bribes that were enormous, even by Lebanese standards.
It was get-rich-quick time in Lebanon. Rapid inflation turned peasants into land speculators and created a new class of overnight millionaires. The government became a free-for-all. In this climate of ambition and avarice, the Lebanese lost what little respect they still had in public institutions. The public stopped believing that what was left of the Deuxieme Bureau would maintain order, or that the army would keep the Palestinian commandos in check. Instead, the Lebanese turned increasingly toward the private militias that were forming ranks throughout the country.
26
Beirut; April 1971
Jane Rogers was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room with her daughter when she noticed a familiar face. The attractive Lebanese woman on the next couch, wearing an expensive silk dress, looked very much like a woman she had met at a party many months ago.
Jane was on the verge of introducing herself, but then thought better of it. The woman was wearing dark glasses and reading a magazine. The French edition of Vogue. Perhaps she didn’t want to be disturbed. Better not to pry, especially not at the doctor’s office.
Jane turned instead to her daughter Amy, who was playing with trinkets from her mother’s purse. The child had recovered dramatically during the last few months. The worms had disappeared entirely, their Lebanese pediatrician assured them. So had the symptoms of neurological distress. Amy was cured.
Jane glanced again at the Lebanese woman and noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Perhaps it wasn’t the same woman, after all.
“Madame Jezzine,” called out the nurse. The attractive Lebanese woman closed her magazine and rose from her seat.
I was right, thought Jane. She watched Madame Jezzine walk into the doctor’s office. The elegant woman emerged five minutes later folding a piece of paper on which the doctor had written a prescription. She slipped it into her purse.
“Mrs. Rogers,” called out the nurse. Jane, holding her daughter by the hand, began walking toward the doctor’s office. She had gone only a few steps when the Lebanese woman approached her.
“Jane,” said Solange Jezzine with a warm smile. “I am sorry that I did not recognize you before. How pretty you look.”
“Hello, Solange,” said Jane.
The Lebanese woman greeted Jane fondly, kissing her on both cheeks. Jane felt slightly awkward at her transformation, in the space of several minutes, from total stranger to dear friend. But never mind. She kissed the Lebanese woman warmly. As she did so, Jane could smell the scent of an expensive perfume behind each ear.
“And what a lovely little girl,” said Solange, patting Amy on the head.
“Will you be long in there?” asked Solange, nodding toward the doctor’s office.
“Only a minute,” said Jane. “I’m just getting a prescription refilled.”
“Good,” said the Lebanese woman. “Then I’ll wait. We’ll have lunch together, my dear.”
“All right,” said Jane, trying to sound friendly. She glanced at the baby and hoped that Madame Jezzine didn’t have in mind a fancy restaurant where a toddler might not be welcome.
Jane was in the doctor’s office just long enough for him to write out a refill prescription for the birth-control pills she had been taking ever since Amy got sick. She had resolved then that she wouldn’t have any more children until they left the Middle East. The doctor liked his patients to come by in person to pick up their refill prescriptions rather than phoning the pharmacy. Perhaps he imagined it was more discreet that way. Jane found it the opposite. But never mind. Jane had folded the prescription and put it in her wallet by the time she returned to the waiting room.
Solange Jezzine gave Jane a little wink. She rose from the couch and greeted the American woman almost conspiratorially, putting her arm in Jane’s. As they were walking out of the office, she whispered in Jane’s ear.
“It’s liberating, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?” asked Jane.
“The pill, my dear,” said Solange. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Jane nodded shyly. She wondered whether she should explain that she wasn’t taking birth-control pills to facilitate a love affair, as Madame Jezzine’s whispered conversation implied, but for another reason. She decided to say nothing. It was pleasant, in a way, to be regarded by another woman as a secret co-conspirator. And she found that she rather liked Madame Jezzine’s frankness. It seemed very Lebanese.
“It will transform the world,” whispered Madame Jezzine. “Especially the Arab world.”
On the curb outside the doctor’s office stood a gleaming red Mercedes-Benz with white leather seats. A burly man, who had the disinterested air of a chauffeur, was sitting in the driver’s seat. Next to him was an Asian woman dressed in a black skirt and a white apron, who appeared to be a maid.
“This is my car,” said Madame Jezzine. “Come, get in.”
Jane entered the car, which smelled of leather and perfume and the smoke of the driver’s cigarettes. She set the baby on her lap, in the same motion checking her diapers to make sure they weren’t wet.
“Chez les Anges,” Madame Jezzine told the driver.
Jane recognized the name of the restaurant. It was a chic French bistro on the waterfront in West Beirut, not far from the embassy. It was reputed to be the most expensive place in town.
“I’m not sure that’s a good spot for a toddler,” said Jane.
“It isn’t,” said the Lebanese woman. “We’ll leave her with Sophie.” She gestured toward the maid.
Jane was going to say no, that’s all right. Another time. That was the appropriate thing to say, after all. You couldn’t very well leave your three-year-old daughter in the custody of someone else’s maid. But she hesitated, and the reason was that she very much liked the idea of eating with a rich Lebanese woman at the fanciest restaurant in town.
“She’ll be fine, won’t she, Sophie?” said Madame Jezzine.
“Yes, madame,” said the woman. She seemed to Jane to be Indian, or perhaps Sri Lankan. She looked responsible enough.
“Perhaps we could drop her off at our house,” said Jane. “Would you mind that, Sophie? My cleaning lady is there, and she can help you look after the baby.” Sophie nodded compliantly.
“Perfect!” said Madame Jezzine. “Tell the driver your address.”
Jane directed the Mercedes-Benz to their apartment building in Minara. She took Amy and Sophie upstairs and explained the contents of the baby’s kit bag. Extra diapers, favorite toys and books, a bottle filled with apple juice.
“If she cries, be sure to call the restaurant,” said Jane.
“Yes, madame,” said Sophie, wobbling her head in the submissive gesture that is characteristic of the Indian subcontinent.
Jane left the baby playing happily in her nursery and returned to Madame Jezzine. As she bounded down the steps and toward the car, she felt a giddy sense of adventure, and of momentary liberation from the routine of loyal wife and mother.
They arrived a few minutes later at a small building near the St. Georges Hotel. The driver parked the car and scrambled to open the door for Madame.
“Go get your own lunch, Antun,” she said to the driver. “We’ll be several hours.”
The restaurant’s plain white facade masked an exotic interior. The back wall was all glass, providing a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean. The main room was full of tables of businessmen, conversing intently about work and money. A smaller room, beyond, featured a series of booths set along the oceanfront windows, each with very high backs so that they were almost like private rooms. There seemed to Jane something slightly scandalous, and delicious, about two women dining alone in a restaurant like this.
“Do you have a booth, perhaps, Joseph?” the Lebanese woman asked the maitre d’hotel in French.
“Oui, Madame Jezzine,” came the answer. Evidently she was a regular.
