A voice intruded on her troubled thoughts.
"There is something I would like to do. Please."
Rania turned to the woman, who had spoken in Arabic. The director scanned the pretty face, the deep-brown eyes, the faint hint of makeup on the light-mocha skin. The name...? Ah, yes, Fatima. Fatima Jabril. Behind her was her husband. His name, Rania recalled, was Khaled. The couple whose intake she herself had processed just the other day.
In the husband's arms lay their sleeping daughter, whose name she'd forgotten. Fatima apparently noted the director's frown.
"This is Muna."
"Yes, that's right--a lovely name." The child's round face was surrounded by a mass of glossy black curls.
Fatima continued, "Earlier, I was outspoken. The journey was very difficult. I apologize." She glanced back at her husband, who had apparently encouraged her to say this.
"No, it's not necessary."
Fatima continued, "We have asked and have been told that you are the director of the camp."
"That's right."
"I come to you with a question. In Tripoli I worked in health care. I was a midwife and served as a nurse during the Liberation."
She would be talking, of course, about the fall of Qaddafi and the months afterward, when the peace and stability, so long anticipated and so bravely fought for, had vanished like water in hot sand.
"Liberation"--what a mockery.
"I would like to help here in the camp. So many people, pregnant women, about to give birth. And sick too. The burns."
Sunburn, she meant. Yes, a week on the Mediterranean with no protection took a terrible toll--especially on young skin. And there were other diseases too. The camp's sanitation was as good as it could be, but many refugees were racked with illness.
"I would appreciate that. I will introduce you to the medical center director. What are your languages?"
"Other than Arabic, some English. My husband." She nodded to Khaled, who gave an amiable smile. "He is good with English. We are teaching Muna both languages. And I am learning Italian. An hour a day at the school here."
Rania nearly smiled--the girl was only two, and bilingual instruction seemed a bit premature. But Fatima's eyes were hard and her mouth taut. The director plainly saw that the woman's determination to help, and to be granted asylum and assimilate, was not a matter for humor.
"We have no way to pay you. No funds."
Fatima said quickly, "I don't wish to be paid. I wish to help."
"Thank you."
The refugees were mixed when it came to generosity. Some--like Fatima--volunteered selflessly. Others remained reclusive and a few were resentful that more was not being done for them or that the asylum-seeking process took so long.
Rania was telling Fatima about the medical center facilities when she happened to look through the fence and saw something that gave her pause.
Outside, amid the hundreds of those milling about--reporters, family members and friends of the refugees--a man stood by himself. He was in the shadows, so she had no clear image of him. But it was obvious he was staring in her direction. The thickset man wore a cap, the sort American sports figures wore, a cap you didn't see much in Italy, where heads went mostly uncovered. His eyes were obscured with aviator sunglasses. There was something troubling about his pose.
Rania knew she had incurred the anger of many people for her devotion to these poor people. Refugees were hugely unpopular among certain segments of the population in the host countries. But he was not standing with the protesters. No, his attention--which seemed focused on Rania herself--appeared to be about something else entirely.
Rania said goodbye to Fatima and Khaled and pointed to the medical facility. As the family walked away, Rania pulled her radio off her hip and summoned the head of security--a Police of State captain--to meet her fifty meters south of the main gate.
Tomas radioed back immediately saying he was coming.
He arrived just two or three minutes later. "A problem?"
"A man outside the fence. Something odd about him."
"Where?"