The Dark Side of Love

by Rafik Schami

  “It’s a disgrace. First he sets the tree on fire, then he runs away with our arch-enemies’ daughter. Now we’re at their mercy. They have the police records in their hands, they can put your son in jail any time,” he replied. His voice sounded sad and weary. But Claire was not pacified.

  “I’m asking you again,” she shouted, “are you a father? Welcoming your prodigal son with violence – what kind of father is that? You’re a violent lunatic, you belong behind bars. Your arch-enemies the Shahins are decent people. They haven’t even raised their hand against our son, and you have to beat him like that? Farid is a child, a child, and you all mistreat him!”

  Claire didn’t say another word to Elias that evening, but gave all her attention to Farid, and slept on a couch at his bedside. What her husband did was a matter of indifference to her. Later, the doctor diagnosed the boy with two broken ribs and severe contusions.

  Only on the third day did Claire find out about the violence of the Syrian border guards. She telephoned around until she learned the name of the officer responsible, and then threatened to charge him with child abuse.

  The officer at the other end of the line laughed. “You do that, madame. Then I’ll get promotion,” he said, claiming to have been defending Arab morality. Then he hung up.

  But Claire was as good as her word. Through a distant cousin who was highly placed in the Interior Ministry, she did have the officer charged, and he was transferred to the Euphrates region for disciplinary reasons. There he complained bitterly until the day of his retirement that there was no saving Syria now, when a whore could have a first lieutenant transferred to the wilderness just for doing his duty and slapping a badly behaved boy about a bit.

  117. The Gate

  The bus driver was making for the summit of the last mountain before the coast. In the distance, the mighty monastery perching on top of it like an eagle’s eyrie was already visible. Its white walls shone in the afternoon sun.

  As if liberated, the driver stepped on the gas again, raced the last few metres to the monastery wall, and finally braked so forcefully that two of his passengers, who could hardly wait for the end of the long drive and were already standing in the aisle, tumbled forward. That didn’t bother the bus driver. When he had switched the engine off he took his comb out of his shirt pocket and parted his oiled hair neatly, looking in the rear view mirror. For a moment he examined his well-tended, thin moustache, then smiled at himself with satisfaction and got out of the bus, whistling.

  He looked at the clock on the church tower, compared the time with his watch, and adjusted the watch.

  “More than twelve hours of driving,” said Elias Mushtak in surprise, as he climbed out of the door at the back and glanced at his own watch. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to go back until next morning.

  Elias looked at the bus driver. Men with oiled hair revolted him. Depending on their age, they looked like either rent boys or pimps. The driver threw a few foreign cigarettes to the farm hands and impoverished-looking workers standing around, and they thanked him. A stray dog scented something for his hungry belly, and cautiously approached, wagging his tail. But the bus driver kicked him hard in the side, sending the animal scampering away and yowling with pain.

  “That’s not normal, is it?” said Elias indignantly. “A dog is one of God’s creatures too – did you see that, a poor hungry dog, and what does that pimp do? Kicks it in the ribs,” he said angrily but quietly to one of the peasants who had been on the bus.

  “All townies are bastards,” the man replied, sending a waft of bad breath Elias’s way. Farid’s father felt like kicking him in the ribs.

  The bus driver strutted around his vehicle, put a ladder up and climbed to the roof, which was loaded with cases, crates, and bags. He picked up one piece of baggage after another, called out, “Whose is this, then?” and before any owner could speak up it was flying down to the waiting crowd. Elias Mushtak shook his head in annoyance when his own case landed roughly on the ground. “Bloody bastard,” he muttered. It was followed by a smaller case in which Claire had packed underwear, socks and towels. Everything, as required by the monastery, bore the initials FM and his date of birth: 230640. The large case contained coats, pullovers, and other winter clothes. Trousers and shirts were not needed, because everyone wore the same black monastic habit.

  Farid moved away from the noisy crowd outside the bus and went up to the great gate by himself. It seemed to him more impenetrable than the high stone wall that made the monastery look like a castle. “Mother,” he heard himself whisper. “Mother, where are you? Mother!” He felt abandoned as never before, and knew that tears were running down his face.

  “What’s the matter with you?” His father’s voice brought him back to reality.

  “I want to go home,” he said, and looked at his father through a mist of tears.

  “Pull yourself together. You’re not a baby now,” his father replied quietly.

  Farid picked up the smaller case and followed him.

  Although it was high summer, musty, cold air met them when a tall man opened the gate. He was smiling like a lunatic. His large, shaven skull was covered with scars. The man had hands like shovels sticking out of his habit, which was much too small for him. The black of its fabric was worn grey on the shoulders and elbows.

  “We’re to see Abbot Maximus Haddad. The bus was …”

  “He’s expecting you,” the man interrupted Elias brusquely, and went ahead. Elias Mushtak made his way after him with the heavy case, panting. They went along endless corridors, until the man stopped outside a door on the second floor. When Farid had caught up, the monk knocked and pushed down the door handle without waiting for a reply. Then he stepped aside to let the two new arrivals in.

  “Put the cases down and come in. Brother John will see to them,” said the abbot, coming out from behind his large desk. “Monsieur Elias, what a pleasure for me to greet the son of that great hero George Mushtak.”

  That took Elias’s breath away. He had expected anything, but not to find that his father’s reputation had come all the way to this monastery. Farid was surprised that the abbot was so young, forty at the most. He imagined abbots as old men with snow-white beards and bent backs. This man was athletic, bursting with health, and had a thick, black beard. His face was friendly, his voice melodious. He spoke classic Arabic, but Farid detected a slight Lebanese accent.

  “Forgive us for arriving late, the bus …” began Elias, trying to apologize.

  “Oh, dear me, yes,” the abbot interrupted, “we know about the dangerous roads, we’re glad you managed to get here at all today. The parents of seven other new pupils have put off their journey for the time being, in view of the situation. Today is Thursday. Your son can rest until Sunday evening. The intensive French language course begins on Monday. He can attend that from the start. Regular school lessons don’t begin until October, and they will be given in French.”

  “We’re happy that you have accepted Farid. My wife and I appreciate it. I studied in a monastery in Damascus myself as a boy, and those were the best days of my life, although cut sadly short. I’m sure you remember the tragic end of the Jesuit monastery,” Elias added quietly.

  “How could I forget? A black day for Christianity and the whole of civilization. My uncle died in the fire. He was the librarian there.”

  “What? Father Antonios Haddad … your uncle?” said Elias in amazement.

  The abbot nodded. “What a small world it is! You knew my uncle, while as a student in the monastery here I prayed for a hero called George Mushtak who saved a Christian village. And that man was your father. May God bless his soul.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Elias in subdued tones. Farid noticed the mask of humility that his father always assumed when he was speaking to churchmen.

  Only now did the abbot turn to Farid. “Welcome, my son,” he said, shaking his hand with a powerful grip. Then he asked them both to sit down, and seated himself with his
back to the big windows. Through the window on the left, Farid could see the grounds and the mighty trees with their branches rising to the monastery walls. The sun was still shining brightly, but was visibly sinking towards the distant line of the horizon.

  Abbot Maximus addressed Elias again. “We try to educate our pupils and novices well. They can continue their studies later in Rome and Paris, and do good service to Mother Church. As you know, we have excellent connections with the Jesuits in both those cities, and we thank God’s grace that to date we may count twelve bishops, two patriarchs, three cardinals, fourteen theologians, and a world-famous doctor of medicine among former students at this monastery. Those with talent have a duty. With the help of God and by his grace, your son Farid will put his talent to the service of Christianity, just as his grandfather did.”

  The door opened quietly, but the abbot merely looked up briefly and went on with his remarks about talent and duty. A thin man brought in a tray with two glasses of water. Elias was so spellbound by what the abbot was saying that he jumped when the man, who was insubstantial as a ghost, politely handed him the water.

  Farid smiled at the skinny monk. He was about forty, and the abbot called him Brother Gabriel. Farid took his glass and put it down on the little table between the two armchairs where he and his father were sitting.

  The monk remained by the door, attracting no attention. Farid thought that the man had an aura of kindness and calm about him. Suddenly he heard Maximus Haddad’s voice rising a little. “Your son Farid,” he said solemnly, and from his tone it was clear that the interview was coming to an end, “will now be our son and brother, and will be known as Barnaba.”

  The abbot stopped for a moment, as if guessing at the surprise that both Elias and his son felt at this moment. He smiled, and cast a glance at the page of a fat book lying open in front of him. “In the monastery,” he went on, in a slightly lower voice, “all the pupils bear saints’ names. Farid is a good Arabic name, but unfortunately no saint ever bore it.” He glanced quickly at Farid. “Not yet, anyway,” he added, smiling, pleased with this idea. “And a new name is the symbol of a new life. Farid will remain as a memory in his parental home, and Barnaba comes into the world here. Barnaba because today is June the 11th. And that, as we know from this book of saints, is the day of Barnaba. He was one of the first Christian martyrs, a friend and companion of Bulos, founder of the Church. His name in Aramaic means Son of Comfort. How lucky you are, my dear Barnaba,” he concluded, smiling at his new pupil. Farid felt neither lucky nor comforted. What a weird name, he thought.

  Only weeks later did he discover that Barnaba was one of the early Christians, and had spoken up to the disciples of Jesus on behalf of Bulos, known as Saul to the other Christians. They distrusted Bulos. Later Barnaba and Bulos did missionary work together for a while, but finally they fell out with one another and went their separate ways.

  “And now,” he heard the abbot proclaim solemnly, “your son Farid will leave you, and as Barnaba, a pupil in this monastery, he will enter the fields of Jesus Christ, whose devoted servant he is to be.”

  Farid felt paralysed by fear. He hadn’t expected the parting with his father to come so soon.

  “A room in the guesthouse has been reserved for you,” the abbot told Elias, offering his right hand in farewell. “You are welcome here for tonight. Tomorrow a bus leaves very early for Damascus.”

  The abbot came out from behind his table, and now placed his hand on Farid’s head. Farid stood perfectly still, but his heart was thudding. Elias Mushtak wiped away his tears with his handkerchief, which was already drenched in sweat after the journey.

  “God bless you on your way,” said the abbot, “God make you brave, unselfish, obedient, and ready to do everything to spread the teaching of Christ. May God protect you in all you do.”

  118. The Tonsure

  “Right, little Barnaba, let’s go,” said emaciated Brother Gabriel. His deep voice surprised Farid. When they left the office the cases had disappeared. Gabriel noticed the boy’s questioning glance, and smiled.

  “Brother John has taken them to your place in the dormitory. You have a little locker for your things there. But come with me now – he’s waiting to give you your tonsure.”

  “What’s a tonsure?” asked Farid, bewildered.

  Gabriel smiled. “A shaven head. After that you get the habit, and then you’re really one of us.”

  Farid entered the room known as Brother John’s workshop. John was the general factotum: plumber, postman, porter, barber, but he also inflicted physical punishment when the monastery authorities thought it necessary. The workshop consisted of two rooms, one in front of the other, with a connecting door between them. The front room contained bicycles, metal trestles, chests of drawers and a workbench. It smelled strongly of engine oil, but was meticulously tidy. John was sitting in the back room on a mattress, trying to repair the broken handle of a wicker basket with his calloused hands.

  When Farid came in with Gabriel, John looked up and grinned. He stank of sweat and old socks. Nothing in the place was even remotely reminiscent of a barber’s salon. The one cheerful touch was a sunbeam falling in through a round window on the west wall of the room.

  John put the basket down and stood up. He pulled a small stool to the middle of the room and gestured to Farid to sit down on it. As soon as Farid was seated, he pushed his head down and began shaving it with an old pair of clippers. The clippers pulled out whole tufts at a time. It was a painful business.

  “What’s our new boy called?” Farid heard John ask.

  “Barnaba,” said Gabriel.

  John repeated the name in a childish singsong, gradually turning it into its Greek version of Barnabas, then into Barabbas, the name of the robber whom the Jews chose to free instead of Jesus on the feast of Passover. John kept chanting this new name with enthusiasm. “Barabbas! Barabbas!” Although it wasn’t the robber’s fault, the early Christians hated that name as the symbol of a life saved at the cost of the Lord’s own. It seemed that Barabbas couldn’t live with that thought, and had hanged himself soon after he was set free.

  “So now you’re one of us,” cried John in his singsong voice. Then, suddenly, his rough hand hit Farid right in the face. He had really meant to give the newcomer a pat on the back of his shaven head, but Farid had turned at just that moment.

  The blow struck him full on. Farid lost his balance and fell off the stool. He was trying to stand up when he suddenly felt a thin hand on his shoulder, turned around, and looked straight into Gabriel’s face.

  “Let’s go, Barnaba. John’s a lout,” said the monk. He helped Farid up and led him out of the workshop.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to do it,” cried John, putting out his hand to the boy, but Farid had already reached the door and slammed it behind him. John was left behind with his jaw dropping.

  119. The First Night

  The habit felt strange. It billowed between Farid’s bare legs, and made him walk unsteadily. When he passed one of the mirrors that were fitted at every landing on the stairs, he was startled. A bald-headed stranger in a black sack stared back at him from the mirror, eyes wide with shock. Josef would have a heart attack if he could see his friend in this outfit.

  Evening dusk was already falling over the quiet inner courtyard. Farid stopped for a moment, and then followed Gabriel down to the cellars, where he heard a babble of voices. The cellar area had a high, vaulted roof of polished white stone. The doors to the refectory were open, and as Farid stood on the stairs leading down he could already see hundreds of monastery pupils, all with shaven heads and in black habits, sitting at three long rows of tables. At right angles to them, and slightly raised, stood a large table for the Fathers, and roughly in the middle of the room there was a kind of pulpit beside the wall. One of the older pupils stood at it, leafing through a thick book. His narrow leather belt told Farid that he was a novice. The Brothers and the Fathers wore broader belts.

  Farid
waited awkwardly near the door while Gabriel hurried up to the table where the Fathers sat, and whispered something to a rather stout priest. The priest looked at Farid and then stood up. There was silence at once, and Farid felt the eyes of the pupils and novices burning on his scalp. He looked down.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” said the priest, crossing himself. All the pupils did the same, repeating the words after him. Farid hastily made the sign of the cross too. “In the name of Abbot Maximus, who can’t be with us this evening,” said the priest, “I am happy to welcome our new pupil Barnaba. He is in the seventh grade, one of ten new students in all who have come to swell our ranks. Welcome, my son. Now sit down, and we can begin the reading.”

  Gabriel moved his head in response to Farid’s glance at him asking for help. Then he saw the empty place. A napkin and cutlery were already laid.

  The pupils started talking again, and his twenty companions at the table showered him with questions. They were all speaking French. Farid understood a good deal of what they said, but he confined himself to simple answers to avoid making mistakes. The pupils seemed eager to hear about the outside world. Only later did he discover that neither they, nor the novices and monks, were allowed to leave the monastery walls. Unlike ordinary boarding schools and many liberal monasteries, the order of St. Sebastian wouldn’t even let its pupils go home for the vacation.

  The reading was in French too. All Farid understood was that it was the story of St. Barnaba. His companions told him that they had the story of a saint read to them every day before supper.

  “Some of them are as exciting as thrillers, some are as colourful as movies, but some are just plain boring,” said a boy whom the others called Marcel. He sat opposite Farid and was beaming at him. As far as Farid could make out Marcel, who was rather stout, came from Alexandria in Egypt.