Although the telephone was ringing almost without a break, Farid waited in vain all evening for one particular call, but it was always someone else on the line. Hadn’t Rana heard that he was free? Once, when the company were talking about amazing natural phenomena, Claire had mentioned the milk teeth that Rana’s grandmother grew before her death. She had died just before Christmas, said Claire, who in spite of the hostility between the two families had gone to the funeral. Farid was amazed to think of his mother going there on her own, and he knew she had done it only for Rana’s sake. But where was Rana now?
All the neighbours and relations came, but something strange oppressed Farid’s heart: they were all acting as if he had merely been away on a journey. At first he couldn’t understand it, but gradually he realized they didn’t want to acknowledge where he had been since April of last year, they didn’t want to know that he had raised his voice against Satlan in spite of them and their silence, and had gone to prison for it. Worst of all, he thought, was his father, who when he came in late that evening was almost embarrassed when he embraced him, and could think of nothing better to say than, “I hope that’ll teach you that politics are not for us Christians. You’d better leave them alone!”
Farid was determined to do the exact opposite.
But he heard the worst news only just before midnight, when Matta, the last guest, had left the house. Claire took his hands, kissed him on the eyes, and shed tears. Then he knew that something bad had happened to Rana.
BOOK OF LOVE VI
Love lives only in the memory but it needs oblivion too.
DAMASCUS, APRIL 1960 — OCTOBER 1961
205. A Bus Ride
Rana had chosen a window seat. The bus was almost empty when she boarded it, and filled up only as it came closer and closer to the Old Town. She suddenly noticed a man molesting a woman from behind in the crush of passengers. The woman turned around and asked him to keep his distance. The man acted as if he didn’t understand, but Rana saw the bulge in his trousers. She turned away, disgusted, and looked out of the window.
The bus had just reached the Al Buzuriye spice market. Memories surfaced in her mind. Memories of the year 1960, when she was still studying literature at the university, and taking lessons in painting and drawing from a well-known woman artist at the same time. She had wanted to be an artist herself, but she knew that she couldn’t earn a living that way. Literature had been her second passion, and with a degree in it she could at least survive by teaching.
Back then, she too had been standing in a crowded bus, and suddenly felt a man very close to her back. His hot breath burned her neck. A cloud of sweat and a smell like a brimming ashtray enveloped her. She felt sick. The man kept pressing against her. Then she felt his hard member between her buttocks. She turned angrily, and was surprised to see how inoffensive the man looked. He had a small beard, and wore glasses. Rana asked him to keep his distance. He smiled and went on pushing and waggling himself about, as if to get through his trousers, her dress, and two sets of underwear. She asked him a second time, but that just encouraged him to take even more liberties. “Don’t be like that, admit it, you’re enjoying it,” he whispered, holding her hip firmly in one hand.
At that she slapped him in the face so hard that he lost his balance and fell on another man’s lap. Rana had expected all the passengers to turn on him and support her. But it was exactly the opposite. Apart from one young woman, they had all been against her and took the shameless man under their protection. One man was particularly indignant. “There’s no decency or morals these days,” he cried. “To think I’d live to see the day when a woman hits a man.”
“She’s no woman,” the man whose face she had slapped replied. “I swear she’s a man.” Rana got out at the next stop and took a taxi home.
This time she heard the woman quietly begging her molester to stop, and then, after three or four stops, saw her escaping to the safety of a seat that had just been vacated. The importunate man, now standing behind a farmer, cursed his bad luck in clearly audible tones.
When the bus reached Saitun Alley, Rana glanced at Farid’s house. A burning pain stabbed her breast, and she began to cry. A woman near her asked if there was anything she could do. Rana shook her head. “Thank you, no, it’s just a sad memory,” she whispered.
A few days after her last meeting with Farid, she had longed for a word from him. Never guessing what had happened, she called him at home. Claire answered the phone, and after a few words her voice failed her. Rana’s heart was racing anxiously. Gradually, she learned that Farid had been arrested. It was as much as Claire could do to tell her. She ended by saying there was nothing anyone could do for him.
Rana felt desolate as she had never in her life felt before. She hung up, ran out, took a taxi and went to Farid’s mother. That had been about midday, and Claire was alone. She embraced the girl, and they both wept. Farid’s mother had aged by years within a few days. You could see grey hairs on her head for the first time. Rana stayed for several hours.
“You can come here whenever you feel like it,” said Claire, hugging her as she said goodbye. “Farid loves you very much.”
“I love him too,” said Rana, hurrying out. At that time his mother didn’t even know if he was still alive. No lawyers could be hired by a prisoner’s family, no questions officially asked. It was only by roundabout ways and with many bribes that she and Elias discovered he was being held in Gahan. However, they couldn’t visit him or write him letters. Even the powerful Catholic patriarch made only one remark, which soon became habitual in his mouth: “If it were murder, robbery, or hashish, I would have spoken up for him, but he’s a political.”
When Rana came home she stuck Farid’s photograph into the last page of her Bible. Jack was always snooping, and even searched her chest of drawers, but he didn’t touch religious books.
A week later her mother heard of Farid’s arrest, and gave her spite free rein. All her hatred of the Mushtaks surfaced, and even Rana’s father was glad that their arch-enemy’s son had fallen into the hands of the police. “The Mushtaks are great tacticians, but they have no backbone. They’ll join any party. They’ve already had Hablanists, Dartanists and Shaklanists among them. Today they’re Satlanists, Ba’athists, Syrian Nationalists and communists. There’s always one of them supporting the party in power and another in prison. That way they can be rulers and martyrs at the same time. I’m sure that if the Muslim Brotherhood came to power a Mushtak would convert to Islam like a shot. Subtle, that’s what they are, subtle,” he said in tones of abhorrence.
All these memories were now passing through Rana’s mind on the bus ride. It was at the next stop that she had dismounted when she last saw Farid in his dead grandmother’s house. After a few steps she had reached al-Kassabah Alley and then turned into Misq Alley. He had been waiting for her. His silent grief, his presentiments were as fresh in her mind now as then, when she was lying in bed with him. The room had been overheated, but he was freezing cold.
Now the bus was going through the eastern gate. Then it turned left, and followed the wall of the Old Town before it drove towards the stadium and Abbasid Square.
Rana still could hardly grasp how events in her life had come so thick and fast after that last day with Farid, and she hated herself for being so naïve at the time. She shook her head.