“Please let us go!” she begged the police officers. “We want to go to America.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, little one, you’re still a minor,” said the officer, a stout Lebanese with huge bags under his eyes. He hit Farid and accused him of seducing little girls. A woman took Rana into the next room with her, wrapped her in a blanket and held her close like an anxious mother. “You must say it was all his fault, and then they’ll let you go,” she said. Rana indignantly freed herself from the woman’s embrace. “He didn’t do anything. I was the one who abducted him,” she cried angrily.
Three hours later they were driven to the border and handed over to the Syrian police. “I’ll wait for you until eternity,” said Rana.
The two Lebanese officers were much amused. “Is someone shooting a movie around here?” one of them asked.
“No, the child’s seen too many Egyptian tearjerkers,” replied the other.
The Syrians police spoke angrily to the two young people at the border. A stout woman took Rana into a cell and once again tried to persuade her to say that Farid had abducted her. Rana screamed as loudly as she could, because she heard the blows raining down on Farid in the next room, where two police officers kept shouting, “Pimp!”
After half an hour, all was quiet at last.
When Farid came back to his senses, it was early in the afternoon. A middle-aged police officer led him out of the cell. “Your fiancée’s father isn’t going to bring charges, to avoid any scandal. My word, kid, you’re lucky! If it had been my daughter I’d have shot you.”
Elias Mushtak, his face dark, was waiting in the office of the police station to collect Farid. In the dusty car park, blind with rage, he hit out at his son. Farid staggered and could hardly breathe. He dimly saw the concerned faces of the passengers in the buses waiting at the border to have their papers checked. A child cried and pointed out of the window at Farid. In spite of all his pain, he felt ashamed.
One of the bus drivers went up to Elias and tried to calm him. That made him even angrier. “It’s a disgrace. First a fire-raiser, now he abducts a minor.”
And so saying he hit Farid full in the ribs. Farid lost consciousness and fell to the ground.
At that moment Rana came out of the building. She saw Farid lying there and wanted to go to him at once, but her father — in his light summer suit, and carrying her case — pushed her courteously but firmly into his parked black Citroën.
Elias Mushtak watched the car drive away, then looked back at Farid, and went to his Fiat, bent with exhaustion. He dropped the small case on the back seat, got into the car, and started the engine. With difficulty, Farid hauled himself into the passenger seat.
They were home in an hour’s time. Farid was in so much pain that he could hardly get out of the car. His knees were grazed, his face was swollen, but his ribs hurt worst. He still found breathing difficult. Helplessly, he began to cry.
The Mushtaks, Claire often used to say in jest (but accurately hitting the bull’s-eye) have their moments of insanity. When Elias lost his temper he ranted like a madman, but never for more than five minutes. After that he was ashamed of failing to control himself better. Farid’s grandfather had been just the same.
Claire came out of the door. At the sight of her son she was rooted to the spot with shock, but only when they were all inside the house, and she had carefully closed the door, did she explode. “What have you been doing to my son? My only son!” she shouted at Elias. For the first time in her life she felt she actually hated this narrow-minded, deranged confectioner who was now sitting there in silence, staring at the fountain in the inner courtyard.
“It’s a disgrace. First he sets the tree on fire, then he runs away with our arch-enemies’ daughter. Now we’re at their mercy. They have the police records in their hands, they can put your son in jail any time,” he replied. His voice sounded sad and weary. But Claire was not pacified.
“I’m asking you again,” she shouted, “are you a father? Welcoming your prodigal son with violence — what kind of father is that? You’re a violent lunatic, you belong behind bars. Your arch-enemies the Shahins are decent people. They haven’t even raised their hand against our son, and you have to beat him like that? Farid is a child, a child, and you all mistreat him!”
Claire didn’t say another word to Elias that evening, but gave all her attention to Farid, and slept on a couch at his bedside. What her husband did was a matter of indifference to her. Later, the doctor diagnosed the boy with two broken ribs and severe contusions.
Only on the third day did Claire find out about the violence of the Syrian border guards. She telephoned around until she learned the name of the officer responsible, and then threatened to charge him with child abuse.
The officer at the other end of the line laughed. “You do that, madame. Then I’ll get promotion,” he said, claiming to have been defending Arab morality. Then he hung up.
But Claire was as good as her word. Through a distant cousin who was highly placed in the Interior Ministry, she did have the officer charged, and he was transferred to the Euphrates region for disciplinary reasons. There he complained bitterly until the day of his retirement that there was no saving Syria now, when a whore could have a first lieutenant transferred to the wilderness just for doing his duty and slapping a badly behaved boy about a bit.
117. The Gate
The bus driver was making for the summit of the last mountain before the coast. In the distance, the mighty monastery perching on top of it like an eagle’s eyrie was already visible. Its white walls shone in the afternoon sun.
As if liberated, the driver stepped on the gas again, raced the last few metres to the monastery wall, and finally braked so forcefully that two of his passengers, who could hardly wait for the end of the long drive and were already standing in the aisle, tumbled forward. That didn’t bother the bus driver. When he had switched the engine off he took his comb out of his shirt pocket and parted his oiled hair neatly, looking in the rear view mirror. For a moment he examined his well-tended, thin moustache, then smiled at himself with satisfaction and got out of the bus, whistling.
He looked at the clock on the church tower, compared the time with his watch, and adjusted the watch.
“More than twelve hours of driving,” said Elias Mushtak in surprise, as he climbed out of the door at the back and glanced at his own watch. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to go back until next morning.
Elias looked at the bus driver. Men with oiled hair revolted him. Depending on their age, they looked like either rent boys or pimps. The driver threw a few foreign cigarettes to the farm hands and impoverished-looking workers standing around, and they thanked him. A stray dog scented something for his hungry belly, and cautiously approached, wagging his tail. But the bus driver kicked him hard in the side, sending the animal scampering away and yowling with pain.
“That’s not normal, is it?” said Elias indignantly. “A dog is one of God’s creatures too — did you see that, a poor hungry dog, and what does that pimp do? Kicks it in the ribs,” he said angrily but quietly to one of the peasants who had been on the bus.
“All townies are bastards,” the man replied, sending a waft of bad breath Elias’s way. Farid’s father felt like kicking him in the ribs.
The bus driver strutted around his vehicle, put a ladder up and climbed to the roof, which was loaded with cases, crates, and bags. He picked up one piece of baggage after another, called out, “Whose is this, then?” and before any owner could speak up it was flying down to the waiting crowd. Elias Mushtak shook his head in annoyance when his own case landed roughly on the ground. “Bloody bastard,” he muttered. It was followed by a smaller case in which Claire had packed underwear, socks and towels. Everything, as required by the monastery, bore the initials FM and his date of birth: 230640. The large case contained coats, pullovers, and other winter clothes. Trousers and shirts were not needed, because everyone wore the same black monastic habit.