Sami startled at a sound. Not the tractor, which was far away, but the roaring of a car engine. He stiffened and scanned the stony road leading to the camp site. The smuggler had told him to hide if there was any sign of military vehicles or police cars. The caravan was too obvious, so his best option – his only option – was the hill behind it.
But the engine sound faded. Sami locked the door and pulled the curtains shut, curled up on the mattress and tried to slow his breathing. He had been here for almost a week. He wondered if he was becoming paranoid. Had the roar of the engine been real? A hollow sound rose from his stomach and he tried to quell his hunger with water. Then he lay down again and fell asleep.
Behind his eyelids, Homs’ streets and checkpoints spread out, lifeless sparrows on their backs with their beaks pointed at the sky everywhere. The scene shifted and he was in a prison corridor full of crushed blood oranges. A whistling sound sliced through his dream, from a bomber or a thousand beating wings rising towards the sky, and he threw himself to the floor with his hands clapped to his ears.
Sami woke – this time, it really was a car engine. He got to his feet and peered out through a gap in the curtains. A military jeep was approaching at high speed. Dashing from the caravan didn’t seem feasible. He would have to climb the hill and be fully visible for several seconds. Even if he got away, they would find a lit stove in the caravan and know there was a person nearby. He would be as hard to catch as a rabbit in a burrow. Yet, at the same time, was the alternative to give up? He’d rather bolt into the unknown.
Sami threw the door open and ran out with laces untied just as the military jeep turned into the sandy field. A cloud of dust rose around the car; he squinted in the harsh light. He only managed a few steps before he tripped over a detail, which is to say his laces, and felt a jolt of pain in his knee.
It was over. This was as far as he would get. After all, a person only has so many lives. He waited, on his knees, with his hands in the air, for the rifles to be aimed at him. A couple of words flashed through his mind: it was his grandmother’s voice, chanting away the pain in his broken finger. Chanted verses couldn’t save him now. And yet, he prayed.
When the dust cloud dissipated he heard footsteps in the sand and hoarse laughter. Then the reproachful voice of the smuggler.
‘What are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the caravan.’
‘I suppose this made him nervous,’ said the man with the hoarse laugh, patting the bonnet of the jeep. He was dressed in a military uniform. ‘Is this him?’
‘Yes,’ said the smuggler. ‘We’re going to have to do something about your appearance before we leave. Those dirty clothes and that unwashed face won’t do.’
Before we leave. The smuggler had kept his promise and arranged safe passage through the checkpoints to Beirut. When Sami had composed himself and shaken the general’s hand, he realized there was a woman in the driver’s seat.
‘Mariam, my wife,’ said the general. ‘They are less inclined to stop you if there’s a woman in the car.’
She seemed less than happy to be there. The smuggler went into the caravan with Sami and helped him pack. Sami handed over the money and they said goodbye with a brief embrace.
* * *
—
The Lebanese general was friendly and didn’t talk too much, but Sami didn’t have the energy for long conversations anyway. The general told him it was dangerous for him to be here too, among the Hezbollah. His relative had been shot dead in Hermel a couple of years ago. This was only the second time he had been back since.
Mariam shot Sami hard looks through the rear-view mirror and said as little as possible.
‘Suspicion is our biggest enemy,’ the general said.
He was referring to the Lebanese and Syrian people, who had been sundered into religious and ethnic groups, but also glanced at Mariam, who frowned.
‘This is when our trust is tested,’ he continued, ‘when you have no choice but to rely on strangers.’
It seemed like he was talking more to Mariam than to Sami. But Sami could see where she was coming from. What did she know about his past? He might be a drug trafficker or other kind of criminal. He might have fought for the jihadists, for all she knew. There was more and more talk about Islamic State now, the terror group that was growing in influence in northeastern Syria.
Sami met Mariam’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and she looked away. He didn’t know anything about her and the general’s reasons for helping him either – other than that favours made people owe you and an extensive network was hard currency in times like these. None of them had any choice. They had to trust each other.
They were approaching Beirut. The general rolled down the windows and let the fresh Mediterranean breeze sweep in, along with the smell of car exhaust and restaurant food. There were more people than in Homs, more people than Sami had seen in years.
‘Where would you like to be dropped off?’
Sami told him where Muhammed’s cousin lived. Muhammed had made him repeat the address at the time and though it seemed pointless then, Sami now understood. He thought warmly of his childhood friend. Even though he was dead, he was still helping Sami. This is for both of us, Sami thought. I’m finding a way out even if you couldn’t.
He didn’t know what he had expected Beirut to be like, but the closer to the centre they got, the further down his seat he slid. On the way to the apartment they passed several checkpoints, where soldiers stood with heavy weapons.
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Muhammed’s cousin when at last they arrived at the apartment. ‘Stay as long as you need. Muhammed always spoke well of you.’
They shared the flat with two other Syrians. Sami was given the sofa in the living room. He unpacked his suitcase and slowly, step by tiny step, started to dare to imagine a future. But in Lebanon? He wasn’t so sure. Anywhere he went the checkpoints appeared, and with them came the threat of being sent back. He wouldn’t be free here either.
41
THREE HOT SUMMER months passed during which Sami mostly slept and stayed indoors. He only went out to buy food, or to go to a café across the street that was showing the World Cup. He followed the tournament without any commitment to players or country. It was just pleasant to witness the ball’s journey across the field, listen to the audience’s cheers and sighs, see the winners stretch their arms to the air and think that life didn’t have to be more complicated than that.
Outside the apartment in Beirut, the sea raged and the waves crashed against the cliffs, but he went down to the beach only once for a quick swim. He folded his clothes, placed a rock on top of them and walked into the surge.
He enjoyed the wind and salt on his face, the frothy waves rising towards the sun. He threw himself into the water, stood up and dived back under. Underneath the surface, he opened his eyes and picked up stones and shells from among the metal and plastic on the bottom. Afterwards his eyes were red from the salt.