Rafik Schami - The Dark Side of Love

The French withdrew from Damascus, leaving six hundred Syrian dead and three thousand wounded. Many houses were destroyed.

Her parents were glad to get home and find their house still standing. “Our Lady protected it,” said her mother. But Rana felt sure it was the evil spirit under the stairs who — even though he was evil — needed a place to live too. She was glad, all the same. Riad and Fuad, George Abiad’s children, had been spiteful, calling Rana and her brother refugees and hitting them when the grown-ups weren’t looking. The two boys were big and strong, particularly Riad, who was a colossus, and liked to sit on Rana’s stomach saying he wouldn’t get off until she kissed him on the mouth, and she’d better not tell tales, because if she did he’d put a rat in her bed one night, and rats liked to eat little girls’ ears. After that Rana often woke up in the night and felt her ears. But she’d had to kiss Riad three times because he was pressing all the breath out of her.

Here in the psychiatric hospital, over twenty-three years later, she saw him in a dream with a rat in his hand, and she ran down a little flight of stairs to the courtyard where her parents were sitting. She screamed, but no one heard her, and whenever she reached the last step the stairs grew longer. Riad came no closer to her, but the flight of stairs still never seemed to end.

292. Fourth Report

Dr. Salam, chief medical director, 15 May 1969, 11.00hrs. Psychopathologically, distinct improvement and stabilisation in patient. Drive and sleep patterns normalised, psychomotor functions also normal, affectively adequate to the situation and responding to it, no more indications of suicidal moods. In conversation in the last few weeks very frank, affectively modulated, able to empathize. Still sees her future as very dark, in particular cannot imagine returning to husband, but seems to know of no alternative. Cannot count on support of her parents. Medication: 150 mg imipramine, was able to discontinue levomepromazine over last two weeks.

Popular in the ward, feels safe and sheltered. Does not want to be discharged yet, but must begin facing reality. She rejects my suggestion of a stay with relatives or abroad, for which her husband’s consent could be obtained with a little pressure. Cannot yet make up her mind what to do. In view of difficult family situation and the anhedonia still present, inability to make decisions and tendency to brood still part of the picture for the time being. I prescribe an active life with plenty of exercise. Possibility that therapeutic conversations may merely increase brooding tendency? Dr. Bishara rejects this, strongly wishes to continue therapy. Once a week will be enough.

In early June, Rana heard from Claire that Farid was soon to be granted an amnesty, and she, as his mother, was able to see him once a week. He was well, said Claire, and longing for Rana.

Three days later she asked the medical director to be discharged. She knew how she was going to live now, she said.

When her husband arrived with flowers she said a warm goodbye to Hanna Bishara, and hugged Edward Salam. “You’ve helped me so much. Thank you!” she whispered to him, kissing his right cheek. There were tears in the doctor’s eyes. A daughter was leaving him, and he knew it was for ever.

When a butterfly first sees the light it forgets everything except that it can fly.

DAMASCUS, BEIRUT, SUMMER 1969 — SEPTEMBER 1969

293. Suspicion

Matta was standing at the door, looking pale. Claire made him sit down by the fountain and brewed him a strong mocha. He was nervously cracking his finger joints. When she came back she also brought a plate of sablés, Matta’s favourite cookies.

“Bulos lied to me,” he said after a while. Claire sat very still. “He swore by our sacred vow of brotherhood that he’d never seen Farid since the monastery, and then he wanted to know who gave me that information. It’s terrible, just think of it! I risked my life for Bulos, and then I ask him a favour for my brother Farid, and …” Matta fell silent.

The doorbell rang. It was a neighbouring woman bringing a domestic still around for Claire. When she came back to Matta she saw that he was weeping.

“What’s the matter?”

“I risked my life for him, and now he lies to me. Who knows, perhaps he was always lying to me,” he said, standing up. “I just wanted him to spare Farid. That’s all. But I’ll go to him again. Perhaps I’ll take my wife, she can soften a heart of stone when she cries.” He smiled shyly.

Farid should be proud that there are people who love him so much, thought Claire. At the door she hugged Matta more tenderly than ever before. He was sobbing like a child. “Farid is my brother. Matta will see to it,” he whispered defiantly, and went out. Suddenly a strange feeling came over Claire. When he sat there like that, lost in thought, his features were very like Elias’s. She too had heard the rumours that Nasibe, the young widow who was passionately in love with Elias long ago, had become pregnant by him and married the poor shepherd in a hurry to avoid scandal. Elias denied it all. Nasibe had had a thousand and one relationships with men, he always said. But Matta’s aunt said that when her deranged nephew came back from the mental hospital, he was sure of only one thing: Farid was his brother.

294. Out of the Cocoon

President Amran returned from Moscow in a good mood, and next day pardoned seven hundred political prisoners, a hundred and eleven of them held in Tad. Two large buses took the freed men to Damascus. First they just sat deep in thought, looking almost sad. It was not easy to say goodbye to their companions in misfortune. Many wept, but when they understood that they were really free they almost all went crazy. They jumped up from their seats, sang in strange languages that no one could understand, danced in the central aisle, fell into each other’s arms, clapped one another on the back and the shoulder and exchanged happy kisses.

“If you carry on like that the police will send us straight to the nuthouse. Calm down, we’re in the suburbs of Damascus already,” begged the bus driver. The freed prisoners sat down again, looked out of the window at beautiful women, whistled, played at hiding, laughed like little schoolboys.

Farid reached his house around midday, and wanted to storm in through the front door, dance around the fountain with Claire, and shout for joy, but the door was locked. He rang the bell, and Claire came to answer it in her cooking apron. “Holy Virgin!” she cried. Farid hugged her and carried her to the fountain. She was laughing.

“Since when have you been locking the front door?”

“Since the city filled up with so many anonymous strangers. They flock in and take anything that isn’t nailed down. And others come along and involve you in shady business that could put you behind bars for ten years. Someone left a kilo of hashish in a flower pot at Suleiman’s cousin Faris’s house. He doesn’t smoke and he despises drugs, but that didn’t help him with the police. A number of people have had locks fitted to their doors since his arrest.”

Farid wanted to have a bath, but Claire said that first, as when he came home from Gahan, he must go and see his father, who was waiting impatiently for his arrival. And indeed, on this second occasion Elias was in transports of joy. He laughed and wept and kept stroking his son’s face. Almost awkwardly, he offered him sweetmeats.