another hug. “You make it sound like hell.”
“Well, it is,” she flared. “Father wants me in the business. And don’t call me poppet!”
“Banking’s an excellent business to be in.”
“Oh, come
on,
Halib! You know as well as I do what our business is. Rafic spelled it out: we’re Shia Muslims, we’re one of thirty families controlling the entire hash crop, in Beirut we’re fighting for our very survival, and we’re in up to here with the PLO. We’re
zaim
—leaders! Mafia!”
He released her and shifted away, partly to look at her better and partly, she felt, to distance himself from the possibility of contamination. But Leila, carried away by a message she had waited too long to deliver, could not be stopped.
“I love Europe, England. Here I don’t need a bodyguard, or an armored car. I want to live a normal life, Halib! An ordinary person, with a nice husband and a baby or two.”
“Raleigh, for instance?”
“Of course not! He just happened—” Something clogged her throat, and she blushed; the flow of blood was not so much hot as painful. “Will you shut up about Colin and listen to what I’m saying?”
“But it’s a dream, Leila.”
“It is
not!”
“An unattainable dream. What you’re saying is that you want to go through life in neutral. And where we come from, there are no neutrals. There are Maronites; there are Muslims, F’listins, and Israelis.”
He did something vile to that last word, giving it unwonted, sinister sibilance: “Ish-r’eye-lees.”
“You can’t make me fight against my will.”
He stood up and went across to the dresser, where he picked up a pack of Black Russians and lit one, deliberately exhaling a lungful of smoke in her direction as if it were a curse.
“I can make you do anything, Leila. All I have to do is remind you of a certain day, when you admitted to our house a certain Ish-r’eye-lee agent.”
She stared at him, unable to credit that he could use so foul a weapon against her. Then, seeing him about to continue, she raised both hands to cover her ears, violently shaking her head from side to side.
“An agent of the Mossad. Now a general. He came in with a gun and he shot dear old Grandfather Ibrahim, shot him dead, bang-bang, all because a little girl with no more brain than a centipede—”
“Stop it!”
“—thought it would be fun to open the door to anyone who knocked.”
“You’re so unfair! I was just a child. No one had told me; if you wanted me to be more careful, you should—” But she was shouting through tears now, the words came out distorted, and Halib wasn’t listening anyway.
“‘Who let him in?’ That’s what Feisal wanted to know. But I took you away and I fought for you, Leila, fought for a day and a night, until Father no longer wanted to hang you up by your pretty… little … thumbs.”
He shook the black cigarette at his sister as if aiming to dislodge the ash onto her lap.
“You … let him in. The Ish-r’eye-lee. The killer. You.”
Leila keeled over on the sofa and lay there sobbing. They were dry sobs. Her whole body shook, but no sound came out.
“So we swore a holy oath, to be revenged. And every year, on the anniversary of sheikh Ibrahim’s death, we have renewed it.”
“Not Celestine.” Leila sat up, straightening her hair with rough sweeps of the hand. Guilt was giving way to anger. “Grandmother never swore. She said it was an oath against the spirit of the Holy Koran.”
“She was weak. But
you
swore.”
“I was
nine.
A child is only a child.”
“And an oath is only an oath? No, Leila.” He
“Not here. Bristol. Or maybe Edinburgh.
” He stared at her blankly. “What’s wrong with St. Joseph? Or the American University in Beirut?”
“They’re
in
Beirut; gracious, isn’t that enough?”
“Oh, come, poppet.” He laughed, gave her another hug. “You make it sound like hell.”
“Well, it is,” she flared. “Father wants me in the business. And don’t call me poppet!”
“Banking’s an excellent business to be in.”
“Oh, come
on,
Halib! You know as well as I do what our business is. Rafic spelled it out: we’re Shia Muslims, we’re one of thirty families controlling the entire hash crop, in Beirut we’re fighting for our very survival, and we’re in up to here with the PLO. We’re
zaim
—leaders! Mafia!”
He released her and shifted away, partly to look at her better and partly, she felt, to distance himself from the possibility of contamination. But Leila, carried away by a message she had waited too long to deliver, could not be stopped.
“I love Europe, England. Here I don’t need a bodyguard, or an armored car. I want to live a normal life, Halib! An ordinary person, with a nice husband and a baby or two.”
“Raleigh, for instance?”
“Of course not! He just happened—” Something clogged her throat, and she blushed; the flow of blood was not so much hot as painful. “Will you shut up about Colin and listen to what I’m saying?”
“But it’s a dream, Leila.”
“It is
not!”
“An unattainable dream. What you’re saying is that you want to go through life in neutral. And where we come from, there are no neutrals. There are Maronites; there are Muslims, F’listins, and Israelis.”
He did something vile to that last word, giving it unwonted, sinister sibilance: “Ish-r’eye-lees.”
“You can’t make me fight against my will.”
He stood up and went across to the dresser, where he picked up a pack of Black Russians and lit one, deliberately exhaling a lungful of smoke in her direction as if it were a curse.
“I can make you do anything, Leila. All I have to do is remind you of a certain day, when you admitted to our house a certain Ish-r’eye-lee agent.”
She stared at him, unable to credit that he could use so foul a weapon against her. Then, seeing him about to continue, she raised both hands to cover her ears, violently shaking her head from side to side.
“An agent of the Mossad. Now a general. He came in with a gun and he shot dear old Grandfather Ibrahim, shot him dead, bang-bang, all because a little girl with no more brain than a centipede—”
“Stop it!”
“—thought it would be fun to open the door to anyone who knocked.”
“You’re so unfair! I was just a child. No one had told me; if you wanted me to be more careful, you should—” But she was shouting through tears now, the words came out distorted, and Halib wasn’t listening anyway.
“‘Who let him in?’ That’s what Feisal wanted to know. But I took you away and I fought for you, Leila, fought for a day and a night, until Father no longer wanted to hang you up by your pretty… little … thumbs.”
He shook the black cigarette at his sister as if aiming to dislodge the ash onto her lap.
“You … let him in. The Ish-r’eye-lee. The killer. You.”
Leila keeled over on the sofa and lay there sobbing. They were dry sobs. Her whole body shook, but no sound came out.
“So we swore a holy oath, to be revenged. And every year, on the anniversary of sheikh Ibrahim’s death, we have renewed it.”
“Not Celestine.” Leila sat up, straightening her hair with rough sweeps of the hand. Guilt was giving way to anger. “Grandmother never swore. She said it was an oath against the spirit of the Holy Koran.”
“She was weak. But
you
swore.”
“I was
nine.
A child is only a child.”
“And an oath is only an oath? No, Leila.” He
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