Faris never returned to the subject. Samia tried to be composed in her treatment of Butros, who was being extremely charming to her. But the doubt that Faris had sown in her mind kept returning. Suppose her son Butros really had ordered her daughter's murder? It was at night most of all that she felt abhorrence for him: a peasant ready to sacrifice a life to win mastery over a dunghill. She discovered that even after decades in Mala she was still a city woman at heart.
One cold day in late February 1951, Amira went to Mala with her husband and young First Lieutenant Shukri, to visit Butros. Faris was able to overhear their conversation from a bedroom above the drawing room of his brother's apartment. He discovered that Samuel
was to come out of jail on 10 April, and a party would be held for him. Amira was going to invite her brothers Butros and Bulos. Their mother refused to see Amira and her husband.
Amira praised First Lieutenant Shukri who, she said, had done so much to ease Samuel's time in prison, and Butros gave the man handsome presents of wine, honey, and pistachios. From his hiding place, Faris could also see Amira coming out on the balcony with the officer several times to show him the view of the village, while her husband talked to Butros and his wife.
When the visitors went back to Damascus, Faris hurried off to see his mother. “Butros is going to take his finest horse to Damascus on April the 10th, as a present for Samuel when he comes out of prison,” he told her, his voice as quiet as ever.
Samia pretended to take it calmly. “Why, he wouldn't even give his wife that horse!” she said, laughing. But her laughter was full of uncertainty, and matters turned out worse than she had expected. Butros led the horse out to his horse box and drove him to Damascus on 9 April. He planned to be at the prison gates with the horse early next morning. From her window, Samia watched him leave. His wife and two children sat in the Chevrolet, which also belonged to Butros, with Bulos and Bulos's wife.
The brothers hadn't even said goodbye to their mother. They were slipping away like thieves in the night to celebrate a murderer's release, thought Samia, and Faris encouraged her. She considered Bulos far too stupid to take any responsibility for what had happened, and his morale had snapped anyway from the grief of childlessness. At first it had been thought that his wife was infertile, but then the doctors found out that he was the one who couldn't father a child. Since then his wife had humiliated him day and night for the injustice he had done her.
“Butros and no one else is responsible for letting everyone know that Jasmin had gone astray,” said Faris after supper. “We ought to have listened to Basil and hushed the scandal up, the way those damn Mushtaks always do.”
For the first time Samia felt something akin to hatred for her own son Butros.
“You are right,” she agreed. She felt that she herself was partly to blame for her beloved daughter's death, because she had hesitated to forgive her for so long. She hated Butros and Samuel because the murder had humiliated her too, and she lay awake all night, brooding. She imagined the riotous feasting in Damascus. When she fell asleep at last the revellers in her dream were still celebrating, but they were sitting around a large table, cutting up Jasmin and greedily devouring her flesh.
On the third morning she summoned Fahmi, her most faithful manservant. He had been ten when his parents died and he joined the Shahin household. Fahmi had always served Jusuf obediently, but it was Samia whom he idolized. And he was the only one of the servants to have worn black since Jasmin's murder.
“I want you to go straight to that bastard Salman Mushtak and tell him that in four days' time Butros will be getting delivery of a large consignment of guns and over sixty mule-loads of hashish from the Lebanon.”
“Oh, madame!” cried the alarmed Fahmi, taking her hand and kissing it with the humility of a slave begging to be released from the performance of an unwelcome task.
“Fahmi, Butros gave the order to have my daughter killed. When he did that, he struck me to the heart. It was attempted murder of me too, and do you know what God says about that?”
Fahmi did not reply, because he too knew that Butros had encouraged young Samuel. But he had hoped and prayed that his mistress wouldn't find out. Now he was horrified to discover that she knew.
“Madame, I can't turn against the hand that feeds me ⦔
“Fahmi, you will do as I tell you. And if that son of a whore Salman asks why you come to him of all people, you'll say you want revenge because Butros makes your wife Salma sleep with him once a week, and you found out about it only today.”
Fahmi went red with anger and stormed out of his mistress's room. A little later Samia heard the sound of blows and Salma's pleading, and then there was silence. Fahmi rode off on a brown mule, going down to the village square.
Salman disliked double-dealers, but at his faithful servant Basil's
urging he listened to Fahmi. He asked him the very question that Samia had predicted. When Fahmi refused the money Mushtak offered him for his information, and said he wanted to avenge his honour, Salman finally believed what he said.
That evening, Butros came back from Damascus. He was going to act the hypocrite and call on his mother. But she cursed him as a Judas and wished death to him and his wife. Butros wasn't about to take this lying down. He replied to her in kind, saying it was his mother's fault that his sister had become a whore, that he was proud of encouraging Samuel to do his heroic deed. She had better retire from public view, he said, and then she could live on his charity, but if she insulted him, the head of the clan, he would throw her out.
His mother did not reply, but went to her room and wept all night. She cursed Jusuf for dying prematurely and leaving her alone.
A week later Salman Mushtak made a phone call to Damascus. That was after his faithful servant Basil had confirmed that columns of mules had been delivering their loads to the Shahins for several nights running, and then went back in the direction of Lebanon as day dawned.
Next morning not only was the whole of his arch-enemies' large property surrounded, the entire village was sealed off by policemen and armoured cars. Evidently armed resistance was expected. There was no way out. Butros was trapped.
Bringing that police force to bear had been worth while. A large store of smuggled goods was found at the Shahins' house. The customs officials couldn't believe their eyes when here, in a small mountain village, they found enough ultra-modern weapons for an army. Several trucks were needed to take away all the machine guns, pistols and hand grenades, not to mention the explosives and ammunition. Another two trucks were loaded up with hashish.
Butros was devastated. He, the leader of his clan, was humiliated in the village square and taken away in handcuffs like a common criminal. His brother Basil, Rana's father, although Butros had had time to alert him, wasn't even allowed into the family home. The lawyer stood on the other side of the police barrier, like everyone else in the village, watching the arrest.
When he saw his brother coming out of the house barefoot, in his pyjamas, and being knocked about by one of the soldiers, he boiled with rage. He turned to the officer commanding the troop. “Captain, is this any way to treat distinguished citizens?” he asked, forcing himself to sound courteous and almost pleading.
The officer looked at him with watery eyes. “No,” he said, “but that's no citizen, that's a criminal who was planning to overthrow the government with his weapons.”
“I really don't believe it. There must be some mistake. I know the man, and he's a patriot,” said Basil, trying to sow doubt in the officer's mind, but the seed fell on stony ground.
“You call that son of a whore a patriot?” replied the captain indignantly. “I wouldn't proclaim your friendship with him so loud if I were you. Those who mingle with pigs will soon smell of the sty.” Then he climbed into his jeep and left the dazed Basil standing there, very correct in his collar and tie.
Salman was watching the scene from his balcony, visibly enjoying his view of events in the village square. He drank his tea, slurping out loud, and now and then he whispered, “What a shame you're not here to see this, Father.”
That morning he felt he was in the forecourt of Paradise. But he was mistaken in the extent of his rejoicing, for the new head of the house of Shahin was Faris. Equipped with his own high intelligence and his mother's blessing, he intended to make his clan absolute rulers of Mala at long last. Faris abhorred bloodshed, so he had no designs on Salman's life. He wanted to ruin him utterly, and then wish him long life and health.
47. Shaklan's Birthday Party
Torrential rain fell all through December and January. There was no frost that winter, there were no storms. The people thanked God, because rain in this dry country meant rich harvests and green steppes for the flocks of sheep to graze, and this piece of good fortune
was ascribed to God's approval of the new Syrian head of state, the devout Colonel Shaklan, who had seized power for the second time at the end of November. This time he didn't intend to go back to his barracks. A year earlier he had led a first successful coup, and then he gave the civilians their chance, but they changed the government five times in eleven months without rescuing the country from chaos.
Shaklan intended to organize Syria with strict military discipline, like a regiment, and make the Syrians observe law and order by handing out generous rewards and merciless punishments. For preference he surrounded himself with young officers. In late December 1951 he told them, in a short speech, that if he were given six years there would be no thieves or smugglers left in Syria, no rebels or injustice. He repeated this promise in his first radio broadcast to the nation in early January 1952, concluding with the words: “I will make you Syrians into Prussians.”
Shaklan was fascinated by Prussia, the German army, and above all Hitler. He was impressed by Leni Riefenstahl's movie
Triumph of the Will
, which he watched once a week in the private cinema of the presidential palace. He imitated the Germans even in his uniform and the way he staged his appearances.
Shaklan was at the peak of his power in the spring of 1952. He did not yet guess that only six months later rebellions would be breaking out everywhere. Amira felt there could be no better moment than this to help her disgraced brother Butros. In prison, he had shrunk to a picture of misery.
Amira's lover, First Lieutenant Shukri, advised her to go straight to Colonel Shaklan in this delicate matter. It was beyond his own competence. He had been able to help her with her son's case, but there was nothing he could do here without burning his own fingers.
“You must pluck up courage and go to the very top. Approach Colonel Shaklan through Captain Tallu, his right-hand man, invite the ruler of all Syria to Mala, give him a magnificent banquet, and then send Butros's wife and children in tears to kiss his hand and ask for clemency. They may be able to soften his heart that way, because harsh as he can be, the colonel is very sentimental. Particularly about tearful children,” said First Lieutenant Shukri, briefly drawing on his
cigarette. “And you can soften up Tallu by giving him a horse. Your brother has plenty of horses,” he added, accompanying Amira to the door of his small apartment in the Midan quarter. As they said goodbye he held her close again, kissed her lips, and swung her up in the air in his powerful arms. He was enchanted, as always, by her femininity. Amira felt dizzy with desire, but she had to go. “Don't eat me up with your kisses! I must hurry before Louis gets home. We have the Bishop coming to dinner this evening.” She tapped him on the buttocks, and when he looked crestfallen she caressed his face. “Another time, my handsome stallion,” she said, laughing, and she left.
Captain Tallu thanked her for the fine horse, and liked the idea of the invitation. He cast a brief glance at the President's engagements diary. “You can give him his birthday party on 12 July. For three hundred people. A hundred to come with him, two hundred from the village. Only Colonel Shaklan himself can pardon Butros, because the penalty for smuggling arms plainly says life imprisonment.” Without getting to his feet, he offered her his limp hand. Amira was amazed that such a physically feeble man could be so powerful.
Shukri's advice was pure gold, thought Amira as she left. If she could get her brother out of jail she would be worshipped like a saint in the village. And Butros's wife Susan immediately and enthusiastically went along with her suggestion. So far Susan, from a Damascene family, had lived in her husband's shadow, almost invisible. Now she saw her chance. With this birthday party, she would not only help her husband but defeat her mother-in-law. Everyone would know that her connections reached all the way to the President himself.
12 July 1952 was a hot Saturday. The forecourt of the convent of St. Thecla was sprinkled with water early in the morning and then decorated with loving care. Flowers in pots, rugs, banners and garlands gave it a festive air. Three cooks and countless kitchen maids worked wonders in the great kitchen of the convent, preparing an abundance of everything for the guests. The banquet was to begin at six in the evening, when the temperature had dropped slightly. The President's seat of honour was protected from the heat all day by a sun umbrella. Marksmen were stationed on every rooftop that had a view of the decorated forecourt.
About fifty officials in civilian clothing checked up on the guests with ruthless lack of ceremony, and many of the locals were indignant about such treatment, but Amira mollified them. It was the usual practice, she said, for men to have a hand put between their legs to see if they were concealing a pistol or sharp knife down there. The inspectors also confiscated any other large implements that looked as if they might pose a threat. “You could strike an ox dead with that,” one of them roughly told an old man, putting his heavy wooden walkingstick aside for safe keeping. It was fitted with a large, wedge-shaped piece of metal, which did indeed look dangerous, but was really just a harmless key, with wards made to fit exactly into the holes that would unlock his door.