States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

  I returned to the old man, who had settled down as though he had fallen asleep. I offered to help him back to his room.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, lifting his head like someone who had just woken up. “I’m very tired, but I’ll just wait for Ismail.”

  “There’s no need for that. Besides, he may have gone off to sleep. Let me help you. I’d love to take a look at the photographs in your room, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  When he reached out his hand towards me so that I could help him up the smooth marble staircase, I realised that he was inviting me to look at the photographs.

  “What do you think?” he asked in a voice that seemed more restrained than necessary. I was sure he didn’t want Ismail to hear him talking to me about the pictures. Once he was in bed, I tucked him in up to his neck. He watched me as I stood looking at each picture for a long time.

  Do I need to describe all of the photos in his room? That would be impossible. There were more than a hundred pictures in a hundred frames. As I already mentioned, the old man was in most of them, more than fifty of them; most were black and white, some had yellowed with age. There were also some pictures that had become damaged because of improper preservation techniques before they were framed.

  The images summarised phases of the old man’s life. There were several pictures of him as a little boy, then as an adolescent and a young man, which is where the phases of the old man’s life seemed to end because I didn’t find any photos of him as an adult or an older man. If he were about eighty years old—and that’s what I’d guess given his obvious frailty and the way his hands shook from Parkinson’s and the wrinkles on his face and hands—there was a period of more than fifty years missing in the photos. Just as I was thinking about asking him why that should be, I looked over to discover that he was already asleep. I let him be, turning back the photos, this time with much more focus because I was doing so without supervision. Just then I noticed a picture frame hidden behind the dresser. There were actually several photos lined up in a column in the narrow space between the dresser and a window. The column of frames was concealed by the edge of the curtain, which had been bunched together and tied into a knot. The picture that had caught my attention was an old newspaper clipping showing a reception at Damascus Station in Aleppo to welcome back the national delegation from Paris in 1936; it was taken in front of the decorated engine. Members of the delegation were visible, flanking the French High Commissioner Monsieur de Martel. On either side of him were Hashim al-Atassi and Saadallah al-Jabiri and Fares al-Khoury and Mustafa al-Chehabi and Edmond Homsi and Jamil Mardam Bek. Behind them was a beautiful young peasant girl standing on the steps of the train car, holding a suitcase and staring dumbly at the camera.

  So this was Widad. I leant in to scrutinise the image more carefully. I was pleased with this discovery, convinced that what I had heard from the old man were in fact true stories about a woman he had known when he was young. I tried to see what Widad looked like but the image captured in the newspaper only gave a vague idea of this young woman. Black-and-white splotches covered her face, which couldn’t be made out so easily anyway since she was standing right behind the High Commissioner and the members of the delegation, who were the main subject of the photograph.

  You might ask how I could tell she was beautiful from a blurry photograph. I have no good answer to that question. From the old man’s story, I had imagined a beautiful image and what I saw confirmed what I had pictured. I began looking at the other frames for more pictures of Widad, those below and above the picture of the delegation, but I didn’t find any. All the other photos were of other people, including the old man when he was younger, with a pudgy woman who was much younger than him.

  I moved away from the column of frames and began to poke around on the other side of the window, an area that was more open and visible. After I had examined about a dozen frames, it became clear to me that this overweight woman was in a lot of pictures, whether standing by herself or alongside the old man, who was a young man back then; the two of them looked like a married couple. Finally I noticed that some of these photos had been taken in Paris, in front of the Eiffel Tower, to be precise.

  I was hoping to find other frames with clearer pictures of Widad, or perhaps of Khojah Bahira, but something startled me. Ismail was standing by the door, angrily glaring at me. He was tense and silent. I tried to melt into the wall. If there had been an exit I would have run away, but there was no way out. The old man was asleep, softly snoring even as I could hear the sound of my rapid heartbeats.

  “What are you doing in here?” Ismail demanded in a hushed voice, between gritted teeth. “There’s no reason for you to be in this room…”

  “The old man was tired. We thought you were already asleep. I offered to help him get up here, and he welcomed the assistance. I helped him to lie down and then tucked him in, as you can see.”

  “You’re meddling in other people’s business.”

  “You mean by looking at these pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “The old man said I could.”

  “The old man has never invited a stranger into his room. You’re taking advantage of his kindness. I’m warning you, I’ve had about enough of this.”

  “But I haven’t done anything. I just helped the old man up here and found these pictures.”

  “I should never have let you in the house that night. I didn’t have to.”

  “So why did you, then?”

  “I thought you were going to leave the next morning. You made the old man tell you stories that aren’t true. You’re wearing him out with these stories. Talking is exhausting for him. You have to leave in the morning.”

  “In the morning?”

  “And before the old man gets up. I’m warning you, it’s better if you just go.”

  He was quite insistent. And Ismail was threatening when he looked at me in that spiteful manner. I wished the old man would wake up because he was the only person who could help me in that moment.

  “How are you going to explain my departure to the old man if I suddenly disappear without saying goodbye?” I asked.

  “Shaykh Nafeh won’t even remember you.” So his name was Nafeh. I had learnt something new. “I’ll give you an umbrella, a compass and a knife.”

  “Why would Shaykh Nafeh tell me his story in such detail if he were just going to forget all about me, as you say?”

  “He’s making all these stories up. Besides, I don’t want you to hear any more of them.”

  I forgot about how frightened I was. Drawing closer to the edge of the curtain and pulling it back, I pointed at the High Commissioner and the members of the delegation and the picture of Widad.

  “And who is she? He told me something about her that corresponds with this picture.”

  I didn’t realise this would infuriate him further. I just thought I was arguing with him. His eyes were like those of a murderer and I became even more frightened, but still I found myself asking:

  “Why don’t you want me to hear these stories, or know anything about the history of these characters?”

  He didn’t respond, sternly ordering me instead to go back to my room. He told me to get out of there and then stepped aside so I could get past him to the door. I left the room without looking at him and hurried back to my room. Once inside, I closed the door and bolted the lock, leaning against the door and breathing heavily.

  I lay down on the bed and wrapped myself in the blanket. The room was chilly, and raindrops were rapping against the windowpane, which only made me feel colder. I stayed awake for a long time thinking about what was happening, unable to sleep. I had to find a way to ignore Ismail’s warning and threats, but what I couldn’t stop thinking about was his insistence that everything the old man was saying was a delusion or confabulation, just like the stories Fatima the Armenian told Widad. I wasn’t convinced, but still I had to muster up the courage to stay in the house if I was going to hear the res
t of it. The stories were no longer just stories. They had become the history of a person I was living with and a puzzle concerning another person who wanted to prevent me from hearing them.

  I hadn’t expected to find the picture of Widad at the train station. But why was that the only picture of Widad? And who was that pudgy woman? The old man had never mentioned her. I presumed she was his wife, and that the two of them had travelled to France for their honeymoon. Did he meet Widad before or after he got married? Was she his mistress? I suspected she was one of his lovers because he had placed the newspaper clipping somewhere discreet so it couldn’t be seen right away. But what would Ismail do if I refused to leave, if I stayed at the house and asked the old man to protect me, assuming that was even within his power?

  I stood up again to make sure the door was locked. I was gripped with real terror at the thought that Ismail had been in my room the night before. Was there a secret entrance to this room? No way. The door was locked and the window was securely closed. There was a dresser and a mirror against the wall, a clothing rack and a painting above the bed of a few verses of poetry with the mountains of Bcharré in the background, in addition to two nightstands, one on either side of the bed with a lamp on each. That was everything in the room. There was also one bare wall covered with matte paint.

  I thought about my wife Nadia and my son Hassan. Then I thought about my colleague Mr Tameem and the Land Rover driver. I hoped to God they were all right. What if they had told my wife and my boss that I was lost in the wilderness? Everyone would think that I had been eaten by wild dogs and hyenas. All of a sudden I shuddered. What if Ismail was thinking about taking advantage of the possibility in order to murder me and then dump my body far away from the house so that I would in fact become fodder for those wild animals? On more than one occasion, especially just now in the old man’s room, I had seen in his eyes that he was capable of resorting to that kind of act to get rid of me. I got out of bed and started to pace back and forth. I was trying to think of a way to stay in the house without Ismail doing anything to me.

  At first I thought it would be good for me to talk to Shaykh Nafeh, but the idea quickly fell flat. What could the old man do against his servant? Ismail appeared to be in his fifties, physically fit, and he wielded emotional and intellectual influence over his master because of his many years of service, but also because of their being cut off from the rest of the world, living together far out in the sticks. I also thought about the possibility of Ismail softening towards me. There was a small chance that we could become friends, but the idea seemed unlikely and implausible. He seemed to want to prevent the old man from talking to strangers or from telling his stories, and I wondered if he had convinced the old man to live out in this place, isolated from the rest of the world. As for why Ismail didn’t want the old man’s story to be spread around, that was a matter I had to consider more thoroughly. Perhaps the old man’s story could unlock that riddle.

  I was tired of bouncing around the room. I felt like I was getting dizzy, so I went back to bed, decided to sleep on it. As I struggled to get to sleep amid the rhythm of the raindrops cracking against every surface they encountered, I heard what sounded like someone trying to open the door to my room. I sat up in bed, transformed into a frozen statue with nothing but a sense of hearing. The natural light seeping in through the window allowed me to see the door handle jiggle down slightly as the door was pushed; but it wouldn’t open because it was bolted shut. I jumped up and walked over towards the door on my tiptoes so as not to make a sound. I stood there, trying to figure out who was there, one hundred per cent sure, of course, that it was Ismail. I was only this courageous because I was confident that the deadbolt would protect me from that malevolent criminal. I thought he would go away once he realised how hard it would be for him to get inside. But as I watched, the bolt seem to disengage all by itself, as if there were another handle on the other side of the door. I wasn’t even fully conscious, thankfully, as I rushed to the door and grabbed hold of the lock. You might have thought, dear reader, that I was going to use my weight to prevent the door from being opened, but that’s not what happened. I pulled open the door with a quick movement and came face to face with a masked person holding a thick piece of wood. This person was surprised by my action, and perhaps he was as frightened as I was because he turned at once and ran away without a sound. I found myself chasing after him down the corridor and then down the stairs to the ground floor. I stopped in the middle of the staircase to catch my breath, watching as this person disappeared down another hallway. Then I heard the distant sound of a door being slammed shut. Everything was quiet, which could have been scary, but it was actually calming because of what had just happened. I sat down on the staircase, trying to slow my heart and breathe deeply. Then I stood up and walked back to my room, where I discovered the tool the person had been using to open the lock. It was the kind of implement train conductors use to open cabins and closets on a train: a metal handle with a Phillips-head on the front. I picked up the tool and examined where it hung on the wall, finding it strange that I hadn’t noticed the metal implement before.

  I went back into my room and locked the door once again, placing the chair against it so it would make a noise if that person tried to break in again. Then I lay down, feeling as if I had defeated Ismail this round, which was how I managed to sleep without interruption until morning.

  I said “that person” because I wasn’t certain that Ismail was the masked man who had tried to break into my room and kill me. I would have to be more careful. This was my life. It wasn’t a game. If I were going to survive, I would have to take precautions. That person seemed spryer than Ismail who, I surmised, must have been in his fifties. That person might have been shorter than Ismail, or at least that’s how he seemed to me in the darkness. The entire confrontation had happened as if in an action movie I had been watching, in which I already knew that the hero was going to emerge victorious in the end.

  I woke up late the next day. I lay there for a few minutes with my eyes open before getting up to look outside. I thought the sun was coming out because I was in such a good mood, but unfortunately it was still raining hard, which made the world outside darker and still darker. In fact, I can’t remember a storm like that during the entire time I had been working in the countryside. Wasn’t it strange for it to be happening just then? Was it a coincidence, or was I being forced to listen to the old man’s stories? Was the rain giving me an excuse to stay? Smiling to myself, I thanked God. I went into the bathroom and conducted my morning routine, shaved and started getting dressed.

  Heading downstairs, I went straight to the hallway that leads to the front door. I wanted to find out how serious Ismail’s threats were. I saw a kitchen knife, an umbrella and a military compass on the counter. So the man was dead-set on kicking me out. Examining the compass, I discovered that it was high quality and Russian-made, while the knife was laughable, albeit sharp; used for cutting meat.

  Returning to the cosy living room, I found Shaykh Nafeh sitting next to the fireplace, gazing through the window at the rain falling outside. I said good morning to him and then took my seat once again. He asked me if I had eaten breakfast yet and I told him I had just woken up but wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t listening to me, though, and he reached out his hand to press an electric buzzer that I noticed for the first time because he hadn’t had to use it in my presence before. It was a matter of seconds before Ismail came in.

  “Ismail,” he said, gesturing towards me, “please bring our guest something to eat for breakfast.”

  I looked over at Ismail. His intimidating and threatening eyes were locked on me. He was intense and mysterious, trying to ignore the events of the night before, but he also seemed to be warning me there’d be even worse consequences if I didn’t obey his order for me to leave.

  “I understand our guest would like to be on his way,” he told the old man, without turning his eyes away from me. “Now that the rain’s
letting up…”

  “Do you really want to go?” the old man asked, turning around, clearly confused by what his servant said.

  “I had thought about going,” I said. “If the rain stops or lets up somewhat then I’d rather go and look for the Land Rover, or try to make it back to Aleppo. I’m already very late in getting back. They’re probably looking for me right now.”

  “But it’s still pouring outside,” the old man said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I looked over at Ismail, as if to say to him, Nice try.

  “I could escort him as far as the asphalt road,” Ismail volunteered.

  “Our guest is staying.”

  “But sir, they’re looking all over for him even as we speak.”

  “Ismail, you’ll run to the closest village with a telephone and call to let his family know he’s all right.”

  I nearly burst out laughing at the sight of the servant when he heard his master’s unambiguous decision. Ismail was silent, searching for the words that might get him out of this. He hadn’t bargained on the old man becoming so fond of me, certainly not to the extent that he would be deployed to call my family.

  “Can you give us a moment,” he said, whirling around towards me. “I’d like to speak to the old man about a private matter.”

  I waited to hear the old man’s reply, but he was stock-still. Perhaps he also wanted me to leave, so I got up.

  “No problem,” I said, stepping out of the living room and into the hallway.

  I waited in the corridor for fifteen minutes. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation but couldn’t make out a thing. I did notice how loud Ismail was becoming while the old man’s voice was softer, as if the servant had authority over his boss that he didn’t want me to see. After a while Ismail came out, visibly holding back his fury, slammed the door behind him and stood right in front of me, preventing me from going back inside to join the old man.

  “The old man wants you to stay.”