Farid said not a word of apology during this hearing. Instead, he accused Jakub of grovelling, for as a young man he himself had published poems on Stalin, praising the occupation by the French as an act of civilization. Farid defended the magazine, line by line, and declined to discuss what the dictator had said, offered, or whispered to the Secretary General. The point that mattered was whether the magazine enlightened young people in this country. “And listen to this, Comrade Jakub,” he cried, raising his voice now, “I’ll still be in favour of enlightenment in ten years’ time, unlike you — or are you going to reissue your hymns of praise to General Weygand and the heroic Stalin?”
A grey, veiled look came over Jakub’s face. Farid was sweating in his excitement.
“Why would we want to go into delicate matters back in the past when you were still in nappies?” An older comrade came to Jakub’s aid. Such a reply was not the kind of thing you found in any of the Russian, Chinese, or Cuban novels about social intercourse among comrades.
The man who had spoken was a textiles worker and had spent many years in prison for the Party, but even prison, Farid thought whenever he met him, is no cure for stupidity.
“We’re here to discuss your abuse of the Central Committee’s confidence in you, and we must tackle the subject of the consequences.”
At that moment Farid realized that the verdict on him had already been learned by heart, for these last words were not those of a textiles worker, but of a bureaucrat of Osmani’s kind.
Isa too understood what the remark disguised. He rose, trembling, and apologized volubly and submissively. As he did so, he died to Farid. The litany of self-accusation was demeaning.
Three years passed before Farid saw Isa again, by chance, in a cinema. Isa smiled at him, but the smile aroused only revulsion in Farid, who turned away.
The leadership was in a hurry in that spring of 1964. A week later, Farid was removed from all his posts in the Party. Even his membership was frozen for six months, the next harshest penalty to expulsion. And this penalty in itself showed that Osmani was behind the whole thing. He didn’t want to make a martyr of Farid, which was what would have happened if he had been expelled immediately. Osmani was relying on his tried and trusted methods: humiliation first, then keeping his victim on tenterhooks until, driven by his own injured ambition, he left the Party of his own accord. That was Osmani’s aim.
If there was ever a figure of authority who knew the way mean tricks would work, he was the man. Just under a year later, Farid left the Party when it was next shaken by disputes. This was early in January 1965, when the armed Palestinian resistance movement erupted under Arafat’s leadership. The Communist Party had instructions from Moscow to be suspicious of armed conflict, and it ignored these events. Arafat was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood and a Saudi agent, whispered the communists, like old washerwomen gossiping. Officially, they said nothing. At the end of January hundreds of young members left the Party. Farid justified the termination of his membership in a furious letter that no one ever read.
However, it was a step into the void. Low as the Communist Party had sunk, it was a community offering mutual protection, a club of like-minded people. Now he had to endure the feeling that he belonged nowhere. He roamed the city alone, with a record playing in his head and stuck in a groove: nine years for nothing, and all you get is failure.
He felt deeply ashamed. He dared not phone Amin, but he immediately told Rana what had happened. She was glad that now he would have more time for her and their love, and he could finish his studies as soon as possible.
But the sense of being thrown off track accompanied him like a shadow. Curiously, he was ashamed to tell Josef about it. For six months, he never mentioned that he had left the Party. When he finally did pluck up the courage to do it, he was grateful for his friend’s understanding. Josef never even hinted that he could have told him so.
219. The Fair
Rana called early, and Claire joked with her for a long time. Farid came into the inner courtyard barefoot, guessing who his mother was talking to. “And here comes a beggar,” said Claire, “unwashed, unshaven, barefoot. You can see how much he loves you. He wouldn’t have jumped out of bed so quickly for anyone else, even me.” Then she handed him the receiver. She was happy; his girlfriend had just told her that Farid had left the Communist Party, and from now on she would be able to sleep easily again.
Rana was in cheerful mood. The International Autumn Fair in Damascus opened its gates in a few days’ time. Farid didn’t understand why she was so pleased by the prospect of the exhibition, which bored him with all its stands of industrial exhibits. When he said so, she laughed. “Industrial exhibits? Stands? My love, who do you think I am, the Minister of Trade? No, they give the best concerts in the world at the Fair. Last year I saw Feiruz. I’d like to go to something like that with you this year. You can hear great international figures, people such as Duke Ellington, Miriam Makeba, famous Cuban and Hungarian groups.”
“Who’s Duke Ellington?” he cautiously asked.
“Don’t say you’ve never heard of him! He’s one of the greatest jazz musicians in the world. But perhaps he was taboo for you — after all, he’s an American imperialist. Last September people were dancing in the auditorium, and they wouldn’t let him leave the stage until he’d given them a tenth encore. That’s why he likes coming to Damascus so much.”
Farid suddenly felt how much there was in the world for him yet to discover. And once again it was Rana who opened the door to life for him. She had already bought tickets for Feiruz. Her husband Rami often had to be abroad with delegations of some kind, why she wasn’t allowed to know. She supposed he was buying weapons for the army.
Josef knew Duke Ellington’s music. He had been at that legendary first appearance of the musician in the city in 1963, and Laila wanted to go as well. Through her husband, she bought seats in one of the front rows, at a discount too. The three of them went. Laila got on well with Josef at once, and soon they were joking together with as much easy familiarity as if they had been friends for ever. On the way back she even linked arms with him. Finally she invited him and Farid in for a glass of tea, and they stayed until midnight and then took a taxi home.
“How about doing a deal?” said Josef as they parted, and before Farid could ask what he meant he went on, “Your cousin for my entire tribe. What a wonderful woman!” And he laughed at his surprised friend.
Duke Ellington played wonderfully well. And Feiruz, the best of all Lebanese women singers, who had fallen in love with Damascus and appeared in the city every autumn, was fantastic. The Damascenes were at her feet. She sang softly, stood still, almost motionless, without any mime or gestures. He songs had great lyrics and catchy tunes. Unlike Um Kulthum, who sang of the tragedy of abandonment, of loneliness, and of unrequited love, Feiruz sang songs full of confidence, even cheerfulness, usually to a dance rhythm that had her audience tapping their feet. They roared with enthusiasm, perhaps partly because Feiruz was a strong woman, and in the middle of Arabia at that! Rana adored the singer. She held Farid’s hand and kissed it fleetingly now and then. He could smell her intoxicating fragrance.
After the concert she asked him home with her. They went up to her little studio on the roof and made love until they were exhausted. The night filled them with peace and confidence. But when Farid dressed again, Rana suddenly began shedding tears. He looked at her in concern.
“Don’t worry, I’m only crying because this is such a beautiful moment. I’m crying because I can never manage to hold such moments and keep them.”