The Dark Side of Love

by Rafik Schami

  Malicious tongues, backed by slanders cleverly spread by the Shahins, claimed that old Mushtak’s daughter-in-law didn’t take his fumblings seriously, but that Hasib didn’t like it. He was extremely touchy if anyone even looked like getting too close to his wife, and he was regarded as very jealous.

  After divine service that April day in 1941, there was to be dancing and singing until it was time for the reconciliation banquet. The best place to be was the inner courtyard of the church of St. Giorgios. Soon the two bishops were enthroned on the terrace, watching the dancers near them with benevolent smiles. The spectators stood very close together, arrack was handed around, donated by the two rival clans and symbolically mixed by both bishops in large bottles to make a single beverage. The aniseed spirit, fifty percent proof, soon took effect.

  Musa, Jusuf Shahin’s third son, although married and the father of two children was, as already mentioned, a skirt-chaser. He had kept touching the tall American woman that day, and was pleased to find her so easy-going.

  Musa was a handsome, dashing man. The blonde woman probably liked the awkward charm of his advances. To her, he seemed like a little boy, and she was amused by his attempts to speak English, here at the end of the world. But Musa took her laughter to mean that he was irresistible. He put his hand inside the American woman’s blouse. Hardly anyone noticed, but Dorothea suddenly froze rigid with shock.

  Hasib, who was slightly tipsy, broke off his conversation and hissed at Musa to leave his wife alone. But Musa, now babbling in his cups, retorted with the humiliating remark that anyone whom old George Mushtak fumbled was fair game for all.

  Hasib didn’t say a word. He left his wife there and disappeared. The Shahin supporters around Musa laughed in a rather muted way, so that the bishops wouldn’t notice. But not for long. Hasib was very soon back again. He aimed at his adversary’s forehead, and the last laugh froze on Musa’s lips.

  The rocks carried the echo of those three shots ringing through the mountain ravines. Panic broke out, and before the crowd could scatter there were over ten members of each clan lying severely injured in the church’s inner courtyard.

  Musa’s body was trampled by the panic-stricken, screaming men and women running for the gate and safety. Later, curiously enough, many of them didn’t remember the details of the murder as clearly as the saying of a midwife who had, apparently, told Musa weeks before that she had seen him in a dream being trampled by a herd of cattle.

  Hasib calmly took his wife’s hand. He walked not to the courtyard gate but through the church. Leaving by its main entrance, he quickly reached his father’s courtyard. Hasib kissed the old man’s hand and received two fervent kisses on his cheeks.

  “You showed the bastard what a Mushtak is,” said George, “and by doing so you saved me from hypocrisy. God bless you wherever you go.” And he put a bag of gold lira in his son’s jacket pocket. “Leave everything here and get away. You can buy what you need in Beirut. Kiss your son for me,” he added quietly, and signed to his faithful servant Basil, who led Mushtak’s son and his pale wife to the horses standing ready at the back gate of the large property.

  In exactly three hours’ time the couple were over the Lebanese border.

  Hasib reached Beirut next morning. He sold the horses, provided himself, his wife, and his four-year-old son George with the requisite papers, and went to America. His first letter home came three months later. And in the years that followed his father learned, greatly to his satisfaction, that two more sons, Jack and Philip, would carry the name of Mushtak on into the next century. But Hasib’s address remained unknown. He knew that Jusuf Shahin had cousins in America.

  42. End of a Hope

  My God, thought George Mushtak as Hasib disappeared into the western ravine, those two brothers Elias and Hasib are worlds apart. Growing up under the same roof, yet as different as night and day. Hasib had lived far away in Beirut, yet he had always been close to George’s heart. He must have sensed his father’s wishes.

  For George Mushtak had been in a quandary. He couldn’t appear uncooperative in front of the two bishops. But Hasib had come along, heroically helped him out of his fix, and then quietly disappeared again.

  Three shots! Musa’s blood had flowed like the blood of the dogs that useless good-for-nothing used to run down with his truck.

  In his joy Hasib’s father forgot everything else, even the pain that he had felt somewhere near his heart for months. That Easter Day at noon he stood on his balcony, watching the turmoil in the village square, and with his son Salman he had laughed till the tears came at the sight of the Catholic Bishop of Damascus, looking lost as he stood among the shouting peasants and desperately searching for his chauffeur. And when he did catch sight of his black limousine, just see how he wielded his mighty crozier to open up a path through the surging crowd of the faithful! He even ignored his Orthodox rival, who was calling after him to wait. He didn’t feel safe until he was in the back of his car, cursing the barbarians of this village. When someone knocked on the window and cried, “The Orthodox bishop asks you to stop. Please stop,” he didn’t even turn around. His car merely raced away.

  Elias had come to Mala that Easter, with Claire and the baby Farid, and hired a small apartment, hoping for a reconciliation with his father. The reconciliation planned between those sworn enemies, Mushtak and Shahin, seemed to be just the right opportunity. At a brief meeting with him, Salman had advised Elias to be friendly to the Shahins.

  When the shots rang out and the bishops fled in panic, Elias waited for a while. The village square emptied. Claire didn’t want him to go to his father. She was afraid that some marksman might shoot him down even before he reached Mushtak’s house. But Elias had made up his mind. “It’s now or never,” he said, and left her behind with little Farid.

  Endangering his life, he hurried across the square and, with the last of his courage, knocked at his father’s gate. Salman opened it just a crack. Two armed servants stood behind him, and Salman himself had a revolver in his hand.

  “What do you want?” he asked curtly, keeping in the shelter of the gateway.

  “I want to see my father. I want him to give my son Farid his blessing,” replied Elias, close to tears.

  “Wait here,” ordered Salman, closing the gate. His brother stayed outside. It wasn’t long before Salman appeared in that crack in the gateway again.

  “He doesn’t want to see you.” There was triumph in Salman’s voice.

  43. Butros and Samuel

  When Jasmin Shahin’s life ended, years later, at the entrance to a Damascus cinema, nine out of ten inhabitants of Mala thought the killer had been a Mushtak again, but they were wrong. The murderer was sixteen-year-old Samuel, one of the Shahin family. Both friends and enemies of the clan recognized that Jasmin’s story had not yet been told to its end. For a long time there had been rumours in the village that she had fallen in love with a Muslim, a married man, and had eloped with him. Five years later the couple returned to Damascus.

  Jasmin got in touch around now with her niece Rana, who was ten at the time, and her nephew Samuel. She was particularly fond of them both, and hoped that through them she might make her peace with her brother Basil, Rana’s father, and her sister Amira, Samuel’s mother. They were the two who had moved furthest from the village and its fanaticism. Basil was a successful lawyer. He had studied in Paris and hated antiquated notions. He despised church and mosque alike. His daughter was a sensitive, sharp-eyed, courageous girl who wanted nothing to do with the village.

  And Jasmin loved her nephew Samuel as if he were her own son. He was her sister’s first child; after him, Amira had brought six girls into the world. She loved parties and dancing. There wasn’t a club frequented by the French or by rich Arabs to which she and her husband did not belong, and in spite of her children she still looked as young as on her wedding night in 1934. But she was always short of time, so she had hired two housekeepers who did at least look after the little girls.
Samuel hated both the housekeepers, and often spent the night, did his lessons, and ate his meals at his aunt Jasmin’s.

  Rana didn’t like Samuel. As she saw it, he was a show-off and crazy about guns. But he was certainly a good shot, a member of the national team. His parents adorned their drawing room with his photographs and cups, as if the six girls didn’t exist at all.

  Jasmin nurtured two hopes: she thought that all Samuel needed was loving care to become an affectionate boy himself, and then he might persuade his mother to put in a good word for her, Jasmin, with her mother Samia Shahin who ruled all their lives. After that, she hoped, she might escape the anger of her three brothers Butros, Bulos, and Faris, who still lived in the village. If Samia, Jusuf Shahin’s widow, had given her daughter her blessing then no one, not even Butros, would dare to raise his hand against Jasmin. No one would welcome her in, of course, but they wouldn’t seek to take her life and her husband’s.

  Jasmin often went for walks with Rana and told her how much she loved her husband, and how little religion mattered in all decisions of the heart. The best known of all Sufi scholars lies buried in Damascus, Ibn Arabi, who seven hundred years ago cried, “Love is my religion!” The Syrians venerate him so much that they have called the whole quarter of the city around his mosque after him.

  But Rana’s parents refused to see her aunt. She was a traitor, cried Rana’s mother, a woman who had abandoned her religion for a Muslim. Her father said nothing, and acted as if he hadn’t even heard his daughter asking him to put in a good word for Aunt Jasmin with Grandmother. Only years later did Rana discover that although Basil had not responded to her at the time out of consideration for his wife, he had gone to Mala in secret and spent a whole night trying to make Samia change her mind.

  Samia was obdurate. Her daughter had wounded her personally by keeping the relationship secret from her for years. But she restrained her two hot-tempered sons Butros and Bulos, who had ranted and raged, accusing their brother Basil from Damascus of lacking principles. Butros would actually have thrown Basil out of the house if his mother hadn’t stopped him.

  “Sit down, boy. As long as I’m alive no one else throws anyone out of this house, certainly not his own brother.”

  Butros gave way, and Bulos with him. Only Faris kept his temper and took note of everything.

  Two weeks later Amira and Mariam arrived with the same request, assuring their mother that no one troubled about a man’s religion in Damascus any more, his character was all that mattered, and the Muslims were very accommodating too. A Christian like the legendary Fares al-Khuri could even become prime minister and the parliamentary leader of the Islamic state of Syria.

  Their mother didn’t react, but nor did she refuse outright this time. Bulos, her second son, talked nonsense, and fell silent only after two reproofs, merely complaining now and then. Without the leadership of Butros he was only a simple cowherd.

  Butros sat opposite his mother at the great table, ostentatiously taking his father’s place. He was grey-faced and said not a word. At that moment Faris realized that his eldest brother felt their mother was on the point of being reconciled to her favourite daughter.

  He knew Butros, and he knew he would do anything to prevent such a reconciliation. From now on he watched his brother’s every move and every contact he made. Only in that way did he find out what Butros said to young Samuel when Amira came back to try changing her mother’s mind again. This time she brought her husband and their spoilt son, whom Faris did not like. When Butros left the room he followed, silent as his brother’s shadow, and overheard his conversation with their nephew.

  Faris was hiding behind a haystack when an ingenious plan suddenly formed in his mind. Very close to him, Butros was telling Samuel that the Muslims were to blame for the downfall of Arabia. The boy didn’t understand a word of it. Then Butros started talking about heroes who saved the honour and good name of their families and won immortality. After that he held out the prospect of a great reward to the boy: the finest horse in the Shahin stables, and one of the most modern pistols in the world along with a crate of ammunition. Apparently only three men on earth carried such a weapon, and the fourth pistol could be Samuel’s. Gradually, the boy fell for the lure, and asked what the penalty would be. Butros told him the prison sentence would be six months at the most, because he was avenging his family’s honour, and was still a minor too.

  At that moment Faris knew that his sister Jasmin was doomed to die. Finally Butros kissed his nephew and promised to bring the horse to Damascus himself. Samuel cried, “I’ll kill her for betraying us.”

  Faris wondered, but only briefly, if he could save his sister’s life. He quickly worked out the answer. No, no one could save her. She had become fair game, she herself had decided to challenge death. If she had fled to America for ever, she could have lived there undisturbed, but she had wanted to flaunt herself. There was something of the daredevil about Jasmin, and she enjoyed the limelight. By standing in it this time, however, she had condemned herself to death.

  So Samuel was also releasing Faris from a tiresome duty. If he did give the boy away, this particular attempt on Jasmin’s life would probably come to nothing, but then someone else would kill her at Butros’s urging. However, if he kept his mouth shut he could at least prove who was behind the much-indulged young murderer. And he knew exactly who would take revenge on the man who had wickedly urged Samuel on: Samia, the mistress of the clan.

  He held his peace.

  44. A Mother’s Lament

  Samia wouldn’t have her daughter buried in Mala. She decided on Damascus, and chose the church of St. Mary in historic Straight Street. It was the biggest Orthodox church in the country. A bishop and six priests were to conduct her daughter’s funeral service.

  The church was enormous and the congregation of mourners tiny. Although Samia laid on five buses, less than a hundred people came from Mala and Aleppo. And even those who did, family and friends, attended the funeral only reluctantly, although SamDevia had spread the word that her daughter died as she had lived, in the true Christian faith of the Orthodox Church.

  In fact Syrian law does not compel a woman who marries a Muslim to convert to Islam. The children of such a marriage are indeed all Muslims, but Jasmin never had any children.

  As far as her immediate family was concerned, Samuel’s mother Amira and all Samia’s sons and daughters with their own families sat in the front row, or at least they sat there until Samia gave an address for Jasmin which was an impromptu part of the service.

  Faris stuck close to his mother that day. He held her arm until proceedings reached the young bishop’s luke-warm sermon, which ended up half condemning both the dead woman and her murderer Samuel and half asking forgiveness and mercy for them. At that point old Samia shook her arm free of her son’s grasp, went up to the casket at the front of the congregation, and kissed its lid.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, hear my prayer! I commit into your hands a gentle soul who died innocent. Innocent,” said Samia, raising her voice again, “because she followed the dictates of love. Her heart beat for Jesus, who taught us to love our enemies. Then murderers came along and killed her for loving a stranger, and now we’re supposed to pray for those who murder a loving woman in the name of honour. What kind of honour is that? What kind of honour?” cried Samia in a voice that broke, looking at the bishop where he stood frozen like a pale statue at the altar. “What kind of honour is it that men seek not on the field of battle, but in a woman whom they utterly despise? What honour do those murderers have who tore my daughter away from me, robbed me of her for ever and ever? Who gave them the right to end a life? Religion? No! A religion that parts God’s creatures is the work of the devil.”

  Samia faltered slightly when two groups of three or four people rose and ostentatiously left the church, making a lot of noise about it. The first to storm out was her son Butros, followed by his wife and his four children. Then Bulos left, with his wife after hi
m.

  “Go, daughter,” said Samia to Jasmin in her coffin, this time in a sad and loving voice, “go to your Creator in peace, you bear no guilt, go with your pure heart and Paradise will take you in. There’s more room for lovers there than on this miserable earth. Go, daughter, go in peace. I will love you always, for as long as my heart beats. Go, my little angel, and God be with you,” she concluded her address, in tears, and slowly went back to her seat.

  Many wept, Rana among them, although she didn’t understand why her grandmother had been talking about murderers in the plural. Later, Rana remembered not so much the words as the reaction of the congregation. They were horrified. Even her father was ashamed that his mother had spoken out so angrily in the house of God.

  The bishop bravely went on with his prayers. The funeral procession was a solemn one after all. And when the bishop’s old housekeeper indignantly denounced Samia at supper, saying she was a crazy old woman, the bishop surprised her even more than the old widow had done. “Samia Shahin taught me more today with her address,” he said, “than I learned in five years studying theology.”

  45. Amira

  It was Amira’s thirty-fourth birthday, as she realized only by chance when she cast a glance at her ID before putting it in her handbag. She visited her son Samuel twice a week, and the soldiers on guard and the prison warders always asked to see that document.

  She was surprised to think that she was so old already. In fact no one would have taken Amira for more than twenty-five. Her features resembled her mother’s. The family looks followed two lines: she, her sister Jasmin, and her brothers Faris and Musa took after their mother; Butros, Bulos, Mariam, and Basil were very like their father.

  Amira’s large eyes and rounded face emphasized her youthful appearance. She was very feminine, yet she gave the impression of strength.