The Levanter Read Online Free Page B

Hammad drove as if we were being pursued. The mountain road we were soon climbing was narrow and poorly surfaced, the Buick softly sprung. Clutching the armrest as she flung the car through the hairpin bends, I began to wonder if, for the first time in my life, I was going to be carsick. I was about to protest that we had made good time from Beirut and that there was really no need to go so fast when she braked hard. I had to grab the two tape recorders on the seat beside me to stop them slithering to the floor.
    We had just come through a very sharp bend onto a short, level stretch. I saw now that there was a roadblock ahead of us. It consisted of a striped barrier which could be raised and lowered, and, to prevent anyone crashing the barrier, a staggered arrangement of concrete posts on either side of it. A concrete guardhouse with weapon slits crouched beside the barrier, and three Lebanese army men with sub-machine guns stood outside. As the car rolled to a halt one of the soldiers lounged forward.
    By the time he reached the car Miss Hammad had her window down and was talking fast. The soldier talked back while looking at me. I wasn’t unduly concerned. I didn’t speak or understand Arabic myself, but Ihad heard enough of it spoken to know that, although Miss Hammad’s conversation with the soldier might sound like an exchange of threats or insults, it could very well be an exchange of pleasantries. This judgment was proved correct when she gaily laughed at something he had said, wound up the window, and was waved on past the barrier.
    “What was all that about?” I asked.
    “We have entered the military zone,” she said. “Because this is near the Syrian and Israeli borders the army polices the area. You see how it is? Those cowards in Beirut use the army to oppress the fedayeen.”
    “Those fellows didn’t seem very oppressive. They didn’t even ask for our papers.”
    “Oh, they know me and they know the car. It is my father’s. He has a chalet in the hills here. I said that you were an American friend of his.”
    “Is that where we’re going, your father’s chalet?”
    “Only until it is time to go to the rendezvous. That is at another place.”
    We had passed through an Arab village and were climbing steeply again. Although it was May, up there in the mountains the snow was still unmelted inthe gullies. Soon after we left the roadblock behind us she switched on the car heater.
    “You didn’t tell me Imight be needing a topcoat,” I said.
    “Someone at the hotel might have thought it curious if you had left with an overcoat to go to the museum in Beirut. But it is all right. There are coats at the chalet that we can use.”
    The chalet proved to be a sizable house with servants to welcome us and a wood fire blazing in a big stone fireplace. Sandwiches had been prepared and there was a well-stocked bar.
    “I know it is early for dinner,” she said, “but we shall get nothing to eat where we are going.”
    “Which is where?”
    “There isa village two kilometres from here, and above it an old fort. That is the rendezvous. What will you drink?”
    “Can I say that the interview took place in an old fort near the Syrian frontier?”
    “Of course. There are dozens of them in the mountains here.” She smiled. “You could call it a ruined Crusader castle if you like.”
    “Why?”
    “It would sound more romantic.”
    “Is it a ruined Crusader castle?”
    “No, it was built by Muslims.”
    Then it’s an old fort. Thanks, I’ll have Scotch.”
    Over the drinks she tried to pump me about the sort of questions I was going to ask. Ireplied vaguely and as if I had not given the matter much thought. She became irritated, though she tried not to show it. Conversation flagged. I ate most of the sandwiches.
    When the sun began to set she said that it was time to go. She donned a voluminous, poncho like garment, which looked as if it had been made out of an old horse blanket, and black felt ankle