The Dark Side of Love

by Rafik Schami

  “But why did you convert to Islam? Badran and the rest of the government aren’t notably Muslim,” said Farid, still hoping these conversations might bring his torments to an end.

  “Because religion has never mattered to me at all, or at least not since the monastery – but no, it never really did. I happened to be born into the Orthodox community and then I was forced to turn Catholic. I had all the qualifications to take a hand in the running of the country, a little Islamic phrase and my foreskin were the only obstacles, but not for me. Snip, snip, I was circumcized within five minutes, I recited the phrase, so Bulos became Mahdi, and I can only say that in point of fact all reasonable people from Badran to Shaftan and even President Amran, devoutly as they pray for the cameras, couldn’t care less about any kind of religion. They get tanked up, they fuck any orifice they can find. Religion is a good way of controlling fools,” he said forcefully, and then he grinned and stood up. He knocked at the door, and the gates of hell opened for Farid. He begged Mahdi to spare him that day because he felt so wretched. He kissed his hands and boots, as ordered by one of the guards, but Mahdi only laughed. Another guard struck Farid in the face and ordered him to bark. Farid barked and wept until the guard hauled him along by the ear and said, “Not like a dog, like a donkey.” The man stank of alcohol.

  Farid imitated a donkey, and had to keep it up for half an hour until he was lying on the floor exhausted. Then came absolute darkness, in which he once again saw the camel with fear in its eyes as it stood tethered in the courtyard of the caravanserai. When he came back to his senses he was alone. It was an eerie feeling. For the first time he doubted his own perception, for he had not seen or heard Mahdi and the two guards leave the cell. Farid looked at his arm. He saw the mark of a second needle, red and itching, on his right wrist, but when had they given him the injection?

  276. The Ransom

  When Claire had heard what the soldier had to say she thanked him with a gift of fifty lira, twice his monthly wages, and urged him to tell Farid she wouldn’t rest until he was free. The soldier went straight to Bab Tuma and spent ten lira on nightingale nests from Elias’s confectionery shop.

  Claire went to her husband immediately and told him everything. Elias froze. “Those bastards the Shahins,” he said. The message was clear to him. A member of that family who was either a high-ranking officer or a depraved criminal must have found his way to Tad and was trying to kill Farid.

  Claire had never seen her husband so angry before. “I’m going to the Patriarch, and even if it costs me all I have those Shahins won’t murder my son,” he cried in his distress. At that moment Claire admired her husband, who was small of stature but could become a lion within seconds.

  Elias immediately phoned the Catholic Patriarch. There was desperation and fury in his voice. The experienced old churchman knew that he must help his friend, and asked him to come and see him at once. He listened to what Elias told him, and spoke reassuringly. Then he telephoned George Salamoni, one of the richest and most audacious Christians in Damascus. Half an hour later that smooth-spoken whisky importer arrived in person. The Patriarch explained, and asked for his assistance, since Elias gave so much support to the Catholic Church.

  Salamoni thought for a moment. “There’s only one person who can help, but he’ll be very expensive,” he said calmly.

  “There’s no price I wouldn’t pay to save my son,” replied Elias.

  “Come with me, then,” said the whisky merchant, and took his leave of the Patriarch. His black Mercedes was parked outside in the yard.

  “The President’s brother Shaftan is the most corrupt man in the world, but he does what he says he’ll do,” said Salamoni, driving off. “We’ll go straight to him. Fundamentally, he’s the secret ruler of this country.”

  Elias knew that Shaftan was the head of the special unit that had built the ring of defences around Damascus, but he would never have expected to meet the President’s brother where Salamoni was taking him.

  Salamoni wanted to know all about Farid. If what Elias said wasn’t true, he added, he couldn’t guarantee anything. Elias briefly told him what Claire had said. Salamoni nodded thoughtfully.

  “I thought Shaftan was outside Damascus with the troops,” said Elias, as Salamoni reached the Abu Rumanna quarter. There were no barracks here, only the villas of the richest Damascenes and the foreign consulates. Salamoni laughed. “He’s been here for a month in a palace that he bought for ten lira from Bardana, a rich textiles dealer.”

  “Ten lira? You must be joking,” said Elias.

  “I seldom joke,” replied Salamoni, “but you’d sell your house for a single lira if a cold-blooded man put his pistol to your temple, and you knew he was brutal enough to sit his ten-year-old son on his lap to watch the executions of his enemies, just to toughen the boy up.”

  “And he lives here?” asked Elias.

  “No one knows where he lives, but he has his secretariat here, and if you state your request and the matter’s important enough you can see him in person. If not, his employees deal with it.”

  The house was impressive, and two helicopters stood on the lawn of the large garden. At the entrance Salamoni gave the soldiers in their combat uniforms his name, and a few minutes later a young lieutenant came running down the steps.

  “Monsieur Salamoni,” he said breathlessly, “forgive me for keeping you waiting, but all hell’s let loose today.” He greeted Salamoni, and shook Elias’s hand without interest.

  The steps up from the entrance led to a large hall with a reception desk. Two women kept picking up phones, saying something, laughing, hanging up again and making notes. There were tastefully arranged seating areas among the tall marble columns, as if the place were a luxury hotel. Several men were waiting there patiently, motionless as waxworks. The lieutenant led Salamoni and Elias past the groups of chairs to a broad and majestic marble staircase, and went ahead of them. On the second floor, he opened a door and showed his guests into a spacious room. The furniture, walls, and ceiling dated from the nineteenth century. The only jarring note was represented by a green office desk and a beige swivel chair behind it.

  At the lieutenant’s civil request, Salamoni told him about Farid’s fate, stressing the fact that Elias’s only son now belonged to no political party at all. He had been very sick with meningitis as a child and still suffered from the consequences. The lieutenant noted it all down, ordered tea over the phone for himself and his guests, and then turned to Elias. “Mr. Mushtak, if Monsieur Salamoni asks me to do something then I do it, but I want to be sure what I’m letting myself in for before I go to Comrade Shaftan. Is it true about the meningitis, or does your son just have migraines?”

  Elias felt a lump in his throat. “Sir, he was in an intensive care ward when he was twelve. They didn’t know how to cure meningitis properly at the time, so to this day he still has epileptic fits and falls unconscious. I can show you the diagnosis of three specialists,” he replied.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” said the officer, and then fell silent. The only sound in the room came from the clock on the wall.

  “Was your son armed when he was arrested?” the lieutenant went on at last. Elias thought it a strange question. “No, sir, my son had no weapon with him. He was afraid, and was hiding with his cousin.”

  Once again the lieutenant preserved a long silence. Salamoni was used to it, and relaxed, but Elias felt his heart thudding. What would the young man ask next? He breathed a sigh of relief when the officer took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and looked at him in a friendly way. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. However, the decision is for Comrade Shaftan to make.”

  The lieutenant went on to ask Elias for Farid’s personal details, and carefully wrote them down. A woman came in with a tray, handed Salamoni a glass of tea and then went over to Elias. He took a glass and placed it beside the officer, as a sign of his own humble status, before taking the third glass himself. The officer too
k no notice of this courtesy.

  When the woman left, Salamoni whispered to the lieutenant, “The matter is quite urgent. The young man really is very sick, and I owe Monsieur Mushtak a great deal.”

  “I’ll be off at once,” said the officer, “but you owe no one anything, monsieur, for you lavish generous gifts on us with no thought for yourself. That’s what fascinates me so much in you.” And he was already rising, took the sheets of paper he had written, and hurried out of the door.

  “He forgot his tea,” said Elias.

  Salamoni made a sign indicating that they were being overheard. “Yes, that’s the way he always is. Lieutenant Butros is a true humanitarian. He helps whenever he can,” he replied.

  It was an hour before Lieutenant Butros came back, beaming. “Comrade Shaftan listened to me. Farid will be free as soon as possible, and from today he will be under Comrade Shaftan’s protection. It will cost a hundred,” said the officer to Salamoni, as if he were the one who was Farid’s father. Salamoni glanced at Elias. Elias nodded. He had understood: a hundred thousand dollars. Shaftan took only dollars; Syrian lira were no use to him.

  “We’ll pay,” said Salamoni.

  “Then let’s go to the boss. He’d like to meet you personally,” said Lieutenant Butros, going ahead to the next staircase.

  The third floor was even more magnificent than the second. The outer office was furnished in burgundy red. A pretty secretary briefly looked up from her typewriter, smiled at the lieutenant, and bent over her work again.

  Two young men in black uniforms stood to attention. Machine guns gleamed in front of their chests. The man on the right stood at ease again, opened a handsome wooden door, forcefully pulled open a second door made of thick steel, and then pressed down the handle of another wooden door in the depths of the thick wall. Arab music met their ears. Elias saw a huge hall before him. There was a gigantic desk in the middle of the room, with five or six telephones on it. The walls were adorned with shining golden daggers and swords. A large window offered a fine panoramic view of the city of Damascus; outside, a new steel fire escape was being fitted.

  Elias gave a start when he suddenly saw the mighty Shaftan, who came to meet them when he had switched off the radio. He wore a green military uniform much too large for him, intended to emphasize his strength and virility, but he looked more like a three-dimensional caricature. Shaftan took Salamoni’s hand in both his own, as an expression of particular warmth. “I wanted to thank you in person for that excellent Scotch. Lieutenant Butros brought me the case two months ago. I can only say I’ve drunk no other whisky since. I’m afraid you’ve spoiled me,” he said, smiling, and then turned to Elias, speaking in a soft voice. “You can rest assured that from now on no one will touch your only son. However, my brother Amran must approve his actual release.”

  “My dear sir, we know that you are as one with our President,” Salamoni insisted, to get a binding statement out of him.

  “Ah, you all consider my humble self so important,” countered Shaftan hypocritically, “but for good citizens of course one is ready do everything. Is there any other way I can help you?”

  “Your kindness puts me to shame,” said Salamoni gallantly.

  “And you,” said Shaftan, turning to the faithful Butros, “will go to Badran at once and tell him that Farid Mushtak is under my direct protection until our leader returns from Moscow. No one is to touch him. He is to be transferred immediately to the hospital and kept well protected so that no son of a whore does anything to him until His Excellency has made his decision. Take Badran the cinecamera I brought him back from Paris. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. And tell him the young man’s mother may visit him once a week,” he added. Lieutenant Butros saluted and left the room.

  “My brother’s crazy about movies. He’d have been a brilliant film maker himself if he hadn’t gone into the army. And I’ve brought him the latest thing from Paris: a Super-Eight camera. You can shoot real feature films with it,” he told Salamoni, and then turned back to Elias. “You and your wife may rest assured that nothing will happen to your son, but I hope he will always bear this incident in mind,” he concluded, and offered his hand.

  Elias could no longer conceal his relief. “God protect you and your children,” he said almost inaudibly. Shaftan took a long and warm farewell of Salamoni, and accompanied him to the door.

  When Elias was back in the outer office the secretary, to his surprise, handed him an envelope. “The address,” she said. He didn’t understand, but took the envelope from her. He was still in a very emotional state.

  “How can I thank you?” he asked Salamoni in the car. Salamoni laughed. “Don’t bother. I like to help a decent man like you. Did you know that your father once helped mine out of a fix? But that’s a long time ago. In our family George Mushtak always stood for ideas of salvation and selfless Christian loving kindness, and now I can be proud to say that I have helped a Mushtak. I consider prisons terrible places. No cultivated human being should languish in them.”

  “But you’ll have had costs. Shaftan will want more of that expensive Scotch whisky,” said Elias, much moved.

  “Ah, who cares?” laughed Salamoni. “That’s nothing. Once we used to pay taxes to the excise office, now that peasants rule us I pay in kind. Peasants like that. And I get what I want considerably cheaper.” His voice dripped contempt.

  “So what about this address?” asked Elias, without opening the envelope.

  “Oh, that’s his eldest son Lahfan’s office. Your name is down there now, and it won’t be crossed off until you’ve paid the money. They keep everything very correct,” said Salamoni, laughing at the absurdity of it.

  Elias looked at the address. It was an export-import agency. “It must be near the Central Bank,” he surmised. Salamoni nodded. “And more payments go into it than into the Bank. You may have to stand in line.”

  When Elias got out of the car at Saitun Alley, he clasped his rescuer’s hand firmly. “But I need your address too, because you must try my new chocolate creations. Such delicacies come only from Elias Mushtak.”

  Salamoni laughed. He gave Elias a visiting card out of a little silver box hanging from the dashboard. “My wife will be delighted. She thinks very highly of your confectionery,” he said, and the car raced away.

  277. Cold Sharper Than a Razorblade

  Mahdi ranted and raged over the telephone, feeling deeply humiliated. But Badran was not to be moved. The prisoner Farid Mushtak was no longer Mahdi Said’s business. Dangerous or not, he was under the protection of Badran’s brother. “And his mother is coming to see him every week until the President decides. If Shaftan hears from her that her son is being badly treated, I can’t keep you on any more, understand?”

  “Yes.” Mahdi’s voice was barely audible, as if he were down in a deep pit. He hadn’t felt so small since those days in the monastery. That bastard of a prisoner from the bloody Mushtak clan was more important to Badran now than he was! As if they hadn’t been friends for a decade, as if they hadn’t faced many moments of mortal danger together. Shaftan, Shaftan! The hell with Badran and his brother. Mahdi was sure that Shaftan had been cashing in again.

  He did a lot of thinking that day, and now he understood why several high-ranking officers were beginning to murmur discontentedly. One general had hinted to him that the army wasn’t happy about President Amran’s clan. Amran had handed the country over to the Russians, he said, and any common cowherd from his tribe mattered more to the President than an experienced, patriotic general. Mahdi had cautiously contradicted this, but when the general said there were some patriots who would like to get to know him, because they admired his loyalty, his Syrian pride, and his determination, he had agreed to think about it. After his humiliating conversation with Badran he reached for the telephone three times, but kept hanging up again. Badran had all his employees’ phones tapped. Mahdi knew the general’s private address. He’d just drop in and see him some time in the next few weeks
, in a casual kind of way.

  He got into his jeep and drove to the ruins of Palmyra. His adjutant, First Lieutenant Saadi, was astonished when Mahdi told him, as he left, to have Farid Mushtak transferred to the hospital. From today he was to be nursed and well looked after. “Orders from the very top,” added Mahdi gloomily, and he raced away in his jeep. He didn’t return until late, when he was told by his adjutant that Badran had called him three times and left a message for him to call back.

  “Where were you?” Badran’s voice sounded as carefree on the line as if nothing had happened.

  “I drove out to the ruins. I’ve always wanted to see them at my leisure,” replied Mahdi,

  “Did I annoy you?”

  “No, but I can’t understand why a terrorist with a past a mile long should be put up in …” and here Mahdi laughed derisively, “… in a luxury hotel just to please his mama.”

  “Yes, I thought my good friend Mahdi hadn’t understood the whole story. I’m not interested in that whore, but Shaftan is as clever as they come – he’ll know why he’s making this move. Perhaps he wants something from the Catholic Patriarch. They say the Patriarch intervened on behalf of that bastard Farid Mushtak. No one’s really supposed to know, but I’d rather tell you as my best friend than anger you. My friend is a deep well – his name is Mahdi and still he isn’t happy.”

  Mahdi laughed. A wily character, Badran, he thought, that’s what makes him capable of heading a hydra like the secret service.

  “Do you know what news I’m reading just now?” But before Mahdi could reply, Badran was continuing. “It seems the Pope has come to a secret agreement with the Italian communists. He won’t oppose them in Italy any more, and in return they’ll go along with him in his drive to save Church treasures in the communist countries, from China to Russia. Wasn’t it Jesus who said, render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s?”