“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.
They walked through the main dining room, drawing appreciative glances from several of the men, and entered the smaller and more intimate room. Walking past the booths, Jane noticed that in most of them, men seemed to be dining with very young and attractive women. Jane thought she saw one man stroking the breasts of his luncheon companion through the thin fabric of her blouse.
When they were seated, Madame Jezzine leaned across the table and spoke to Jane in the same conspiratorial tone she had adopted at the doctor’s office.
“Surely you know this restaurant?” said the Lebanese woman. “This is where the men of Beirut bring their mistresses to show them off. And sometimes, to do a bit more.” She nodded toward the nearby booth where the man had been petting his date.
Solange Jezzine ordered a kir. Though it was midday, too early to drink, Jane did the same. This was an adventure, she told herself. When Solange offered a cigarette, she accepted, even though she hadn’t smoked one in years. She coughed after the first puff, and Solange laughed at her inexperience.
“I’m afraid I am a novice,” said Jane.
“You’ll learn,” said the Lebanese woman.
Jane felt embarrassed and wanted, for a moment, to retreat into her ordinary identity of wife and mother.
“Do you have any children?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” said Solange. “Years ago. It seems like another lifetime.” They talked amiably about children for several minutes, until the drinks arrived.
“I thought that you were leaving Beirut,” ventured Jane as she raised her glass. The cassis was swirling through the wine and darkening it like a sudden thunderstorm.
“Why? Because of my husband’s legal difficulties?” answered Solange bluntly.
“Well, yes,” said Jane. “I read in the paper that he was expected to stay in Switzerland. So I assumed…”
“That as a loyal wife, I would go there with him,” said the Lebanese woman, finishing the sentence.
“Yes.”
“Not yet,” said Solange. “Perhaps I will go eventually. Certainly I will go eventually. But not now. It is spring and the most beautiful time of the year in Lebanon. It snowed last week in Geneva, did you know that? I will go later. But not now. There is so much to do here.”
She smiled in the most charming and coy way. Looking at her, Jane concluded that men must find her absolutely irresistible.