The Dark Side of Love (124 page)

“How did you get here?” he asked in some surprise.

“My driver dropped everything to bring me. Now he's waiting patiently outside the door for a couple of hours,” she said, wiping away her tears with a handkerchief.

“What – my father's outside?” asked Farid in surprise.

“Yes, but the camp commandant wouldn't let him see you. The permission was only for me,” she said.

When Claire had to leave the camp at about one in the afternoon, Elias was standing in the narrow area of shade provided by a wall. The sun was blazing mercilessly down, and there wasn't a tree in sight. Claire kissed him and walked quickly to the car. She didn't say a word until they had reached the main road.

“The camp commandant is Musa Shahin's son. Musa who was shot by your brother Hasib in 1941. Do you remember the little boy?”

In sombre mood, Elias shook his head.

“His mother came from the north, and as a widow she went back to her parents. He's been calling himself Mahdi Said since he converted to Islam.”

“One of those despicable Shahins,” retorted Elias, and spat scornfully out of the window.

“Yes,” said Claire, and she took two folded notes out of her pocket. She had felt Farid swiftly slipping them in as she said goodbye. The
soldier had been busy at the door for a moment, impatiently complaining that he wanted to go for his lunch break.

Both notes were for her. In the first he asked her to tell Rana that he would soon be out of Tad, and then he wanted to be with her for ever. In the second, he wanted her to let Matta know that Mahdi Said was none other than the monastery pupil Bulos, and he was now living in the Christian quarter of Damascus, although no more could be found out in the camp.

Claire wondered what the meaning of this second note might be, but Matta beamed. “Yes, we were inseparable, and Farid knows that Bulos would never turn down any request of mine.”

“Perhaps Farid's afraid that bastard will do something else to hurt him before he's released,” Elias surmised. “But how can we find out exactly where the man lives?”

“Never fear, Matta will do it,” said that faithful friend. And within three days Matta had indeed found out where Mahdi Said lived.

THE AL-ASFURIYE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, 15 KM NORTH OF DAMASCUS, SPRING 1968 – SUMMER 1969

Dr. Edward Salam, a small, frail, elderly figure, was waiting at the entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The only thing about him that shone perfectly was his bald patch. He was there to receive Rana personally. It was a sign of special cordiality, and he wanted his staff to notice it.

Rana's mother and brother seemed to be in a hurry. As soon as the medical director had greeted his patient they drove away. Dr. Salam thought Rana was as pretty as a picture. Her pallor gave her face an almost angelic look.

The friendship between Rana's father, that well-known lawyer Basil Shahin, and Dr. Salam was of long standing. They had both been members of the Rotary Club until it was banned in 1965. His friend had often spoken enthusiastically to Dr. Salam of his daughter's clever mind, so he had expected that his patient would seem rather severe and mannish. All the clever women he had met during his studies and his practice of psychiatry had lacked feminine beauty.

“A room in my own department,” he quietly told a male nurse who
briefly met him outside his office. “We'll drink a coffee, and then Rana can rest for a while,” he added, opening the door.

Rana entered a spacious office with pot plants in it. The cardamom-flavored coffee that the red-haired head nurse brought them tasted really good for a hospital.

What a difference from her first stay in this place ten months ago, when she had been treated like an animal!

“Would you like something to read?” asked Dr. Salam.

“No thank you. I feel so tired,” replied Rana almost inaudibly.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Where's Farid? she wondered. What are they doing to him? She felt a small hand on her shoulder. Dr. Salam was smiling at her. Had she dropped off to sleep?

“You can rest now. We'll talk a little tomorrow,” he told her kindly.

Her room was small, clean, and bright: a bed, a narrow table, a shower and a separate lavatory. The barred window faced south. Outside, a gardener was pruning a wild oleander bush.

She lay down on the bed. Someone had scratched the outline of a sailing boat on the wall. It could be made out only indistinctly. Two letters mysteriously adorned the sail: A.L.

She sat up and looked at her trembling hands. A male nurse knocked, came in, and gave her a mug of steaming tea and a tiny dish with two tablets in it. The tea tasted horrible, the tablets bitter. She looked out of the window. Where's Farid now? she asked herself again, and lay down. She glanced at her watch, the watch she had worn ever since her elopement to Beirut with Farid fifteen years ago. He had bought it for her with his first wages. Whenever she looked at the watch she felt a pleasant little tickle in her right ear. Back then, Farid had kissed her ear as she put the watch on.

A leaden weariness overcame her, probably induced by the tablets. She didn't want to sleep, and tried to raise herself from the pillow. But then later she heard another knock and woke up. The red-haired nurse was standing in the doorway. Rana turned her face to the window. It was full daylight. How long had she been asleep?

“Dr. Salam would like to speak to you,” said the woman, tight-lipped.

When she entered his room, he came out in front of his desk and offered her his hand. A scent of rosewater preceded him.

“I don't like this woman. She doesn't mean well,” said Rana, but he didn't seem to have heard her.

“Come along, let's sit down,” he said. “Kadira, could you bring us a pot of coffee?” And as soon as the nurse had left the room, he said, “I'd like to listen to anything you have to say at your leisure, so that I can understand you and help you.” He led her to the comfortable chair where she was to sit opposite him. Evidently she wasn't expected to lie on a couch, as she had with the psychiatrist last year.

Looking at her with his clever little eyes, he smiled. Two lines at the corners of his mouth emphasized his friendliness.

“I'm thinking of a woman who was once a neighbour of mine,” Rana began, hesitantly and quietly. “You remind me of her. She had a kind face like yours, and she was delicately built too.” Dr. Salam smiled. “She sang me the only song I knew as a small child. My mother never sang to me. But one day my parents wanted to go out with friends to celebrate something in a restaurant, and they asked our neighbour to come and look after me and Jack. Jack was three then and I was five. He went to sleep at once, but I was too excited. I watched the old woman and her kind face, feeling curious about her. Then she began to sing. She sang a song that made me laugh, and after that …” Rana stopped, and began crying. Dr. Salam took the coffee pot that was brought in and poured two cups. Then he leaned over the little table with the tray where the full coffee cups stood with steam rising from them. Rana took one, thanked him quietly, and wiped away her tears.

“You'll know the song. ‘Sleep, baby, sleep, I'll cook you a dove, my dear. Little dove, never fear, never fear, I'm lying to make my child sleep.' Pretty, isn't it?'

Dr. Salam nodded, smiling.

“I held the woman's hand and she told me about her life, and then she kissed me and said she wished I were her daughter. Then she wept. She didn't say why, she just wept. Years later I discovered that she had lost a daughter of my age. But from the day when she sang me that song, I used to visit her and she spoiled me like a princess. My mother realized how fond I was of our neighbour, and after a while she wouldn't let me go to see her any more. I never understood why.”

She lost track of the time she spent talking to Dr. Salam. In the
evening she was told she could go to the common room. A young nurse went with her. There was a comedy show on television, but all the women patients there sat absorbed in their own worlds. They called out, sang, shouted and cried, and the television was on at full volume the whole time. No one paid it any attention. One woman sat with her back to the screen, pulling faces. The women's voices died away, leaving no trace in Rana's mind. The air was heavy; she could hardly breathe. After a short time she rose to her feet and left the room. The nurse went with her.

Two dogs were barking outside in the darkness. She saw her face reflected in the window, pale and lost as it looked back at her. She stood by the window in silence. Down in the dark garden a cigarette glowed, and for a moment she saw a man's face. She undressed and stood at the window naked. Perhaps Farid was seeing her now in his dreams. She didn't hear the door open. The red-haired nurse came in and shook her head with pretended compassion. Then she handed Rana some tablets, put her long nightdress on her, and helped her into bed.

Al-Asfuriye, the House of Sparrows – that was the name of the psychiatric hospital. She suddenly remembered a language teacher who had once told her that in Arabic the words for “insanity”, “ghosts”, and “Paradise” were closely related. They all had to do with hiding away.

Hospitalization: patient brought in by mother and brother three days ago, seems willing to be here, perhaps even relieved. Was here for three weeks in summer last year (I was in Paris at the time, 8th Psychiatric Congress. Little useful information from my deputy, Dr. Huss).

According to mother, has always given family cause for concern, “difficult”. Has been increasingly unwell for last two or three months,
withdrawn, hardly eating, has not seemed normal. Keeps going up on the roof to spray water over neighbours and passers by. Not much further background to be gleaned from the family

Psychostatus: Young, pretty, obviously intelligent woman, father is a well-known attorney. On admission clearly aware, generally well-orientated, but expression hypotonic, physical movement restricted, body language conveys desperation, anxious, suggestion of Veraguth's eyelid folds. Speech monotonous, monosyllabic, thought processes slowed down and inhibited, but no formal thought disturbances present. Mood despondent, possible lack of affective control. Speech reserved, confined to a few subjects: feels she can't go on, she is a burden to everyone else, can no longer perform her domestic duties (also marital duties?), despairing. Strong feelings of guilt.

Also sense of failure regarding parents, especially father. Poor relationship with mother. Suicidal feelings allegedly present, but nothing concrete. No delusions or hallucinatory experiences. General loss of interest, weak drives, abulia. Sleep disturbances, difficulty in falling asleep, insomnia. No deep morning sleep.

Somatic condition (pending examination by Dr. Balkani): good general condition, slightly undernourished. Says she has lost 4 kilos in recent weeks.

Anamnesis: no serious anamnesic disturbances.

Heredity: great-uncle on mother's side apparently suffered from depression. Mother also takes anti-depressants. Patient grew up in comfortable circumstances in Damascus, younger brother. No developmental problems can be traced, very good school student with excellent high school diploma (father publicly boasts of it). Had planned to study at university, but married in 1961 to cousin on her mother's side (Rami Kudsi now a colonel). Seems to have been psychologically well balanced until her marriage. No indication of earlier depressive or manic phases.

Traditional moral upbringing, can be assumed that father especially was strict and not communicative. Mother disappointed that Rana was not a boy (obsessed with securing family bloodline). Mother/daughter relationship poor from the first.

All this in some contradiction to the mental independence
evidenced by educational achievements and aspirations. Denies conflicts with her father, although I would not be surprised to find that they exist. Appears very conformist, husband certainly matches parents' wishes. No children. Cautiously approached on subject of her marriage, she reacts with anxious uneasiness, becomes reserved, suspicious. Feels guilty towards husband but will not say why. Unclear whether reserve is to be attributed only to depression, or whether it is particularly difficult for her to speak to me, because I am a friend of her father's. Dr. Bishara would be helpful here.

Diagnosis: initial phrase of a probably exogenous depression, with an element of anxiety. No indications of cyclothymia.

Procedure: admission to quiet room in acute ward for women. Begin with bed rest, exercise only in company of staff. Watch for suicidal signs. No visitors at first; patient to feel distanced from her family and safe.