The Dark Side of Love (83 page)

“Yes, but my mother isn't letting it go at that. She keeps looking out for any opportunity to say bad things about me to my father. And you know how hopeless Jack is at school. Even with private tutors he only just got his middle school diploma. Now he's sick of studying and wants to work and earn money. It's a bitter defeat for my mother, and she can't come to terms with the idea that I might succeed at university too. Yesterday she and my brother were saying it would only make me more rebellious, and guess what, they simply decided to marry me off to Rami in a hurry.”

Farid shook his head. “Can't you tell your father?”

“I did. He thinks I'm imagining things.”

“Listen, if it gets to be a real threat we'll run away again. Don't worry, I'm always there for you, and Claire will back us up too. After all, I'm the result of an elopement myself.”

“Believe it or not, when I heard what the two of them were saying I packed my bag at once. You'll remember it: the one I had in Beirut. But then I unpacked it again, because I didn't want to show that I know their plans. If the worst comes to the worst, I can run away without a bag,” she said.

Farid kissed her ear. “And I'll love you even without clothes and a toothbrush,” he whispered. His breath tickled Rana. She laughed nervously, and moved a little way off.

“I have more than enough money hidden away,” she said firmly.

The service ended too quickly for Farid. Rana left the church on
her own. At first he just sat there, looking at the pictures. When he was alone he went up to a statue of Christ and began talking to Jesus. “Can you hear me?” he whispered. “This is your friend Farid. I know I haven't spoken to you for years, the monastery spoiled all that for me. And yes, I'm a communist now, but I still believe in you, it's just the Church I don't believe in. Please help Rana and protect her. She's so brave in a cowardly world, and her mother is a viper. Can you hear me? Help her. You don't have to help me too. I can manage on my own.”

Farid spoke to the statue for a long time. Finally, when he noticed a young priest standing behind him, keeping at a courteous distance and waiting, he smiled awkwardly, crossed himself, and left the church, walking fast.

“You'd better watch out for Suleiman,” said Josef, looking concerned. “I discovered yesterday that he's an informer. Since when I don't know, but he certainly is one.” He was speaking very fast, as if anxious to get the words off his chest.

Farid looked at him and said nothing.

“Yes, of course he's working for the state, and yes, I think our President is the saviour of the Arabs, but I despise informers. And you may be idiot enough to go running around with communists, but you're still my best friend. Yesterday he was making up to you just too obviously in the club. What did he want?”

“He was inviting me out hunting,” said Farid. “His father's given him a gun that the Spanish consul got from France, but he didn't want it, so he gave it to his chauffeur. Do you think I should go?”

“Yes, of course, and either act as if you didn't know anything or tell him what you suspect straight out. Only you mustn't show any fear, or he'll finish you off.”

“Me, afraid of him? Are you joking?”

“No, you stupid Kamikaze. Informers are cowards, but once they taste blood they get amazingly greedy.”

“I can't get my head around this. Why would he try it with me?”

“How do I know what you get up to at night? I suppose his bunch just want to know more about you.”

Farid sat perfectly still. Grief overcame him. He had liked the lively and mischievous Suleiman. After getting his middle school diploma Suleiman had left school, worked for a while as a taxi driver, and now, at nineteen, he already owned half a taxi. That seemed to Farid too soon for someone earning an honest living. Some said that Suleiman had been involved in smuggling for a while, and invested the money cleverly. Others spread the rumour that the clever young man had, appropriately enough, taken all the taxi owners who employed him for a ride.

But why would he be an informer? Why would he give away people who had never done him any harm? Could he be behind the arrest of Marwan, the new maths teacher, who had suddenly disappeared? No one knew if he was still alive. And who had reported Nadim the barber to the police?

“Informers are monsters,” said Farid. “I just can't get it into my head that our friend Suleiman is that kind of a creep.”

“There's a hell of a lot you can't get into your head. But our childhood's over now. And a great many people go through the gate to adulthood as perfectly harmless men and women, while others turn out to be monsters. Want me to begin with my family or yours?” asked Josef in friendly tones.

Farid was to be waiting at the door at three next morning, with provisions and a canteen for the expedition. Suleiman was picking him up. They had to be in the game reserve at four, before sunrise.

All night he tossed and turned in bed. He had already warned Amin, but even Amin couldn't tell him how to deal with Suleiman.

What could he do? Wild answers shot through Farid's head. Clichés out of movies and novels: grab Suleiman's gun, point it at his head, heart, or balls, and make him talk that way? And suppose he refused to talk? Could he bring himself to pull the trigger, he sheepishly wondered? The answer was no. He cursed his cowardice.

What would Suleiman say if Farid reminded him of their hours together in the attic with the gang? Too sentimental. He was a trained informer, and their childhood was definitely over.

He slept for only three hours and then sat up in bed with a start. In his dreams, Suleiman had been shot and stowed under Farid's own bed. Not until he put the light on and looked at his room did he calm down again.

It was just after two-thirty already. He dressed and went to the front door, where he met Claire in her dressing gown. She gave him a kiss and a picnic bag.

Suleiman arrived punctually, looking as if he had had a good night's sleep. His hunting rifle was on the back seat. Farid threw his picnic bag in beside it and got into the car. They drove about forty kilometres through the dark to an oasis visited by birds, hares and gazelles. Date palms, pomegranates, figs, wild grapevines, cacti and walnut trees grew there. Only the spring of water was disappointingly tiny. But there were plenty of birds, and when the first rays of the sun came through, and the dawn chorus began, Suleiman fired. He missed, but the shot had made a lot of noise. Farid was surprised by the gun's strong recoil. Suleiman cursed the birds, the wind, the trees, and his own bad luck, and kept firing into the air.

He hit only once, but the injured bird could still fly. Farid ran after it while Suleiman waited. Finally Farid found the bird, which was only slightly wounded in the wing, under a wild pomegranate bush. He didn't know what kind of bird it was – rather like a turtle dove in size, but brightly coloured and with a straight, strong beak. That evening Amin told him it had been a warwar, a bee-eater from Africa.

The bird looked at Farid, its eyes frightened, its beak wide open, and uttered a hiss that sounded more like a snake. Farid stopped. “Found it?” he heard Suleiman call.

“No,” said Farid, and he let the branches of the pomegranate spring back into place.

When Suleiman had fired three-quarters of his cartridges, they stopped for breakfast.

“This oasis stinks of gunpowder so much, no bird will be able to
survive without a gas mask,” said Suleiman, laughing. They sat down beside the water hole and began eating their sandwiches.

“Did you hear about Simon being arrested?” Suleiman suddenly asked.

Even when he was telling Josef about it that evening, Farid couldn't say how the words to save him had risen to his lips. “What Simon? My cousin Laila's husband? What has he done?”

Suleiman faltered. “Is Laila's husband the violinist called Simon too?” he asked in surprise, but he couldn't hide his disappointment.

“Of course. You saw him at that benefit performance for the Catholic Church last Christmas. What about him?” Farid was acting stupid. Of course he knew perfectly well what Simon the informer meant. He was one of the soldiers who belonged to a communist cell, a brave, hot-tempered man.

“No, I didn't mean your cousin's husband. I mean the one who lived near Bab Tuma. A poor soldier suspected of plotting a revolt. Don't you know him? He sometimes used to go to the club and drink tea with your friend Amin,” said Suleiman.

“No, I don't know him, I'm afraid. Amin has a lot of friends, and I've never seen this one, but if he comes to the club again you can point him out to me,” replied Farid naïvely.

“He won't be back. My aunt's been weeping her eyes out. He was her daughter's fiancé, such a brave young man,” said the hypocritical Suleiman. Farid didn't know if Suleiman had an aunt with daughters at all, but at that moment all his feelings for his former friend died, and he was surprised to find how unattractive Suleiman suddenly looked to him.

Three months later Farid and all other members of the Communist Party received orders from the leadership to break off all contact with soldiers. Only years later did he discover that work inside the army had been halted on instructions from Moscow.

Josef's family were celebrating the engagement of his sisters Balkis and Jasmin to Samir and Amir, the old pharmacist's sons. Between them, they owned a large pharmacy near the Italian hospital. Everyone in the neighbouring streets knew about the party. The sight of Matta racing around for a week in advance, getting in all kinds of supplies for Josef's family, was a better advertisement than a hundred posters.

On the day of the party itself Matta was among the guests, spruced up in well ironed clothes and along with his aunt, also in her best. It was Madeleine's express wish that Matta wasn't to do any more work at the party.

Farid himself had little chance to enjoy it. He, Azar, Rasuk, and Toni were helping their friend Josef to make sure all the three hundred guests had somewhere to sit, were served drinks, knew their way to the lavatories, and above all could find their old places when they came back again. All this had to be done without a sharp word. They were constantly having to mollify the guests, find more chairs, and wipe dirt off the floor and bad-tempered expressions off faces.

But the master of the house was in charge of the wine and arrack. He himself brought bottles up from the cellar and poured drinks for his guests. Josef said his father had enough wine and arrack in the cellar to get the entire Republic drunk – all excellent vintages that he had ordered when he was still earning well.

Josef's cousin Nawal kept touching Farid when he went into the kitchen. She wore a comical pair of nickel-framed glasses with round lenses, and squinted slightly.

“You be careful, that girl's a loose cannon and fires powerful shots,” commented Josef. Nothing escaped him. “She's been having affairs with one or other of her teachers ever since she was eight.”

Nawal heard him speaking ill of her, and threw a radish at him. He swore, and called out to his mother that now she knew why he'd rather keep out of the kitchen. The girls fell about laughing.

“You're cute,” Nawal whispered to Farid from behind him. “Give me a call some time,” she added quietly, as he put down a tray of empty coffee cups. And when he turned to look at her, she quickly
slipped a note into his trouser pocket. This rather embarrassed Farid, who didn't think much of her.

What he did appreciate, however, was the fact that the food at the engagement party tasted as fantastic as it looked. Over twenty cold starters and five hot dishes were enough to make anyone's mouth water. In addition, there were three pyramids of fresh fruit standing around the fountain. Madeleine and Rimon had always been generous hosts.

Josef whispered to Farid that the guests were eating the apartment that his father had sold especially for this stupid party, room by room. “Can't wait to see when they'll get to the WC,” he added. Farid didn't entirely understand what he was talking about, but joined in Josef's laughter. It went on like that: most scraps of conversation were drowned out by the noise of the party, and there was no time for explanations.

The skills of the singer who had been booked for the party left something to be desired, but she was pretty as a picture, and the men liked that. The more they drank the better they liked her voice, and they even began comparing her with Feiruz, the best woman singer in Arabia. Many of their wives, on the other hand, said sharply that the singer would get no further than the nearest bed.

Around midnight two large groups of guests were still lingering at the party. Farid and his parents had already left. Then something happened to cheer Josef as much as if he'd won a game of chess against the world champion Mikhail Botvinnik.