The Dark Side of Love (80 page)

“Those two never could stand each other,” said Josef to Farid, who had kept well out of the argument. Josef rubbed his hands.

“We'll have to ask Gibran to tell different kinds of stories, not that Crusader stuff,” said Taufik, regretfully shaking his head.

It rained for three weeks, and the mud roofs softened. Water dripped into all the buildings. As usual, the city's drainage system was overtaxed, and water filled the streets and turned them into large ponds. A few children hopped about in the water, but it was icy cold. When the sun found its way through the clouds at last, Damascus was steaming like a freshly baked flatbread.

The change in the weather had given Farid repeated migraine
attacks, but he was out and about all the time. Ever since the union of Syria and Egypt, the communists had been feverishly trying to organize an opposition, but they were completely isolated. The secret service dealt them some severe blows. Their printing press blew up, many Party members and sympathizers were arrested, and the population at large had not a spark of sympathy for the communists. Farid had to take care, for there were secret service informers everywhere.

Josef regretted the persecution of communists, but blamed the Russians for stirring up feeling against Satlan. Otherwise, he just urged Farid to leave the Communist Party as soon as possible.

And now, of all times, Farid had another violent quarrel with his father. Elias Mushtak hated communists. By pure chance, he discovered a large stack of copies of
Youth
magazine in the cellar of his house. His son had carefully hidden them there, never suspecting that a burst water pipe would bring them to light.

“Here am I, working like a dog,” ranted Elias, “sending him to the elite school, and what does he do? He turns communist! My son,” he bellowed, “turns into a godless slave of Stalin. And why?”

“To fight for justice and freedom for mankind,” replied Farid defiantly.

Elias uttered a bitter laugh. “I could weep for fools like you! So my son wants to save the world? Who do you think you are, boy? Jesus? They crucified him. And who do you want to save? A mob of folk who can't even flush the lavatory when they've filled it with shit? Who look you in the face and rob you at the same moment? You want to save them? Our country needs morality and education, not communism, understand?” His voice was getting hoarse. He ranted for an hour, never letting Farid get a word in. Then he took a sip of water and gave his son an ultimatum. He must leave either the Party or this house within twenty-four hours. But Claire, although she shared her husband's dislike of communism, intervened.

“Whatever else he is, he'll always be my son,” she said. “Give him time, and he'll part with those stupid communists.” Elias controlled his anger, and did not reply.

Claire was expecting eight women that afternoon. A huge quantity of mini-aubergines grown in the gardens of Damascus had to be cooked, slit open, stuffed with garlic, walnuts, peppers, and salt, and then preserved in olive oil.

The women told stories as they worked, so the time passed quickly, and they met again next day at the next neighbour's house. Home was no place for their menfolk during these hours, so Claire suggested to both Elias and Farid that they needn't be back too early.

This banishment didn't suit Farid at all. He had been glued to the radio for days. There had been a revolution in Baghdad. Colonel Damian, a communist sympathizer, had overthrown King Feisal and proclaimed a republic. Over six thousand US marines had landed in Beirut, and the British had sent a brigade of paratroopers to Jordan to protect its king.

The air crackled with tension. But there was no placating Claire; she didn't want Farid in the house. The women didn't feel comfortable with men eavesdropping on their conversations, she explained.

“But I'll be listening to the radio, and I'd close the door,” he pleaded.

Claire shook her head, gave him five lira, and said, “Go and amuse yourself with Josef.” However, Farid had been at odds with Josef for days because of the Iraqi revolution. Josef claimed that the new regime in Baghdad had been infiltrated by Russian agents.

Farid phoned Laila. She was glad to hear from him, and invited him round at once, since she was going away with her husband on a two-week concert tour in a few days' time.

His cousin made no effort to hide her dislike of the communists either. She abused Damian of Iraq, describing him as an ass whom the Russians took for an eagle. When Farid frankly told her that he was in the Party, she laughed bitterly and said that just made her hate the communists all the more for exploiting clever, sensitive young people and putting them in danger. In fact, she said, they were even worse than the stupid Oriental dictators. “You don't fight cholera with the plague.”

Farid was surprised not by the frankness of Laila's opposition to
communism but by her harsh and uncompromising condemnation of it. “I've no quarrel with justice,” she said, “but all these ideas – whether it's communism, national socialism, or socialism – bring some allegedly infallible, inspired dictator to power, and we can have shady characters of our own for free. At least they speak Arabic and not Russian.”

Farid was angry, but Laila soon changed the subject. “Would you like to go to the cinema?” She was very keen to see
The Bridge on the River Kwai
with Alec Guinness, which had been showing to packed houses in Damascus for months. The music from the soundtrack was whistled everywhere in the streets.

They appreciated the air conditioning in the cinema. Out of doors, the July heat had been stifling for days. Both cousins enjoyed the film, and sat together eating ices after it.

“Would you like the key to my apartment?” Laila surprisingly asked as he walked home with her. “You can see Rana there any time, and the two of you can do as you like except one thing; you must keep out of my husband's music room, understand?”

“Really? You'd let me have a key?” asked Farid incredulously.

“Of course, but only for you and Rana. Your Communist Party stays outside,” she said, pinching his earlobe.

“By all means, my lady Abbess,” he promised.

When he got home the women had left, and four large glass jars of stuffed aubergines, enough to last a year, were standing ready on the kitchen table.

“Rana called,” said Claire. “She sounded sad. She says she'd try again tomorrow, about three in the afternoon.”

Farid wished he could wind time forward. Next morning he visited his school friend Kamal Sabuni, at whose house he had first met Rana, hoping Kamal's sister Dunia might be able to tell him what the matter was.

But she wasn't in, and Kamal, who was in deep gloom that day, didn't know anything about Rana. His family had lost everything in the nationalization of their textiles factory only just after they'd paid a fortune to modernize the looms. His mother spent all night in tears, he said.

Farid soon left and took the bus home. But a broken-down truck was blocking the road at the spice market, and the bus driver simply switched off his engine and went to drink a glass of tea somewhere.

Farid kept looking nervously at the time. It was two already. In the end he got out of the bus and ran home down Straight Street. He was out of breath when he arrived. Claire had just finished her siesta and was making herself a mocha in the kitchen. She called out cheerfully, “Rana hasn't phoned yet.” Secretly she was glad that her son was in love with this girl. She knew that God loves lovers, yet a cold hand reached out for her heart when she thought of what the two clans had already done to each other.

Rana called at three exactly. At first she just stammered a little and asked how he was. Farid knew at once that she had bad news for him. All of a sudden she stopped. His heart was racing.

“Are you still there?” he asked, thinking at the same time what a silly and superfluous question that was. “I love you,” he quickly added.

“I love you too,” said Rana, and she began to cry. Aunt Mariam had given her away. Now she wasn't allowed out of the house on her own. She was with a girlfriend at the moment, she said, calling from the friend's place, and her brother Jack was sitting in a café down below, waiting for her. He was like a menacing shadow, she added, and he kept reminding her of her Aunt Jasmin's fate. He frightened her.

For the first time since Farid had known him, Josef's father was despondent. “I keep losing my most capable workers and best stonemasons. They go to Kuwait or Saudi Arabia where they can earn ten times what they get here, and I'm left with idiots who can't even hold a chisel.”

“Poultry cages” was his term for the modern concrete buildings that began to disfigure the face of the city at the end of the fifties. “I hate those grey boxes. They're falling into ruin even before the scaffolding's taken down,” he said, shaking his head.

“You have to move with the times. People think that style of building is very chic now, and it's cheaper,” said Madeleine. Her husband just waved the idea away, looking gloomy.

Josef and Farid thought they would go to the club that afternoon. When they were far enough from home, Josef told his friend that his father was getting hardly any construction contracts now, and was thinking of going to Saudi Arabia himself. “The rich men there have their palaces built of the very best stone. But Madeleine's against it. We have enough in reserve, she said, she doesn't want to lose my father to the desert.”

“What did he say?”

“He may be able to stand up to an army but he can't stand up to his wife. So he's staying here,” said Josef, regretfully.

When they reached the club they found a surprise waiting for them. Rasuk was sitting in the café with a young woman. They both looked happy. The woman had red hair and a pretty, fair-complexioned face, freckled all over.

“This is Elizabeth. She comes from England. My name is Rasuk. I come from Damascus,” said Rasuk in English, imitating the manner of someone just beginning to learn the language. He turned back to the red-haired woman and went on, still in English. “And these are my friends Farid and Josef. They speak very well English and very bad Arabic.”

“Hi,” said the woman. That was all. Her eyes were fixed on Rasuk like suckers. She took hardly any notice of Farid and Josef. Disappointed, the two of them sat down at the bar and left the couple alone.

“Isn't Gibran here?” Josef asked the licensee of the café. Taufik, who usually knew as much about his protégé as any sporting manager, had no idea whether he was coming or not.

“We ought to hang up a calendar in the club and mark Gibran's appearances on it,” suggested Josef.

“Not a bad idea,” agreed Taufik, looking at the Englishwoman, who had risen to her feet. She was wearing a brightly coloured summer dress, and walked gracefully. When she disappeared through the door leading to the ladies' room, Josef and Farid turned to look at Rasuk. He was beaming with delight.

“Where did you dredge her up from, then?” asked Josef.

“She asked me where the Bulos Chapel was, though she was standing right outside it. That made us both laugh, and then I showed her the Old Town. Elizabeth is very amusing,” replied Rasuk proudly.

“Is she a tourist?” asked Taufik.

“No, a student. She's planning to study Arabic here for a year and then go back to Cambridge.”

“Aha,” said Josef, “then I don't suppose we'll be seeing much of you for the next twelve months.” There was a touch of envy in his voice.

“Oh no, I'll be coming here often,” Rasuk assured them. But when Elizabeth came back he paid at once and left the café with her. As they reached the door she stopped, turned to the men, and called, “
Salam aleikhum
.”

“Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth, hope to see you again,” replied old Taufik in perfect English without any trace of accent. Josef and Farid stared at him, taken aback. “Thirteen years in the British army,” Taufik explained. “That's when I met Gibran.”

“Don't you mean you were in the navy?” asked Farid.

“No, no, the army. I was stationed in Aqaba on the Red Sea. I was guarding the commissariat.”

“What about Gibran?”

“Gibran was a mechanic on a destroyer, but he spent more time in the cells than on board. He was a brilliant mechanic, but he just didn't get on with the others, and when he lost his temper he used to throw anything he happened to be holding at them. He kept breaking out of jail, and he was always picked up again, until he disappeared once and for all in 1940. People said he'd drowned. It wasn't until I leased the café here that I saw him again for the first time in sixteen years. He hadn't drowned at all, unless it was in drink.”

The year 1959 began badly. A wave of arrests rolled over the country. Farid's Party training was interrupted because the man who ran the
courses was in prison. He called himself Comrade Bassam, but his real name was Josef Kassis, and he was the son of one of the richest importers in Damascus. Comrade Bassam was a tall, smooth-skinned man with a droning, monotonous voice. He talked nineteen to the dozen, as if he had diarrhoea of the mouth. When he started on about some Marxist concept, Farid always felt an enormous urge to drop off to sleep, and sometimes, with unfortunate consequences, he couldn't resist it.

“Comrade,” Bassam the Marxist expert had reproved him, “a fighter with no knowledge of economics is just a romantic adventurer. He will betray the working class the moment he gets a chance.”

Farid had no intention of doing that, but all the same he was obliged to agree that Bassam who ran the training courses was right, for if you contradicted him his sermon was immediately dragged out to three times its original length, and the other comrades would hold a grudge against you. So Farid merely complained to Amin privately about the boring Bassam. Amin couldn't stand him, and called him a rich upstart. “His father imports washing machines, and son Bassam has one in his head, with a drum going around all the time,” he said, grinning.