“A few more days?” asked Matta. His mouth was dry. “Get these chains off me, and I’ll make my own way to Damascus. A few more days?” he repeated, almost giving way. “Look at me, see what they’ve done to me, look at me!”
Farid felt wretched. “You must be patient. I’ll get you out of here. Trust me. You’re still too weak. They’d catch up with you and bring you back before you’d gone far. Trust me.”
“I do, I trust you more than anyone else in the world, but John beats me every day, and he kicks me in the head with his boots. He wants me to go crazy, and now you tell me I must stay here?”, he sobbed.
The keys to unlock the chains were hanging on the wall, but Farid knew that Matta would never survive another escape attempt. He rose. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can. Don’t worry. We’ll see to John,” said Farid, tearing himself away. He felt as if he were chained up there too.
“Oh, Mother, help me,” he heard Matta say before he closed the door of the little building behind him.
Large snowflakes were falling outside now. Fortunately the door of the visitors’ room wasn’t locked, and the cleaners were busy sweeping it out. Farid waved to them and strode past at a steady pace. Only in the inner courtyard did he begin to run. He went straight to Bulos.
“I’m going to Gabriel right away. He must tell John to stop it,” Farid finished his account.
Bulos looked at him, horrified. “Are you out of your mind? Gabriel? Gabriel! He’ll know at once that you’ve seen Matta, which means you’ll be giving us away. And what for? To persuade that miserable wretch to show mercy? Don’t you remember we’ve been kneeling on the icy floor for a whole week now, right in front of his nose? No, we’ll deal with John ourselves.”
“How do you mean, deal with him?” asked Farid, but just then the bell rang for afternoon lessons.
141. Punishment
A thick blanket of snow lay over the landscape, softening all its outlines. Because it was so cold, the snow turned to a dry powder that blew through every crack. The students muffled themselves up in scarves and caps to walk the short distance to lessons.
The monastery administration extended the midday break from two hours to three, and let the students play in the snow outside the walls. The inner courtyard was left almost empty.
Bulos briefly observed the busy scene, and then beckoned to Farid, who pushed his warm cap further down over his face, and followed. Bulos was making for John’s workshop, and quickly slipped in with Farid after him.
John was lying on his plank bed in the back room, arms and legs outstretched, snoring loudly. Bulos picked up a piece of metal pipe, taking care to make no sound. Next moment he was standing over the colossus, pressing the end of the pipe to his throat. John woke with a start. He sat up, making a loud gurgling noise which sounded like, “What’s going on?”
Staring at Farid with red, bewildered eyes, he tried to stand up, but a blow crashed down on his forehead. Farid jumped, and briefly closed his eyes. He heard John’s body fall back on the bed. When he opened his eyes again he saw the man’s bleeding forehead. Bulos was standing in front of John impassively, leaning on the piece of pipe like a fencer on his foil.
Suddenly he swung it back.
“What are you doing?” whispered Farid in alarm.
“Breaking the hand that tortured Matta,” replied Bulos, and before Farid had taken in what he was saying, Brother John’s right hand shattered under the blow. It sounded like wood splitting.
“Come on, quick, let’s get out of here,” gasped Bulos, throwing the piece of pipe aside and slipping out of the door again.
When Farid himself came out, Bulos had already disappeared. Farid felt his throat tighten with fear. He couldn’t go and join the others romping around in the snow. He had to be alone. Just before he reached the gateway he turned, and trudged through the snow to the flight of steps beside the church. His stomach hurt, and there was a throbbing in his temples.
He sat down in the library under the small, semi-circular window, took Kipling’s Jungle Book off a shelf, and began to read. But he couldn’t take anything in. The sentences meant nothing. He kept hearing a voice inside him repeating: John is dying.
His relief was great when he suddenly heard John’s voice echoing across the courtyard. The monastery pupils stopped playing and stood still. The monk was calling for help. Farid let out a deep breath, and was trying to read again when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s that you’re reading?” asked Gabriel, smiling.
“Oh, Kipling, just to pass the time,” replied Farid, and he looked at the table in front of him. When he raised his eyes again, he saw Bulos’s head looking in at the library door, just for a moment. Then it disappeared again.
“Brother Gabriel,” another pupil called from the door next minute. His face was pale. Gabriel turned in annoyance, and was about to put his forefinger to his lips. “Brother John’s been attacked. Abbot Maximus wants you to come quickly,” the boy went on excitedly.
Gabriel’s hand stopped half-way to his mouth. “For God’s sake!” he cried, and he hurried off at once. Bulos came in, as if he had been waiting outside the door all the time.
“What did that Judas want with you?” he asked, clearly distrustful.
“Nothing,” said Farid.
“Sure?”
“Sure,” Farid replied.
Bulos turned to leave, but his look of scorn burned Farid’s skin.
When Bulos was questioned a week later, Farid was at a loss to know why. Marcel claimed that one of the Fathers, looking out of his window, had seen Bulos leave the workshop.
“Oh, but that can’t be right,” Farid spontaneously replied. For if so, then the alleged eye-witness must have seen him too, he thought.
“What makes you so sure?” asked Marcel suspiciously. Farid bit his lip and said nothing.
“I just don’t think Bulos would do a thing like that,” he replied at last, trying hard to sound naïve.
“You’ve no idea what things he’d do,” said Marcel scornfully, turning away.
142. Marcel
It was two weeks before the bus driver brought warm clothes and boots for Matta. As Brother Tuma, standing in for John, was gentle by nature, the boy had a chance to recover a little. Farid and Bulos smuggled him some food in his prison every day, and Brother Tuma turned a blind eye.
Brother John came back early in February. His head was still bandaged, and his right arm was in plaster up to the shoulder. He said little, and walked up and down in the courtyard all day.
Matta ran away again in mid-February. But for some reason or other his flight was quickly discovered this time, and the police, who had been alerted, stopped the bus just before it reached the main road. Maximus didn’t want Matta back in the monastery. He asked the police to inform the boy’s parents.
The next rumour was that his father had gone to the police station and beat his son so badly that the boy lost consciousness and fell on his head. When he came to his senses, he was different, and spoke in a strange, confused way. The police recommended his father to take him to the al-Asfuriye mental hospital.
Bulos was interrogated again and again, from the end of February to the middle of March, but to no avail. The worst questions came from Gabriel, who seemed to know a great deal about the Syrian Brothers. Bulos now doubted the loyalty of every member of the society, Farid in particular. He might not say so explicitly, but Farid sensed his suspicion behind every remark he made. Finally the group broke up. Bulos was about to take the exams for his high school diploma, and had other aims in mind now.