with a fiery temper from an aristocratic family, couldn’t last much longer. But he couldn’t tell Matt.
Matt zipped his windbreaker. “Ok, it’s 11 pm and I’m out of here. Put on a dark jacket. With all the street lamps smashed, we won’t be spotted as we climb over the wall. Let’s go, I’m starving.”
A large red bougainvillea in full bloom provided the perfect ladder and concealment. They climbed over the high stone wall surrounding the university, carefully avoiding the broken glass imbedded along the top, and silently dropped to the street.
Samir grabbed Matt’s collar as a Mercedes taxi roared past. “Beirut may be the crossroads of the Middle East, but don’t get killed crossing the street.”
“God, this city enchants me every time I step onto these potholed, dusty streets. Smell the spices, the tang of the sea, the lamb roasting on charcoal?”
“You’re just a hopeless romantic under that veneer of cynicism, roommate.”
Matt sprinted across the busy street. Dusty cars honked, dodging Matt and the other pedestrians. Cheap neon reflected off the windshields. Impatient bearded faces squinted against the glare. Everybody going somewhere. Above a modern cinema, a giant poster showed John Wayne in Green Beret fatigues. He looked down with his usual snarl. Matt pressed himself against a shop window. Several elderly men in long white robes passed by. He turned to look into the shop. The haute couture of Paris and Milan draped on headless mannequins, teased Matt’s student pocketbook. He slipped between sidewalk cafe tables, the thick aroma of espresso clinging to the air; animated conversations in French, Arabic and English competed with the horns of shiny Mercedes taxis and shouts of greetings.
But the heady chaos was not only in the streets. Buried in deep vaults, the financial center of the Middle East kept pace with the activity above, bank notes rippling through counting machines, sterling, dollars, lire, and yen. Mounds of currency powered a vibrant trading economy, and unknown to most, it also powered a new industry, terrorism.
A faint breeze caressed her cheek. A perfect crescent moon beckoned above the glassy Mediterranean. Maha Hammad sat facing the sea. Happiness and sorrow, anticipation and regret weighed upon her. She ran her long fingers through thick red hair, now coppery in the glow of the lights. The small table for four sat in the far corner of the cozy rooftop terrace overlooking the limestone cliffs of the Ras Beirut peninsula. It was here, in ancient times the Crusaders regrouped for their march into the Holy Land. It was also the young foursome’s favorite meeting place.
“Where are those men? They’re never on time.” Bedouina’s eyes narrowed, her dark black hair, cut short, stuck out at unruly angles. Intensity strained her face muscles. “They can’t be late tonight, not tonight.”
“Look, we’ve spent nearly three years at the School of Pharmacy studying like animals. Relax. It’s almost over. Soon a new adventure will start.”
Matt came up the terrace stairs, stopping in the doorway. He stared, then burst out loudly. “Oh my God. The most beautiful daughter of a goat shepherd in all the world” He moved quickly to her side and planted a respectful, yet lingering kiss on both cheeks.
In the months following their first meeting last September, Matt and Maha had spent hours together exploring each other’s lives and worlds. On the surface they were very different; at an inner level a deep connection and a strong bond of trust, respect and love bound them.
In contrast, there was Bedouina, a dark-skinned Palestinian with an even darker personality. Samir watched her. “She is tense tonight.” He turned to Matt. “I promise we won’t talk politics, not tonight.”
“You say that every time, Samir, and somehow the two of you always climb on your soapboxes about one thing or another. I’m starved for food, not politics.”
As the four of them talked Matt’s hunger retreated. “How you guys eat all this great food and never get fat is a mystery to me,” he said. Drippings from the lamb kebabs glistened on his chin. Maha wiped them off with her napkin then gently kissed his stubbled chin. “Where am I gonna’ find tabouli and humus back in Boston? I may just wither away to nothing.”
“I’ve got an idea.” A devilish grin lit up Maha’s lovely face. “Why not marry me and take me back with you? I’ll be your official Middle Eastern chef and I guarantee you’ll never go hungry again, for anything.”
“And your brothers would hunt you down and chop me into little pieces.” Matt shuddered at the thought.
Bedouina scowled, shaking her dark mop at the foolish ideas of her Jordanian friend. “If only life were that simple. It would take a major cataclysm for our lives to deviate from the course Allah has set for us. You, Matt, will return to the United States and be a famous doctor. Maha will become a successful pharmacist back in Jordan and have a dozen kids from an arranged marriage.”
Matt raised his arms in protest. “Whoa. This is the 20 ^th Century, not the Middle Ages. Maha is a modern woman, a pharmacist no less, and the last thing she would agree to is an arranged marriage. Besides, I’ve got some ideas of my own for her.” His arm gently caressed her shoulder. He planted an affectionate kiss on her blushing forehead.
“I dream of that,” Maha sighed. “But actually, Bedouina is right; my fate has been chosen.” Her head turned and looked at the moonlit sea. A tear slipped down here cheek.
Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Matt quickly changed the subject. “And what about you two?”
“Samir and I will die fighting to free Palestine, our rightful homeland, from the oppressive clutches of the expanding Zionist usurpers.” Her words rushed out, a rote of unbreakable commitment.
“Hold it,” Samir protested. “I believe in the freedom of Palestine. But I’m not ready to die just yet, not for a long time.”
“Okay, time to go,” Matt stood up. “Politics always ruins a good meal. It’s getting late and we’ve all exams coming up.”
Bedouina shrugged, her ebony eyes narrowing. “You Americans don’t want to discuss anything serious, do you? Sometimes I wonder if America isn’t just one big Disneyland.”
They had all turned twenty-one during the school year. It was the beginning of adulthood, a turning point of their lives. And though Bedouina had suggested that soon they would part ways, Matt wasn’t so sure. In the back of his mind, he sensed – beyond the question of what happened to him and Maha, and whether their love was strong enough to weather their differences – that their fates would be entwined forever. When, where, and how the four of them would cross paths in the future he couldn’t foresee, but that didn’t shake the prescient feeling. Matt shivered.
“You guys wait out front.” Bedouina winked at Samir. “Maha and I need to freshen up. We’ll be right out, and then you can walk us back to our dorms.”
The glow from the Beirut nightlife reached up into the dark night, overpowering the smaller stars, but giving the larger celestial bodies an even more radiant glow. Waves from the warm Mediterranean thudded against the cliff face like far off ancient drummers sending out messages to distant gods. The sounds and smells of the vibrant exotic city filled Matt’s memory to overflowing. He would never forget such wonderful evenings as this. Nor would he ever forget these special friends.
Matt and Samir crossed the street, Samir’s hand Matt’s shoulder in a sign of friendship. “We are so different, my friend, yet we have become so close. I know all about your family, your home, your hopes, dreams. And I still like you.” They both laughed.
“It’s different for me, Samir. We talk about everything, yet I still don’t understand your deep feelings about this Palestinian thing. The Middle East is only a small part of the world. There’s so much else going on that’s positive and exciting.”
“Yeah, like Vietnam.”
“Well, besides that,” shrugged Matt.
“This area may be just a small region at the moment, but if something isn’t done, then more and more people will be evicted from their homes, their land, their roots. All with the blessing of the western nations. It may even reach you in America. Disneyland would never be the same.”
They approached a tall stone wall, parts of which were said to contain carved blocks from the original 12 ^th Century Crusader fortress in the Ras Beirut area. The twisted branches of a fragrant plumeria tree, bursting with waxy yellow flowers, spread over the wall from someone’s garden on the other side.
Samir turned. “How long does it take to powder a nose?” He glanced nervously up and down the street, then checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. “I’m going to hurry them up. You wait here.” He sprinted across the
