Rafik Schami - The Dark Side of Love

“Because as a communist you could put your hand on the Bible and swear to any lie.”

“I swear by the health of my mother, by the light of my eyes, and by Rana’s life that you will be helping me greatly by letting Bulos know, as soon as possible, that I’m leaving the country on 14 September.”

“I’ll do it,” said Matta, and there was a curious gleam in his eyes.

An opportunity came along ten days before that. He had delivered an order to Bulos’s wife, who was laying in large stocks of provisions from the spice market: herbs, grain, oils, and olive oil soap. She asked him when he would be able to bring her the twenty kilos of small pickling aubergines she had ordered from the village of Qabun, and Matta replied that he’d do it this week if she liked, because he would be busy from Monday to Saturday next week working for the Mushtaks. “They’re giving a farewell party on the Saturday for their son Farid, and I’ll be transporting all they need for it with my Suzuki.”

Bulos, hovering in the background, was attentively following this conversation. “Oh, is Farid going away?” he suddenly asked, with no idea that at that moment he was taking his first step into the fox’s trap.

“Yes, he’s flying to Paris on Sunday, to study there,” said Matta, and waited for Bulos to ask him about the airline and the time of day. But Bulos just smiled and went back to his newspaper.

Matta thought he had failed, but he was wrong. On Thursday 11 September, from his office, Mahdi called a colleague at the airport, and received confirmation that Farid Mushtak had booked on an Air France flight that day. Mahdi hung up and immediately rang his friend Badran.

“Yes, good, pick him up then,” said Badran, noticing only when he had put the receiver down again that he had spoken to Mahdi Said much as he spoke to his German shepherd dog.

296. Rana’s Revenge

Rana had a long search before she found a second-hand dealer who would take her house contents complete. All the others wanted to buy only selected items of household goods, but after a brief look, and at the low price she was asking, Abdullah al Asmar found it an offer he couldn’t refuse. The young widow wanted to get rid of everything, even the family photographs, her late husband’s letters, his underwear, suits, uniforms, three fine pistols, and all the books. She told him the sight of these things grieved her. The second-hand dealer, a man well used to house clearances, put on a show of sympathetic understanding. “You’re telling me nothing new, madame. I lost my own first wife when I was your age. I felt I wanted to die too,” he said in a faltering voice.

“But I want to live, you see. I want to start again, and all this junk is like lead weighing me down,” she replied, and the second-hand dealer almost laughed. Junk, she called it! Three Rolexes, two gold Omega watches, a collection of gold coins, a stamp collection, walnut-wood cupboards, damask curtains, paintings, records, four radios and three television sets, two of them still in their original packaging. They agreed on twenty thousand dollars, and the dealer was sure he had struck the bargain of his life. The showcase that contained hunting rifles from all over the world would fetch over ten thousand alone.

A day later, on Saturday 13 September, his men cleared the house from attic to cellar. Down in the cellar there were countless jars of preserved and bottled fruit. Rana gave those away to the men. When they had finished, the dealer handed the young widow the sum on which they had agreed, and made off in a hurry.

Rana walked around the empty house. Her footsteps echoed back from the walls. When she reached the middle of the drawing room, now illuminated like a theatrical stage by the sun, she stopped. She took the wedding photo from her purse, slowly tore it in two, and placed the half with the picture of her smiling husband in the middle of the room. She stuffed the other halfback in her purse.

Then she closed her eyes. A cactus came into bloom in her heart, and for a second she felt its spines. She had goosebumps, and was briefly dazed. When she came back to reality she heaved a sigh of relief.

She went to the Hotel Samiramis in the city centre and took a room there. Later she called down to reception and ordered a light supper from room service. She stood at the window for a while, with her eyes wandering over several building sites. Then she looked down at the street. Damascus has become a large village, she thought. She had never before seen so many passers by in peasant garments.

And then, as they had agreed, she rang Farid.

297. The Flight of the Butterflies

He sat quietly in his parents’ bedroom. Outside, this September Sunday was as bright as summer, but the curtains dimmed the light. Farid was watching his father, who had fallen asleep. He looked shrunken, very small as he lay there, breathing peacefully.

Suddenly, as if waking abruptly from a nightmare, he sat up. “Farid,” he said, seeing his son.

“Yes, it’s me, Father.”

“Have I been asleep for long?”

“Mother says you need to get plenty of sleep because the medicaments make you tired,” he said. Elias folded his hands in his lap and lowered his gaze.

“So you’re flying today?” he asked.

“Officially, yes, but for you and Mama I’m really flying tomorrow at thirteen hours from Beirut.”

“And you have someone to get you over the border?”

“Don’t worry about that,” replied Farid, glancing at his watch. It was just before three in the afternoon. “I must be off,” he said, standing up.

“God bless you wherever you go. I may never see you again,” said Elias, fighting back tears.

“Yes, you will, Papa. I won’t be far away. A three-hour flight and you’ll be with me. Our world is so small now, but that man Shahin would never leave me in peace here,” he replied, hugging his father.

Years later, he was still asking himself why he hadn’t kissed Elias then. He couldn’t find the answer.

Outside the courtyard Laila, Josef, Matta and his wife Faride were sitting with Claire, who was trying to smile through her tears.

Farid embraced his mother. “You and your Elias must come and see me soon. It would be a good trip for lovers to make.”

“I’ll be there very soon,” everyone heard Elias call. Claire laughed. Farid kissed her, and shed tears himself.

“We’ll give you a hug at the airport,” said Josef. “I’ll be driving straight there from home, with my wife.”

“Let me embrace you now. Who knows, we may not have time there,” replied Farid, holding him close. Josef laughed to hide his awkwardness.

Laila sniffed tearfully. “I’ll think of you even at the last moment of my life,” she whispered in his ear, and kissed him on the lips.

“Leave a little of him for Rana,” joked Claire.

Faride too had tears in her eyes. “May God punish those who tormented you and are forcing you to leave now. I know it’s wrong, but I’m going to light a candle to Our Lady every day and ask her to make your enemy’s hands fall off.” Hatred and grief were at odds in her voice.

The doorbell rang. The taxi was there.

“Goodbye,” said Farid. At the door, Matta hugged him.

“Watch out for yourself. That traitor knows now.”

“Don’t worry. But whatever happens at the airport, stay with Claire,” said Farid, embracing his mother once again, and then he got into the taxi. Claire, Josef, Faride and Matta waved. At the corner of Straight Street, Farid waved back one last time.

“The Hotel Samiramis,” he told the driver.

298. The Reckoning

Claire, Laila, Matta and his wife reached the airport around seven in the evening. Josef was already there. He looked anxious. “Not a sign of Farid anywhere, but secret service men all over the place, a blind man could spot that,” he said. Claire smiled.