The Dark Side of Love

by Rafik Schami

“Yes, absolutely. You’ll save me by fooling him.”

  “You’re also sure that at this moment you’re in full possession of your wits?”

  “As sure as I’m certain that your name is Matta and you’re as loyal to me as a brother. But you mustn’t give Bulos the information too obviously. He’s more suspicious than a rat. You must be cunning as a fox yourself, and then just go to the airport with Claire on 14 September.”

  “Swear to me that you’ll be in safety then. Swear by the health of your mother.”

  “Why my mother?”

  “Because as a communist you could put your hand on the Bible and swear to any lie.”

  “I swear by the health of my mother, by the light of my eyes, and by Rana’s life that you will be helping me greatly by letting Bulos know, as soon as possible, that I’m leaving the country on 14 September.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Matta, and there was a curious gleam in his eyes.

  An opportunity came along ten days before that. He had delivered an order to Bulos’s wife, who was laying in large stocks of provisions from the spice market: herbs, grain, oils, and olive oil soap. She asked him when he would be able to bring her the twenty kilos of small pickling aubergines she had ordered from the village of Qabun, and Matta replied that he’d do it this week if she liked, because he would be busy from Monday to Saturday next week working for the Mushtaks. “They’re giving a farewell party on the Saturday for their son Farid, and I’ll be transporting all they need for it with my Suzuki.”

  Bulos, hovering in the background, was attentively following this conversation. “Oh, is Farid going away?” he suddenly asked, with no idea that at that moment he was taking his first step into the fox’s trap.

  “Yes, he’s flying to Paris on Sunday, to study there,” said Matta, and waited for Bulos to ask him about the airline and the time of day. But Bulos just smiled and went back to his newspaper.

  Matta thought he had failed, but he was wrong. On Thursday 11 September, from his office, Mahdi called a colleague at the airport, and received confirmation that Farid Mushtak had booked on an Air France flight that day. Mahdi hung up and immediately rang his friend Badran.

  “Yes, good, pick him up then,” said Badran, noticing only when he had put the receiver down again that he had spoken to Mahdi Said much as he spoke to his German shepherd dog.

  296. Rana’s Revenge

  Rana had a long search before she found a second-hand dealer who would take her house contents complete. All the others wanted to buy only selected items of household goods, but after a brief look, and at the low price she was asking, Abdullah al Asmar found it an offer he couldn’t refuse. The young widow wanted to get rid of everything, even the family photographs, her late husband’s letters, his underwear, suits, uniforms, three fine pistols, and all the books. She told him the sight of these things grieved her. The second-hand dealer, a man well used to house clearances, put on a show of sympathetic understanding. “You’re telling me nothing new, madame. I lost my own first wife when I was your age. I felt I wanted to die too,” he said in a faltering voice.

  “But I want to live, you see. I want to start again, and all this junk is like lead weighing me down,” she replied, and the second-hand dealer almost laughed. Junk, she called it! Three Rolexes, two gold Omega watches, a collection of gold coins, a stamp collection, walnut-wood cupboards, damask curtains, paintings, records, four radios and three television sets, two of them still in their original packaging. They agreed on twenty thousand dollars, and the dealer was sure he had struck the bargain of his life. The showcase that contained hunting rifles from all over the world would fetch over ten thousand alone.

  A day later, on Saturday 13 September, his men cleared the house from attic to cellar. Down in the cellar there were countless jars of preserved and bottled fruit. Rana gave those away to the men. When they had finished, the dealer handed the young widow the sum on which they had agreed, and made off in a hurry.

  Rana walked around the empty house. Her footsteps echoed back from the walls. When she reached the middle of the drawing room, now illuminated like a theatrical stage by the sun, she stopped. She took the wedding photo from her purse, slowly tore it in two, and placed the half with the picture of her smiling husband in the middle of the room. She stuffed the other halfback in her purse.

  Then she closed her eyes. A cactus came into bloom in her heart, and for a second she felt its spines. She had goosebumps, and was briefly dazed. When she came back to reality she heaved a sigh of relief.

  She went to the Hotel Samiramis in the city centre and took a room there. Later she called down to reception and ordered a light supper from room service. She stood at the window for a while, with her eyes wandering over several building sites. Then she looked down at the street. Damascus has become a large village, she thought. She had never before seen so many passers by in peasant garments.

  And then, as they had agreed, she rang Farid.

  297. The Flight of the Butterflies

  He sat quietly in his parents’ bedroom. Outside, this September Sunday was as bright as summer, but the curtains dimmed the light. Farid was watching his father, who had fallen asleep. He looked shrunken, very small as he lay there, breathing peacefully.

  Suddenly, as if waking abruptly from a nightmare, he sat up. “Farid,” he said, seeing his son.

  “Yes, it’s me, Father.”

  “Have I been asleep for long?”

  “Mother says you need to get plenty of sleep because the medicaments make you tired,” he said. Elias folded his hands in his lap and lowered his gaze.

  “So you’re flying today?” he asked.

  “Officially, yes, but for you and Mama I’m really flying tomorrow at thirteen hours from Beirut.”

  “And you have someone to get you over the border?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” replied Farid, glancing at his watch. It was just before three in the afternoon. “I must be off,” he said, standing up.

  “God bless you wherever you go. I may never see you again,” said Elias, fighting back tears.

  “Yes, you will, Papa. I won’t be far away. A three-hour flight and you’ll be with me. Our world is so small now, but that man Shahin would never leave me in peace here,” he replied, hugging his father.

  Years later, he was still asking himself why he hadn’t kissed Elias then. He couldn’t find the answer.

  Outside the courtyard Laila, Josef, Matta and his wife Faride were sitting with Claire, who was trying to smile through her tears.

  Farid embraced his mother. “You and your Elias must come and see me soon. It would be a good trip for lovers to make.”

  “I’ll be there very soon,” everyone heard Elias call. Claire laughed. Farid kissed her, and shed tears himself.

  “We’ll give you a hug at the airport,” said Josef. “I’ll be driving straight there from home, with my wife.”

  “Let me embrace you now. Who knows, we may not have time there,” replied Farid, holding him close. Josef laughed to hide his awkwardness.

  Laila sniffed tearfully. “I’ll think of you even at the last moment of my life,” she whispered in his ear, and kissed him on the lips.

  “Leave a little of him for Rana,” joked Claire.

  Faride too had tears in her eyes. “May God punish those who tormented you and are forcing you to leave now. I know it’s wrong, but I’m going to light a candle to Our Lady every day and ask her to make your enemy’s hands fall off.” Hatred and grief were at odds in her voice.

  The doorbell rang. The taxi was there.

  “Goodbye,” said Farid. At the door, Matta hugged him.

  “Watch out for yourself. That traitor knows now.”

  “Don’t worry. But whatever happens at the airport, stay with Claire,” said Farid, embracing his mother once again, and then he got into the taxi. Claire, Josef, Faride and Matta waved. At the corner of Straight Street, Farid waved back one last time.

  “The Hotel Samiramis,” he
told the driver.

  298. The Reckoning

  Claire, Laila, Matta and his wife reached the airport around seven in the evening. Josef was already there. He looked anxious. “Not a sign of Farid anywhere, but secret service men all over the place, a blind man could spot that,” he said. Claire smiled.

  At seven-thirty Mahdi Said, accompanied by two burly men, entered the departures hall. Matta could hardly restrain his fury. “That traitor,” he said viciously.

  At a quarter to eight, Farid Mushtak was twice called to board the plane. Bulos, alias Mahdi, was standing at the Air France desk. He signalled to two secret service men in civilian clothes. Next moment they were racing down the gangway leading to the plane. Ten minutes later they came back, and even from a distance could be seen shaking their heads.

  Suddenly Mahdi Said caught sight of Claire and Matta. He immediately sent one of his men over to them.

  “Major Mahdi would like to speak to you,” said the man. For a moment Matta felt his heart stop.

  “Tell the major that I, however, would not like to speak to him,” said Claire, “and the bird he hopes to catch here is sitting in a different aircraft on its way to Paris. It must be flying over Greece around now.” And she laughed.

  “So that was it!” cried Josef, striking his brow with the flat of his hand. Displeased, the man went back to his superior officer, who next moment called his team together and marched to the exit with them. Farid was called three more times before the Air France plane rolled on to the runway.

  “That traitor really did mean to kill Farid. And I’m absolutely sure now that he was the one who gave me away. Damn him,” swore Matta on the way back in the taxi. His little three-wheeled Suzuki scooter was still parked outside Farid’s house. It was just after nine when Claire, Matta, and Faride got out. Claire paid the driver, thanked Matta and his wife for coming with her, and waved as they rode away on Matta’s Suzuki. It was only a short ride.

  “But where are you going at this time of night?” asked Faride, when she noticed that Matta was not dismounting from the scooter. She herself was exhausted.

  “I need a little fresh air to get over Farid leaving. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be very quiet and take care not to wake you when I come in.”

  Slowly, he rode down the alleys, and then came to broad Bab Tuma Street. Less than ten minutes later he reached Marcel Karameh Street. He stopped outside Number 31, switched the engine off, and sat there for a while.

  The sultry September night lay heavy over the city. People were sleeping with their windows and balcony doors open. Matta knew that Bulos spent the night in the attic storey, apart from his wife. There was still a light on up there.

  Just before midnight it went out. Matta waited for another fifteen minutes, and then looked at the time once more. He was sure that Farid was well over the border into Lebanon by now. He quietly got out of his three-wheeled scooter and tied a large jute sack around his waist. Then, soundless as a panther, he began climbing the old ivy.

  BOOK OF LOVE VII

  Those who are loved do not die.

  BEIRUT, SEPTEMBER 1969

  299. Arrival

  Sarkis and Georgina Shammas, man and wife, entered the lobby of the Hotel Paris in East Beirut. The man at the reception desk inspected them suspiciously.

  “Do you have a double room for the night?” asked the husband.

  “Yes, sir, and all rooms have a direct view of the sea. Fifty lira a day, breakfast included,” replied the receptionist automatically.

  “D’accord.” Sarkis Shammas looked at his wife, and nodded.

  “May I see your passports, please? You’ll be aware that since the civil war in Jordan and the mass exodus of Palestinians we have to register our guests’ passports. I know it’s a nuisance, but …”

  “Here you are,” replied the guest, putting two Syrian passports down on the counter. When the hotel clerk read the names he gave them a friendly smile. “Right, I won’t be needing those any more,” he said, handing the documents back. “You’re one of us. You know – well, I can speak frankly now. It’s not just Palestinians, it’s all kinds of Muslims coming here: hungry Pakistanis, Afghans, Indonesians, God knows who else. They marry some Lebanese Muslim woman or other, and that makes them Lebanese. Then they breed like rabbits, and we Christians, the real Lebanese, get the blame for it in our own country. You’re welcome here, sir, very welcome,” reiterated the man behind the desk in friendly tones. “My cousin lives in Bab Tuma. Do you know him? François Frangi, that’s his name, are you acquainted with him?”

  “No.” The stranger’s voice sounded brittle and nipped all curiosity in the bud.

  The hotel bellboy, a thin Sudanese in a bright red uniform, came hurrying up. The two cases were heavy, and he hauled them into the first-floor room groaning quietly. When he came back downstairs he was beaming all over his face.

  “Real gentlefolks,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  “You mean more than a lira tip?” asked the clerk at reception. “Let me guess – two lira?”

  The bellboy grinned. “More than that.”

  So my nose didn’t let me down, thought the receptionist. Prosperous Christians on honeymoon, most likely. No, he must correct that assessment, very prosperous Christians. They didn’t even haggle. He would have let them have the room half-price in this slack season. And now they tipped the bellboy more than two lira. Only the super-rich Saudis handed out more.

  “Three?”

  “That’s right,” replied the Sudanese, his eyebrows shooting up as he grinned with delight.

  300. The Answer

  As soon as Georgina and Sarkis Shammas had closed the door of their room behind the bellboy, they fell on the big bed, almost fainting with desire.

  They kissed, laughed, wept for joy, and undressed each other. The woman pressed close to the man and sucked his lower lip, while he caressed her and kissed her right leg, which she had flung over his shoulder.

  And when he could delay his climax no longer, he told her he loved her. The woman felt as if liquid fire were running through her veins. “I love you too, Farid,” she said.

  When they had quenched their thirst for the first time, they lay side by side, and he licked her perspiring face.

  “I find it so hard to call you Sarkis,” she said. “Why was it so easy for you to say Georgina to me? Have you ever had a relationship with a Georgina?” And she affectionately pulled his earlobe.

  “No, nothing like that, but in the underground you get used to new names quickly.”

  “Farid and Rana are right for a love story, but Sarkis and Georgina sound to me more like saints’ names. Kyrie eleison.”

  Farid laughed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t pick and choose. As I understand it, the forger used the names of children who died in our own birth years. The only thing that mattered was for the passports to get us over the Syrian border safe and sound. I’m sure Mahdi was quick to pass my name on to all the border checkpoints. We fly at thirteen hours tomorrow. When we leave the hotel after breakfast I’ll destroy the forged passports on the way to the airport, and then we’ll be Rana and Farid again – for ever.”

  “Are we really safe at last? And now can you tell me why we’re flying to Germany and not France?”

  “Yes, dear heart, we have two places to study at Heidelberg. I’ll continue my researches into chemistry, and you can study philosophy if you want to. Claire’s cousin got us accepted. He’s a well-known Orientalist at the university. And no one will find us there. Mahdi and his secret service have known we were planning to go to France for some time. So I confirmed them in that belief, and even organized the flight. Claire gave me the money for an air ticket with Air France, and I let Mahdi know, through a good friend, when I’d be flying. The bastard will certainly have found out details from the airline, and if I know him he was at the airport in person to see me humiliated. The plane was due to take off just as we arrived in Beirut.”

  “Are you sure?”


  “That we’ve shaken him off? As good as certain. I’ll get in touch with Claire from Germany once we have nothing more to fear, and then we’ll find out all about it.”

  “My compliments! What a good thing my lover knows his way about the underground,” said Rana, embracing him. He smelled particularly delicious today. Soon she fell asleep.

  When she woke up it was already day outside. Light filtered through the slats of the shutters. Farid was breathing peacefully. He looked more handsome than ever in the dim light, and she tenderly nibbled his throat. He woke up and kissed her.

  “Am I dreaming, or is it all true?” he asked, tickling her. Only when she laughed out loud and almost fell off the bed did he stop.

  “It’s a strange thing, but I long for you even though you’re here sleeping with me,” he whispered, bending over her.

  “You’re beside me, but not at this precise moment sleeping with me,” she said mischievously. Burning with desire, she sat astride his thighs and pressed him gently down on the bed. Then she made ardent love to him, and thought of their first meeting at the Sabunis’ house. It was his first touch that had gone to her heart. Here in this comfortable bed, Rana felt it again. Every touch of his hands set off electric currents under her skin. She felt it tickling so that she was always on the point of laughter.

  Outside, the gulls swooped and cried, and a fire flared up in her, streaming through her veins. Farid trembled, and held her close.

  Rana slid off the bed, slipped her shirt on and went to the window. The clock on the tower of a nearby church struck ten. Rana flung the double window open and saw the wind crinkling the surface of the sea. The waves foamed on the stones of the breakwater. A young mother and her son were feeding the gulls with stale bread, and the birds were screaming as they fought for it. When the two sides of the window struck the wall, two pigeons flew up in alarm.

  A passenger plane was cutting through the sky at a great height, leaving a white trail behind it. It looked like the first line of chalk that Rana used to draw on the asphalt as a child to mark out the spaces of her favourite hopscotch game, “Heaven and Hell”.