“Butros and no one else is responsible for letting everyone know that Jasmin had gone astray,” said Faris after supper. “We ought to have listened to Basil and hushed the scandal up, the way those damn Mushtaks always do.”
For the first time Samia felt something akin to hatred for her own son Butros.
“You are right,” she agreed. She felt that she herself was partly to blame for her beloved daughter’s death, because she had hesitated to forgive her for so long. She hated Butros and Samuel because the murder had humiliated her too, and she lay awake all night, brooding. She imagined the riotous feasting in Damascus. When she fell asleep at last the revellers in her dream were still celebrating, but they were sitting around a large table, cutting up Jasmin and greedily devouring her flesh.
On the third morning she summoned Fahmi, her most faithful manservant. He had been ten when his parents died and he joined the Shahin household. Fahmi had always served Jusuf obediently, but it was Samia whom he idolized. And he was the only one of the servants to have worn black since Jasmin’s murder.
“I want you to go straight to that bastard Salman Mushtak and tell him that in four days’ time Butros will be getting delivery of a large consignment of guns and over sixty mule-loads of hashish from the Lebanon.”
“Oh, madame!” cried the alarmed Fahmi, taking her hand and kissing it with the humility of a slave begging to be released from the performance of an unwelcome task.
“Fahmi, Butros gave the order to have my daughter killed. When he did that, he struck me to the heart. It was attempted murder of me too, and do you know what God says about that?”
Fahmi did not reply, because he too knew that Butros had encouraged young Samuel. But he had hoped and prayed that his mistress wouldn’t find out. Now he was horrified to discover that she knew.
“Madame, I can’t turn against the hand that feeds me …”
“Fahmi, you will do as I tell you. And if that son of a whore Salman asks why you come to him of all people, you’ll say you want revenge because Butros makes your wife Salma sleep with him once a week, and you found out about it only today.”
Fahmi went red with anger and stormed out of his mistress’s room. A little later Samia heard the sound of blows and Salma’s pleading, and then there was silence. Fahmi rode off on a brown mule, going down to the village square.
Salman disliked double-dealers, but at his faithful servant Basil’s urging he listened to Fahmi. He asked him the very question that Samia had predicted. When Fahmi refused the money Mushtak offered him for his information, and said he wanted to avenge his honour, Salman finally believed what he said.
That evening, Butros came back from Damascus. He was going to act the hypocrite and call on his mother. But she cursed him as a Judas and wished death to him and his wife. Butros wasn’t about to take this lying down. He replied to her in kind, saying it was his mother’s fault that his sister had become a whore, that he was proud of encouraging Samuel to do his heroic deed. She had better retire from public view, he said, and then she could live on his charity, but if she insulted him, the head of the clan, he would throw her out.
His mother did not reply, but went to her room and wept all night. She cursed Jusuf for dying prematurely and leaving her alone.
A week later Salman Mushtak made a phone call to Damascus. That was after his faithful servant Basil had confirmed that columns of mules had been delivering their loads to the Shahins for several nights running, and then went back in the direction of Lebanon as day dawned.
Next morning not only was the whole of his arch-enemies’ large property surrounded, the entire village was sealed off by policemen and armoured cars. Evidently armed resistance was expected. There was no way out. Butros was trapped.
Bringing that police force to bear had been worth while. A large store of smuggled goods was found at the Shahins’ house. The customs officials couldn’t believe their eyes when here, in a small mountain village, they found enough ultra-modern weapons for an army. Several trucks were needed to take away all the machine guns, pistols and hand grenades, not to mention the explosives and ammunition. Another two trucks were loaded up with hashish.
Butros was devastated. He, the leader of his clan, was humiliated in the village square and taken away in handcuffs like a common criminal. His brother Basil, Rana’s father, although Butros had had time to alert him, wasn’t even allowed into the family home. The lawyer stood on the other side of the police barrier, like everyone else in the village, watching the arrest.
When he saw his brother coming out of the house barefoot, in his pyjamas, and being knocked about by one of the soldiers, he boiled with rage. He turned to the officer commanding the troop. “Captain, is this any way to treat distinguished citizens?” he asked, forcing himself to sound courteous and almost pleading.
The officer looked at him with watery eyes. “No,” he said, “but that’s no citizen, that’s a criminal who was planning to overthrow the government with his weapons.”
“I really don’t believe it. There must be some mistake. I know the man, and he’s a patriot,” said Basil, trying to sow doubt in the officer’s mind, but the seed fell on stony ground.
“You call that son of a whore a patriot?” replied the captain indignantly. “I wouldn’t proclaim your friendship with him so loud if I were you. Those who mingle with pigs will soon smell of the sty.” Then he climbed into his jeep and left the dazed Basil standing there, very correct in his collar and tie.
Salman was watching the scene from his balcony, visibly enjoying his view of events in the village square. He drank his tea, slurping out loud, and now and then he whispered, “What a shame you’re not here to see this, Father.”
That morning he felt he was in the forecourt of Paradise. But he was mistaken in the extent of his rejoicing, for the new head of the house of Shahin was Faris. Equipped with his own high intelligence and his mother’s blessing, he intended to make his clan absolute rulers of Mala at long last. Faris abhorred bloodshed, so he had no designs on Salman’s life. He wanted to ruin him utterly, and then wish him long life and health.
47. Shaklan’s Birthday Party
Torrential rain fell all through December and January. There was no frost that winter, there were no storms. The people thanked God, because rain in this dry country meant rich harvests and green steppes for the flocks of sheep to graze, and this piece of good fortune was ascribed to God’s approval of the new Syrian head of state, the devout Colonel Shaklan, who had seized power for the second time at the end of November. This time he didn’t intend to go back to his barracks. A year earlier he had led a first successful coup, and then he gave the civilians their chance, but they changed the government five times in eleven months without rescuing the country from chaos.
Shaklan intended to organize Syria with strict military discipline, like a regiment, and make the Syrians observe law and order by handing out generous rewards and merciless punishments. For preference he surrounded himself with young officers. In late December 1951 he told them, in a short speech, that if he were given six years there would be no thieves or smugglers left in Syria, no rebels or injustice. He repeated this promise in his first radio broadcast to the nation in early January 1952, concluding with the words: “I will make you Syrians into Prussians.”