Omar sits down on the bed. Too close. Khalid disguises his deep disgust at the pro-Assad rant that follows. Once an army officer who fought in the Lebanese war, Uncle Omar had not yet been polluted by cynicism and self-interest. The family loved the captain for his bravery and the way he had confronted ruthless savagery with dignity in a Lebanese prison. And today there are millions of honest people like his uncle who support the emergency laws, so long as the regime modernises the country and protects the constitution from the most radical Islamists. He understands the logic, even while, as a pro-democracy lawyer, he has defended those unfortunates caught up in the mechanisms of the system. Like their trump card… Zaida!
Pinned down by Omar’s rapacious grin he remains as still as a gecko working out an escape while gripping a branch. Abdul has to find a way out for her. How? His lawyer’s brain starts to tick again. Understand where Omar is coming from. A life deserving of respect. Transferred to intelligence missions in the Golan Heights and Palestine. Snubbed by the Alawite cadres, he resigned on health grounds. A principled man, open to reason.
‘What’s your evidence against me? From tortured people? Absurd! I’ve never condoned armed violence. Why would I risk my life helping Jihadists? I loathe them as much as you do.’
‘What did you do in Britain? You came across scoundrels in Leaford and that’s why the Military Intelligence put Walid Hadidi on your tail. You’d better be straight with me.’
Now lumbering around the room, Omar argues and shouts until Khalid admits that when working at Leaford Refugee Centre he took on two cases – their bodies mutilated from lashings and cigarette butts on the genitals.
‘Asylum seekers? Had I known it, I’d never have sent for you. Damn the day I did! Who were they?’
‘A Muslim Brother. A sheikh in charge of a madrassa. And a Kurdish Communist Party leader. Both tortured on orders from the Supreme State Security Court.’
‘Curse impartiality! That’ll be the downfall of our country!’
‘Curse you and the day I listened to Father! I should have stayed in Britain and carried on with Human Rights.’
‘They want names. And the Syrian Bar Association will disbar you once and for all!’
Omar examines the tip of a cigarette, his scar quivering, restive as he studies Khalid, who has sunk further into himself, head in hands, trapped and crushed. Omar feels a tinge of sympathy – he himself had been terrorised in a similar ambush in Lebanon. He falls silent, which helps Khalid clarify his mind.
‘Names from me? These bastards already have them! Tell them! There’s nothing new to spill even under torture. And Zaida won’t be part of a deal. I’d rather die. And if you kill us, you’ll see my father destroyed too. You’ll be a pariah. You’ll live in hell for shedding the blood of your own family. And there are no grateful sods in Syria! The villains will turn against all the Al-Sayeds… sabotage your business. Think hard. No more profit from those pipelines to Jebel Al-Akrud.’
Puffing at another Marlboro, Omar takes in the sharp-edged shadows of resilience ageing his nephew’s face. The boy is of his blood, although the split is irrevocable. And he lacks cunning. He takes his hand with affection.
‘Time to decide. Make sure you know which side you are on when I report back. I’m going.’
‘Wait. Give me two days. I beseech you, just two days. Let Walter and Abdul look after Ian and me in our rooms. We won’t run away without Zaida! Get someone to take her out to the souk, please. I don’t want her alarmed more than necessary. Remove the security from the corridor. Post them outside at a distance. Walid is enough of a guard dog.’
‘Walid saved my life. Allah is the merciful.’
They have no more to say, both knowing that there is nothing unusual about families being caught in deranged machines fed by generations of deception and brutality.
‘Nephew, let’s drink to happier times!’
On waking up a few hours later, Khalid has a splitting headache and his knee hurts more than ever. Blurry-eyed, he watches, in the glass of water on his side table, the tablet dissolving in small sputters like a dying soul. His mouth is parched. No wonder, given the amount of beer and whisky that Omar forced on him! He wills himself to get out of bed, his left leg buckling underneath his weight, invisible ants in the inflamed joint. He scratches the skin. He’d better have a long shower but he can’t be bothered to shave. An ashen figure wrapped in a long white towel looks back at him: pasty face, skin flaking on the temples, stubble sticking out of the dark mop, a few deep creases outlining the scimitar nose. He drinks another glass of water and belches at the family trait, Uncle Omar’s revolting nose.
He paces the room, leg and head throbbing with pain. He shouldn’t have brought Zaida to this fratricidal country. Virginia’s fear is being realised. He was too cocksure of the patronage of the Al-Sayeds, naïve about his own ability to resist the rot. He abhors the fortune that forces pigeons to fly with hawks.
He should pull himself together – Zaida would expect no less from her dad.
His princess must vanish. There is one way left. Get the Franklins out of Syria. All three of them. Let them take their chance up north, God willing.
He lies down. Fucking beer! His head’s burning!
Were the winds of a cruel destiny at work when he met Virginia?
He was deeply in love. And she was keen then to probe him about Syria, unlike later. Gratitude and joy welded him to her when Zaida was born, his life hooked onto theirs. Now more than ever.
He hears again the perverse taunting: ‘your daughter is a mongrel, unreliable, with no loyalty to either family.’ Mollified by alcohol, he did not take in Omar’s insult, but now he goes berserk, swearing out loud in Arabic and English as he hurls his canvas shoes at the bottles infesting the parquet floor. As these roll and crash into each other, the sound brings him back to his senses. Quiet! Zaida is asleep! On all fours he gathers the bits and pieces into a paper tissue until an invisible needle pierces the skin of his knee, making him yell and hop like a mad man again. A few minutes later, he finds himself on top of the bed, crumpled into a ball, broken.
He did not shed a single tear in front of Omar, who stayed until early morning cajoling, accusing, falling silent, wild. He didn’t do too badly, having gained time to take counsel with Abdul. And all the wheeling and dealing that goes on in his uncle’s world might open a way out in the next two days. The old fox will hesitate to nail his brother’s skin.
Abdul must sort out false passports for the Franklins. That isn’t such a crazy idea! For years, dissidents have organised a flow of people out of the country. With Allah and dollars on his side, Abdul can tap into the Kurdish networks and have papers made overnight.
Walid Hadidi is a dark horse. What rank has he? Can Abdul buy him? Yesterday night he came in greasy with dishonesty, head lowered to the ground, gloating and blackmailing with excessive politeness: ‘I saved that dirty foreigner from prison. What can you do for us in exchange?’
There is a scuffle outside. Zaida. Screaming, she scratches at the double handles of the door, unable to turn them. There is a youth in uniform on her heels. Furious, the guard pulls her away, shouting insults as she kicks at him. Orders are orders. She must stay in her room like everyone on this floor. Khalid murmurs a few apologies while handing over five thousand Syrian pounds. The door slams closed. Still dressed in her pyjamas, his baby breaks down onto the carpet, crushing her ragged dolly into her mouth, whining, ‘Daddy, when am I going back home?’
– 19 –
The Deal
The next day, Walter creeps out of his bedroom to appraise the guard standing at Ian’s door, who glances back at him with more interest than hostility. Short. In his fifties. Pot-bellied. Scruffy in spite of the uniform. Bored with the job. All good signs. Walter makes his move, quick as a thief. A finger on his lips, he drops a few banknotes into the man’s hand before slipping into Ian’
s room.
They puzzle over an early morning note from Abdul. It is strictly forbidden to use hotel phones, outside phones and the internet since they are under “official security surveillance”. Ian and Khalid remain confined to their rooms. Walter and Zaida can walk in and out as long as they stay inside the hotel and speak with nobody. Zaida will be taken out sightseeing by reliable people. “Don’t make a wrong move now. Have trust in Allah. I hope to get your papers by tonight.”
‘Maybe I’d no need to tip the guard, son. They’ve relaxed. That’s progress!’
‘Poppycock! That note was dictated to Abdul. It’s a cat-and-mouse game. To sap our nerves. They’re bloody good at that.’
He throws himself back onto the bed where he lies prostrate until Walter insists on giving him an emergency treatment to sedate his nerves. It’s futile, but it will please the old man.
Zaida is led out of Hotel Al-Rais by three females wrapped in flowing abayas and escorted by a bearded security guard wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans – all muscle. They have come to take her out for another round of sites and shops, a nice gesture from Uncle Omar. The charming cousins are overjoyed, so they claim, by the opportunity to practise their English on their young relative, who follows them, grudgingly aware that she has no other option but to play their game. She’s the bait! That’s the ploy! Why the gun? She won’t talk to them. The tallest says she will get her favourite ice-cream at the Bab Antakya stall. ‘Lemon, isn’t it?’ How does that woman know? She coughs it up with her breakfast and the whole thing splashes onto the orange and green gown, who stops smiling. ‘You dirty girl!’ It serves her right. Seeing the vile women shuddering in revulsion while cleaning up, Zaida bursts into a hopeless run, a rabbit blinded by terror. She is caught by the guard, who slaps the sobbing girl round the ears before dragging her back to the hotel. The Aleppian cousins have slipped away.
After the evening prayer, Walid enters Hotel Al-Rais’s courtyard through a low panelled door reserved for staff which opens directly into the souk. With apprehension, Walter watches him slipping past French, German and Russian tourists packing the reception hall after fairy tale trips to the past – Xenobia’s Palmyra and Roman Apamea serving as antidotes to the reality of Gaza, Bagdad, Hama, Kabul – so Walter tells himself. Being a forced recluse has taken the gloss off the tourist trail.
‘Allah is the merciful! Look! What have we here, Sir?’ Walid Hadidi, in a khaki uniform, taps the older man’s shoulder.
‘Christ! You speak English! What’s up?’
The scruffy servile look has gone. The officer does not deign to answer as he waves one British passport. Not Zaida’s. Not Ian’s. Walter feels faint while flipping through his to check the exit visa has not been cancelled. It has been extended by a fortnight. He can stay or go. Do as he wishes. How very kind.
‘What about Zaida’s papers? Ian’s? And our phones?’ He hisses, unwilling to attract the attention of a group admiring the mosaics around the central fountain – tourists oblivious of the prisons behind the décor. Bitter.
Walid beams back at him. ‘You are free to leave or stay longer with your son. The girl’s papers are being looked after by her grandfather. Tell your country Syria is a good country.’
Walter secures the passport in a breast pocket, making sure it cannot fall out while giving Walid a long icy look, refusing to thank the man. People at home are never that corrupt, except for MPs. How much has the tosser put into his own pockets when getting this thing back?
6am the next day.
‘Allow me to come in.’
‘Checking on me already?’
Fully dressed, Walter is sitting on a low couch, trying to fathom the next few hours from the view etched by half-closed curtains: an enigma of buzzing lanes, covered streets and rooftop terraces sprawling to the towering defences of the Mameluk citadel; a baffling array of churches and mosques impervious to the agonies below.
Abdul has come to take his pulse, which he has done two or three times since Walter’s malaise, but never so early. In the faint light seeping through, Walter appraises the sombre-looking visitor. Overcast. The aristocratic features have taken on an unhealthy bluish hue, the eyes are bloodshot, his breath foul. God, don’t let Abdul collapse too.
‘Let me check your pulses and pay back your kindness.’
They buy time playing at doctors until Abdul squeezes Walter’s hands with obvious affection. ‘There’s no need to tell you what you need for your heart … Rest, and more rest.’
‘How, when our children are under house arrest? And what about our princess? Why, oh why did Ian come back? Virginia and Khalid should never, never have got together.’
‘La la, my brother, you’re wrong. It’s not the children but our countries that have let us down. Didn’t I tell you Khalid can’t get an entry visa from Britain anymore? Even if he could leave Syria legally. Since the War on Terror. Blacklisted as a lawyer defending Muslims!’
‘I can’t get my head round it all. Our little girl is a pawn! That’s indecent!’
‘With trials like this, my friend, I also feel guilty. I put pressure on Khalid to work for us in Syria. I tell myself Allahu akbar, Allah is the greatest. I pray he is showing us a way.’
They lock onto each other’s eyes – old men’s eyes; reddish, watery and puffy with impotence, but also proud of their boys. A long stare until Walter shuffles along the couch to make room for Abdul. Each sees the other as self-blaming; neither is ready to engage openly with the unspoken.
They have become brothers scheming in the hope that orange trees grow out of tears. Secretly comforted by the other’s affliction, they sit in agony while pretending to be absorbed by the ramparts sketched out against the steely sky. Both urged their sons to return home while imposing the same historic burden – that imperative demand of kin that crushes individual destinies; Mafioso fathers taking blood from ill-fated generations.
‘Zaida should leave with you and Ian tomorrow. You will have plenty of rest – I mean, soon, in Britain.’
At sixes and sevens, Walter makes a huge effort not to scream at this man, his only friend who is making no sense.
‘What? So soon? Do you have her passport back?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got a solid contact. He’s getting the papers ready. For everyone.’
In the midst of crisis, however dangerous, Abdul never departs from his patrician bedside manners. ‘Listen. Because of our political convictions, we’ve prepared ourselves, knowing we might have to leave quickly with false papers. We see no other way. If we can get you three out of the country, they can’t blackmail Khalid with the same force.’
‘I see. I see! With Zaida here, they’ve got him by the balls!’ Walter exults for a split second.
‘With her safe, Khalid has a better chance to leave the country.’
‘Why doesn’t he try to escape with us?’
‘We’ll create a diversion. They’ll look for four people. That ought to fool them for a while. And give Khalid the night to be driven to Lebanon or Jordan. A short journey. With professional smugglers.’
‘Trustworthy?’
Abdul lowers his head, as ever eloquent with his silence. Walter is unable to find the right words. How can he ever apologise enough for the trivial suspicions that have led to this tragic trip?
‘We’ll travel by coach up north. Not by car and not to the nearest frontier, Lebanon. That’s what they’ll expect us to do. We’ll go to the Turkish frontier, beyond Qamishli, a Kurdish town. We’ll travel in the same coach but separately, my ailing deaf and mute granddaughter wrapped in a cloak. You and Ian will be sitting alone as ordinary tourists in the front. Strike up a conversation with me, a complete stranger, when the coach comes to a stop. You’re on the way to Ras Al-Ain because you are interested in the excavation of the tells, you know, the artificial mounts dotting the Jezira.’
‘The Mesopotamian
settlements? How ironic! I fancied visiting the area since I saw the giant statues in the Aleppo museum. We’ll be alright. How long is the trip, do you reckon?’
‘Six hours. Seven. It’s the longest route to Turkey. With tolls and roadblocks. There are tensions in the North-East region at the moment.’
‘That’s bad!’
‘Not really. The militia has enough on their hands searching coaches for Jabhat Al-Nusra fighters, Iraqi refugees and armed Kurds. Not an old man with a sick child. Or an elderly tourist feeling nauseous because of the bumpy drive. Your son is concerned about you. Play up the father-son bit, any Syrian likes that – even the police.’
‘But why this way out of the country?’
‘It’s a region where the regime’s control over transport is not that tight. With a bit of luck, once we are safe in Qamishli, Allah be praised, we’ll rest with a family working for us. The frontier is just one kilometre away.’
‘What people? How come you trust them?’
‘The old man is my brother; his mother was my wet nurse. You see how far back we’ve been together! Their sons work for the Democratic Union Party and Khalid has helped them more than once. There’s one danger – armed men setting up roadblocks, that happens now and then – but… money goes a long way. That’s better than choosing more obvious routes.’
Abdul’s look of absolute calm unbalances Walter. How can anyone who has never pulled any strings understand even 10 percent of what is going on? At the end of the road, how many thousands of Syrian pounds will he owe the Al-Sayeds? Someday, he’ll try and repay them in dollars.
‘We’ve talked to the son. They’ve decided to smuggle the three of you across the border late in the night.’
‘You don’t mean… smuggle! Why won’t we be showing our papers and going through when we arrive? Why waste time?’
‘The frontier is open from nine to three, when they close the barriers. We’ll arrive at nightfall. You all wait for the following day and try one of the two guards with your papers. Or much better, they go off for a piss or a cigarette – that can be arranged. Long enough for the 500m walk to Nursaybin. If that doesn’t happen, my people will give you a donkey ride over the mountain pass.’
Homecomings Page 19