by Rafik Schami
“But what does that have to do with me?” Dunia asked her mother just as they were reaching the house of the bedroom woman, who heard Dunia’s anxious question, and smiled. “Give your husband enough liquor, and when he wants to take you to bed say you’re scared and you’re going to scream. Get him to call for me, and then you must calm down and show willing. That’s all you have to do,” she firmly told Dunia.
Dunia herself was surprised by her mother’s confidence and composure as the wedding night came. Her father, on the other hand, was pale as a corpse. He looked so sad that her brother Kamal said, jokingly, someone ought to tell the old man he wasn’t at a funeral. Of course Kamal hadn’t been allowed to know the tale of Dunia’s hymen, and nor had anyone else.
When the bridegroom entered the bedroom he was swaying from all the liquor that had gone to his head. He was surprised by his bride’s excessive timidity when she asked him not to come any closer or she’d scream. Allowing her the favour she asked, he sent for the bedroom woman. He had been told by his own mother, only a little while before, that he should ask for the woman’s services so that the party could go on, undisturbed by excessive screaming.
The bedroom woman arrived, whispered something to the bridegroom, and he began to undress. Then she assured Dunia that it wouldn’t hurt at all, and would very soon be over.
“It was very funny,” said Dunia, “there was my husband, dead drunk, dancing around in circles and undressing. He looked much more handsome naked than with his suit on, and I wanted him – he smelled so good, too – but the woman stood between us, held my legs apart as if she were going to look inside me, and took hold of my husband’s thing. He was enormously amused by that, he kept laughing all the time, and he didn’t see what she was doing. I felt him come inside me, but it didn’t hurt. Before I could come to a climax, however, the chamber woman cried out, “Congratulations, O lion among men, on this pearl of virginity!” And she began ululating at the top of her voice, and uttering cries of joy and good wishes. While we were washing, she took the sheet with a big bloodstain in the middle of it out to the guests, and they all danced and sang with joy over my clear demonstration of virginity.
Where the bedroom woman came by all that blood was her own secret. But anyway, my husband, my parents and his, and all our friends and relations were pleased. That night my father took my mother’s arm with tears in his eyes and told her, “I’ll never forget what you did. You have saved me.” And next morning he flew back to his king in Saudi Arabia, a happy man.”
208. Late Enlightenment
Josef’s studies did not demand much of him. He had to be present only in geography classes, because there was practical work to be done there. He knew more about history, on the other hand, than his professors did, so instead of attending lectures he was often to be found in the Café Havana on Port Said Street, where journalists and politicians met. Anyone who ever wanted to engage in these professions had to graduate in the “Havana Academy”. Since Josef’s heart beat for politics, the café gave him far more interesting contacts than any lecture.
He liked the street, where there were many other restaurants as well as his favourite haunt, besides cinemas, stores selling Indian goods, and coffee bars. The Café Brazil was a meeting place for men of letters. You could also choose from several famous confectioners’ shops, and most of the newspapers published in Damascus had their offices here. But he particularly liked the Librairie Universelle, a bookshop that had imported excellent literature from all over the world ever since the days of the French occupation. The owner knew him well, and would even get him banned titles. Conveniently, the shop was just opposite the Café Havana.
One fine day in autumn Josef was just coming out of the café, and was about to cross the broad street with its many traffic lanes, when he saw his father getting out of a tram and making purposefully for a nearby building. By now his father was almost blind. He rang the doorbell, and soon disappeared into the house. Josef stopped in surprise in the middle of the street. A bus driver had to brake sharply, and swore. Josef, startled, waved an apology. He went up to the unobtrusive door between two large display windows. The ancient copper plate on it said, in almost illegible lettering, “Khuri”. The name meant nothing to him.
When he came home, he asked his mother if she knew a family called Khuri. Madeleine looked up in surprise.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because my father went into a house with that nameplate, and I’ve never heard of the family before.”
Madeleine laughed. “Think nothing of it. He’s only visiting his lover.”
Josef felt anger rise in him. “Do I ever dismiss any of your questions like that, Mother?” he replied, and was about to walk out of the room in a huff, but Madeleine took her son’s arm and said, “Don’t be so prim and proper. I’m telling you the truth. Rimon has loved Marta since childhood. She was a beauty, and she thought your father was a wonderful boxer. Her husband Sarkis Khuri, one of a noble family, controlled all the cocoa imports, and he was the biggest chocolate manufacturer in Damascus too. He spent some of his money on sponsoring Rimon, because he believed in your father’s strength, and in all his interviews your father had to mention that he drank cocoa every morning.
“Marta fell madly in love with your father. But Rimon wasn’t planning to sleep with a woman whose husband was his sponsor. The three of them met every week, and Rimon adored Marta and Marta adored him, but in thirty years it never came to any more. Then her husband fell sick, and he lost his money at exactly the time when your father was building huge palaces and earning large sums. Suddenly Mr. Khuri was dependent on Rimon’s help, which your father gave generously, and he also made sure that the childless couple received a small pension from the Catholic community. But there’s nothing worse than an impoverished nobleman. Khuri wasn’t a bit grateful to your father, but saw him as an enemy. And he was always making snide remarks and saying he was sure that Marta and Rimon were deceiving him. However, the two of them just went on sitting next to each other, and even in forty years they never touched.
“But your father inherited poor eyesight from his mother, who went blind at the age of forty. He was terribly short-sighted when he was thirty, and from then on his eyes got worse and worse. Perhaps you remember that about ten years ago, when he could hardly see at all and kept on stumbling over things, I begged him to go and see an oculist. After a few days he came home with a pair of glasses, and he was very pleased, because not only could he see where he was going better, he could see the dice when he played backgammon too. He went about as proud as a child with its first pair of patent leather shoes.
“But three days later he came home without his glasses. He didn’t tell you children why, but he’s never kept anything from me. He’d been horrified when he was suddenly able to see his beloved Marta so clearly. As I told you, she’d been a beauty once, but she hadn’t aged well. She had growths on her nose, her hair was thin, and her hands had warts all over them. Rimon had never noticed that over the years. So that day he threw the glasses under a tram.”
209. Spring in Autumn
Rana heard the news that Farid was free from Laila, the morning after his return. She phoned his house at nine. Claire laughed. “You’re faster than a gazelle,” she joked, and felt life flowing through her veins again.
Farid had just woken up. His first night in freedom had been a short one. Matta and his fiancée Faride had been the last guests to leave, at about one in the morning. They wanted Farid to be witness at their wedding, and had been waiting for him all these months. Farid was deeply moved. He laid a hand on Matta’s head. “Of course I will,” he said. “You only have to name the day.”
“We already have. Matta has been fixing a new day with the priest every three months, hoping for your release. Last time the priest advised us to ask a different witness,” said Faride. “Thank God I was there too, or Matta would just about have murdered him. He told the priest never to make such a suggestion again, but
to pray for his brother Farid to be set free. Now we’ve picked the first Sunday in December, and if that date suits you we’ll get married at last.” All the time Faride was talking, Matta looked at her lovingly, and now he nodded happily.
“Then that’s agreed,” said Farid, and he got to his feet and marked Sunday, 3 December with a large cross.
He had been tired when he went to bed, but his feelings were in such turmoil that he could hardly sleep. He was smiling at the scene with the priest as Faride described it, imagining Matta’s fury and the cleric’s pale face. What a loyal, staunch friend Matta was! Then, at the end of the evening, came the news of Rana’s forced marriage. And the place was so noisy! Damascus at night pulsated with an incredible volume of sound for someone who had spent over a year out in the desert. All Farid had heard in the prison camp were the screams of the prisoners and the cry of jackals. The desert swallowed up everything else. But here the city never seemed to sleep, and finally, when there was no one left in the streets calling out or hooting car horns, the muezzin began calling the faithful to prayer.
Farid woke up, and went into the courtyard barefoot. Claire was sitting by the fountain. He asked quietly who it was on the phone. She spoke into the receiver. “He must have picked up your scent, he’s just asking who you are. Shall I tell him?”
Rana laughed.
“Hello, dear heart.” Farid greeted her, in the words he had been repeating over and over for months on end.
“Hello. Do you still want to see me in spite of everything that’s happened?” she asked shyly.
“Every day,” he said. “Your marriage means nothing to me, and if it doesn’t mean anything to you either then let’s see each other.” Those were the very words that Rana had been hoping for months to hear.
She told him the way to where she lived.
The city was in a bustling mood, it was beautiful, picturesque October weather, and the Damascenes felt something like liberty again for the first time in years. Farid didn’t think that General Amilan, who had sent Satlan packing, was any better than his predecessor, but the people’s hopes of democracy were almost tangible, and the release of all political prisoners made an encouraging start. The old Syrian political parties and the newspapers banned by Satlan emerged into the light of day again.
Damascus is at its loveliest in autumn, thought Farid. The cries of street sellers and the swallows in the sky sounded like melancholy songs of farewell.
The university was to open its doors again in two weeks’ time. What a pity, Farid thought, that all his dreams of going through his studies there with Rana close to him had been dashed by her forced marriage.
Some things had changed since his disappearance. Josef had told him, in rapid staccato telegraphese, that the Interior Minister of the time had closed the club after Gibran did something stupid. Now they were trying to get permission to reopen it. Gibran had been arrested, and after a short while was handed over to the al-Asfuriye mental hospital, where he was still a patient.
“What about Karime?”
“She doesn’t want to hear any more about Gibran. She had to bear a good deal of humiliation because of him, and now she just wants to be left alone.”
Late that night Amin had phoned. He was in Aleppo in the north of the country, he said, and wanted to congratulate Farid on his release and remind him that, now everything was out in the open again, it was time for him to take up the battle once more. Amin told him that he and four other communists had managed to escape from the much-feared prison camp in Tad. He had found shelter with a family in Aleppo who were nothing to do with politics, but had guts. Then he said that he had fallen in love with Salime, the eldest daughter of the family, and they had married three months ago. He would very much like to see Farid, he added, but it was better for him to stay in Aleppo, where he had a lot of work laying tiles.
“I’ll miss you very much,” said Farid.
“I’ll miss you too,” replied Amin. “I’ve heard good things about the way you stood up to Osmani. I can’t stand the man. I’m …” and here Amin hesitated for a moment, “I’m very proud of you,” he went on at last, and Farid said nothing, wondering how such news could make its way to Aleppo from a camp in the desert.
Rana had been living in her new house since last summer. It was a present from her father to the newly married couple, and stood in Fardus Street opposite the cinema, which also bore the name of the street, in the middle of the vibrant business quarter of the New Town. The building had been constructed in the 1930s in the European style, of white stone.
The first floor was rented out to a large Air France branch office and a fashion boutique. Rana and her husband lived in the two floors above those premises. The flat roof, which had a tall screen all around it, was Rana’s domain. Orange trees, oleanders, roses, and jasmine grew there in large containers. She had turned what was once a maid’s bedroom on the roof into a little studio, where she often sat painting.
Rami never came up to the roof. As he saw it, a rooftop was the place to hang out washing, and the laundry was women’s business. He regarded painting as an occupation for women too, and perhaps for men who weren’t quite right in the head.
Rana marvelled at Farid’s lack of scars. She had had nightmares in which he was badly disfigured by torture and abuse. But here he was before her, more handsome than ever, somehow more virile, wittier. As soon as he saw her he had run to her, took her in his strong arms, and cried, “Where shall I take you, princess?” Then he kissed her on the mouth.
“Oh, put me down, I’m heavy! We must go two floors up,” she whispered in his ear.
A steep staircase led up past those two floors to the flat roof. Once there, he could enjoy the sight of the plants and the attractively furnished studio.
Rana was paler than she used to be, but she smelled even more fragrant than before. He kissed her, and soon after that laid her down on the big old couch in her studio as naturally as if they hadn’t been parted for a second. Close to her, Farid once again had the feeling he had known ever since they were together in Beirut. As soon as he kissed her she seemed to surround him like the world itself. She sank into him through every pore, and he and she were one.
Farid told her about his imprisonment, and then heard the story of the worst day in her life, her defeat as Rami and her family practised their deception on her. And she told him that she had resolved to live like a cactus until they could leave the country together, for no kind of life was possible for them here.
She took his head in both hands and kissed his eyes. “I’ll pray for you, my heart,” she said, kissing him again, “I’ll pray that nothing happens to you while you’re underground liberating humanity.” And then she could no longer restrain her laughter. They rolled on the floor, play-fighting.
They couldn’t have said, later, how often they made love that day. In the afternoon, a sparrow flew down from the orange tree and looked into the studio. It chirruped and flew away, only to come back with another sparrow. Now they were both looking at Rana and Farid.
“That’s his girlfriend,” said Farid. “He’s showing her how to enjoy forbidden love.”
Rana smiled. “No, I’ve been feeding the first one for weeks. He’s probably jealous. The other one isn’t a girl, it’s another male and his friend. I expect they’re challenging you to fight.”
When Farid sat up, the sparrows flew away. Rana looked at her naked lover. Behind him, she saw the jasmine in all the glory of its white flowers, and for a moment she thought it was spring.
BOOK OF GROWTH III
Courage kills and so does cowardice.
DAMASCUS, 1961 – 1965
210. Josef’s Injury
The university was a surprise to Farid in every respect. The natural sciences department did have super-modern buildings and the most modern of laboratories, but the course of studies itself was extremely outmoded, and relied heavily on learning by heart. The standard in the first year was well below what it had been in his
elite school. Two years earlier a number of scientists had left the country, since professors could earn ten times as much in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia as in Damascus. They were replaced by young, inexperienced lecturers. Sometimes the new professors didn’t even have doctoral degrees.
Even at the start of his university course, Farid realized that after studying natural sciences for four years he would come away with nothing but a handsome diploma in fine calligraphy, adorned with arabesques. It was absurd even to think of research and development.
But if he was honest with himself, he didn’t mind that too much. He could perfectly well imagine a life full of more interesting things than chemical formulae: there was Rana, whom he would see often now, there was his work in the underground, there were all the novels he was reading, and the club with its motley collection of members.
The club got its license back two weeks after the coup, and a week later it reopened with a big party. Amin came specially from Aleppo for the occasion, with his pale, quiet wife Salime. Farid thought his friend was much more amusing and relaxed than before. His archenemy Michel showed the little tiler respect too.
The whole neighbourhood celebrated, and there were some thirty dishes to choose from, as well as plenty of different drinks. Even the bishop came, and delivered a gentle warning against making jokes about the government. “I could tell jokes too, my children, and His Holiness John XXIII is a kindly man and likes cheerfulness, but I refrain from telling them all the same.”
“What a shame!” someone cried. The assembled guests tried every way they could to spur him on to tell those jokes. He shook with laughter, and those sitting near him crowed with glee to see the red wine dripping to the floor. Taufik hurried up with a dishcloth to dry the bishop’s hand.
“No, no, I’m not telling you,” he said. “A man has two ears but only one mouth, and that illustrates the divine wisdom of telling only half of what you hear.”