Rafik Schami - The Dark Side of Love

“Come with me, then,” said the whisky merchant, and took his leave of the Patriarch. His black Mercedes was parked outside in the yard.

“The President’s brother Shaftan is the most corrupt man in the world, but he does what he says he’ll do,” said Salamoni, driving off. “We’ll go straight to him. Fundamentally, he’s the secret ruler of this country.”

Elias knew that Shaftan was the head of the special unit that had built the ring of defences around Damascus, but he would never have expected to meet the President’s brother where Salamoni was taking him.

Salamoni wanted to know all about Farid. If what Elias said wasn’t true, he added, he couldn’t guarantee anything. Elias briefly told him what Claire had said. Salamoni nodded thoughtfully.

“I thought Shaftan was outside Damascus with the troops,” said Elias, as Salamoni reached the Abu Rumanna quarter. There were no barracks here, only the villas of the richest Damascenes and the foreign consulates. Salamoni laughed. “He’s been here for a month in a palace that he bought for ten lira from Bardana, a rich textiles dealer.”

“Ten lira? You must be joking,” said Elias.

“I seldom joke,” replied Salamoni, “but you’d sell your house for a single lira if a cold-blooded man put his pistol to your temple, and you knew he was brutal enough to sit his ten-year-old son on his lap to watch the executions of his enemies, just to toughen the boy up.”

“And he lives here?” asked Elias.

“No one knows where he lives, but he has his secretariat here, and if you state your request and the matter’s important enough you can see him in person. If not, his employees deal with it.”

The house was impressive, and two helicopters stood on the lawn of the large garden. At the entrance Salamoni gave the soldiers in their combat uniforms his name, and a few minutes later a young lieutenant came running down the steps.

“Monsieur Salamoni,” he said breathlessly, “forgive me for keeping you waiting, but all hell’s let loose today.” He greeted Salamoni, and shook Elias’s hand without interest.

The steps up from the entrance led to a large hall with a reception desk. Two women kept picking up phones, saying something, laughing, hanging up again and making notes. There were tastefully arranged seating areas among the tall marble columns, as if the place were a luxury hotel. Several men were waiting there patiently, motionless as waxworks. The lieutenant led Salamoni and Elias past the groups of chairs to a broad and majestic marble staircase, and went ahead of them. On the second floor, he opened a door and showed his guests into a spacious room. The furniture, walls, and ceiling dated from the nineteenth century. The only jarring note was represented by a green office desk and a beige swivel chair behind it.

At the lieutenant’s civil request, Salamoni told him about Farid’s fate, stressing the fact that Elias’s only son now belonged to no political party at all. He had been very sick with meningitis as a child and still suffered from the consequences. The lieutenant noted it all down, ordered tea over the phone for himself and his guests, and then turned to Elias. “Mr. Mushtak, if Monsieur Salamoni asks me to do something then I do it, but I want to be sure what I’m letting myself in for before I go to Comrade Shaftan. Is it true about the meningitis, or does your son just have migraines?”

Elias felt a lump in his throat. “Sir, he was in an intensive care ward when he was twelve. They didn’t know how to cure meningitis properly at the time, so to this day he still has epileptic fits and falls unconscious. I can show you the diagnosis of three specialists,” he replied.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” said the officer, and then fell silent. The only sound in the room came from the clock on the wall.

“Was your son armed when he was arrested?” the lieutenant went on at last. Elias thought it a strange question. “No, sir, my son had no weapon with him. He was afraid, and was hiding with his cousin.”

Once again the lieutenant preserved a long silence. Salamoni was used to it, and relaxed, but Elias felt his heart thudding. What would the young man ask next? He breathed a sigh of relief when the officer took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and looked at him in a friendly way. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. However, the decision is for Comrade Shaftan to make.”

The lieutenant went on to ask Elias for Farid’s personal details, and carefully wrote them down. A woman came in with a tray, handed Salamoni a glass of tea and then went over to Elias. He took a glass and placed it beside the officer, as a sign of his own humble status, before taking the third glass himself. The officer took no notice of this courtesy.

When the woman left, Salamoni whispered to the lieutenant, “The matter is quite urgent. The young man really is very sick, and I owe Monsieur Mushtak a great deal.”

“I’ll be off at once,” said the officer, “but you owe no one anything, monsieur, for you lavish generous gifts on us with no thought for yourself. That’s what fascinates me so much in you.” And he was already rising, took the sheets of paper he had written, and hurried out of the door.

“He forgot his tea,” said Elias.

Salamoni made a sign indicating that they were being overheard. “Yes, that’s the way he always is. Lieutenant Butros is a true humanitarian. He helps whenever he can,” he replied.

It was an hour before Lieutenant Butros came back, beaming. “Comrade Shaftan listened to me. Farid will be free as soon as possible, and from today he will be under Comrade Shaftan’s protection. It will cost a hundred,” said the officer to Salamoni, as if he were the one who was Farid’s father. Salamoni glanced at Elias. Elias nodded. He had understood: a hundred thousand dollars. Shaftan took only dollars; Syrian lira were no use to him.

“We’ll pay,” said Salamoni.

“Then let’s go to the boss. He’d like to meet you personally,” said Lieutenant Butros, going ahead to the next staircase.

The third floor was even more magnificent than the second. The outer office was furnished in burgundy red. A pretty secretary briefly looked up from her typewriter, smiled at the lieutenant, and bent over her work again.

Two young men in black uniforms stood to attention. Machine guns gleamed in front of their chests. The man on the right stood at ease again, opened a handsome wooden door, forcefully pulled open a second door made of thick steel, and then pressed down the handle of another wooden door in the depths of the thick wall. Arab music met their ears. Elias saw a huge hall before him. There was a gigantic desk in the middle of the room, with five or six telephones on it. The walls were adorned with shining golden daggers and swords. A large window offered a fine panoramic view of the city of Damascus; outside, a new steel fire escape was being fitted.

Elias gave a start when he suddenly saw the mighty Shaftan, who came to meet them when he had switched off the radio. He wore a green military uniform much too large for him, intended to emphasize his strength and virility, but he looked more like a three-dimensional caricature. Shaftan took Salamoni’s hand in both his own, as an expression of particular warmth. “I wanted to thank you in person for that excellent Scotch. Lieutenant Butros brought me the case two months ago. I can only say I’ve drunk no other whisky since. I’m afraid you’ve spoiled me,” he said, smiling, and then turned to Elias, speaking in a soft voice. “You can rest assured that from now on no one will touch your only son. However, my brother Amran must approve his actual release.”

“My dear sir, we know that you are as one with our President,” Salamoni insisted, to get a binding statement out of him.