Homecomings

by Yvette Rocheron

  ‘I came to see my beautiful niece.’ Khalid observes his cousin kissing the adolescent on both cheeks with the precision and lightness of a man knowing how to flatter. Will Farouq ask for her hand one day? For his son? A rancid thought, although he has often relied on his cousin’s warmth and integrity.

  ‘Gosh! You do look awful.’ Abnormally tall and thin, nearly bald apart from mean dark patches of hair above protruding ears, Farouq seems wan, ready to cave in. They were close when boys and then drifted apart. Injured by scorn and rejection, Farouq’s life has been dominated by his father. Although he wished to study Fine Arts in Paris, Omar squashed the dream and instead he had to take up International Business Management. After years of practising in that corrosive milieu, Farouq has remained uncynical, unspoilt and trustworthy – a pearl of a friend.

  ‘Two molars gone and a jaw aching like mad! I’ve paid that charlatan through the teeth… literally! Don’t laugh, Khalid. I hate that man! Syrians are only good at hurting each other. But not you, Zaida’.

  She agrees while trying to overlook the swollen cheek that makes his English sound really funny.

  ‘Enough of my suffering. Zaida – welcome to Damascus. You’ll meet again my son, Ali, as soon as he joins me in Damascus. With your father’s permission, of course. We’ll be delighted to treat you like Queen Zenobia.’

  ‘What do you say, sweetheart?’

  She chews the thick pad of her thumb, gaining time. There were so many Alis at that wedding! Dad is giving her no clue, looking awfully blank. She crosses over to the cage, ignoring Farouq, who refuses to be defeated.

  ‘Let me explain. To say you are Queen Zenobia is… the best compliment paid to a young woman.’

  Sticking her tongue out at the men, she skips upstairs chanting, ‘Dad! You silly!’ The cousins laugh heartily until Farouq moans again as the pain assaults him with a vengeance.

  ‘Wait! I need to take my tablets or I’ll be in deep shit.’ He searches his pockets while Khalid brings back large glasses of water from the utility room hidden behind a discreet curtain.

  ‘Are you alright? Let’s carry on in English, if you don’t mind.’

  Swiftly, Khalid lifts his glass to the light, swishes the liquid around and sniffs a couple of times before drinking. Farouq claps him on the back. ‘Are you that posh you drink only vintage water?’

  ‘How weird! Talking to Zaida has triggered something about the Shatila camp. I mean… my big sister was… raped by those Maronite bastards! I wasn’t aware I’m still doing it!’ He hides his face in both hands, full of grief.

  ‘Sorry for teasing you!’

  ‘No harm. You see, Father wouldn’t tolerate any impurities in our drinking water. No rotten smells either. How many times did I spit it out just to please him!’ He shakes himself as if waking up. ‘Enough of that.’ He walks to the bottom of the stairs to make sure Zaida has retired to her rooms.

  ‘She’s having a shower.’ He squeezes Farouq’s shoulder with affection. ‘I just want to say, don’t harp on about Ali! She is too young, and in any case, she has strong feelings against marriage. When Father urged me to get a new wife she locked herself in the bathroom until Abdul persuaded her he’d been joking. You see what I mean?’

  ‘Come on! She’ll change her mind if she stays long enough. As her guardian, under Sunni law, you can promise her in marriage… in a couple of years, perhaps. She is such a dazzling girl she won’t be short of offers from honourable Damascene families.’

  Irritated, Khalid waves away Farouq’s simple-mindedness. ‘Kill that stupid idea of marrying her off! And don’t tell me where I stand with regard to our laws and customs. You are too naïve! The law is unhelpful. I have turned to Syrian laws, international agreements, British court cases – I know them all, believe me! Nothing helps me find a way ahead that does justice to all parties—’

  ‘That’s never been the job of any justice system, or else there’d be no job for lawyers.’

  Too tormented to combat the unexpected derision, Khalid continues. ‘I long to care for my daughter in my own home but what about her mother and her parents? They love her to bits as well as me, they’d give their life to her, just like me and Father. And what about today’s Syria? Is it the right country for my girl? Will she have to become a fully fledged Muslim to marry into your family? And worse, to live like you and me under the screws of a stinking dictatorship?’

  Farouq, in a petulant tone, enjoys the rare opportunity to give his senior a lesson in generosity. ‘I’ll forgive your insinuations, but what’s wrong with my family? Like yours, we go back to Prophet Muhammad. Peace be upon him! Of course, you’ve no respect for our religion!’

  ‘I meant no offence! Look! Zaida isn’t like our Syrian girls. See the insidious ways in which, in our daily life, repression and religion are twinned. They feed our veins and our souls, whatever our beliefs. Sure, she’ll adapt, her appetite for instruction knows no bounds! Sure, she’ll applaud our First Lady, the patron of her school, in front of the president’s portrait. She’ll be happy to throw sweets to unmarried wedding guests, appreciate Arab architecture, recite “Mashalla” to confer Allah’s blessing, cook white food for luck on New Year day, bake brazig cookies for Ramadan or greet guests with joyful “zagharid”. But despite all that, will she ever feel a genuine Sunni niece of yours? She’ll remain at best an exotic stranger – in her own eyes and yours – constantly on the lookout for her faux pas. Her life, a never-ending struggle to perform correctly. Her vivacious spirit – squashed.’

  ‘Is this why you came back?’

  ‘Come on, I could kick a ball and show I was one of the lads. And she will be even more lonely than I was if she balks at our sectarian violence.’

  Farouq lets a few seconds pass until he feels able to defy his friend. ‘You’re hopeless! You dug a rat-hole for yourself with your ruminations! There are many thriving communities who pull out the best from cross-cultural junctions. Zaida could invent a fantastic adventure, enjoy life to the full. Why have you no faith in her? No faith in us? No faith in the Franklins? And, I bet, no faith in international law. Your confusion is beyond the pale!’

  ‘Listen! Mariyam told me a Damascene proverb: “Is the tree in the courtyard for me or my neighbours?” Do you know it? Traditionally, it is just a question.’

  ‘What was she on about?’

  ‘Muslims worship in her church. John the Baptist as Prophet Yehia. He belongs to both communities, she said – that’s the only way to live.’

  ‘I agree! That’s my answer too. The tree can grow for both. Isn’t it what Zaida wants?

  ‘Her generation has more balls than us. They’d be happy not only to live but… to let live.’

  ‘Let’s drink to that!’

  They hold onto their glasses, enjoying the coolness slipping through their throats.

  ‘Tell me, Khalid, why do we stick to English when Zaida is not with us?’

  ‘Walid Hadidi, my Alawite chauffeur, may be spying. And he understands no word of English.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Khalid sighs. ‘Don’t know. Zaida has seen him going in and out of my rooms where he has no business to be. He could be planting mics and cameras, you see what I mean? I’ve checked my papers and made sure there are no tricky files left. She is as sharp as a weasel! I tell her there is nothing to fear but, honestly, I know little about him. He was hired by your father before I moved in. Can you find out what he says? Be discreet. Say nothing about me.’

  ‘OK, I’ll find out. We’re not on best terms but recently he’s been less impatient with me. He’s getting soft.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘He isn’t that keen on Alawite staff. He has just sacked an aide for that reason.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is up to his ears in deals for the Assads! Naturally, he is attacked by jealous cadres in the Ba’athist party who
won’t let the grass grow under the feet of overconfident Sunnis.’

  ‘Is Walid a member?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out, but Omar isn’t happy with you. Stop your trips to Qamishli, that dung-hole.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve come?’ Khalid spits out the words, refraining from yelling for fear of alerting Zaida. Both men know that Qamishli has been a sore in the eye of the regime since the violent repression that destroyed the Kurdish elites in 2004.

  Head cocked to one side to keep the pain still, Farouq snarls back. ‘Aren’t you helping people who are trafficking weapons? Don’t they launder money for kalashnikovs and that new Democratic Union Party?’

  ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t tell a damned mole!’

  ‘You’ll sink our families deep in that shit. The buck won’t stop at you.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing the Hague courts would condemn. They won’t arrest me, I am such a small fry. I swear I’ll keep my head under the parapet so that no-one can shoot me down! Tell him! I intend to be extra cautious and I won’t risk any restriction of our movement. In order to stay, Zaida needs to feel we’re both safe, as snug as in Leaford, you understand that?’

  ‘Three years ago, that was fine, but it is madness today. Fact one: the Damascus spring ended years ago. Fact two: young Assad is a wolf in lamb’s clothing, my father says.’

  Subdued by the claims, Khalid promises to warn again his milk brothers in Qamishli.

  There is a regular thudding coming from upstairs followed by snatches of Bleeding Love. Intrigued by Zaida’s music, they stand up – frail and resolute in their friendship.

  ‘God! You look awful! Go home to Zeinab now.’

  A few minutes later, thankfully, Leona Lewis has stopped singing. Khalid climbs up, jumping two steps at a time, consciously imitating his daughter, refraining from rushing into her room. Her presence makes him feel the particularities of the old house. From the top floor, it is cut off from the outside world, apart from the light pouring below him into the fountain courtyard linking water, stone and a square blue sky void of any malevolence. There is no sound except the odd chattering of an iron shutter. A fortress that encases his own miraculous survival. He takes a deep breath, resolute – never let rogue wolves destroy it!

  Zaida does not yet feel comfortable. Her room is for adults only; it is filled with old-fashioned brown furniture, a far cry from her white, sunny bedroom crammed to the ceiling with toys, posters, CDs and books. The huge bed is so high that her legs don’t touch the ground. It is always in a semi-darkness. The high oval-shaped window has frosty panes. Women should not be seen! At times, she feels too young for Syria. Her dad can’t really help with women’s things. She throws a pair of jeans back into a monstrous wardrobe. Choosing clothes without her mother is a chore.

  ‘You should knock on my door, Dad! Tell me, have I got the right clothes on?’

  Colourful dresses and skirts, long and short, are lying on the parquet floor. She understands the enquiring look. ‘I’ll tidy up later. I’m not sure I have got it right for tonight.’ She won’t tell him how much she is missing her mum tonight. She has a few tummy cramps; that should go away. And her aunt has already told her off for wearing clothes that are too short for a girl from a good Muslim family. ‘Should I wear a headscarf?’

  ‘In Damascus? Wear what you like, my love. We aren’t going to a mosque! You look great in that pink dress. And if you don’t mind me saying it, you look like your mum!’

  ‘Really? Aunt Halima doesn’t think I do apart from the hair. She’s funny though. “You should lower your eyes when men look at you… or they won’t marry you!” But I want to study.’

  ‘Fine. Are you ready? No bag?’

  She blurts out, ‘Dad, Walid has a secret.’ Khalid represses a smile, sitting down. Theatrically, in a well-rehearsed line, she spells it out, index finger raised. ‘Walid has got a gun. Is it to protect us? Why?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I saw it yesterday night. He dropped us at the door. You were in your rooms. I went back – I had left my camera on the back seat. He was holding a small gun, here – I mean, on his lap. I startled him and he shooed me away, hissing rude words.’

  ‘Are you making a mistake? Was he holding a camera, a box, who knows what? Anyway, thanks for telling me. I’ll talk to him and to Uncle Omar. OK, love?’

  ‘He gives me bad vibes.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! After their military service, quite a few people like handling guns at home. That’s dangerous but that’s how it is in this country.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘Time to go! Look, girl, don’t take so many pictures when we are out. You, blonde and pretty at my side, and me, dark and ugly. That draws attention.’

  ‘What? Mummy was right then? Syria isn’t safe?’ she asks, wincing.

  ‘Not as bad as she imagines!’ He laughs her off, pushing her out, making light of the situation.

  ‘Let’s go to that picnic! Your cousins are impatient to spend more time with you.’

  She screws up her nose, a baby again. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Kirsh source. Near the beautiful orchards the family has owned for generations just outside the city, with wonderful views. We have ancient fruit trees – figs, pomegranates, black grapes. You’ll love it. It has a special place in our hearts. Attracted by the sound of water, families climb up the hill with huge baskets. Mariyam has packed up salads and kibbi naya – cold ground meat and spice, and the sweet pancakes you like. You can ride the swings from that walnut tree of ours with Ali and the other kids. You’ll see where my bum has polished the bark sliding down. Come on, we say summer comes back in November.’

  – 8 –

  Waiting

  Gwen cannot help complaining as husband and wife are getting dressed for the day. ‘Why not tell us sooner he’d be back? He’s in debt and needs bailing out. And poor Virginia! I bet she hasn’t slept a wink. What will she do?’

  ‘You’re running round like a headless chicken!’ Walter snaps, offended by her reluctance to rejoice at seeing Ian. ‘Don’t fret! Zaida just wants a good time with her dad. Fair enough. She’s been waiting long enough for this trip. It’s only natural, as Marianne said last night.’

  ‘Her place is here, not in Syria. They didn’t bring her up, we did.’

  ‘Don’t get into a state! The law is behind us if they fight over the girl. But it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Not theirs! You’re so naïve at times!’

  ‘Shush, will you! He won’t keep a troublesome adolescent for long.’

  Quarter to eight already! She tries to control her rage. Their little girl, abducted, jailed by barbarians in a remote cave, married against her will at 15. Why hadn’t they realised that Khalid would want more time with his child?

  ‘Khalid. He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing. Awful things happen to girls anywhere.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Walter, in vest and pyjamas, strides into the en-suite bathroom, blinking angrily at the bright Spanish tiles decorated with dolphins – a rejuvenating folly of Gwen’s. He slips on the wet floor, knocks his head against the glass of the shower, swears.

  ‘Hurt yourself? Let me see.’

  ‘Don’t fuss!’ He rebukes himself silently for shouting.

  ‘Who got up on the wrong side of the bed, then?’

  ‘I emailed Khalid and I’m not sure I did the right thing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Money to tide us over. Don’t scream! I’d pay him back of course, as soon as possible.’

  ‘For God’s sake! Without telling us? Begging for money when they’re holding Zaida? He’ll laugh at you…Wait! What’s happening at the clinic?’

  After the ensuing row, Gwen is downstairs, banging pots and pans around, full
of a deadly energy. As the head of the family, he said, he had the right to contact Khalid when he saw fit, and, after all, he had asked only for a few thousands to tide them over. She was blazing: without consulting the seraglio? He admitted he’d been rash and confused, worried about new expenses to cover for lawyers. What a moment to upset everyone! The ass!

  Pray Khalid won’t be offended.

  She’ll battle it out in her own way! Chain herself to the British Embassy in Damascus, shame them all. Marrying outside your tribe is trouble. Full stop. Damn PCness! Zaida will be pushed into the women’s corner, slaving over stoves. Nothing makes sense.

  At sixty, she still feels bouts of yearning for her father’s ordered life: the Church music, the wobbly organ, the self-effacement. As a mother, she has failed to instil this need for selfless order in her children, each in their own way unpredictable. Ian is the more outlandish of the two but nobody should underestimate the passions that can engulf Virginia. Leaving her studies to travel, marrying Khalid out of the blue, having a baby far too young. And now take Zaida, a chatty child yesterday and, today, hours on the web, as self-absorbed as the young Ian. His email has rattled her – he seems as insouciant as ever. Surely she loves her two children just the same?

  There are moments when she wants to shout out loud. Just one glance at the papers tells you of the sheer madness since the Icelandic debacle. Receiverships spreading like a forest fire. Banks in the dock gambling with fake money. And the clinic? It isn’t just a hiccup, or Walter wouldn’t be begging Khalid. How could she trust his crooked judgment? Wives should not question husbands’ business sense! The thought makes her boil. You don’t need a diploma to know that people don’t pay for funny therapies when cash is short. Nor do they wire a few thousands out of the blue to ex-fathers-in-law. Walter is muddled. She nods to herself while taking the wholemeal bread from the tin. Why mix dirty linen with clean napkins? Better sit tight in the short term – but beyond that? They have enough on their plates. Zaida will always want to have her cake and eat it. Like Ian. How could she not worry?