The Dark Side of Love

by Rafik Schami

  “I’ll have to speak to the President about it. This is a tricky business. The Germans stay for now. We can’t have criminals and terrorists dictating what’s good for the Fatherland and what isn’t. You must keep your camp cut off from the outside world. It wasn’t the Germans who sent those lies abroad, it was Syrians,” announced the colonel, standing up.

  265. Victory

  Garasi decided to act with the utmost severity. At the beginning of June 1969, only one more year would stand between him and retirement. So he must make just one more little effort, and then he would have reached safety.

  “Only a firm hand will keep that devil’s spawn down,” he shouted hysterically when his officers told him that yet again none of the prisoners had touched food all day.

  Two days later the first two men, a criminal and a Satlanist, died of inanition.

  The prisoners’ committee asked for an hour’s commemoration to be observed that night. They sensed the discouraging effect of death.

  Next morning Garasi had five doctors brought in from Damascus. They went from hut to hut, examining the prisoners. Three were so weak that they had to go to hospital at once.

  However, the detainees were afraid the sick men would be mistreated in Damascus. They were reassured only when the doctors solemnly swore to take care nothing happened to them.

  Around midday, Garasi sent the cook out into the yard to grill deliciously seasoned kebabs, bake fresh bread, and offer mixed salads. It immeasurably increased the prisoners’ torment. More than ten men were unable to hold out any longer, and ate so much and so greedily that they had terrible stomach pains. Next day, however, they were back on hunger strike.

  Finally President Amran intervened. He fired his Interior Minister. A day later Garasi sent for Farid, Salman, and Ali Abusaid. Seated at his desk, he looked thin and debilitated. “We’ll come to terms with you. The Germans flew home to their own country last night. Work in the quarry has been stopped, and anyone who doesn’t commit a punishable offence will not be touched, as before. Food will improve, you can have longer to exercise in the yard, and from now on two doctors will be on duty for six hours a day in the camp. Visits from family are permitted once a month, and young offenders under twenty will be taken to a new re-education centre. In return we expect you to behave well and observe discipline, cleanliness, and patriotism.” Garasi’s voice was shaky, although he was trying hard to say those last words in a peremptory tone. There was nothing of his former bearing left. Anyone could see he was afraid.

  Farid, Salman, and Ali Abusaid ran down the staircase three steps at a time, and out in the yard they began rejoicing and dancing. “We did it! We won! Cheer up, we won!”

  The guards watched them. Farid was turning somersaults and rolling along the ground, only to leap up again next minute whooping like a lunatic, uttering noises that made all the others laugh. Ali Abusaid performed several perfect cartwheels. Criminals, Muslim Brothers, nationalists, Radicals, and communists alike fell into each other’s arms to celebrate the end of the hunger strike.

  Word was sent to the kitchen and the bakery. Before long there was vegetable soup and crisp flatbread. Darwish came to Hut 5. Its doors, like those of all the other huts, stood open. He greeted everyone, handed out cigarettes, and congratulated them on their victory. Then he went over to Farid, who was sitting on the floor spooning up his soup, bent down, picked him up like a baby, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You deserve it, laddie!” he cried. Many of the prisoners were laughing and weeping at the same time. “We’ll soon be home,” they rejoiced, and when the guards came and kept assuring them that they’d all make a new start now and forget the past the prisoners applauded. Farid winked at Ali Abusaid, who was sitting opposite him enjoying a cigarette. “They live on forgetfulness, like chickens,” said the journalist, resigned.

  “And we live on memory, like camels,” replied Farid.

  It was 12 March 1969.

  266. The End of Garasi

  Garasi stood beside the truck that was taking his household goods from his service apartment in the camp back to his home village of Daraia near the capital city Damascus. “Look at me,” he told his officers. “This is my reward: I’ve sacrificed myself for the Fatherland for thirty-three years, and now I’m discharged from the army because some criminal goes and dies. Because that’s the reason, even if no one says so. They’d rather claim I was involved in a conspiracy.” All of a sudden his voice had a defiant edge. “Why don’t they put their cards on the table? Then I’d have something to say myself about those bastard experts I had foisted on me – oh yes, they left the sinking ship as soon as things got too hot. Off and away they went. But the powers that be don’t want to hear about such things. It all has to be my fault.”

  Then, as if regretting this outburst against his superiors, he changed tack and was all humility. “I told the Interior Minister, please, even if he didn’t have any sympathy for me he might at least think of my children … how will they … at school …” And Garasi, whose eyes were usually hard as marble, was weeping and sobbing. His words drowned in his tears; no one could make out what he was saying any more.

  Then the gate opened, and he stopped short in surprise. A Landrover drove up to him and ostentatiously stopped only a metre or so away. A man in civilian clothes beckoned the startled captain over to him. Garasi went. Little could be heard, but the commandant’s stooping posture showed that the civilian was more powerful than he was. What he was saying seemed to confuse Garasi. The captain pointed despairingly but energetically at the truck, but the civilian in the car moved not a muscle. He just stared wordlessly into the distance. Through the open gate, the assembled officers, NCOs, and soldiers now saw two jeeps and a small van, the kind used for transporting prisoners. Garasi was pleading with the civilian, but the silence choked his words. And the captain who had so recently been lord over the lives of thousands, collapsed. His arms, which he had always used to emphasize what he said, dangled helplessly as he went towards the small van. A powerful man was holding the back hatch open. And when Garasi stood hesitating by the vehicle, the secret service man gave him a firm and disrespectful push that sent him flying inside it. Then the man bolted the hatch and got into the front seat next to the driver.

  Without giving the officers, NCOs, and soldiers standing around so much as a glance, the man in civilian clothes made a slight gesture, indicating his wishes to the driver of the Landrover, and the vehicle raced out of the gate, churning up a great deal of sand and dust. After a while it disappeared from sight in the endless desert.

  The truck containing Garasi’s household goods was looted that same night. When a phone call came from secret service HQ days later, saying that the former commandant’s belongings were to be sent to his children in Daraia, the man on duty was rather confused, not just because the truck was now empty, but also because the caller spoke of the convicted officer Garasi.

  267. Nabil

  The worst of it for the officers, NCOs, and soldiers in the camp was the embargo on contact with the outside world imposed on all of them by the secret service HQ. Their telephone lines were tapped, and the connection was broken at any hint of ambiguity. A motorized unit formed an impenetrable ring surrounding the camp. Large notices in English, French, and Arabic now stood for a radius of ten kilometres around it, declaring the terrain a military restricted area and forbidding intrusion on pain of death. No journalist ventured to come anywhere near the camp.

  Inside it, cheerful chaos prevailed after Garasi’s departure. Secret service HQ, which had power over the camp “for dangerous elements”, was taking its time. And as if all the prisoners had lost their memories in the elation of victory, they were mingling on friendly terms with the soldiers, officers, and guards. They ate, smoked, played cards, and joked together, and discussed what the future would bring. Suddenly hearty, childlike laughter found its way into the camp.

  It was at this time that Farid got to know a young soldier called Nabil.
Aged twenty, Nabil had had bad luck. Two days after arriving at his barracks north of Damascus, he had had an angry exchange of words with an NCO, who saw to it that the young man was transferred to duty at Tad. But Nabil assured Farid, in confidence, that the real reason for his disciplinary transfer was the NCO’s hatred of all townies and Christians. Nabil was both. His parents came from Bab Tuma in Damascus, where his father ran a small food store selling preserved delicacies. Like many young people, Nabil knew the famous confectioner’s shop belonging to Farid’s father, and told him that he sometimes used to spend all his weekend pocket money there on his favourite sweetmeat, a confection known as nightingale nests.

  He had fallen unhappily in love with a rich young woman, but soon she decided to marry a wealthy neighbour, and he had to bury his love deep in his heart. Six months ago, however, she got in touch with him again; it seemed that her marriage had disappointed her, and she wanted to run away with Nabil.

  Farid listened to the young soldier’s tale of woe for nights on end. He soon realized that just having someone listening to him acted on Nabil like a magnet. He sought Farid out as often as he could to tell him more about his sorrows and his perplexity.

  For a long time Farid had thought listening an art mastered better by women than men. Claire said that in that case, he himself had very feminine ears. He knew that listening makes you wise, but he had no idea that in his own case his ability to listen would actually save his life.

  268. The Cold Voice

  The elm was burning. The fire played around its stout, split trunk and licked up to the tree’s low crown, a blazing pyramid spraying sparks into the dark sky with all its might, as if they were those long-lost glow-worms that can hide away for decades, emerging at last in their search for love.

  The strong wind sang its loud song through the flames. It sounded like screams of pain in chorus. The sparks went out in mid-flight, but many splinters of the tree were strong enough to withstand the cold air above and fall back to the ground, still glowing. The dry grass and bushes caught fire. The air smelled of burning wood and thyme. A spark suddenly dug into his right cheek. Farid started up, his heart racing, and struck the burning splinter of wood away. Everything immediately dissolved into darkness.

  It was some time before his eyes, dazzled by the fire, could see the sleeping men around him in the large, dark hut. His vision clouded over again, but he didn’t feel like lying down any more. Sitting on the floor, he held his head in both hands. His temples were throbbing with pain, and sparks flashed in a dark firmament behind his closed eyelids. He helplessly rubbed the root of his nose, which was supposed to help when you felt dazed.

  The yard was dark, and the faint light of the lantern made it seem even darker. A blackbird was singing. Farid’s eyes wandered from the place where he sat, looking through the grating and across the yard with the two palms at its centre. The sky was growing brighter only slowly, but now Farid could see the blackbird on top of the right-hand palm. As if it felt reassured now that it could see the sun from its high perch, it sang one last time and flew away.

  Farid was freezing to the core. He had a numb sensation in his limbs, but his head was clear; the dazed sensation had gone away. Very slowly he rose to his feet to go to the grating and get more fresh air. After a while he heard moans in the far corner of the hut, where Basil was penetrating his lover Fahmi’s backside. As usual, Fahmi was begging his passionate lover to be quiet and not pinch him so hard.

  Farid closed his eyes. The cold breeze felt pleasantly cool on his hot face. He breathed in and out deeply, as the doctor had once recommended, because at such moments the brain needs plenty of oxygen. In the middle of his third or fourth breath he heard the voice again. Ever since childhood, he had experienced it after every fit of unconsciousness: a clear, cold voice speaking to him. As a child he had thought he was hearing a real person, but as the years passed he knew that the voice was inside him.

  A successor to the dismissed commandant would be coming today and would destroy the camp, said the voice. Trembling all over, Farid decided to say nothing to the other prisoners. He didn’t want to crush their reviving hopes.

  For the first time in over a decade, he thought back to his years at the monastery of St. Sebastian. Above all, he thought of Brother Gabriel, who like Farid himself had suffered from epilepsy, and after an epileptic fit had prophetic knowledge of events that sometimes didn’t come true until several years later.

  “Epilepsy,” Brother Gabriel had said at the time, “cleanses the mind of all the layers of civilization that have accumulated over it for ten thousand years. For a few seconds the brain is naked and innocent as a newborn child. In those seconds it is at one with God, and that’s where the knowledge come from. It’s a kind of knowledge that animals and babies have too, and we can’t explain it. But neither the babies nor the animals can tell us what they’ve experienced. If an adult ever comes by that knowledge again he’s a prophet. And all prophets have been epileptics.”

  269. Mahdi’s Arrival

  Shortly after the midday meal on that same day, the new camp commandant arrived. A bus drove up to the camp gates behind his inconspicuous Landrover. There were ten officers and about twenty NCOs in the bus, and another was following with civilian staff. Only the Landrover drove in through the gates; the other vehicles parked outside.

  The new commandant was not a tall man, but the way he walked showed that he was athletic. He couldn’t be older than forty. His head was handsome, although he had a bald patch, and his eyes were hidden behind reflecting sunglasses.

  He stationed himself in front of the palm on the left, just where the previous commandant always liked to stand, but unlike Garasi the new man wore civilian clothes. He was talking almost cheerfully to three civilians who seemed to be his subordinates. His voice was quiet, so quiet that even though the prisoners kept absolutely still they could hardly make anything out.

  The soldiers quickly formed up under the orders of the new officers. Soon after that some of them stormed into the administration building and the barracks. The rest of them surrounded the camp.

  Apparently the men had precise instructions, for a little later screams were heard, and the prisoners, eyes wide with shock, saw the former officers and NCOs being driven out of various buildings under the blows of their own men.

  After that the entire Mafia leadership, including Dr. Maqdisi, was brought out of the hospital, bamboo canes wielded by the secret service men whipped down on them, and they were sent to join the disgraced officers and NCOs. Over eighty men now stood there, paralysed, held at bay in the yard by only ten civilians.

  They were wailing like bereaved widows. What a humiliation, in front of all the soldiers and prisoners! Finally one of the civilians raised his hand, and the wailing stopped. There was deathly silence.

  “The convicted prisoner Abdulhamid Garasi,” began the new camp commandant in a calm voice, “made a confession in front of a military tribunal to the effect that all of you, officers, NCOs, and criminals, rendered services to the dangerous elements in this camp, smuggling information, drugs, arms and books, even radio sets and cameras in for them. You have done the Fatherland more harm than the Israelis did in twenty years. All the accused army men, consequently, are discharged with immediate effect. They have quarter of an hour to pack their things and go to the gates. From there they will be taken to a prison until judgement is passed on them. The criminals will go to a special prison where they will keep quiet for ever.”

  Farid heard not a trace of anger or vengefulness in that voice as it announced the destruction of so many lives. His legs felt weak, because the commandant was doing exactly what the cold voice had prophesied to him. He sank to the ground, but held the bars of the grating with both hands.

  “Mother, oh, my dear Mother,” he heard himself whispering. He looked at the figures who had been acting so big only recently, and who now stood there small and bowed. Some fell on their knees. “Sir, have mercy on my children! I’m
guilty, but they – they can’t help it,” cried an NCO. He had been one of the few kindly ones among the brutes. His tears infected the others, and many of them began to weep, including Milhelm, the gangland big boss.

  The old guard Istanbuli pleaded hoarsely that he had nothing to do with any of it. He was here as a volunteer and hadn’t taken a lira for anything at all. He begged to be allowed to go home. He was an old man, he said.

  “An old man, yes,” replied the commandant, “but Garasi incriminated you in particular. You were the courier between Milhelm and the journalists, he said. The enemies of the Fatherland had only to take their lies to Milhelm, that scum of humanity, and you passed the reports and photos on. Congratulations! A well-organized gang. Istanbuli, the old fool whom the army has fed for forty years, collected from both Milhelm and the journalists and put those lying reports into circulation. The New York Times, Le Monde, Der Spiegel – they all printed the stories to destroy Syria’s reputation. It so happens that all those newspapers and magazines are owned by Jews. You might not believe it, Istanbuli, but we already have your contact man the journalist Hadi Almasri behind bars, and he’s told us to the dollar what sums you had from him. Think of that! And where, then, is the money?” asked the commandant, in venomously dulcet tones. “Your wife has now found the box for us. Five thousand three hundred and seventy dollars. Every dollar earned by treachery. A nice trade! Do you know what the penalty for treachery is? For proven activity as an agent for an enemy power? Do you happen to know, little uncle? No? The death penalty,” said the new commandant, not even sternly but more as if it were a joke, yet death could be tasted in his words.

  Three of the civilians kicked one of the most objectionable and hard-hearted NCOs as he crawled to the new commandant on his knees. “Sir, let me kiss your hand. I beg you for mercy, my wife is very sick, I needed money. Garasi blinded me! What poor devil can refuse a commandant who wants to share his loot?” But the new commandant remained unmoved. Only the corners of his mouth twitched with revulsion. His smooth, dark-skinned face gave nothing away.