A little before four o’clock one Saturday afternoon, I was married at Our Lady’s. There were barely eight people present, the two of us getting married, Andrée’s father and mother, my brother and my sister acting as witnesses, the priest, later to become an archbishop, and a taxi-driver. In less than three years we had two daughters and two sons, twins. At that time I was leading a most hectic life, giving classes and talks, putting on exhibitions, accepting invitations and orders, working in my studio, and going on journeys. Our house in Jounieh, an old building with gardens around, had plenty of room and it was invaded by numberless friends and relatives, including nephews and nieces. To run the place I had an Egyptian woman servant and we lived on Egyptian cookery.

Suddenly Andrée fell seriously ill and we had to find a nurse to look after the children. During my lifetime, I never took money from nuns when teaching them or putting on some activity for them. Once I spent a week with the sisters of the congregation of Saint Theresa in a convent nearly four thousand feet up in the mountains and forty-five minutes by car from Jounieh. My four children went with me, and I can only say that they were adorable. Everybody took a fancy to them. The sisters and staff of the convent took to waiting not for my lessons but for the arrival of my children, who were the life and the soul of the place. From time to time I took lunch with the sisters who took care of the children. There was a young girl of sixteen or seventeen years of age who had come from a nearby village to live with the novices and to make up her mind as to whether she was called by Our Lord. Her name was Georgette and she dearly loved children. She begged me to be allowed to come and live with us; she would look after the children and if possible learn dressmaking. She preferred living in town to staying in the country, where her only company were her father’s goats, the dogs and the poultry. The mother superior of the convent was very much taken with the idea and as for myself my main concern was to have the approval of her parents.

So it was that I came to make the acquaintance of Georgette’s father and mother. At their invitation we went to visit them and spent the whole day with them. Their house was right in the middle of woodland strewn with rocks, perched well over three thousand feet up among the clouds, near Our Lady of the Citadel. Down below, where there had once been a village, one could see dozens of ruined houses abandoned by their inhabitants, who over a century and a half earlier had emigrated towards the four corners of the planet following the civil and religious wars of the time of the Ottomans. Several churches still stand either in fair condition or partly restored. Venerable oak trees still defy the severity of the climate as they once defied the injustice of the occupiers.

Piercing the hillside are a number of grottoes, while there is an abundance of springs whose names are redolent of mystery – the Virgin’s Tears, the Spring of the Bride, the Spring of the Fishermen, and suchlike. In the valley at the bottom of the slope there is a major source of water, Al-Katteen, whose flow is strong enough to activate a watermill.

The father of Georgette owned extensive land, most of which was forest, and this allowed the raising of flocks of goats which grazed in this natural setting still healthy and unspoiled. At that time there were Syrian goatherds of the Alawite Shi’ite sect come from the coast and in the village there was a butcher’s which sold the meat of the goats. Many customers came from Beirut to buy this meat, which may be eaten or made into different dishes such as kebbeh or kafta. It may be grilled on charcoal or made into European-style dishes by using various ingredients. Every day one could buy fresh eggs and dairy products, especially cheese. One could also obtain local charcoal, much in demand by smokers of water-pipes (argileh, hooker) and very good for grills. Charcoal from oak burns slowly and lasts a long time on the tombac, the tobacco used wet on the water-pipes. This charcoal was prepared by charcoal-burners working on the land of Georgette’s father, where work was unceasing, going on by day and by night, this being one of the conditions of this kind of work which could not be interrupted and left till the morrow.

Georgette’s parents gave us a right royal reception. Our children, rejoicing to be close to nature, played with the dogs, fondled the baby goats, looked for eggs in the chicken-run, mounted the donkey standing in front of the house, and climbed the trees. They could be left to themselves, for there was no road up to the house for cars, only a track to be climbed by beasts of burden and up which one had to walk for a quarter of an hour. This made an excellent exercise to keep one in good health. Hazel bushes, chestnut trees, plum trees, apple trees and vines were all there in abundance.

Few people knew that the name of the village, Shahtool, really meant buck, not even the priest of a neighboring village. One day, somebody in confession admitted having stolen a buck, shahtool in the dialect. The priest said, “What? You have stolen the village? Is it possible?” The penitent then had to explain that he meant the big billy-goat of his neighbors.

Many people out hunting crossed the region in search of game despite hunting being forbidden on private property. These were invited in to have a drink.

Children of the locality, boys and girls, had to walk for an hour to attend the village school, under snow or rain and in spite of the cold. There a fire was lit to provide some warmth, occasionally even as late as June when there was sometimes a biting wind all day. Georgette had two elder sisters, already married, and there were two boys and three girls still at school. I suggested to their father that he should send George and Rose with Georgette to live with us so I could myself register them in a school near our home. This was approved straight away and they were put in the École centrale just a minute away from us. I gave the three of them a large room to themselves where they could sleep and study, while they ate with us. The children were very happy to have friends and companions.

But so far I have not said anything about Georgette. She was old enough to take part in the debutants’ ball, being fifteen or sixteen, of average height, lively and with a ready smile. She loved to sing, dance, and have fun, with the spirit of child, one might even say of a baby. Her skin was white and one could count the veins and the sinews on her neck when she shouted or got excited. She was cuddlesome and sentimental, and her hair always needed combing. She had beautiful pure eyes and a forehead that was open and expressive of sincerity and idealism, for did she not think she had a vocation for the religious life? She had a mouth expressive of serenity and lips full of mystery; She was remained rather fragile-looking despite all the care my wife gave her in the form of milk, boiled eggs, jam and butter in the mornings, cod-liver oil and vitamins, but all in vain! She was made that way and would never put on any weight. She was a girl who was helpful, correct, idealistic, generous, brave and devoted. She was attached to our children, like a mother, and they for their part adored her. Two or three years passed and, come 1975, the war broke out. George, already a young man, wished to leave Jounieh, which was regularly bombarded, and to go to help his father at Shahtool. Rose too, who had barely reached the third class of junior high, had become nurse in a hospital and wished to return to her village. Georgette, however, refused to leave us or to be separated from the children.

We occasionally went to Shahtool to spend a day in its natural scenery; in any case, my friends and I used to organize a picnic every other week in some different part of Lebanon. We had five or six vehicles at our disposition and first of all we organized a program that was worked out in detail and followed to the letter. In this way all our children had the opportunity to visit all the coast from north to south, with Tripoli, Batroun, Byblos, Beirut, Sidon (Saïda), Tyre, the mountains of Akkar, the Cedars, Sannine, Faraya, the different rivers, Jezzine, Zahleh, and Baalbek (Heliopolis).

Are there in Europe no homes that take in children in addition to their own? Or who receive qualified students from elsewhere? Such an exchange opens the doors between civilizations.
Georgette was now old enough to marry, grown-up and good-looking. She had learnt some dressmaking and did not waste her time. She had also learnt to swim and was informed about sports and the world of the cinema, having her favorite actors and singers.

During the events of 1978, a distinguished pastry dealer with premises in Ashrafiyyeh of Beirut, Noura by name, came to take up residence in Jounieh. He happened to be a friend of mine so I asked him to take on Georgette half-time so she could learn the art of pastry-cooking and so make profitable use of her time, as travel then was out of the question. Georgette, who adored cakes, was delighted, and so she left us every afternoon to return home at eight or ten in the evening.

The pastry-shop was always full of people and Georgette would work, help the cooks, sell to clients and learn in every way she could. One day she taught me how to prepare flaky pastry so at home we made all the different kinds, with salty appetizers, sweets, and so on. Georgette mastered the art and extended her knowledge.

The pastry-shop was on the old road that bordered the sea, with a terrace that gave onto the beach. Georgette came home every evening to tell us all the news that she had heard, various happenings, funny events, the developments of the crisis, that such-and-such a friend she had seen in our place sent greetings, and sometimes the most unbelievable stories. I would say to her, “You are like a child, Georgette, to believe such fables!”

She would recount that the militia had acquired nuclear weapons the size of a tennis ball, that the Americans were coming with their fleet to save the country, that a conference was to be held in Quebec especially for Lebanon, that the Palestinians were getting ready with terrorists to invade Lebanon, that the Vatican, or France, or the Soviets and Third World Countries – all fantasies that she had heard and that she babbled out in all innocence. One evening she brought in a cake that Mr. Noura sent specially for Andrée.

On one occasion, before returning from Paris, I had bought three heavy volumes containing all the recipes for pastry cooks, books no longer on sale in the ordinary bookshops, only in specialized places. I then asked Andrée to bake a cake better than any of Noura. Having tasted the cake, the famous pastry expert came to our house in person to ask for the secrets of the recipe. For Georgette it was her victory day. She was full of pride that her adopted parents had been able to go one better than her employer. In Lebanon, people have a preference for anything home-made provided that it is good.

Georgette had a sister, Dunia, who was fond of painting and sculpture and asked me to help her, so I recommended her to a sculptor friend with whom she got practice. It was not long before she went to France, finding a job there and marrying a Frenchman. With her sister in France, dreams of adventure, of “getting away from it all”, haunted Georgette. Every time I boarded ship, she gave me letters for Travolta, Yannik Noah, and others. These my conscience obliged me to drop in the post.

Noura and all his staff were fond of Georgette. She was the life and the soul of the pastry-shop. The day came when Georgette asked me a whole lot of questions about one of my students whose father had been a classmate of mine. This was Tony. Another being awoke in Georgette; she became another person, dreamy, in the clouds, lost in a world upside-down. Tony came every day to the pastry-shop to chat with his “Joujou”, this being in Lebanon the common diminutive for George. Tony often came to visit us at home and several times he invited Georgette to his own house where he lived with his mother.

One day his mother came to ask from us the hand of Georgette. I told her that I had no objection, that I loved Tony as if he were my own child, but that it was also necessary to have the consent of Georgette and of her father and mother. Tradition in Lebanon gives the parents an important say in such matters; young men over thirty and young ladies over twenty-five do not get engaged without the agreement and benediction of their parents. As for Georgette, she did not consider herself well-educated, having scarcely finished junior high school, so to be asked by a young man like Tony, attorney, with a degree in law and well placed, was her ideal.

It was true. I had adopted Georgette, her sister, her brother and all the family. In Lebanon, particularly in the villages, all are one family with or without formal adoption. My wife’s aunt, exceedingly rich and without children, had begged to be allowed to adopt one of our daughters. I had answered that all the children were ours together, so why bother to go through all the formalities of adoption as in America? “You are the aunt of the whole family and all the family belong to you.” A colleague at the University whose wife was French had adopted an unfortunate little black boy and also a little Vietnamese. This was a highly civilized action, one of love and humanity.

I had opened a bank account in her name for Georgette. The devil for ever troubled her mind. She wanted to join her sister in France and get to know that beautiful country. For two weeks I had no news of her, but knew her to be in her village taking a break with her parents. The children, being strongly attached to her, had been to visit her several times. But now Georgette had made up her mind to travel. A number of small steamers made regular crossings between Lebanon and Cyprus.

The Christians boarded ship at Jounieh to go to Larnaca. The Muslims went from Sidon and Tripoli to Limassol. Georgette had the address of her sister and was resolved to go on this risky adventure. She telephoned her sister from Cyprus, fixing the date of her arrival at the port of Marseille. She did not know what awaited her despite all the formalities and combinations that Dunia arranged in order for her to stay supposedly only a few days in France on the imaginary pretext of her waiting for a visa for Brazil, where a number of relatives awaited her.

I had no news of Georgette for two or three years. Finally I had to go to Paris. Her parents had given me her address and telephone number, saying that she was married and settled in a suburb of Marseille. The telephone stood before me, on my desk, but I did not know how to approach her or to begin. She had married into a Spanish family, whose language I know well. I would be able to practice my Spanish; if Georgette answered there would be less of a shock, while if other members of the family answered things would go more easily.

Once I got through, I said in Spanish, “Is that Berg l’Étang, the house of José, his parents and Georgette?” It was José, the husband of Georgette, an intelligent fellow with a sixth sense, who answered: “Wouldn’t you be the master José, father and intimate of my wife? You’re from Jounieh, the wonderful Bay of Jounieh? For the last three years, you and your family and your children (whom he named, one after the other), you have been all we talk about every day! I’m going to pass you Georgette.”

I heard Georgette crying in the distance, “Is that a call from Lebanon? It’s Joseph, Joseph!” I heard shouting, shrieking, “Sir, sir! Come straight away! We’ll be waiting for you at the St. Charles Station. Tell me all about Andrée, the children, my parents, Tony and all the others!” I told her to calm down, promising to take the first train and be with them next morning. In fact it would be just an extra holiday, so I took the night train, which at about four next morning drew into the Gare St.-Charles.

I was sleepy, but I had not been able to catch one second of sleep. I had brought with me a kilo of baclawa, the sweet oriental pastry so much appreciated in Europe, a bottle of the aniseed liqueur arak, some thyme, a rosary momento of Our Lady of Lebanon, a knitted woolen garment, and photos of Lebanon and of the family. Georgette had told me that she had a daughter about two years old, a real little doll. In short, everything was redolent of nostalgia and emotion.

As we passed through the outskirts of Marseille, the train slowed down and I could see the people waiting on the platforms, some awaiting arrivals, some just arrived and other going to get their connection. A few were sipping coffee or nibbling a crisp croissant. When the train had practically reached a standstill, I was already on my feet at the compartment window, watching two young people rushing up in the distance. These I immediately understood to be Georgette and José. Georgette threw herself on me as if in hysterics, while José hugged me warmly. I cannot remember how we reached their car to drive to the Berg, with her clinging to me all the way, unable to believe her eyes.

Finally we arrived, in front of a pleasant and spacious villa, three floors high, with a well tended garden. Georgette and José occupied one floor and his brother another, which however was closed while he was away, while their parents had taken a third floor. A delicious little breakfast à la Catalane had been prepared for us, Spanish in every detail. José’s sister, who was a doctor and director of a hospital, gave me a warm welcome and then left until the evening – she was married and lived a few miles away. Georgette’s daughter, still an only child, looked more like a cherub than a human child, and was adored by all around her. We rested for an hour or two and then went for a trip round the region. Marseille was a town I had known since 1961 and I had returned there several times.

In the house I noticed there was but one voice, a voice that gave all the orders, silencing the others, almost scolding; it belonged to Georgette, and nobody dared answer her back, for the poor parents thought that if Georgette got angry she would take the little girl and leave them. Several times they did their best to mollify her and calm her down. I spoke to her in Arabic, quieting her down and reducing her to some politeness, threatening to return immediately to Paris – “You should have more respect for José’s father and mother and for José himself. I don’t know you any more, you didn’t used to have that character, domineering and spiteful. I’m going now and leaving this house!”

All three of us went out. After calm was restored, we spent the day in the hills, where we had lunch. On our way back, José showed me the factory where he worked. As for Georgette, I didn’t hear her voice any more; she was tense and furious, but didn’t dare to say one word in front of me. For the evening, the elder couple had prepared a fine dinner. I was seated in the middle of the table, with Georgette on my left and the doctor on my right.

I asked the question which was on my mind in Spanish: “How did you get to know Georgette and how did she come to find herself in such a nice family?”

In answer I was told that on leaving Cyprus Georgette had rung up her sister Dunia. She did not have a visa for entering France, so she had asked her sister to get her a visa for a short stay in France while she did all the necessary to go to Brazil. Dunia, who knew people and was very capable, managed to obtain for her a visa valid for a few days, on the supposition that she would carry on to Brazil. This was a lie, for Georgette did nothing about carrying on to Brazil and the police were on her track, so one fine morning she found herself in the police station facing either prison or repatriation.

The doctor told me how at that moment she had been passing by the police station and heard somebody sobbing and shouting and imploring the inspector, “I love France, it’s my father and mother, I don’t want to leave you, I’ll die in France, don’t be cruel…” and so on. The doctor asked the officer to wait just fifteen minutes before proceeding to extradite Georgette, and contacted her brother José and the mayor (before whom marriages are contracted in France), asking them to come straight away to the police and explaining to her brother that here was a very nice and likeable girl, very brave, and that he should marry her on the spot. She further explained to Georgette the gravity of her situation. In this way Georgette left the prefecture under the name of Madame Navarro and her problem was half settled. She was left alone. Georgette and José became more intimate by degrees, formed a united couple and had a little girl.

The story seemed wildly improbable but was true. After I had heard it we spent a most enjoyable evening, with Spanish wine, paella and chorizos. I was given a room to sleep in; José surrounded me with attention, as did his parents, the doctor and even their little dog! But in the night Georgette, being unable to fall asleep, came and sat at the foot of my bed, wanting to know any number of things, questioning me and telling me about herself.

Her one great problem was this: what about the great love of her life Tony, how did he stand? I told her that he was in business and that she should think no more about him. He was in another existence and Lebanon was still in a state of war. She should look after her new parents, José, and her daughter, and make sacrifices.

“I am your adopted daughter,” she said, “it is my honor, I am proud of you. Would you agree to forget the great love of your life? I cannot be cowardly and with no respect for my given word and my deepest feelings.” She cried helplessly. “That is why I am so difficult. José and his family are all adorable, kind, devoted and sincere. But me, I am cursed and unhappy…!”
She was speaking to me in Arabic. From time to time José came to enliven the passing hours. I said to her, “Georgette, you aren’t Paul and Virginia of the story. You are neither the first nor the last to be in love in this world. Pray to the Holy Virgin and the saints, calm down! When I get back to Lebanon, I’ll tell you about whether Tony has forgotten you and about his affairs.”

Next day there was a local fair with people pouring in from far and near and Dunia, Georgette’s sister, came to join us. I finally returned to the hostel in Paris, overwhelmed, but happy to have seen Georgette and to have learnt about her situation. Sometimes her new family spent the weekend in Spain, where they had an extensive property, a house and an olive grove. José’s mother complained that Georgette was unstable and highly strung and for my part I begged her to treat Georgette as if she were her own daughter.

In due course I returned to Lebanon and paid a visit to the Eagle’s Nest at Shahtool, where Georgette’s parents were waiting for me, showing them an album of photos of Georgette and passing her mother some gifts. September and October had passed. They overwhelmed me with an avalanche of questions. Had Georgette been to Spain, no doubt for picking the olives and grinding them for the oil?

Two or three months later I had to go to France again on account of a grant for one month given my by the French Cultural Mission. The situation in Lebanon had deteriorated. There had been acts of terrorism involving car bombs. There was one that had caused a number of victims at the Beirut suburb of Sinn el-Fil, just where Tony had his office and just when he had parked his car. He was rent apart by the force of the explosion and died on the spot. How sorry I felt for his father who had been in class with me and for his uncle and his sister! I went grieving the next day to his funeral, his funeral and the funeral of the dreams of Georgette.

During this trip to France my daughter Marina went with me. As soon as I had got to Paris I got through to the Navarros. Before long we were with them, Georgette and José waiting for us at the Saint Charles station. On the platform Marina and Georgette threw themselves into each other’s arms and then we were off to Berg l’Étang. We were weighed down with presents from Lebanon, souvenirs, nostalgic trinkets, coffee and candies. Everybody entered into the fun, except for Georgette, who was in another world and waiting for the lights to be switched off and for a chance to resort to our bedroom and ask intimate questions. José kept out of it, his one desire being to see Georgette happy.

That evening, therefore, we were on a separate floor, the one occupied by José’s brother. With Marina I had gone over the answers to all the possible questions. Georgette came in to us, saying that we had not yet touched on the one subject that interested her, her Tony, who was her life and her passion.

“Yes, that’s right, but first of all you must stay calm and assure us that you will accept every state of affairs, every happening, obligation or situation, without hysteria or nervous collapse.” She promised. “You know, Georgette, that Tony’s father was in class with me and that I have loved Tony as if he were one of my own children. Suppose that after this long absence of four years Tony fell in love with another girl, would you have any right to object? Would you be justified in raising any objection if he felt a religious vocation and entered a religious community? Or if he traveled to one of the Gulf Emirates to gain a living?”

“Go on,” she said, “tell me what’s happened!”

“So to continue, I met Tony in the region several times. He greeted me and asked about you, hoping to see you once the war was over… there were tears in his eyes. Suppose also that he had an accident, was taken to hospital, was handicapped? One must see there the will of God… or worse still, suppose he was hit by a sniper’s bullet, or there was an attack by militiamen, or he fell into an ambush… One thing is sure, Georgette, Tony has always loved you and has never abandoned you, and if you had been in Lebanon you would have departed with him…”
Her face turned pale, and perspiration pearled on her brow. I continued.

“Georgette, eight months ago, as Tony was getting out of his car in front of his office, all hell broke loose. There was an immense burst of flame, with dozens of victims, killed, wounded, torn apart – and among them there was Tony. I went to his home. After the funeral the visits of mourners went on for a week. I met your parents, your sister, and your brother Gaby. There were crowds as if at a wedding more than a funeral, among them your friends who stood for you. They mourned all those young people who had died for their country. Since I returned I have known all that but I did not know what to say. Here is Marina now, your daughter, and José your husband who loves you, and there is a future that you must face with courage and love. You must be once again the dear girl that I knew at the convent of the nuns in Lebanon.” Georgette gave her word and kept to it.

José’s mother asked me what had happened – “Georgette has completely changed, she’s no longer recognizable!” Georgette assured me, “I thought as much, for if he had been alive he would have got in touch with me, he or his mother or his brother.”

The miracle had occurred. We went and spent all day in Marseille, seeing the port, down-town, the churches, Notre Dame de la gare, the restaurants, a day of delight. We had phoned up Georgette’s parents at Shahtool, inviting them to come to France, something which they finally did, they and her brother, sister and cousin. All visited Georgette in turn.
Marina and I took the train for Paris and then the plane for Beirut. Georgette admitted to me that she would mourn all the days of her life and that the true tomb of Tony was not in his village but in her heart, which she would water her with her tears. Since then we have always been in touch with Georgette and José.

In Lebanon there are many widows who though still young refuse all marriage after the loss of their husbands, among them my own mother, who lost her husband when she was only twenty-six years old. A great poet said to me that God had created the Lebanese maid to be a mother like the Holy Virgin, whereas the Babylonian daughter was to be a concubine.
Lebanon and the Lebanese live for ever. Babylon has disappeared under the sands and its people scattered here and there over the planet. A local proverb speaks of two villages here near Byblos (Jbeil). One is Maad, whose people are generous, likeable, hospitable, devoted, active, kind, and so on. The other is Habeline, whose people are selfish, scheming, and disagreeable. The saying in question goes, “May God knock you down, O Maad, so your people may spread over the world like yeast in the dough, so that the world may be enriched by your gifts and your virtues. And may God keep you as you are, O Habeline, so that your people may stay where they are and thus nobody knows their faults.” May the Lebanese maid go all around the world to scatter her benefits.

Once a year, or nearly, I go to Shahtool to see Georgette’s elderly parents. Her mother at her advanced age can no longer walk about, and her father, even older, does nothing but talk. I walk about on the terrace to meditate before the unmatched panorama, or to stroll about under the age-old trees in the forest and over the rocks, to enter into dialogue with a nature at once wild and friendly, or to slake my thirst at one of the limpid springs, with a visit to Our Lady of the Citadel. Nostalgia invades my soul.

Existence is hard but sometimes serene. I see a great domain now empty, or almost so, that the heirs have abandoned. George is in town and Gaby comes only to sleep or to go hunting. It is hard to follow in the footsteps of the elders and the young people have broken with their traditions, having other preoccupations.

Modern society with all its technology has drawn them away. No more do I see flocks of goats or sheep, herds of cows. I see only an old dog, unable even to bark, and some strutting fowls. The workers who once tended the land have gone. It is a sad story that moves me deeply. Memories remain and reality is elsewhere.

Joseph Matar
All rights reserved © LebanonArt
Translated from French: K.J.Mortimer