Farid told her about his imprisonment, and then heard the story of the worst day in her life, her defeat as Rami and her family practised their deception on her. And she told him that she had resolved to live like a cactus until they could leave the country together, for no kind of life was possible for them here.
She took his head in both hands and kissed his eyes. “I’ll pray for you, my heart,” she said, kissing him again, “I’ll pray that nothing happens to you while you’re underground liberating humanity.” And then she could no longer restrain her laughter. They rolled on the floor, play-fighting.
They couldn’t have said, later, how often they made love that day. In the afternoon, a sparrow flew down from the orange tree and looked into the studio. It chirruped and flew away, only to come back with another sparrow. Now they were both looking at Rana and Farid.
“That’s his girlfriend,” said Farid. “He’s showing her how to enjoy forbidden love.”
Rana smiled. “No, I’ve been feeding the first one for weeks. He’s probably jealous. The other one isn’t a girl, it’s another male and his friend. I expect they’re challenging you to fight.”
When Farid sat up, the sparrows flew away. Rana looked at her naked lover. Behind him, she saw the jasmine in all the glory of its white flowers, and for a moment she thought it was spring.
BOOK OF GROWTH III
Courage kills and so does cowardice.
DAMASCUS, 1961 — 1965
210. Josef’s Injury
The university was a surprise to Farid in every respect. The natural sciences department did have super-modern buildings and the most modern of laboratories, but the course of studies itself was extremely outmoded, and relied heavily on learning by heart. The standard in the first year was well below what it had been in his elite school. Two years earlier a number of scientists had left the country, since professors could earn ten times as much in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia as in Damascus. They were replaced by young, inexperienced lecturers. Sometimes the new professors didn’t even have doctoral degrees.
Even at the start of his university course, Farid realized that after studying natural sciences for four years he would come away with nothing but a handsome diploma in fine calligraphy, adorned with arabesques. It was absurd even to think of research and development.
But if he was honest with himself, he didn’t mind that too much. He could perfectly well imagine a life full of more interesting things than chemical formulae: there was Rana, whom he would see often now, there was his work in the underground, there were all the novels he was reading, and the club with its motley collection of members.
The club got its license back two weeks after the coup, and a week later it reopened with a big party. Amin came specially from Aleppo for the occasion, with his pale, quiet wife Salime. Farid thought his friend was much more amusing and relaxed than before. His archenemy Michel showed the little tiler respect too.
The whole neighbourhood celebrated, and there were some thirty dishes to choose from, as well as plenty of different drinks. Even the bishop came, and delivered a gentle warning against making jokes about the government. “I could tell jokes too, my children, and His Holiness John XXIII is a kindly man and likes cheerfulness, but I refrain from telling them all the same.”
“What a shame!” someone cried. The assembled guests tried every way they could to spur him on to tell those jokes. He shook with laughter, and those sitting near him crowed with glee to see the red wine dripping to the floor. Taufik hurried up with a dishcloth to dry the bishop’s hand.
“No, no, I’m not telling you,” he said. “A man has two ears but only one mouth, and that illustrates the divine wisdom of telling only half of what you hear.”
Some looked embarrassed, for Gibran was still having psychiatric treatment, but rumour had it he was soon to be released.
There was someone else missing too, although few noticed. “Suleiman’s been arrested,” Josef whispered to Farid. “The new regime has an account to settle with all secret service men.”
“But Suleiman was only a little fish,” said Farid in surprise.
“I know, but they’re after the little fish and the big fish alike. Sarrag the criminal secret police chief is in jail too.”
“Criminal, did you say? It was your revered Satlan who promoted him to the job.”
“I believed in Satlan, yes, but I never claimed he was infallible,” said Josef dryly. “That criminal Sarrag was one of his biggest mistakes.”
“What about Suleiman’s parents?” asked Farid, trying to change the subject.
“They’re allowed to visit him. They say it was all a misunderstanding.”
“What else would they say?” replied Farid. “That he handed me and Gibran over to the secret service?”
“They certainly ought to admit it,” said Josef, “after going about telling everyone I gave Gibran away. Just because I thought his jokes about Satlan were in poor taste, and I said so openly. Taufik almost murdered me, and saw sense only at the last minute. The neighbours spat when I passed by and insulted my mother and my sisters with their accusations.”
“Oh, come on, it’s all over now. Don’t bear a grudge,” said Farid. But when he turned around, he was horrified to see that Josef had tears in his eyes.
211. Gibran’s Return
Farid was woken by the stormy ringing of the doorbell. The university was closed on Fridays, and as he had been at a meeting of his Party cell until late at night he wanted to sleep late. His mother opened the door. He sat up in bed, and heard Josef in the inner courtyard, telling Claire, “No, he’ll have to get up. Gibran’s free.”
“I’m awake,” groaned Farid. When he came down into the courtyard, Josef and his mother had already drunk their coffee.
“How about me?” he protested.
“They’re expecting you at the club. We’ve laid on a big breakfast for Gibran, and they sent me to fetch you at once. There’s tea and coffee flowing like water there, don’t worry,” Josef said, hauling Farid to the door. He just had time to drop a kiss on Claire’s cheek, and then he willingly followed his friend. She smiled. In some ways they were still little boys.
About two in the afternoon Farid had to leave the celebrations to go to the cinema. He wanted to be there as early as possible to keep a seat for Rana, who was going to be a little late. When she did arrive she would join him in the third row to the right, apparently by chance but knowing just where she was going.
In the bus he kept thinking of Gibran. Two shiny patches disfigured his temples, just like Matta’s. “The male nurse and the doctor were in a temper. It burned like hell, but the medication had left me delirious, and it was days before I realized what they’d been doing to me. But never mind, that was what I wanted.”
Gibran had risked a great deal, and when he was arrested he staked everything on a single throw: he pretended to be crazy. That trick had saved his life once before, in Indonesia. “That’s when I realized the power of madness. I was waiting to be executed — and that’s another story, but it was all to do with arms smuggling and a lot of money, and my partner wanted to be rid of me. I’ll tell you about it some other time, but there in Indonesia I found that madness was my guardian angel, and I knew I must keep it up or I’d be a dead man. So I stood outside myself, checking that I wasn’t acting normally for a single second. The Indonesians tried everything they could to make me sane again, but I just went crazier and crazier, running around the jail stark naked, shitting everywhere, almost scratching people’s eyes out, laughing like a hyena. They beat me until I fainted, and as soon as I came back to my senses I started again. It’s easy to act crazy for a short while. Any child can do it perfectly in front of the mirror — but if you want to keep it going, you have to strain yourself to the limit.