“But three days later he came home without his glasses. He didn’t tell you children why, but he’s never kept anything from me. He’d been horrified when he was suddenly able to see his beloved Marta so clearly. As I told you, she’d been a beauty once, but she hadn’t aged well. She had growths on her nose, her hair was thin, and her hands had warts all over them. Rimon had never noticed that over the years. So that day he threw the glasses under a tram.”
209. Spring in Autumn
Rana heard the news that Farid was free from Laila, the morning after his return. She phoned his house at nine. Claire laughed. “You’re faster than a gazelle,” she joked, and felt life flowing through her veins again.
Farid had just woken up. His first night in freedom had been a short one. Matta and his fiancée Faride had been the last guests to leave, at about one in the morning. They wanted Farid to be witness at their wedding, and had been waiting for him all these months. Farid was deeply moved. He laid a hand on Matta’s head. “Of course I will,” he said. “You only have to name the day.”
“We already have. Matta has been fixing a new day with the priest every three months, hoping for your release. Last time the priest advised us to ask a different witness,” said Faride. “Thank God I was there too, or Matta would just about have murdered him. He told the priest never to make such a suggestion again, but to pray for his brother Farid to be set free. Now we’ve picked the first Sunday in December, and if that date suits you we’ll get married at last.” All the time Faride was talking, Matta looked at her lovingly, and now he nodded happily.
“Then that’s agreed,” said Farid, and he got to his feet and marked Sunday, 3 December with a large cross.
He had been tired when he went to bed, but his feelings were in such turmoil that he could hardly sleep. He was smiling at the scene with the priest as Faride described it, imagining Matta’s fury and the cleric’s pale face. What a loyal, staunch friend Matta was! Then, at the end of the evening, came the news of Rana’s forced marriage. And the place was so noisy! Damascus at night pulsated with an incredible volume of sound for someone who had spent over a year out in the desert. All Farid had heard in the prison camp were the screams of the prisoners and the cry of jackals. The desert swallowed up everything else. But here the city never seemed to sleep, and finally, when there was no one left in the streets calling out or hooting car horns, the muezzin began calling the faithful to prayer.
Farid woke up, and went into the courtyard barefoot. Claire was sitting by the fountain. He asked quietly who it was on the phone. She spoke into the receiver. “He must have picked up your scent, he’s just asking who you are. Shall I tell him?”
Rana laughed.
“Hello, dear heart.” Farid greeted her, in the words he had been repeating over and over for months on end.
“Hello. Do you still want to see me in spite of everything that’s happened?” she asked shyly.
“Every day,” he said. “Your marriage means nothing to me, and if it doesn’t mean anything to you either then let’s see each other.” Those were the very words that Rana had been hoping for months to hear.
She told him the way to where she lived.
The city was in a bustling mood, it was beautiful, picturesque October weather, and the Damascenes felt something like liberty again for the first time in years. Farid didn’t think that General Amilan, who had sent Satlan packing, was any better than his predecessor, but the people’s hopes of democracy were almost tangible, and the release of all political prisoners made an encouraging start. The old Syrian political parties and the newspapers banned by Satlan emerged into the light of day again.
Damascus is at its loveliest in autumn, thought Farid. The cries of street sellers and the swallows in the sky sounded like melancholy songs of farewell.
The university was to open its doors again in two weeks’ time. What a pity, Farid thought, that all his dreams of going through his studies there with Rana close to him had been dashed by her forced marriage.
Some things had changed since his disappearance. Josef had told him, in rapid staccato telegraphese, that the Interior Minister of the time had closed the club after Gibran did something stupid. Now they were trying to get permission to reopen it. Gibran had been arrested, and after a short while was handed over to the al-Asfuriye mental hospital, where he was still a patient.
“What about Karime?”
“She doesn’t want to hear any more about Gibran. She had to bear a good deal of humiliation because of him, and now she just wants to be left alone.”
Late that night Amin had phoned. He was in Aleppo in the north of the country, he said, and wanted to congratulate Farid on his release and remind him that, now everything was out in the open again, it was time for him to take up the battle once more. Amin told him that he and four other communists had managed to escape from the much-feared prison camp in Tad. He had found shelter with a family in Aleppo who were nothing to do with politics, but had guts. Then he said that he had fallen in love with Salime, the eldest daughter of the family, and they had married three months ago. He would very much like to see Farid, he added, but it was better for him to stay in Aleppo, where he had a lot of work laying tiles.
“I’ll miss you very much,” said Farid.
“I’ll miss you too,” replied Amin. “I’ve heard good things about the way you stood up to Osmani. I can’t stand the man. I’m …” and here Amin hesitated for a moment, “I’m very proud of you,” he went on at last, and Farid said nothing, wondering how such news could make its way to Aleppo from a camp in the desert.
Rana had been living in her new house since last summer. It was a present from her father to the newly married couple, and stood in Fardus Street opposite the cinema, which also bore the name of the street, in the middle of the vibrant business quarter of the New Town. The building had been constructed in the 1930s in the European style, of white stone.
The first floor was rented out to a large Air France branch office and a fashion boutique. Rana and her husband lived in the two floors above those premises. The flat roof, which had a tall screen all around it, was Rana’s domain. Orange trees, oleanders, roses, and jasmine grew there in large containers. She had turned what was once a maid’s bedroom on the roof into a little studio, where she often sat painting.
Rami never came up to the roof. As he saw it, a rooftop was the place to hang out washing, and the laundry was women’s business. He regarded painting as an occupation for women too, and perhaps for men who weren’t quite right in the head.
Rana marvelled at Farid’s lack of scars. She had had nightmares in which he was badly disfigured by torture and abuse. But here he was before her, more handsome than ever, somehow more virile, wittier. As soon as he saw her he had run to her, took her in his strong arms, and cried, “Where shall I take you, princess?” Then he kissed her on the mouth.
“Oh, put me down, I’m heavy! We must go two floors up,” she whispered in his ear.
A steep staircase led up past those two floors to the flat roof. Once there, he could enjoy the sight of the plants and the attractively furnished studio.
Rana was paler than she used to be, but she smelled even more fragrant than before. He kissed her, and soon after that laid her down on the big old couch in her studio as naturally as if they hadn’t been parted for a second. Close to her, Farid once again had the feeling he had known ever since they were together in Beirut. As soon as he kissed her she seemed to surround him like the world itself. She sank into him through every pore, and he and she were one.