The Dark Side of Love (97 page)

“I'll miss you very much,” said Farid.

“I'll miss you too,” replied Amin. “I've heard good things about the way you stood up to Osmani. I can't stand the man. I'm …” and here Amin hesitated for a moment, “I'm very proud of you,” he went on at last, and Farid said nothing, wondering how such news could make its way to Aleppo from a camp in the desert.

Rana had been living in her new house since last summer. It was a present from her father to the newly married couple, and stood in Fardus Street opposite the cinema, which also bore the name of the street, in the middle of the vibrant business quarter of the New Town. The building had been constructed in the 1930s in the European style, of white stone.

The first floor was rented out to a large Air France branch office and a fashion boutique. Rana and her husband lived in the two floors above those premises. The flat roof, which had a tall screen all around it, was Rana's domain. Orange trees, oleanders, roses, and jasmine grew there in large containers. She had turned what was once a maid's bedroom on the roof into a little studio, where she often sat painting.

Rami never came up to the roof. As he saw it, a rooftop was the place to hang out washing, and the laundry was women's business. He regarded painting as an occupation for women too, and perhaps for men who weren't quite right in the head.

Rana marvelled at Farid's lack of scars. She had had nightmares in which he was badly disfigured by torture and abuse. But here he was before her, more handsome than ever, somehow more virile, wittier. As soon as he saw her he had run to her, took her in his strong arms, and cried, “Where shall I take you, princess?” Then he kissed her on the mouth.

“Oh, put me down, I'm heavy! We must go two floors up,” she whispered in his ear.

A steep staircase led up past those two floors to the flat roof. Once there, he could enjoy the sight of the plants and the attractively furnished studio.

Rana was paler than she used to be, but she smelled even more fragrant than before. He kissed her, and soon after that laid her down on the big old couch in her studio as naturally as if they hadn't been parted for a second. Close to her, Farid once again had the feeling he had known ever since they were together in Beirut. As soon as he kissed her she seemed to surround him like the world itself. She sank into him through every pore, and he and she were one.

Farid told her about his imprisonment, and then heard the story of the worst day in her life, her defeat as Rami and her family practised
their deception on her. And she told him that she had resolved to live like a cactus until they could leave the country together, for no kind of life was possible for them here.

She took his head in both hands and kissed his eyes. “I'll pray for you, my heart,” she said, kissing him again, “I'll pray that nothing happens to you while you're underground liberating humanity.” And then she could no longer restrain her laughter. They rolled on the floor, play-fighting.

They couldn't have said, later, how often they made love that day. In the afternoon, a sparrow flew down from the orange tree and looked into the studio. It chirruped and flew away, only to come back with another sparrow. Now they were both looking at Rana and Farid.

“That's his girlfriend,” said Farid. “He's showing her how to enjoy forbidden love.”

Rana smiled. “No, I've been feeding the first one for weeks. He's probably jealous. The other one isn't a girl, it's another male and his friend. I expect they're challenging you to fight.”

When Farid sat up, the sparrows flew away. Rana looked at her naked lover. Behind him, she saw the jasmine in all the glory of its white flowers, and for a moment she thought it was spring.

DAMASCUS, 1961 – 1965

The university was a surprise to Farid in every respect. The natural sciences department did have super-modern buildings and the most modern of laboratories, but the course of studies itself was extremely outmoded, and relied heavily on learning by heart. The standard in the first year was well below what it had been in his elite school. Two years earlier a number of scientists had left the country, since professors could earn ten times as much in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia as in Damascus. They were replaced by young, inexperienced lecturers. Sometimes the new professors didn't even have doctoral degrees.

Even at the start of his university course, Farid realized that after studying natural sciences for four years he would come away with nothing but a handsome diploma in fine calligraphy, adorned with arabesques. It was absurd even to think of research and development.

But if he was honest with himself, he didn't mind that too much. He could perfectly well imagine a life full of more interesting things than chemical formulae: there was Rana, whom he would see often now, there was his work in the underground, there were all the novels he was reading, and the club with its motley collection of members.

The club got its license back two weeks after the coup, and a week later it reopened with a big party. Amin came specially from Aleppo for the occasion, with his pale, quiet wife Salime. Farid thought his friend was much more amusing and relaxed than before. His archenemy Michel showed the little tiler respect too.

The whole neighbourhood celebrated, and there were some thirty dishes to choose from, as well as plenty of different drinks. Even the bishop came, and delivered a gentle warning against making jokes about the government. “I could tell jokes too, my children, and His Holiness John XXIII is a kindly man and likes cheerfulness, but I refrain from telling them all the same.”

“What a shame!” someone cried. The assembled guests tried every way they could to spur him on to tell those jokes. He shook with laughter, and those sitting near him crowed with glee to see the red wine dripping to the floor. Taufik hurried up with a dishcloth to dry the bishop's hand.

“No, no, I'm not telling you,” he said. “A man has two ears but only one mouth, and that illustrates the divine wisdom of telling only half of what you hear.”

Some looked embarrassed, for Gibran was still having psychiatric treatment, but rumour had it he was soon to be released.

There was someone else missing too, although few noticed. “Suleiman's been arrested,” Josef whispered to Farid. “The new regime has an account to settle with all secret service men.”

“But Suleiman was only a little fish,” said Farid in surprise.

“I know, but they're after the little fish and the big fish alike. Sarrag the criminal secret police chief is in jail too.”

“Criminal, did you say? It was your revered Satlan who promoted him to the job.”

“I believed in Satlan, yes, but I never claimed he was infallible,” said Josef dryly. “That criminal Sarrag was one of his biggest mistakes.”

“What about Suleiman's parents?” asked Farid, trying to change the subject.

“They're allowed to visit him. They say it was all a misunderstanding.”

“What else would they say?” replied Farid. “That he handed me and Gibran over to the secret service?”

“They certainly ought to admit it,” said Josef, “after going about telling everyone I gave Gibran away. Just because I thought his jokes about Satlan were in poor taste, and I said so openly. Taufik almost murdered me, and saw sense only at the last minute. The neighbours spat when I passed by and insulted my mother and my sisters with their accusations.”

“Oh, come on, it's all over now. Don't bear a grudge,” said Farid. But when he turned around, he was horrified to see that Josef had tears in his eyes.

Farid was woken by the stormy ringing of the doorbell. The university was closed on Fridays, and as he had been at a meeting of his Party cell until late at night he wanted to sleep late. His mother opened the door. He sat up in bed, and heard Josef in the inner courtyard, telling Claire, “No, he'll have to get up. Gibran's free.”

“I'm awake,” groaned Farid. When he came down into the courtyard, Josef and his mother had already drunk their coffee.

“How about me?” he protested.

“They're expecting you at the club. We've laid on a big breakfast for Gibran, and they sent me to fetch you at once. There's tea and coffee flowing like water there, don't worry,” Josef said, hauling Farid to the door. He just had time to drop a kiss on Claire's cheek, and then he willingly followed his friend. She smiled. In some ways they were still little boys.

About two in the afternoon Farid had to leave the celebrations to go to the cinema. He wanted to be there as early as possible to keep a seat for Rana, who was going to be a little late. When she did arrive she would join him in the third row to the right, apparently by chance but knowing just where she was going.

In the bus he kept thinking of Gibran. Two shiny patches disfigured his temples, just like Matta's. “The male nurse and the doctor were in a temper. It burned like hell, but the medication had left me
delirious, and it was days before I realized what they'd been doing to me. But never mind, that was what I wanted.”

Gibran had risked a great deal, and when he was arrested he staked everything on a single throw: he pretended to be crazy. That trick had saved his life once before, in Indonesia. “That's when I realized the power of madness. I was waiting to be executed – and that's another story, but it was all to do with arms smuggling and a lot of money, and my partner wanted to be rid of me. I'll tell you about it some other time, but there in Indonesia I found that madness was my guardian angel, and I knew I must keep it up or I'd be a dead man. So I stood outside myself, checking that I wasn't acting normally for a single second. The Indonesians tried everything they could to make me sane again, but I just went crazier and crazier, running around the jail stark naked, shitting everywhere, almost scratching people's eyes out, laughing like a hyena. They beat me until I fainted, and as soon as I came back to my senses I started again. It's easy to act crazy for a short while. Any child can do it perfectly in front of the mirror – but if you want to keep it going, you have to strain yourself to the limit.

For brief moments I really was crazy now and then. The mask stuck to my face, and I said confused things even when I was on my own. And at such times a cold hand clutched my heart. Gibran, I told myself, you're not just acting crazy, you
are
crazy. The Indonesians tormented me for six months, and only then did they believe I was deranged and threw me out. I had to leave the country on the next ship. Its captain was an old friend of mine. He was horrified at the sight of me, but once we'd put to sea I showered and shaved, and we ended up laughing a lot and drinking together.”

It had not been a difficult decision for him to opt for mental disturbance again in Damascus, for otherwise they would certainly have beaten him to death. He was maltreated by secret service men in jail for two weeks, and then they were convinced that he really wasn't pretending. However, in the psychiatric hospital he discovered that the secret service had its eyes and ears there too, so he had to go on pretending to be crazy, and only when the coup brought Satlan's regime down was Gibran cured overnight, along with twenty other inmates.

But Karime would have nothing more to do with him. Gibran went
to see her. He wanted to tell her how he had longed for her, and ask why she never visited him, but she wouldn't even open her door. That was two weeks after his discharge from hospital, and Gibran came to the club looking grey and stooped, as if he had aged ten years. Yet he remembered Karime to the last day of his life, and he was always returning to the house of memory, which never sent him away.