“So that was it!” cried Josef, striking his brow with the flat of his hand. Displeased, the man went back to his superior officer, who next moment called his team together and marched to the exit with them. Farid was called three more times before the Air France plane rolled on to the runway.
“That traitor really did mean to kill Farid. And I’m absolutely sure now that he was the one who gave me away. Damn him,” swore Matta on the way back in the taxi. His little three-wheeled Suzuki scooter was still parked outside Farid’s house. It was just after nine when Claire, Matta, and Faride got out. Claire paid the driver, thanked Matta and his wife for coming with her, and waved as they rode away on Matta’s Suzuki. It was only a short ride.
“But where are you going at this time of night?” asked Faride, when she noticed that Matta was not dismounting from the scooter. She herself was exhausted.
“I need a little fresh air to get over Farid leaving. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be very quiet and take care not to wake you when I come in.”
Slowly, he rode down the alleys, and then came to broad Bab Tuma Street. Less than ten minutes later he reached Marcel Karameh Street. He stopped outside Number 31, switched the engine off, and sat there for a while.
The sultry September night lay heavy over the city. People were sleeping with their windows and balcony doors open. Matta knew that Bulos spent the night in the attic storey, apart from his wife. There was still a light on up there.
Just before midnight it went out. Matta waited for another fifteen minutes, and then looked at the time once more. He was sure that Farid was well over the border into Lebanon by now. He quietly got out of his three-wheeled scooter and tied a large jute sack around his waist. Then, soundless as a panther, he began climbing the old ivy.
BOOK OF LOVE VII
Those who are loved do not die.
BEIRUT, SEPTEMBER 1969
299. Arrival
Sarkis and Georgina Shammas, man and wife, entered the lobby of the Hotel Paris in East Beirut. The man at the reception desk inspected them suspiciously.
“Do you have a double room for the night?” asked the husband.
“Yes, sir, and all rooms have a direct view of the sea. Fifty lira a day, breakfast included,” replied the receptionist automatically.
“D’accord.” Sarkis Shammas looked at his wife, and nodded.
“May I see your passports, please? You’ll be aware that since the civil war in Jordan and the mass exodus of Palestinians we have to register our guests’ passports. I know it’s a nuisance, but …”
“Here you are,” replied the guest, putting two Syrian passports down on the counter. When the hotel clerk read the names he gave them a friendly smile. “Right, I won’t be needing those any more,” he said, handing the documents back. “You’re one of us. You know — well, I can speak frankly now. It’s not just Palestinians, it’s all kinds of Muslims coming here: hungry Pakistanis, Afghans, Indonesians, God knows who else. They marry some Lebanese Muslim woman or other, and that makes them Lebanese. Then they breed like rabbits, and we Christians, the real Lebanese, get the blame for it in our own country. You’re welcome here, sir, very welcome,” reiterated the man behind the desk in friendly tones. “My cousin lives in Bab Tuma. Do you know him? François Frangi, that’s his name, are you acquainted with him?”
“No.” The stranger’s voice sounded brittle and nipped all curiosity in the bud.
The hotel bellboy, a thin Sudanese in a bright red uniform, came hurrying up. The two cases were heavy, and he hauled them into the first-floor room groaning quietly. When he came back downstairs he was beaming all over his face.
“Real gentlefolks,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“You mean more than a lira tip?” asked the clerk at reception. “Let me guess — two lira?”
The bellboy grinned. “More than that.”
So my nose didn’t let me down, thought the receptionist. Prosperous Christians on honeymoon, most likely. No, he must correct that assessment, very prosperous Christians. They didn’t even haggle. He would have let them have the room half-price in this slack season. And now they tipped the bellboy more than two lira. Only the super-rich Saudis handed out more.
“Three?”
“That’s right,” replied the Sudanese, his eyebrows shooting up as he grinned with delight.
300. The Answer
As soon as Georgina and Sarkis Shammas had closed the door of their room behind the bellboy, they fell on the big bed, almost fainting with desire.
They kissed, laughed, wept for joy, and undressed each other. The woman pressed close to the man and sucked his lower lip, while he caressed her and kissed her right leg, which she had flung over his shoulder.
And when he could delay his climax no longer, he told her he loved her. The woman felt as if liquid fire were running through her veins. “I love you too, Farid,” she said.
When they had quenched their thirst for the first time, they lay side by side, and he licked her perspiring face.
“I find it so hard to call you Sarkis,” she said. “Why was it so easy for you to say Georgina to me? Have you ever had a relationship with a Georgina?” And she affectionately pulled his earlobe.
“No, nothing like that, but in the underground you get used to new names quickly.”
“Farid and Rana are right for a love story, but Sarkis and Georgina sound to me more like saints’ names. Kyrie eleison.”
Farid laughed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t pick and choose. As I understand it, the forger used the names of children who died in our own birth years. The only thing that mattered was for the passports to get us over the Syrian border safe and sound. I’m sure Mahdi was quick to pass my name on to all the border checkpoints. We fly at thirteen hours tomorrow. When we leave the hotel after breakfast I’ll destroy the forged passports on the way to the airport, and then we’ll be Rana and Farid again — for ever.”
“Are we really safe at last? And now can you tell me why we’re flying to Germany and not France?”
“Yes, dear heart, we have two places to study at Heidelberg. I’ll continue my researches into chemistry, and you can study philosophy if you want to. Claire’s cousin got us accepted. He’s a well-known Orientalist at the university. And no one will find us there. Mahdi and his secret service have known we were planning to go to France for some time. So I confirmed them in that belief, and even organized the flight. Claire gave me the money for an air ticket with Air France, and I let Mahdi know, through a good friend, when I’d be flying. The bastard will certainly have found out details from the airline, and if I know him he was at the airport in person to see me humiliated. The plane was due to take off just as we arrived in Beirut.”
“Are you sure?”
“That we’ve shaken him off? As good as certain. I’ll get in touch with Claire from Germany once we have nothing more to fear, and then we’ll find out all about it.”
“My compliments! What a good thing my lover knows his way about the underground,” said Rana, embracing him. He smelled particularly delicious today. Soon she fell asleep.
When she woke up it was already day outside. Light filtered through the slats of the shutters. Farid was breathing peacefully. He looked more handsome than ever in the dim light, and she tenderly nibbled his throat. He woke up and kissed her.