Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

He didn’t sleep, but closed his eyes and brought to mind an image of Safaa — who had become a powerful female presence in his life, after his first wife, Zeina, had become absorbed in her children, Nabataean-poetry competitions and hunting, now with her uncles, now with the princesses. She left her children with Safaa who looked after them and watched over them, so that they began to call her ‘Mama’. She found the word pleasant, then placed her hand on her swollen stomach and remembered her craving for dates. She took the children to the market and joked with them, without a care.

But the happiness in Safaa’s grasp was incomplete. She would sit for hours as she thought about our fate, which had entered an endless, shadowy tunnel. She missed Radwan and gossiping with Marwa, she told Abdullah over the phone when he reached Washington. He reassured her about Bakr and serenaded her with a graphic description of his desire for her.

Abdullah felt a strange energy even though he hadn’t slept even for a moment on the flight. Hot water and strong coffee restored his clarity of mind, and he sat down to wait for the meetings. Six hours later, there was a knock at the door of the modest hotel room in which he had been ordered to stay and a man in his fifties entered. He spoke Arabic fluently, and introduced himself as a representative of the Agency; he enquired briefly after Abdullah’s health, and asked him to relax until the evening. He left and Abdullah fell into a deep sleep. He thought all these precautions very strange. He realized that his past interested them, judging from the CIA officer’s questions about the extent of his former relationships with Russian officials and his comrades in Aden. That evening, he quietly left the hotel and gave an address to the taxi driver. In the back of the cab, he was struck with sudden boredom. He loosened his tie and felt the necessity of returning to Riyadh. He was confirmed in his suspicions when he sat down at the meeting table and saw in front of him Philip Anderson; he had the face of a professional killer, cold-eyed, revealing little emotion.

Anderson proposed to include Abdullah in a spy ring, and granted him the prerogative of choosing the places where he wanted to work — anywhere from Moscow to Riyadh. He brought out a dossier of 180 pages and allowed Abdullah to examine it, whereupon he found his entire life story before him. Anderson was not pleased by Abdullah’s sardonic tone when he laughed and suggested that Anderson sell him the dossier to help him in writing his memoirs. Threatening to return to Riyadh immediately and seek out other partners, Abdullah got up angrily and curtly informed Anderson that he was a politician not a mercenary, and one convinced of the necessity of killing unbelievers and driving them out of Afghanistan. He mocked the American’s depth of analysis; from the way Anderson spoke about those matters, they might as well have been ordering a quick breakfast in a diner. Abdullah took his leave abruptly, without asking permission. Anderson watched him from the window of the apartment as Abdullah put his hands in his pockets, whistling like any carefree man, and looking in shop windows.

Abdullah waited in a deserted restaurant for his former student Saleh, whom he had mentored in the Communist Party. He had nominated him for several successive posts, until Saleh had become an important man in his own right and tried to convince the Americans to increase the level of their diplomatic representation in Aden. Once the two were sitting together, Abdullah quietly asked, ‘Why have you betrayed me?’ He pushed away Saleh’s glass of whisky and soda, and asked for a portion of chicken and a plate of Russian salad. Saleh cleared his throat awkwardly and then launched into a confused tale of dispute within the Party. Abdullah ate calmly and thought about what a good student Saleh had been, as he was drowned in a torrent of the other’s words. Abdullah’s silence was unbroken until Saleh surprised him with an invitation from his old comrades to return to Yemen. He took out a letter signed by the head of the Yemeni Mukhabarat, who had shared his room in Moscow for four years. He took hold of the letter and calmly tore it up; then he rose to his feet and spat in Saleh’s face. Abdullah left swiftly, leaving his old pupil in utter disbelief at the transformation of the teacher who had taught him the art of diplomacy, and how to smile to the enemy’s face while searching his eyes for his weakness.

Saleh wiped the spittle away and finished drinking his whisky, as if what had just happened was an old folk tradition of farewell in some distant country. He regretted telling Aden of their meeting, blamed himself, and remembered the sweetest moments of his life, when Abdullah spoke to him for the first time at one of the Communist Party meetings. Immediately, he could see his talents as a statesman who had perfected demagoguery and a certain economy with the truth. Saleh came out of the restaurant feeling depressed. He left his car behind and walked absently along the crowded streets, recalling discussions which used to carry on till morning. His teacher’s contempt pained him. He remembered when Abdullah sent him to study law at the University of Damascus, bearing enthusiastic letters of recommendation to Syrian officials. Saleh played backgammon with them and taught them the basics of chewing gat . He joined the staff of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, demonstrating to all his talents. When he and Abdullah were later walking alone in the streets of Aden, they would recall their nights in Damascus, when Abdullah would arrive as a surprise guest for a day or two, and they would escape like two impish young men into the alleys of Bab Al Tuma, taking note of the Levantines’ politesse in evading difficult questions. Saleh felt choked up. He resolved the matter by delivering a long report in which he advised Abdullah’s assassination, because he had sold Communist Party secrets to the Americans in exchange for a steady supply of arms to the Arab fighters in Afghanistan so they could overthrow the Soviet-backed government.

When Abdullah returned to his hotel late that evening, he found Philip Anderson waiting for him. They embarked on a deep mutual understanding which turned to friendship; this would later cost Anderson all his ambitions for advancement through the upper echelons of the CIA. The pair stayed up till morning, outlining the necessities for supporting the mujahideen. Anderson understood the need for military intelligence and hardware. Abdullah spent four days in Washington to ensure that Philip recognized his dedication. He respected Anderson for his precision, his ideas, his elegance, his wide-ranging knowledge, and his passion for antiquities.

Abdullah was not surprised when he found Safaa waiting for him at the airport with her driver and his children, who noisily asked him for presents. He took her hand in the car and desire coursed through their blood. From his pulse, she felt that everything was fine. That night, Safaa didn’t take long to convince him to let her travel to Aleppo to give birth to her baby there.

* * *

We had needed Safaa so much. She was as welcome as a cool breeze in the long, scorching heat; she was laughing, warm, engaging as she swapped reminiscences with us. Radwan observed everything from the threshold of his room, waiting for a question from her which wasn’t long in coming. She saw the sad smile of an embalmed man, barely recognizable. When she saw Khalil lying on the hastily prepared bed, it seemed to her surreal — our house had become a nursing home and the dead left it in coffins. She didn’t need long to understand everything. She lost hope that the situation might be less grave than it first appeared when she saw Marwa celebrating her chains, waiting for her butterflies to rise up from their torpor and liberate her, as she said sarcastically when showing off her drawings full of glowing colours. We all shared Safaa after she felt our isolation from each other. She drank tea with Khalil and Radwan in their room; we heard laughter and the sound of Radwan singing, which we hadn’t heard for some time. He regained his joy; the fool returned, who loved playing, making perfumes and composing odes in a heroic attempt to leave something behind which might immortalize him — after being emasculated by life in a house of women whom he led on their few, repetitive walks. They were ladies, and he was sometimes a servant, sometimes a family member. Safaa sensed his regret at having wasted his life with us, but despite repeatedly gathering his possessions in a bundle and leaving without even saying goodbye, he had always returned sheepishly after a day or two.