by Ghada Samman
She was trembling with rage. Should I go get the paper and tell him politely that my father is sick and I have to get straight back home? Should I go by the old Syrian adage: “If you can’t beat ‘em, kiss their hands and pray down curses on their heads”? There’s no way in hell I’m going to join that bastard’s team or try to get on his good side. And even though it probably won’t work, I’ll try to bring the curse down on him myself.
Zain called her poet acquaintance Alwan and said, “Can you meet me tonight at Al Rawda Café?”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, it’s no joke. Let’s meet there at 9:30 p.m. for a bowl of kishk al-fuqara, mihlaya, or rice pudding.”
“My treat,” she added.
Laughing, he said, “I’m sure this isn’t about feeding me or listening to my latest poem! So what’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
She spent the rest of the day polishing the story she was reading at the Sukaina Literary Forum. I’m tempted to forge the date on the travel permit Nahi started to write me that day and use it to get out of here right now. He wants to close in on my mind and snap it shut like a trap. But I can’t let Professor Thurayya down. She was a good friend of my mom’s, and she’s already sent out the invitations. I’ve got to chill out.
At nine-twenty that evening, Zain sat waiting for Alwan at Al Rawda Café. From the time I was a little girl, my dad taught me to be prompt. So what’s wrong with this guy? Didn’t his parents teach him to be on time? I swear, I always get to places at least half an hour before the other person shows up! And they all have the same excuse: traffic!
When Alwan finally showed up, they were approached by Kamel, a witty poet who assailed them with a barrage of admiring chatter. He announced that he’d come from his village to celebrate the victory of the ruling party.
“Why don’t you join our party?” he asked Zain. “The girl comrades aren’t pretty like you!”
“So what are you looking for?” Zain replied acerbically, “A comrade, or a concubine?”
Still in celebration mode, he replied, “This is the age of the ‘minor prophets.’ That’s the name I invented for the party leaders. Don’t you think it fits?”
“Well, there are ‘minor prophets’ and there are the ‘minor demons,’ too.”
“Nothing’s good enough for you liberals!” he retorted. “I’m going to go celebrate at another table!” And he walked off.
“Why were you so hostile to Comrade Kamel?” Alwan wanted to know.
“Because I’ve had it,” she said. “I’m fightin’ mad. I need to get to Lebanon, and your ‘comrade’ Nahi wants me to go to his office at ten o’clock tonight—that’s right, tonight—so that he can give me ‘a travel permit’ to Beirut.”
“You’re kidding.”
“People are starting to talk about the way he and others like him act, and how repressive they are. They threw Lieutenant Baher, the poet Amer’s brother from a village near Banyas, into jail for being a unionist and for opposing your party’s monopoly on power.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s in Mezzeh Prison now. I found out from a Palestinian cousin of mine, who wants to go to Beirut to put out a new magazine there with a writer by the name of Ghazwan Ayed, and who’s under pressure from Nahi’s henchmen to write reports for the secret police.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And there’s talk around town about his dirty business deals. His partners buy up expired medications, change the date on them and resell them. They’ve even done it with children’s vaccines.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“The party leaders get journalists—and poets, too, of course— to glorify them and the ‘one and only party,’ which makes them all the more self-righteous and dishonest. They only see one side of things, and they’ve got delusions of grandeur. Haven’t you read the last poem by your friend Kamel about the so-called ‘minor prophets’? People who portray the party leadership as though they were mouthpieces for the Almighty aren’t helping the revolution—they’re hurting it. They encourage people like Nahi to think they’re God’s gift to humanity. So they turn into petty tyrants who make decisions without listening to anybody but themselves.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All people talk about these days is the way they’re gradually clamping down on all our freedoms, squandering public funds, and getting more and more corrupt.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We’ve got to fight this corruption now, before the worms eat the fruit off the vine.”
“…”
Contemplating Alwan’s ancient sandals and his threadbare shirt, Zain went on, “I know you’re broke, and clean as a whistle, and when I’m with you I never feel there’s a trap ready to snap shut on me with every step I take and every word I say. You’re not like Lieutenant Nahi…”
After a pause, Zain went on, her tone caustic, “He’s just a bastard who tries to exploit his position for sexual favors, bribes, revenge, personal advantage, you name it. Whatever satisfies his ego, no matter how sleazy it is. And that’s just part of it! As far as he’s concerned, Socialism is just a way of replacing a wealthy class with a bankrupt class that goes on doing the same things with the help of its corrupt elements while ordinary Syrians slave away for every penny they make and dream of having enough to eat and being able to educate their children.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I’ve thought of reporting Nahi to his immediate superiors, but I’m afraid they might be in cahoots with him, or at least too scared to speak up, since Nahi’s known for being a bully. He wouldn’t think twice about following in the footsteps of the Red Sultan9 and dissolving his enemy in a barrel of acid.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“All right, then. If you don’t believe me, come and see for yourself whether I’m lying, or whether Nahi’s been waiting for me for the last ten minutes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He might talk about revolution, but all he cares about is riches.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Having people like him in charge is downright dangerous. Instead we need democratic, pluralist institutions.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, then, damn it, come with me and see what happens, and then decide whether you believe it or not!”
Zain got up and, trancelike, Alwan rose and followed her out. As they left, the waiter shot them a bewildered look. They hadn’t paid the slightest attention to him from the time they arrived, they hadn’t ordered a thing, and they hadn’t even engrossed themselves in romantic conversation. I’m a boulder on Mt. Qasioun. Nahi can’t scare me, and I’m not going to kiss his… I’ll expose him instead. Then whatever happens, happens. Yes, I’m divorced, and that’s counted against me in this society. But who doesn’t have a skeleton in their closet? At least I show my faults openly. What people see is what they get. Neither of them said a word as she sped down the road. I’m a stupid idiot! How can I think of doing this when I know how much power this man has? But no. I’m not stupid. I’m a boulder on Mt. Qasioun. Don’t be afraid, Zain. No… I’m not afraid.
Zain parked in front of the Intelligence Bureau. No lights were on. Even so, she got out of the car. Not wanting to believe any of what Zain had told him, Alwan said, “See? The place is closed.”
Without a word, she gestured for him to follow her.
They approached the entrance. Zain nudged the door with her finger, and it opened. She headed down the dimly lit corridor toward Lieutenant Nahi’s office. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of what appeared to be happening, Alwan was lagging, his legs barely holding him up. When Nahi’s assistant saw Zain approaching, he asked her no questions, but simply greeted her with a nod as though he’d been expecting her. No sooner had she entered Lieutenant Nahi’s office than he wrapped her in an excited embrace, saying, “I knew you’d come! You’d die to get t
his travel permit, wouldn’t you?”
He laughed as she grabbed the permit out of his hand and struggled to free herself from his grip. Just then an incredulous Alwan appeared in the doorway shouting, “No, comrade! No!” He lunged at Nahi and managed to get him away from Zain, who took off running, permit in hand, fled the building, and drove off in a panic, leaving the two men engrossed in a debate on ideology!
* * *
“What kept you out so late?” her father asked, his tone warm but anxious.
“Sorry, Baba,” she replied. “I should have called you, but I didn’t want to bother you with the details of my day—it was a rough one.”
After escaping the Intelligence Bureau, its corridors ringing hideously with the agonized moans coming from its underground cells, Zain had taken off like mad for the square at the foot of Mt. Qasioun. As she went, she alternately hooted and breathed in as deeply as she could. She opened her car windows and screeched at the top of her lungs like an owl whose wings are being clipped, “I might be bloodied by my sorrows and drenched in ink, but I’ll keep on flying and singing: freedom, freedom, freedom!”
The phone didn’t ring long at the Sukaina Literary Forum before it was answered by Professor Thurayya, who doubled, tripled and quadrupled as the Forum’s owner, secretary, switchboard operator, and décor engineer.
The caller, who introduced himself as an assistant to Lieutenant Nahi at the Intelligence Bureau, said he’d seen an invitation in a local newspaper to a joint presentation that night by well-known attorney Amjad Khayyal and his daughter Zain.
“Oh, yes!” Professor Thurayya broke in excitedly. “It’s an open invitation, and we’d be delighted to see you there, as well as Lieutenant Nahi and anyone else you’d like to bring along!”
As if he hadn’t heard what she said, the speaker added stiffly, “I believe you’ll have to cancel tonight’s event. Zain is a German intelligence agent.”
“Now listen here!” Professor Thurayya shouted into the receiver, “I don’t put up with these sorts of rude pranks! Don’t you have anything better to do than spread ugly lies about people? Or did that sheikh of yours who declared open season on Zain put you up to this?”
Then she slammed the receiver down. Little did she know that the hateful prankster she’d just hung up on was Lieutenant Nahi himself!
* * *
After the evening’s event, which had been extremely well attended, Professor Thurayya relaxed into her chair. I’m exhausted, but I’ll sleep well tonight. The forum was packed just the way I’d suspected it would be. It’s the biggest crowd I’ve ever had! It’s a good thing we arranged for extra seating in the two rooms off the lecture hall. It was standing room only! We had journalists, intellectuals, professors from Syrian Universities, colleagues of Dr. Amjad’s, trainees from his law office, curious onlookers, some spongers, and even some people who came not because they like the presenters, but because they don’t like them! I commented to Zain as she was leaving that her success had started getting a rise out of some people. I told her some prattler had called me this afternoon claiming to represent Lieutenant Nahi at the Intelligence Bureau and telling me he wanted me to cancel the event. I’d expected her to laugh when I told her about it, but instead she got a worried look on her face. Maybe she was just tired from reading that sad story of hers. I must have misinterpreted her reaction…
* * *
As Zain drove home with her father next to her, it consoled her to see how happy he was over the evening’s success. I was feeling good about the way things had gone this evening when, on my way out, Professor Thurayya jokingly mentioned some troublemaker who’d called her this morning. Claiming to be Nahi’s assistant, he’d told her to cancel tonight’s event, and she hung up on him, assuming it was a sick joke! She doesn’t realize it’s no joke at all! Nahi’s wasting no time getting his revenge. It’s no small thing to be accused of spying for West Germany. Trumping up charges against people is one of his specialties, it seems. We freed ourselves of the French mandate, and I have no intention of letting national rule turn into a mandate for some local tyrant! I’ll resist him with all I’ve got. I’ll go on exposing him and others like them for what they really are. I’m a boulder on Mt. Qasioun, and I can’t be moved.
For his part, Zain’s father was happily reliving every moment of the wonderful evening. Imagine. My own daughter has become a recognized author like May Ziade. But instead of them driving her crazy, she’ll be the one to drive them crazy!10 I robbed her mother of the chance to meet people even in public forums, and I feel as though I’ve finally repaid my debt to her. My main concern now is to protect Zain’s future rather than crying over my past.
Breaking the silence at last, Zain said, “I learned something important from you today on the subject of successful lecturing, namely, to start by getting people to laugh. I loved the joke you cracked at the beginning about how you were going to give your lecture before I read my story, since if I’d read my story first, everybody would have left before you got to say anything!”
This compliment from his daughter made him all the happier. What he didn’t realize, of course, was that even though her words were sincere, they were also an attempt through light-hearted banter to conceal her deepening anxiety over Nahi’s reprehensible, and dangerous, accusation.
* * *
The telephone rang at Al Ta`ah newspaper’s office. It was answered by its editor-in-chief, its sole editor-at-large, and the head of its ads section. Of these three positions, it was the third that he took the most seriously.
“Hello,” said the caller. “I’m the assistant to Lieutenant Nahi at the Intelligence Bureau.”
“Oh, hello! It’s always good to hear from you over there!”
“We see you published an illustrated report yesterday on Zain Khayyal, who fancies herself an author.”
“That’s right. I thought she looked pretty hot in the photos, so I included them to give the report some extrapizzazz.”
“Well,” the caller went on, “that hot divorcee happens to be spying on our country for West Germany. So you’d better not publish anything complimentary about her from now on.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that. Our apologies! So then, would you like us to run an article critical of her?”
“It would serve her right.”
“Of course, of course.”
“We’ll be inviting bids to sell intelligence staff uniforms and winter boots, and we want to run a full-page ad in your newspaper.”
“It would be our pleasure, sir.”
“I hear you and your brother do business in this area.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well, then, consider the bid yours, and start making the necessary preparations.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to the matter myself.”
“I’ll be most grateful.”
“A literary critic I know is studying Miss Khayyal’s first book. This girl’s nothing but a bourgeois radical, and an ideological critique will expose her for what she really is. She’ll accuse us of being Zhdanovists,11 but nobody will be willing to publish that kind of nonsense for her.”
* * *
The phone rang for a long time at the Al Intisar newspaper. Its owner, Mr. Wadee, didn’t answer it. He was engrossed in editing the newspaper’s political pages, which he needed to go over word for word before they went to press early the next morning.
Mihyu, editor of the cultural page, came in to Mr. Wadee’s office and announced that the assistant to Lieutenant Nahi had called objecting to Zain Khayyal’s column and demanding that they pull it because, as he had said, Zain was “a West German intelligence operative.” Mr. Wadee was about to burst out laughing at the sheer inanity of the accusation when Mihyu added, “He’s still on the line, and he wants to talk to you.”
Grudgingly lifting the receiver, Mr. Wadee uttered a gruff-sounding, “Yes?”
Putting on his best show of phony gentility, Nahi
began, “Good morning, dear sir! I’m the assistant to Lieutenant Nahi at the Intelligence Bureau. I was just telling your cultural editor that it would be better for you not to publish any more articles by Zain Khayyal.”
“And why not?” shot back Wadee, his voice sharp and defiant.
“Because she’s been accused of spying for West Germany.”
Laughing out loud, Mr. Wadee said, “What is this? Some kind of April Fool’s?”
“I’m dead serious,” replied the voice darkly. “A travel ban was issued today against Miss Khayyal, with orders to intercept her at the border and bring her in for interrogation.”
“Anyone accused of a crime is innocent till proven guilty in a court of law,” Wadee objected. “So until she’s convicted of some wrongdoing, I’ll go on publishing what she writes.”
Mr. Wadee didn’t realize, of course, that his interlocutor was Nahi himself. As for Nahi, who wasn’t accustomed to having his wishes questioned, he barked, “Don’t publish anything she writes. And that’s that.”
His fuse lit now, Wadee shouted, “The name of my newspaper is Al Intisar—The Defense—and that’s what it’s about: defending against repression and people who prey on people’s freedom of speech. So I’m going to go on publishing Zain Khayyal’s literary column. And if I receive a piece expressing an opposing point of view, I’ll publish it alongside hers. Beyond that, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
The call ended as Nahi slammed the receiver down.
Mr. Wadee called Mihyu into his office and asked, “What’s the title of the last article Zain sent in?”
“It’s called, ‘Women Were Born Free.’”
“Run it on the front page tomorrow.”
The following night a reply to Zain’s article was deposited in an envelope at the newspaper office door. It was typewritten, and the author’s name was masculine and appeared to be a pseudonym. “Run it tomorrow,” Mr. Wadee instructed Mihyu.
Zain had a response ready the following day entitled, to Wadee’s delight, “Men Should Demand Liberation, Too.” Mr. Wadee was gratified to see this duel of ideas and opinions, which was just the thing his newspaper was all about.