Farid was surprised not by the frankness of Laila’s opposition to communism but by her harsh and uncompromising condemnation of it. “I’ve no quarrel with justice,” she said, “but all these ideas — whether it’s communism, national socialism, or socialism — bring some allegedly infallible, inspired dictator to power, and we can have shady characters of our own for free. At least they speak Arabic and not Russian.”
Farid was angry, but Laila soon changed the subject. “Would you like to go to the cinema?” She was very keen to see The Bridge on the River Kwai with Alec Guinness, which had been showing to packed houses in Damascus for months. The music from the soundtrack was whistled everywhere in the streets.
They appreciated the air conditioning in the cinema. Out of doors, the July heat had been stifling for days. Both cousins enjoyed the film, and sat together eating ices after it.
“Would you like the key to my apartment?” Laila surprisingly asked as he walked home with her. “You can see Rana there any time, and the two of you can do as you like except one thing; you must keep out of my husband’s music room, understand?”
“Really? You’d let me have a key?” asked Farid incredulously.
“Of course, but only for you and Rana. Your Communist Party stays outside,” she said, pinching his earlobe.
“By all means, my lady Abbess,” he promised.
When he got home the women had left, and four large glass jars of stuffed aubergines, enough to last a year, were standing ready on the kitchen table.
“Rana called,” said Claire. “She sounded sad. She says she’d try again tomorrow, about three in the afternoon.”
Farid wished he could wind time forward. Next morning he visited his school friend Kamal Sabuni, at whose house he had first met Rana, hoping Kamal’s sister Dunia might be able to tell him what the matter was.
But she wasn’t in, and Kamal, who was in deep gloom that day, didn’t know anything about Rana. His family had lost everything in the nationalization of their textiles factory only just after they’d paid a fortune to modernize the looms. His mother spent all night in tears, he said.
Farid soon left and took the bus home. But a broken-down truck was blocking the road at the spice market, and the bus driver simply switched off his engine and went to drink a glass of tea somewhere.
Farid kept looking nervously at the time. It was two already. In the end he got out of the bus and ran home down Straight Street. He was out of breath when he arrived. Claire had just finished her siesta and was making herself a mocha in the kitchen. She called out cheerfully, “Rana hasn’t phoned yet.” Secretly she was glad that her son was in love with this girl. She knew that God loves lovers, yet a cold hand reached out for her heart when she thought of what the two clans had already done to each other.
Rana called at three exactly. At first she just stammered a little and asked how he was. Farid knew at once that she had bad news for him. All of a sudden she stopped. His heart was racing.
“Are you still there?” he asked, thinking at the same time what a silly and superfluous question that was. “I love you,” he quickly added.
“I love you too,” said Rana, and she began to cry. Aunt Mariam had given her away. Now she wasn’t allowed out of the house on her own. She was with a girlfriend at the moment, she said, calling from the friend’s place, and her brother Jack was sitting in a café down below, waiting for her. He was like a menacing shadow, she added, and he kept reminding her of her Aunt Jasmin’s fate. He frightened her.
170. Rasuk and Elizabeth
For the first time since Farid had known him, Josef’s father was despondent. “I keep losing my most capable workers and best stonemasons. They go to Kuwait or Saudi Arabia where they can earn ten times what they get here, and I’m left with idiots who can’t even hold a chisel.”
“Poultry cages” was his term for the modern concrete buildings that began to disfigure the face of the city at the end of the fifties. “I hate those grey boxes. They’re falling into ruin even before the scaffolding’s taken down,” he said, shaking his head.
“You have to move with the times. People think that style of building is very chic now, and it’s cheaper,” said Madeleine. Her husband just waved the idea away, looking gloomy.
Josef and Farid thought they would go to the club that afternoon. When they were far enough from home, Josef told his friend that his father was getting hardly any construction contracts now, and was thinking of going to Saudi Arabia himself. “The rich men there have their palaces built of the very best stone. But Madeleine’s against it. We have enough in reserve, she said, she doesn’t want to lose my father to the desert.”
“What did he say?”
“He may be able to stand up to an army but he can’t stand up to his wife. So he’s staying here,” said Josef, regretfully.
When they reached the club they found a surprise waiting for them. Rasuk was sitting in the café with a young woman. They both looked happy. The woman had red hair and a pretty, fair-complexioned face, freckled all over.
“This is Elizabeth. She comes from England. My name is Rasuk. I come from Damascus,” said Rasuk in English, imitating the manner of someone just beginning to learn the language. He turned back to the red-haired woman and went on, still in English. “And these are my friends Farid and Josef. They speak very well English and very bad Arabic.”
“Hi,” said the woman. That was all. Her eyes were fixed on Rasuk like suckers. She took hardly any notice of Farid and Josef. Disappointed, the two of them sat down at the bar and left the couple alone.
“Isn’t Gibran here?” Josef asked the licensee of the café. Taufik, who usually knew as much about his protégé as any sporting manager, had no idea whether he was coming or not.
“We ought to hang up a calendar in the club and mark Gibran’s appearances on it,” suggested Josef.
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Taufik, looking at the Englishwoman, who had risen to her feet. She was wearing a brightly coloured summer dress, and walked gracefully. When she disappeared through the door leading to the ladies’ room, Josef and Farid turned to look at Rasuk. He was beaming with delight.
“Where did you dredge her up from, then?” asked Josef.
“She asked me where the Bulos Chapel was, though she was standing right outside it. That made us both laugh, and then I showed her the Old Town. Elizabeth is very amusing,” replied Rasuk proudly.
“Is she a tourist?” asked Taufik.
“No, a student. She’s planning to study Arabic here for a year and then go back to Cambridge.”
“Aha,” said Josef, “then I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of you for the next twelve months.” There was a touch of envy in his voice.
“Oh no, I’ll be coming here often,” Rasuk assured them. But when Elizabeth came back he paid at once and left the café with her. As they reached the door she stopped, turned to the men, and called, “Salam aleikhum.”
“Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth, hope to see you again,” replied old Taufik in perfect English without any trace of accent. Josef and Farid stared at him, taken aback. “Thirteen years in the British army,” Taufik explained. “That’s when I met Gibran.”
“Don’t you mean you were in the navy?” asked Farid.
“No, no, the army. I was stationed in Aqaba on the Red Sea. I was guarding the commissariat.”