The Dark Side of Love (128 page)

“Would you like to help me?” asked Farid at the end of August.

“Of course. What do you want me to do?” replied Matta.

“Look closely at this ticket,” said Farid, showing him an air ticket made out by the French airline.

“So?”

“That's my flight for 14 September. I'm flying with Air France at twenty hours exactly on that day. Can you remember that? Sunday, 14 September.”

“Of course I can remember it. That's the Feast of the Holy Cross in Mala, but I haven't been there for years,” said Matta.

“And you won't be able to go this year either, because you and Faride must come to the airport to see us off.”

“Of course we'll come, but what does that have to do with the air ticket? Why did you show it to me?”

“I want you to be sure to let Bulos know I'm flying with Air France that day,” said Farid.

Matta's face showed anger. “Brother, what do you take me for?”

“My most loyal friend. If you tell Bulos that, you'll be doing me and yourself a favour. You'll have nothing to fear. He can't touch me now. Believe me, this will just make him drop his mask and show his ugly face, but he won't get his hands on me again. You'll be helping me enormously by pretending to be so naïve that you give him that news without stopping to think about it. It will keep him concentrating on the airport and not even thinking about any other route. Okay?”

“And you're sure I'll be helping you by letting that traitor know exactly when you plan to fly?”

“Yes, absolutely. You'll save me by fooling him.”

“You're also sure that at this moment you're in full possession of your wits?”

“As sure as I'm certain that your name is Matta and you're as loyal to me as a brother. But you mustn't give Bulos the information too obviously. He's more suspicious than a rat. You must be cunning as a fox yourself, and then just go to the airport with Claire on 14 September.”

“Swear to me that you'll be in safety then. Swear by the health of your mother.”

“Why my mother?”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

At seven-thirty Mahdi Said, accompanied by two burly men, entered the departures hall. Matta could hardly restrain his fury. “That traitor,” he said viciously.

At a quarter to eight, Farid Mushtak was twice called to board the plane. Bulos, alias Mahdi, was standing at the Air France desk. He signalled to two secret service men in civilian clothes. Next moment they were racing down the gangway leading to the plane. Ten minutes later they came back, and even from a distance could be seen shaking their heads.

Suddenly Mahdi Said caught sight of Claire and Matta. He immediately sent one of his men over to them.

“Major Mahdi would like to speak to you,” said the man. For a moment Matta felt his heart stop.

“Tell the major that I, however, would not like to speak to him,” said Claire, “and the bird he hopes to catch here is sitting in a different aircraft on its way to Paris. It must be flying over Greece around now.” And she laughed.

“So that was it!” cried Josef, striking his brow with the flat of his hand. Displeased, the man went back to his superior officer, who next moment called his team together and marched to the exit with them. Farid was called three more times before the Air France plane rolled on to the runway.

“That traitor really did mean to kill Farid. And I'm absolutely sure now that he was the one who gave me away. Damn him,” swore Matta on the way back in the taxi. His little three-wheeled Suzuki scooter was still parked outside Farid's house. It was just after nine when Claire, Matta, and Faride got out. Claire paid the driver, thanked Matta and his wife for coming with her, and waved as they rode away on Matta's Suzuki. It was only a short ride.

“But where are you going at this time of night?” asked Faride,
when she noticed that Matta was not dismounting from the scooter. She herself was exhausted.

“I need a little fresh air to get over Farid leaving. Don't wait up for me. I'll be very quiet and take care not to wake you when I come in.”

Slowly, he rode down the alleys, and then came to broad Bab Tuma Street. Less than ten minutes later he reached Marcel Karameh Street. He stopped outside Number 31, switched the engine off, and sat there for a while.

The sultry September night lay heavy over the city. People were sleeping with their windows and balcony doors open. Matta knew that Bulos spent the night in the attic storey, apart from his wife. There was still a light on up there.

Just before midnight it went out. Matta waited for another fifteen minutes, and then looked at the time once more. He was sure that Farid was well over the border into Lebanon by now. He quietly got out of his three-wheeled scooter and tied a large jute sack around his waist. Then, soundless as a panther, he began climbing the old ivy.