Rafik Schami - The Dark Side of Love

Then, as if regretting this outburst against his superiors, he changed tack and was all humility. “I told the Interior Minister, please, even if he didn’t have any sympathy for me he might at least think of my children … how will they … at school …” And Garasi, whose eyes were usually hard as marble, was weeping and sobbing. His words drowned in his tears; no one could make out what he was saying any more.

Then the gate opened, and he stopped short in surprise. A Landrover drove up to him and ostentatiously stopped only a metre or so away. A man in civilian clothes beckoned the startled captain over to him. Garasi went. Little could be heard, but the commandant’s stooping posture showed that the civilian was more powerful than he was. What he was saying seemed to confuse Garasi. The captain pointed despairingly but energetically at the truck, but the civilian in the car moved not a muscle. He just stared wordlessly into the distance. Through the open gate, the assembled officers, NCOs, and soldiers now saw two jeeps and a small van, the kind used for transporting prisoners. Garasi was pleading with the civilian, but the silence choked his words. And the captain who had so recently been lord over the lives of thousands, collapsed. His arms, which he had always used to emphasize what he said, dangled helplessly as he went towards the small van. A powerful man was holding the back hatch open. And when Garasi stood hesitating by the vehicle, the secret service man gave him a firm and disrespectful push that sent him flying inside it. Then the man bolted the hatch and got into the front seat next to the driver.

Without giving the officers, NCOs, and soldiers standing around so much as a glance, the man in civilian clothes made a slight gesture, indicating his wishes to the driver of the Landrover, and the vehicle raced out of the gate, churning up a great deal of sand and dust. After a while it disappeared from sight in the endless desert.

The truck containing Garasi’s household goods was looted that same night. When a phone call came from secret service HQ days later, saying that the former commandant’s belongings were to be sent to his children in Daraia, the man on duty was rather confused, not just because the truck was now empty, but also because the caller spoke of the convicted officer Garasi.

267. Nabil

The worst of it for the officers, NCOs, and soldiers in the camp was the embargo on contact with the outside world imposed on all of them by the secret service HQ. Their telephone lines were tapped, and the connection was broken at any hint of ambiguity. A motorized unit formed an impenetrable ring surrounding the camp. Large notices in English, French, and Arabic now stood for a radius of ten kilometres around it, declaring the terrain a military restricted area and forbidding intrusion on pain of death. No journalist ventured to come anywhere near the camp.

Inside it, cheerful chaos prevailed after Garasi’s departure. Secret service HQ, which had power over the camp “for dangerous elements”, was taking its time. And as if all the prisoners had lost their memories in the elation of victory, they were mingling on friendly terms with the soldiers, officers, and guards. They ate, smoked, played cards, and joked together, and discussed what the future would bring. Suddenly hearty, childlike laughter found its way into the camp.

It was at this time that Farid got to know a young soldier called Nabil. Aged twenty, Nabil had had bad luck. Two days after arriving at his barracks north of Damascus, he had had an angry exchange of words with an NCO, who saw to it that the young man was transferred to duty at Tad. But Nabil assured Farid, in confidence, that the real reason for his disciplinary transfer was the NCO’s hatred of all townies and Christians. Nabil was both. His parents came from Bab Tuma in Damascus, where his father ran a small food store selling preserved delicacies. Like many young people, Nabil knew the famous confectioner’s shop belonging to Farid’s father, and told him that he sometimes used to spend all his weekend pocket money there on his favourite sweetmeat, a confection known as nightingale nests.

He had fallen unhappily in love with a rich young woman, but soon she decided to marry a wealthy neighbour, and he had to bury his love deep in his heart. Six months ago, however, she got in touch with him again; it seemed that her marriage had disappointed her, and she wanted to run away with Nabil.

Farid listened to the young soldier’s tale of woe for nights on end. He soon realized that just having someone listening to him acted on Nabil like a magnet. He sought Farid out as often as he could to tell him more about his sorrows and his perplexity.

For a long time Farid had thought listening an art mastered better by women than men. Claire said that in that case, he himself had very feminine ears. He knew that listening makes you wise, but he had no idea that in his own case his ability to listen would actually save his life.

268. The Cold Voice

The elm was burning. The fire played around its stout, split trunk and licked up to the tree’s low crown, a blazing pyramid spraying sparks into the dark sky with all its might, as if they were those long-lost glow-worms that can hide away for decades, emerging at last in their search for love.

The strong wind sang its loud song through the flames. It sounded like screams of pain in chorus. The sparks went out in mid-flight, but many splinters of the tree were strong enough to withstand the cold air above and fall back to the ground, still glowing. The dry grass and bushes caught fire. The air smelled of burning wood and thyme. A spark suddenly dug into his right cheek. Farid started up, his heart racing, and struck the burning splinter of wood away. Everything immediately dissolved into darkness.

It was some time before his eyes, dazzled by the fire, could see the sleeping men around him in the large, dark hut. His vision clouded over again, but he didn’t feel like lying down any more. Sitting on the floor, he held his head in both hands. His temples were throbbing with pain, and sparks flashed in a dark firmament behind his closed eyelids. He helplessly rubbed the root of his nose, which was supposed to help when you felt dazed.

The yard was dark, and the faint light of the lantern made it seem even darker. A blackbird was singing. Farid’s eyes wandered from the place where he sat, looking through the grating and across the yard with the two palms at its centre. The sky was growing brighter only slowly, but now Farid could see the blackbird on top of the right-hand palm. As if it felt reassured now that it could see the sun from its high perch, it sang one last time and flew away.

Farid was freezing to the core. He had a numb sensation in his limbs, but his head was clear; the dazed sensation had gone away. Very slowly he rose to his feet to go to the grating and get more fresh air. After a while he heard moans in the far corner of the hut, where Basil was penetrating his lover Fahmi’s backside. As usual, Fahmi was begging his passionate lover to be quiet and not pinch him so hard.

Farid closed his eyes. The cold breeze felt pleasantly cool on his hot face. He breathed in and out deeply, as the doctor had once recommended, because at such moments the brain needs plenty of oxygen. In the middle of his third or fourth breath he heard the voice again. Ever since childhood, he had experienced it after every fit of unconsciousness: a clear, cold voice speaking to him. As a child he had thought he was hearing a real person, but as the years passed he knew that the voice was inside him.

A successor to the dismissed commandant would be coming today and would destroy the camp, said the voice. Trembling all over, Farid decided to say nothing to the other prisoners. He didn’t want to crush their reviving hopes.