Dark Side of Love

BOOK OF LOVE I

Olive trees and answers both need time.

DAMASCUS, SPRING 1960

1. The Question

Do you really think our love stands any chance?

Farid asked this question not to remind Rana of the blood feud between their families, but because he was feeling wretched and could see no hope.

Three days ago his friend Amin had been picked up as he left home and taken away by the secret police. Witch-hunts against communists had been in progress ever since the union of Syria and Egypt in the spring of 1958, and 1959 was a particularly bad year. President Satlan had made irate and inflammatory speeches denouncing communists and the Iraqi dictator Damian’s regime. There was no let-up as the year drew to its close; jeeps raced down the streets of the capital even by night carrying victims of the secret service. Their families were left weeping with fear. Tales were told of the bloodshed on New Year’s Eve. Rumours went from mouth to mouth, creating even more fear of the secret service, which seemed to have its informers in every home.

Love seemed to Farid a luxury that day. He had spent a few hours with Rana in his dead grandmother’s house, undisturbed. Here in Damascus, every meeting with her was an oasis in the desert of his loneliness. Very different from those weeks in Beirut, where they had hidden eight years ago. There, every day began and ended in Rana’s arms. There, love had been a wide and gentle river landscape.

His grandmother’s house hadn’t been sold yet. Claire, his mother, had given him the key that morning. But your underpants had better stay on, she laughed.

The sun was shining, but it was a bitterly cold day. Musty damp met him as he entered the house. He opened the windows, letting fresh air in, and finally lit the stoves in the kitchen and bedroom. Farid hated nothing more than the smell of damp, cold stagnation.

When Rana arrived just before twelve, the stoves were already red-hot. Was it at your grandmother’s house we were going to meet, or in the hammam? she joked.

As always, she was enchantingly beautiful, but he couldn’t shake off a sense of impending danger. While he kissed her, he thought of the Indian who sought safety from a flood on a rooftop and slowly sank to a watery death. Farid clung to his lover like a drowning man. Her heart beat against his chest.

In spite of the heat he was freezing, and her laughter – the wild laughter that kept breaking out of her and leaping his way – released him from his fear only for seconds at a time.

What a model of proper behaviour you are today, she teased him as they left the house again a few hours later. Anyone might think my mother had told you to keep an eye on me. You didn’t even take off your… And she uttered a peal of laughter.

It’s nothing to do with your mother, he said, wanting to explain it all to her, but he couldn’t find the right words. He walked along the narrow streets to Sufaniye Park near Bab Tuma beside her. Every jeep made him jump in alarm.

The President’s words boomed out from café radios, declaring implacable war on the enemies of the Republic. Satlan had a fine, virile voice. He intoxicated the Arabs when he spoke. The radio was his box of magic tricks. With a population that was over eighty percent illiterate, the opposition had no chance. Whoever controlled the radio station had the people on his side.

And the people loved Satlan. Only a tiny, desperate opposition feared him, and after that pitiless wave of arrests a strange anxiety held the city in its grip. But the Damascenes will soon forget it all and go about their business again smiling, thought Farid as they reached the park.

His fear was a beast of prey gnawing at his peace of mind. He kept thinking of Amin the tiler, who must now be suffering torture. Amin wasn’t just his friend. He was also the contact man between the communist youth group that Farid had been running for the last few months and the Party in Damascus. Only a few days ago he had assured Farid that he had gone to ground, cutting all the links leading to him. Amin was an experienced underground fighter.

A few weeks ago, Farid’s mother had suddenly said over her morning coffee that the death of her parents, aunts, and uncles made her feel both sad and naked, for when the defensive wall of the older generation was gone, you came closer to the abyss yourself. Now he was naked too and looking down into the abyss. The ground beneath his feet was giving way. His friend Josef, a fervent supporter of Satlan, railed against the agents of Moscow, as the President called communists. Farid was on the wrong side, said Josef, he was the only real human being among a bunch of totally heartless people, it was high time he left the Party. How could Josef say such things?

Rana was Farid’s great good fortune. He loved her so much that he almost wished them to part so that she would be in no danger of persecution. He looked at her ear. He had to love her if only for that innocent ear.

Rana was silent for a long time. She seemed to be watching the children playing in the park, but in fact only one girl attracted her attention, a child staging a performance on her own, a little way from a group. Dancing, she twirled in a circle, then suddenly stopped and sank to the ground as if hit by a bullet. A few moments later she rose again and went on dancing, only to drop to the ground again quite soon.

It was a long time since Damascus had seen such weather: all the good work of the winter rains was undone by this springtime cold. Flowers and buds froze.

This was the first sunny day after a damp eternity. Pale and coughing, the inhabitants of the Old Town streamed out of their mud-brick houses, which weren’t built for cold weather, and went to the parks and gardens outside the city walls. The adults held barbecues, drank tea, played cards, told stories, or smoked their water-pipes and stared quietly into space. Their children played noisily, boys with balls, girls with the hula hoops that had just arrived from America, instantly taking Damascus by storm. Hips swaying, the girls tried to keep the plastic hoops in motion around them. Most of them were still bad at it, but a few could already keep the hoops circling for minutes on end.

The girl dancing alone didn’t seem to mind the cold. Her movements had a strange, summery composure. Rana looked at the child’s neck and wondered, if a bullet really did hit the little girl, what sign her blood would paint in the air. When her aunt Jasmin died, the jet of blood on the wall had traced a number eight lying on its side, the symbol of infinity. That was ten years ago. Jasmin, Rana’s father’s youngest sister, had come back from Beirut, where she and her Muslim husband had been hiding from her family’s wrath for a long time. But she was homesick for her native city of Damascus and her mother. A smile appeared on Rana’s lips for a few fleeting seconds, only to vanish again instantly. It must be in the family, she thought, we all elope to Beirut when we’re in love.

One summer day Aunt Jasmin had invited her to the famous Bakdash ice cream parlour in the Suq al Hamidiye. Sitting there, she had said in a perfectly matter-of-fact and cheerful tone, Time out of mind, life in Arabia has moved between two sworn enemies, love and death, and I’ve decided in favour of love. But death did not accept her decision.

Jasmin’s nephew Samuel shot her outside a cinema. Her companion fled, uninjured. Samuel didn’t fire after him, but stood over his aunt as she bled, calling out to the passers by, almost shrieking it, I’ve saved my Christian family’s honour after my aunt dragged it through the dirt by marrying a Muslim. And many of the passers by applauded.

Samuel, Aunt Amira’s spoilt son, had been sixteen at the time and still a minor. He was released after a year in custody, and his relations, their voices raised in song, carried him home on their shoulders in triumph to his parents’ house, where more than a hundred guests celebrated his heroic deed until dawn. Rana’s father Basil was alone in staying away from the festivities. They were too primitive for his liking, but even he could understand the shooting of his own sister. He thought she had brought shame on the family.

Only Samuel’s grandmother, Samia, made it clear to the boy and his mother that she would curse him every day when she rose in the morning, and every night before she went to bed. Jasmin had been her favourite daughter, which was probably the reason behind the rumours that, never mind exactly who commissioned Samuel to kill his aunt, the act was fuelled by his mother’s resentment. She had always felt slighted.

After that Rana never spoke to her cousin again. Whenever he came to see her brother Jack, she stayed in her own room. Nor did she ever set foot in her Aunt Amira’s house. But she hung Aunt Jasmin’s photograph in her little room, next to the picture of the Virgin Mary.

Rana was silent for a long time that cold March day, holding Farid’s warm hands tight.

The little girl dropped to the ground once more, very elegantly this time, and lay there for a while before her hands began to flutter like a butterfly, showing that life had come back into her prostrate body.

In the distance, someone happily sang lines steeped in melancholy and despair: I forced myself to part with you / So that I might forget you. They were from the Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum’s latest song. Ahmad Rami, the shy, sensitive author of those verses, had written over three hundred songs for Umm Kulthum in his fifty years of unrequited love for her.

I need time, said Rana, to find an answer to that question.

BOOK OF DEATH I

Questions are the children of freedom.

DAMASCUS, AUTUMN 1969 – SPRING 1970

2. A Body in the Basket

A warm wind swept down Ibn Assaker Street from the south. Day had not yet shed her grey mask. Behind the walls of the Old Town, Damascus woke from sleep as unwillingly as a much-indulged girl.

The first buses and vans were clattering noisily as they drove down the long street, taking labourers from the surrounding villages to the many building sites in the new quarter of the city. One of the construction workers, a short little man, was walking up and down beside the road, going a few steps from Bab Kisan, near the doors of the Bulos Chapel, towards the eastern gate and back again. He was waiting for his bus. Like all labourers from the country around Damascus, he carried a bundle of provisions wrapped in faded blue cloth in his left hand. With his right hand, he was gesticulating vigorously as if engaged in earnest conversation with some invisible partner. The loop he traced as he walked grew longer and longer, as if he were willing the bus to appear when he next turned around.

Just as the sun began shedding golden light on the top of the old city wall, he turned once more. As he did so, he looked briefly southward. His glance fell on the large basket hanging over the entrance to the Bulos Chapel, where according to legend Bulos himself, the sainted founder of the Church, had escaped from his pursuers over the wall in a basket after his revelation on the Damascus road.

A hand that might have been a drowning man’s hung out of the basket, which was still in the shadows. The construction worker immediately knew that the man attached to the hand must be dead. Suddenly he was indifferent to all else: the bus, the tiles he had to carry up three sets of steps on his back, even his quarrel with his skinflint of a boss.

There’s a body in the basket! he shouted excitedly, and when a policeman finally came along, cycling sleepily towards the police station by the eastern gate, he accosted him so vigorously that the stout officer only just managed to keep his balance. An expression of alarm came over the policeman’s face as the little man shook his handlebars like one demented, shouting over and over again, A body! A body!

What do you mean, a body? Are you crazy? Let go of my bike! In his thirty years of service he had seen dead bodies everywhere: in bed, in the canal, even hanging in toilets, but never in a basket on top of the city wall. Calm down! he tried telling the man. That’s not a body. The Christians are celebrating the memory of their apostle Bulos. He escaped over the wall right here, that’s all there is to it. And he glanced once more at the basket, which had been hanging over the gateway for weeks.

But instead of boarding the bus when it finally arrived, the construction worker went on shouting excitedly. He clung to the policeman’s bicycle. And I’m telling you there’s a body in that basket, he bellowed hoarsely.

The bus driver, his curiosity aroused, switched off the engine and climbed out of his vehicle. Several passengers followed him. They all surrounded the policeman, backing up their colleague and his suspicions.

At last the police officer gave in and promised to notify the Criminal Investigation Department, but he also insisted on naming as a witness the man who had ruined his morning. He wrote down the construction worker’s details, and told him to be ready to make himself available at any time. Then he cycled off again. The bus driver continued his journey north.

3. Police Commissioner Barudi

The CID specialists found a man with a broken neck in the basket. A folded piece of greyish paper was stuck into the breast pocket of his pyjama jacket. It said: Bulos betrayed our secret society.

Young Commissioner Barudi looked at this note. The writing was a scrawl, but legible if you made an effort. The paper had been torn from a large sheet of the kind used in the Old Town’s many souvenir shops to wrap glass vases or expensive, delicately inlaid wooden boxes. The writer had tried to neaten up the torn edges.

Around ten o’clock a policeman drove the old and visibly alarmed janitor of the Bulos Chapel to the gateway. The basket hadn’t been his idea, the man explained, it was young Father Michael who had thought of it, keen as he was to remind passers by how the founder of the Church had fled. He added, despairingly, that every day for the last two weeks he himself had had to clear away the rubbish that young people threw into it: bottles, dead rats and cats.

The corpse, a man in his late thirties, was wearing pale blue pyjamas. The medical examiners established that death had occurred around midnight, and the body’s hair and clothing contained large numbers of fibres from a jute sack, in which it had probably been transported to the place where it was found.

Three days later the corpse was identified, thus raising the next question: the man was Major Mahdi Said, so who was the Bulos mentioned in the note?

Commissioner Barudi conducted an initial interview with the man’s beautiful young widow. She was composed, cool, and monosyllabic. Either she really knew nothing about her husband, or she knew too much. Asked if she hadn’t noticed his absence, she responded with chilly irony. It was normal for him to be away for days or weeks on end. His profession was his mistress. I was only his wife.

The commissioner felt sure that the dead man’s wife had constructed a defensive wall of cold indifference to conceal either pain or burning hatred. He found her erotically arousing, and would have liked to catch a glimpse of whatever lay behind her façade. After all, he was a bachelor, and lonely.

He told his scene-of-crime team to search the attic storey above the apartment, where the major had been murdered in his bed. He must have struggled with his killer or killers, but it seemed that the widow had heard nothing because she slept one floor lower down, and at the other end of the apartment. Her husband sometimes used to make a lot of noise right into the small hours in the attic above the marital bedroom, playing music, telephoning, pushing his chair back and forth. This had been a trial to her for a long time, because the slightest little noise woke her, so about a year earlier she had been forced to exchange the brightly lit bedroom with its balcony for a dark but quiet one at the back of the apartment.

Her husband’s attic had its own entrance. A small flight of steps led from the big second-floor balcony to the top storey under the roof. Here the major’s domain consisted of two sparsely furnished rooms and a modest bathroom. He slept in one of the rooms and used the other, smaller room as an office, with a desk and a metal filing cabinet in it.

The murderer must have come up from the street, said First Lieutenant Ismail, leading the scene-of-crime team, when the commissioner asked for his first impressions. Barudi and Ismail got on well. They were both new to Damascus, and quite often went out late in the evening to eat together.

They were standing on the balcony in front of the steps leading up to the attic. We found obvious marks left on the old ivy. The murderer climbed up it to the balcony, then just went upstairs to the top floor, explained Ismail, his right hand pointing. And then, he continued, leaning on the balustrade, he must have taken the body through the balcony room and out of the front door of the apartment. We found fibres from the sack on the sharp metal edge of the safety lock. He went down the main staircase and into the street.

"Why do you say he? Are you sure it was a man? And are you certain he was acting on his own?" asked Barudi, his eyes tracing the way from the street back up to the balcony.

That broken neck is clearly a man’s work, no woman did it, but of course there could have been several men, replied Ismail.

So why not a man and a woman?

The expert smiled. That may sound likely, but if the murderer had the wife helping him, he was a fool. Far too risky to climb the ivy into the apartment if you can just walk through the front door unnoticed. He paused briefly. No, I have a feeling that the murderer didn’t care about anything, even being arrested himself, so long as he killed the major. There’s a whiff of bitter vengeance about this, not cold-blooded murder by the wife’s lover.

And suppose the whole thing was planned well in advance? It seems our man had a sensitive position in the secret service. I don’t know details yet, but he was a major, after all, and such men live dangerously, said Barudi.

We can’t rule that out. The climb itself wouldn’t take a real pro more than two or three minutes, replied Ismail, going thoughtfully up the steps to the top floor, just as the widow came to tell the commissioner that his adjutant Mansur wanted him on the phone.

It was after eleven by the time he left the widow’s apartment. He couldn’t help thinking of her. Major Mahdi, my husband, had many enemies, she had said straight out, only quarter of an hour into the interview. And Barudi had the impression that she herself didn’t much like her husband either. She didn’t even bother to pretend she did. Instead, she always called him Major Mahdi, like a stranger, and then, quietly and almost as if ashamed of it, added the explanatory my husband.

What was the woman’s secret? How dead inside must a man be, the commissioner kept wondering, to sleep alone in a rundown attic instead of in the soft arms of this beauty? He could find no answer.

A ravenous hunger for bread was gripping his guts. The widow had served him coffee and sweetmeats five times. He drove his beat-up Ford to Iskander’s delicatessen shop in Straight Street, near Abbara Alley and, as usual, ordered a flatbread filled with thinly sliced pas-turma. Iskander knew this delicious air-dried beef with its piquant crust of sharp spices was his favourite food, but nonetheless, every day he asked politely, The usual? And as usual the commissioner had a flatbread sandwich and a glass of cold water. Together they cost a lira, and while the commissioner ate his sandwich Iskander quickly made two coffees, hoping to hear some tale or other about the depravity of human nature. His wish was quite often granted. Commissioner Barudi liked talking to the little man, although on condition that he never asked for names.

Today the commissioner said, No coffee, thank you. I’ve drunk five already and I feel quite dizzy.

The man could tell that the commissioner didn’t plan to tell him anything, so he kept quiet and hoped the net of his silence would soon catch a bigger fish.

Omar the ironer had stepped out of his little shop opposite Iskander’s for a moment, to get a breath of fresh air. On seeing him, Barudi remembered that he wanted to bring the ironer his own laundry. What a terrible job Omar’s was! He seemed to be nothing but skin and bone. His shop was small and stuffy, and he stood at his ironing board all day, emaciated and sweating, pressing other people’s laundry with his hot, heavy iron. And all for a few paltry piastres.

Commissioner Barudi paid, finished drinking his water, and hurried back to his small apartment. On days like this he despaired. He felt he was doing everything wrong. Moving to the capital without a wife had been a mistake, and he blamed himself for it every morning. There was no one here to look after him. He even had to do his own laundry, and now he must take it to the ironer instead of sitting in the office thinking about this murder case. Every morning he made his own coffee and drank it alone in the kitchen, with a view of an ancient, yellowed calendar on the wall. What was he to do? Nadia had chosen the village schoolteacher instead. He won’t rise far, but he won’t fall far either, she had said, when Barudi threw his future as a high-ranking police officer into the balance against the poor elementary schoolteacher’s expectations. But the prospect of the good life hadn’t weighed with her. Barudi could offer no more. The teacher was a handsome man with a captivating voice.

At this point in his morning lamentations he always looked at his face in an old mirror hanging on the wall above the table. It was half blank where the silvering had flaked away. He had never admired his own looks. His Creator, he thought every day, must have been drunk or short-sighted, and he smiled.

He had spent four years with the Criminal Investigation Department in the big northern city of Aleppo. His boss had liked him, and when the job with the homicide squad in Damascus fell vacant he pulled strings. Barudi had been in the post for a year now. He found his task in the capital demanding, sometimes too demanding for a young commissioner. However, he tried hard to learn, and he was industrious. His working day was twelve hours, sometimes fourteen, but he didn’t complain. In general he was glad to be at police headquarters doing something. The mountains of files familiarized him with a city that still puzzled him, a farmer’s son from the south. The one fly in the ointment at work was his boss, Colonel Kuga, a vain, chilly diplomat. Things are different in the capital, his kindly boss in Aleppo had told him when he left, but you’re a hard worker, you’ll soon show them.

Barudi felt as if Kuga ignored his achievements on purpose, so he was hoping for a difficult case to come his way at long last. Then he might be able to shine by solving it.

The front door of the building was left unlocked, as usual. In the Christian quarter of Damascus, people lived as serenely as if their alleys still had gates that were locked at night in the fashion of the last century. From a modern criminologist’s viewpoint, leaving the door of a building unlocked was pure carelessness.

He was his old landlady’s only tenant. Two small rooms and a kitchen on the first floor, not a bad place. However, he had to share the toilet and bathroom with her. He knew he could live a bachelor life here, and out of the kindness of her heart the old widow cleaned his apartment for him. She regarded him as a good, well-brought-up boy from a Christian village, who never had visitors, paid his rent in advance, and neither smoked nor drank. He wasn’t interested in women, and no woman seemed to be interested in him. He was short, wore thick glasses, and had gone prematurely grey, all three of them factors likely to put off the girls of Damascus.

His landlady had only one fault to find with him. Like her, he had been baptized a Catholic, but he never showed his face in church. When she reproved him, he had replied that he didn’t commit any sins. And then he had laughed, adding that he had no spare time for sinning.

Today he gave her a hasty greeting. She looked up briefly from the old dress she was mending. Soon he was on his way out of the apartment again with his laundered shirts and trousers stuffed into a big bag.

But you’ve only this moment come home, said the widow.

I just dropped in for my laundry. There’s a lot going on right now. You’ll have heard about the murder in the Bulos Chapel, he replied, secure in the knowledge that nothing, absolutely nothing that happened within a radius of two kilometres escaped the old lady. Her house in Ananias Alley wasn’t far from the entrance to the Bulos Chapel.

People don’t fear God at all these days. A murder in church! Whoever would think of doing such a thing?

I only wish I knew, sighed the commissioner.

4. In the Jungle

As Commissioner Barudi sat down at his desk, he remembered the note found on the body. He took it out of its folder, examined the words, absorbed them, closed his eyes and repeated them. Then he said, quietly, It’s as if the murderer wanted to leave a clue. He recollected a case discussed as part of the syllabus while he was studying at police academy: a murderer who kept returning to the scene of the crime and even offered to help the police. They kicked him out because he was hampering their investigations. Until one clever commissioner took notice. He accepted the man’s offer of assistance, and very soon the murderer had his statements all tangled up and gave himself away. He wasn’t even upset when he was arrested, he was finished with life, all he wanted was peace.

Barudi’s friend First Lieutenant Ismail had said jokingly, as they parted, "Cherchez la femme." Absently, the commissioner sniffed the paper. The smell was faint, but reminded him slightly of furniture polish. Or was it perfume after all?

‘This piece of paper could well put us on the right track,’ he said to himself, but loud enough for it to seem as if he wanted to communicate his confidence to Adjutant Mansur.

However, Mansur rolled his eyes. There’s something weird about the case. A Muslim, and what’s more a Muslim major in state security or whatever it is, hanging in a basket over the Bulos Chapel with a note giving a false name in his pocket? My nose tells me it stinks to high heaven. Don’t get too excited. Hang around a while, or you could burn your fingers on this case.

After a year of Mansur, Barudi was sick and tired of his adjutant’s scepticism and caution. He was just waiting for a good moment to remove the old nuisance from his office and appoint a young policeman with a more optimistic cast of mind. Mansur didn’t merely irritate Barudi, he turned his stomach. His heart was as rotten as his teeth. The man was obsessed with the notion of destroying all the mice in the world. On Commissioner Barudi’s very first day at work, Mansur had told him all his mouse-catching theories, and showed him the infernal devices he himself had developed over the years and set every evening. Barudi had to be careful not to trip over one of those cruel traps himself.

He felt he was in a madhouse. Everyone else seemed keen on Mansur’s machines. Even the boss Colonel Kuga, from whom the recent solving of an almost perfect murder by a prosperous widow hadn’t drawn so much as a weary smile, whinnied with delight when he saw the executed mice.

Commissioner Barudi had already tried all sorts of ways of getting rid of Mansur. But the old wretch had over thirty years of service behind him, and knew all the tricks of the trade. He never laid himself open to attack, for he carried out every task stolidly but strictly to rule.

At five in the afternoon – eight hours after the corpse had been identified – the commissioner was facing Colonel Badran. Badran, President Amran’s youngest brother and head of security, cancelled Barudi’s authority to continue investigating the case of Major Mahdi Said. It was a political murder, he said, and as such not within the remit of the CID. He spoke quietly and unemotionally, as if discussing no more than a sip of water. Major Mahdi Said, he added, had been his best man, and he was going to track down and eliminate the murderer. Colonel Kuga kept nodding like a wound-up clockwork doll. Barudi was surprised not just by the security chief’s rigour and his vanity but also by his high rank, for he had learned to be wary of all who were too young for their rank in the services. They usually belonged to the inner circle of power, men who had carried out a coup or the sons of such men, the kind ready to stake everything on a single throw of the dice, and at the age of thirty they ended either on the gallows or in top government posts. In the last five years alone there had been eleven uprisings, four successful and seven failures, there had been coups, men who rose to power and men who fell from power, there had been victors, and young officers executed in a hurry.

But the hierarchy of the authorities forced the young commissioner to keep his mouth shut. The secret service was at the very top of the pyramid of power, just below the President, and many even whispered in private that the President himself ruled only by permission of the secret service. The CID occupied a very lowly position in the hierarchy. It was authorized to deal with criminals so long as they didn’t belong to the upper crust of society, or the military caste, or the ruling Ba’ath Party.

Only night watchmen have less power, said Mansur the cynic.

Barudi was forced not just to call his men off, but to assure the colonel meekly that so far as he was concerned the dead man no longer existed. And within twenty-four hours Barudi was told to bring Colonel Badran, head of the secret service, all the results of his investigations in person. There was no mistaking the threat contained in that emphasis.

5. Mansur

Knowledge, stated Adjutant Mansur, is a lock, and the key to it is a question, but we’re not allowed to ask questions in this country. And that, my dear Barudi, he added portentously, is why there isn’t a single good crime novel in Syria. Crime novels feed on questions. And he grinned. Remember the anti-corruption campaign announced by President Amran in spring 1969? He set up a committee of eminent scholars and judges to ask everyone the standard question, ‘Where did you get that?’ Still laughing, the President told the committee right there, in front of the TV cameras, ‘And gentlemen, do by all means start with me.’ But the committee decided to start with the most corrupt Syrian of all time: the President’s brother Shaftan. They sought him out and politely asked him their question. ‘Where did you get that?’ Shaftan was the second most important man in the state, commander of the dreaded special task force units. He immediately threw all the committee members into jail and kept them there until they publicly stated: ‘Allah gives boundless wealth to those he loves.’ Only then were the men set free.

The commissioner had indeed heard of the President’s corrupt brother, but he didn’t see what this had to do with the present murder case. He glared angrily at his subordinate.

"One more word and you’ll be up in court for slandering the President. And in future I’m not your dear Barudi, I’m First Lieutenant Barudi. Do you have that straight, Adjutant Mansur?’

The adjutant nodded in silence. He knew these young fellows only too well. A few months at police academy and they strutted like generals. He would have liked to tell this greenhorn that his information about the local lack of crime novels and the questions that were never asked came from no less than Agatha Christie, whom he had once accompanied through Syria. Her archaeologist husband Max Mallowan had been travelling in the northeast of the country during the early 1940s, carrying out excavations.

At the time Mansur was almost dying of starvation. Drought and a plague of mice such as had never been seen before had destroyed all his village’s stocks of provisions. Agatha Christie took a fancy to the lad, and in spite of her husband’s dislike of him employed him. Later he became their head boy, and Agatha Christie called him our Number One boy in her memoir Come Tell Me How You Live. He looked after them, he fixed their accommodation and catering. She was a refreshing character, fourteen years older than her husband, but with a much better sense of humour, she’d laugh at everyone, most of all herself. Mansur often had to translate her comical remarks. My dear, she had told his sister Nahla, when Nahla invited the English couple to a meal, I advise you to marry an archaeologist. Then the older you get, the more interesting he’ll think you.

Shortly before the couple left, Mansur had found a post in the police force, which was just being built up at the time. When the Mallowans said goodbye he was already in uniform.

That had been thirty-one years ago.

For safety’s sake, however, Mansur said no more about his knowledge of crime fiction, which had been his second passion in life since his encounter with Agatha Christie. Here, in this very room, he had worked for sixteen officers who passed by leaving no more trace than summer clouds, and in the process he had learned when to keep his mouth shut. He still had three years to go before he drew his pension, and getting transferred to some lousy village in the south would be a catastrophe. That fate was the usual penalty for quarrelling with a senior officer.

For the first time in years he suddenly felt afraid. When he cracked a joke, no superior had ever before threatened to inflate it into an insult to the President. That could easily earn him a prison sentence, might even cost him his pension. From the start, however, he had thought this first lieutenant too ambitious, and thus dangerous.

6. Colonel Badran and the Course of Events

As Colonel Badran saw it, the case was clear. The murder of Major Mahdi Said had a political background. He thought the note was proof that the major had to die because he knew too much about some conspiracy, the work of a secret society whose members either feared betrayal, or had already condemned Mahdi as a traitor. The colonel assumed that the name Bulos on the note was a cover name. Probably because the major used to be a Christian and had lived in the Christian quarter until his death. Badran knew that the murdered man’s original name was Said Bustani, but as he had been so badly treated by his stepfather as a child he didn’t want to be known by the same surname in his new life as a Muslim. Consequently, when he converted to Islam, he had called himself Mahdi Said, the happy follower of the right way.

As the dead major’s immediate superior, Badran’s first reaction on hearing of his best officer’s violent death was horror. Mahdi Said had been ambitious, reliable, and tough as steel. He had been the only friend on whom Badran could count in a fix.

When the horror died down, a suspicion surfaced that made the colonel uneasy. Suppose the ambitious Mahdi Said had betrayed him, making contact with plotters behind his back? The idea kept Badran awake at night. He was so obsessed by it that two days later he dispatched a whole troop of his best men to collect all the information they could about Mahdi Said. He himself led the small special unit that examined the dead man’s home in microscopic detail.

Day after day he sat in the young widow’s drawing room, let her serve him lemonade, coffee, and sweetmeats, and turned on the charm, trying get past the veil of indifference surrounding the woman by dint of clever questions. His men took the attic storey apart, searching the major’s little upstairs apartment inch by inch.

Soon Colonel Badran’s suspicions seemed to be confirmed: an inconspicuous little notebook in the dead man’s safe contained names in code. They were deciphered by methods taught to the Syrian secret service on certain courses given by East German and Russian officers. The six people whose names were decoded were in the highest ranks of the army and the secret service. Mahdi had entered himself under the name of Bulos. Badran was triumphant: his presentiment had been correct.

After interrogation and torture, one general confessed that he and five other officers had founded a Secret Society of Free Officers to fight for the Fatherland.

You mean you were planning a coup, you bastard! the colonel shouted at the general, who whispered despondently and in terror, Anything you say, my lord.

Knowing he faced execution, the general pinned his tiny remaining scrap of hope on that obsolete honorific. Perhaps the colonel would feel royally flattered, perhaps he would magnanimously overlook the torture victim’s little lapse, which hadn’t affected the state adversely in any way at all.

However, the only effect his servile my lord had on Badran, whose rank was far lower than the general’s, was to convince him that the man was a slimy hypocrite.

They had contacted Mahdi Said a year ago, the general continued in a low voice, because he himself and the other officers thought there were too many Russians and too many German communists around in their proud land of Syria. They’d wanted to save the Fatherland, and what they admired about Mahdi Said was his implacable hatred for communism as well as his brains and his tough stance. At first the major had not disliked the idea of saving the country, but three months ago he had suddenly backed out, and would have no more to do with the officers and their secret society.

And for that you broke his neck! said the colonel rather more calmly, almost quietly, because now he knew he was on the right track. At the same time he felt a malicious satisfaction when he thought of the dead man. For at this same moment Badran realized that Major Mahdi Said had indeed been a traitor. He should never have kept such a conspiracy secret from the colonel. He could have been sure of a decoration for revealing it, a golden order, whereas now his reward was a broken neck. The colonel smiled at this reflection, and thought of the widow’s soft knees. Like all modern women, she was wearing miniskirts that year.

The general began weeping pitifully. Never in their lives, he pleaded, had they dreamed of hurting so much as a hair of the major’s head, for he and the others had soon realized that the whole idea of the coup was absurd, and the new government under the brothers Amran and Badran was as patriotic as it could possibly be. At the very latest when he, Colonel Badran, had sent the Russians and East Germans packing, they had all agreed that when Mahdi Said backed out he had opened their eyes and liberated them from the clutches of the devil. As a result…

The colonel rose to his feet and left. He paid no attention either to this eulogy or to anything else the general went on to say. Outside, he gave the man on duty orders to torture the high-ranking officers until they all confessed to Mahdi’s murder and signed their confessions.

And how far may I go? asked the man on duty, holding the car door open for his master.

As far as death, replied the colonel, and he got into his limousine and drove away to visit Major Said’s widow.

A week later the six high-ranking officers went on trial. They were found guilty of planning a coup against the government and murdering, with malice aforethought, a former fellow conspirator whose remorse and love for the Fatherland had caused him to withdraw his support for them. The trial was held in secret in an empty barracks in Damascus. The condemned men were shot the same day.

Badran made this conspiracy an excuse to purge and reorganize the secret service. A wave of arrests rolled over the entire network, and men who had been powerful only a day before suddenly found themselves interned with their enemies in dreary prison camps. All secret service contacts were closely checked. From now on, absolute obedience was required throughout the whole system.

Under Colonel Badran, the East German and Russian advisers on military matters, torture, and the running of a secret service also had to accept drastic cuts in their authority. He expressly banned the arrogant tone that these experts had allowed themselves in their dealings with Syrian officers since the devastating defeat of the Arabs in the Six Days’ War with Israel. The Russians had treated Syrian army officers like stupid schoolboys.

The colonel also forbade them to intervene directly in the affairs of the army and the secret service. His declared aim was to preserve state secrets. His arguments were logical, and convinced the political leadership. The experts, Badran argued, had come to Damascus to answer questions about technical matters, not to ask questions of their own, and definitely not to express political opinions. It wasn’t easy to keep a close eye on their informal, politically wide-ranging involvement, so there was a danger of information trickling through to Israel at some point. The colonel was standing in front of a blackboard in a small room as he made these points. Three men sat around a table listening to him: his eldest brother President Amran; his cousin General Sadan, the Minister of Information; and Sadan’s son-in-law Colonel Hardan, the Interior Minister. Soon after he had spoken to them, the three most powerful men in the country gave Badran the go-ahead for any measures he thought necessary.

The Russian experts, who had patronized him as a man overeager for advancement when, in a memo of the previous year, he had politely asked them to adopt a friendly tone with Syrian army officers, now had to stand by and see one of their generals taken by night from his villa in the upper-class quarter of Abu Rummanah and humiliatingly flown home to Moscow in his pyjamas, because an hour earlier, while drunk, he had insulted a young Syrian officer. And once the Russians knuckled under, the East German, Bulgarian, and Romanian experts crawled to the resolute colonel too. He himself reacted to these concessions not with satisfaction but with even greater suspicion. That day, however, the officers of the Syrian army and secret service had found a hero who restored to them the honour they had lost in the war against Israel.

In the Christian quarter, on the other hand, it was whispered in private that the widow and Colonel Badran themselves were behind the murder. The rumour was that one day Mahdi Said had discovered the relationship between his wife and his superior officer. In revulsion, said the neighbours, he had separated from his wife, preferring to sleep alone in the attic storey. He had not raged and ranted, nor had he beaten his wife, as most men would, but in secret he had plotted to murder Badran. Only then would he revenge himself on her. In the process, however, he had made a fatal mistake. His wife, according to this version of events, had found a note in the waste bin listing all the stages of his plan in detail and even giving the date. She alerted her lover, whereupon the colonel had hidden with her. That night the two of them had gone up to the attic, and together they strangled her husband in his bed. A neighbour, the goldsmith Butros Asmi, claimed to have seen a short, sturdy figure with a sack over his shoulders going downstairs. He couldn’t identify the man, he said, because it had been dark, but after all, Badran himself was short and of athletic and muscular build.

As evidence for this macabre theory the neighbours adduced the fact that, only a week after the major’s death, Colonel Badran was brazenly spending nights with the widow. His bodyguard stood outside the building, searching everyone who went in or out of the place, which had a number of tenants.

However, when the sole witness, that same goldsmith Butros Asmi, died in a strange accident, the building where the murdered major had lived in Marcel Karameh Street, in the middle of the Christian quarter, suddenly became a desert island cut off from the rest of the world by an ocean of fear.

The case of Mahdi Said’s murder was officially closed on 19 March 1970, and the three fat files containing the records of the investigation, the evidence, and the witness statements, as well as the indictment of the high-ranking officers and the court’s verdict on them, found their way into the secret service archives. The little note with the handwritten scrawl lay neglected inside transparent film in the first file.

Commissioner Barudi learned about the murdered major’s Christian past from his contacts. Now he was sure that the name Bulos and the note were the compass he must use to give him his bearings as he followed the trail leading to the murderer. Before handing over his own thin file on the case to the colonel, he had photocopied all the results of his investigations, and cut a strip about twenty centimetres long and a finger’s breadth wide from the note found with the body. He stored all these things carefully away in a secret compartment that he built into his desk one night.

Barudi believed that the murder victim’s childhood would lead him to the murderer. He felt certain of solving the case if he set about it carefully.

And he did set about it carefully. The trail he was following would finally prove to be the right one, but he had no idea where his curiosity would lead him just six months later.

BOOK OF LOVE II

Love is poverty that makes you rich.

DAMASCUS, MALA, SPRING 1953

7. The Fire

Claire woke him. There was alarm in her voice. When Farid sat up in bed he heard screams in the village. He ran out on the balcony, with his mother following him barefoot in her nightdress.

He guessed at once that his father was already among the crowd by the village well, and he knew inside him why. Astonished, he looked at the burning elm tree on the distant hill.

The icy wind made him shiver, and only slowly did he realize that he himself was responsible for the fire. Its distant flames shone like a mighty torch, bathing the village in an infernal light.

Some of the peasants hurried across the village square and past the Mushtak house. One young man stopped opposite the balcony and stood there for a moment staring up at him, then shook his head angrily, spat on the ground, and hurried on. The inhabitants of Mala were well known for their gloomy reticence. Farid knew the spitting was meant for him.

His mother’s cold hand made him jump. All her life Claire was a chilly mortal, just like his girlfriend Rana. He led his mother back to bed and lay down beside her. She fell asleep at once, and soon he heard her rhythmic breathing. Her features were finely drawn: she had smooth black hair, a delicate little nose, almond-shaped eyes under those closed lids, and skin as white as snow. Farid stroked his mother’s face.

He lay awake, looking up at the ceiling.

8. Strangers

The Mushtaks were a powerful clan, but they were still strangers in Mala. George, the founder of the family, had taken refuge in this Christian mountain village forty-five years ago. Farid and his many cousins were only the third generation. You didn’t really belong in the village until the seventh generation. That was the time it was supposed to take before you could speak the village dialect without any accent, and feel the characteristic pride deeply embedded in the hearts of even the poorest of the poor in Mala.

Farid had grown up in Damascus, and since his mother was a Damascene he had always spoken Arabic rather than the harsh dialect of Mala, which he understood without any difficulty but could never speak faultlessly. Nor was he for a moment proud of the village. Why would he be proud? Just because the ancestors of its modern inhabitants were said to have known Jesus in person, having fled from Galilee after his crucifixion? After that, as if obsessed by a secret mission, the peasants of Mala had defended their religion with their lives. You might have thought the fate of world Christianity depended on this one little village’s readiness to fight for it.

Farid felt something of a stranger in the village church. And the gruff, silent villagers were strange to him too; they seemed to be in perpetual mourning in their black peasant garments, they smiled only rarely, but could always find an excuse for drinking and brawling. Even less did he understand the fanatical mutual hatred of the Mushtaks and Shahins, the two most powerful families in the village. And least of all could he see why deep-rooted hostility existed between the Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church in Mala. It was not uncommon for Muslims to mediate between quarrelling Christians.

One incident in particular had shaken Farid badly. A retired teacher and ten or twelve young people had renovated a dilapidated but attractive stable, put in new windows, doors and bookshelves, and wired it for electric light. The stable belonged to the Orthodox convent of St. Thecla, and the abbess had let the man have it free. The teacher, who had no children of his own, was a great booklover. He installed a village library in the renovated stable, donated all of his own seven thousand volumes as its basic stock, and then, over a period of months, went begging more from publishers and booksellers in Damascus. He finally came back with a truckload of books. By the time the library opened in the summer of 1950, he had accumulated twenty thousand volumes.

But the library was closed down again a month later, for the teacher had forgotten two things. He was related by marriage to the Shahin family, and in addition he was Orthodox. The Mushtaks and their Catholic supporters moved quickly. The teacher had been a communist in his youth, they claimed, he used to give the children candy and whisper that it came from Uncle Stalin. It was also said that he would take pretty children on his lap and indecently assault them.

None of this was true except that the teacher really had been a member of the Communist Party for three years. The rest of the claims were all malicious lies, but they spread like wildfire, because they had half the village behind them. After a short talk with Lieutenant Marwan, the new police chief, the abbess dropped her support for the teacher. The Mushtaks, and many other Catholics with them, celebrated the closing of the library with dancing, music, and wine.

The last remnants of any sympathy for the dusty village died in Farid that day.

Embittered, the old teacher withdrew to his little house, to come out of it again for the first and last time six years later – in a coffin. No one but his wife followed it, by her husband’s express wish. He did not want either friends or relations at his funeral.

Farid’s family didn’t visit Mala only in summer, to escape the sultry air of the capital city of Damascus so that they could sleep at night in the mountains; year after year they also came for a whole week at Easter to commemorate the founder of the family. Friends and relations prayed with them for the soul of that first Mushtak, not just in church on Easter Sunday but for all the seven days of Easter, hoping that in God’s bosom he would find the peace he had never known in life. Most important of all, however, the guests, friends and strangers alike, were royally entertained for an entire week. Life in the village seemed to be one long orgy of guzzling. Columns of peasants converged on Mala from the countryside all around. Beggars and tricksters, gypsies and craftsmen, everyone came to join in the week of celebrations.

Easter week was very much the Mushtak family’s affair. Christmas, however, was firmly in the hands of the Shahin clan, which was involved in a blood feud with the Mushtaks. The village was split: half its inhabitants followed the Greek Orthodox rite and with it the rich Shahin family, while the other half belonged to the Roman Catholic Church. In Mala, the Roman Catholic Church was almost entirely financed by the Mushtaks.

Since the two churches celebrated their festivals according to different calendars, Easter often presented an extremely macabre spectacle. No soon had Jesus risen from the tomb and ascended into heaven by the Western, Gregorian calendar of the Catholics than the Orthodox Christians were having him arrested, tried, and crucified on Good Friday by the Eastern, Julian calendar. The Muslims had cause for mirth every year.

At Christmas, however, the windows and the church in the Orthodox quarter were brightly illuminated, and the Shahins celebrated all week until the second of January. Family members even came all the way from America just to be at the party. The Mushtaks’ houses, on the other hand, remained dark at Christmas, and the Catholic church celebrated the day as modestly as if Jesus were only some third-rate saint.

Farid’s mother, a typical city dweller, regarded the whole thing, her husband’s behaviour included, with some amusement as earthy peasant folklore. In all these years, she had never found her way to anywhere near the true soul of Mala. Nor did she want to. Instead, she made the villagers respect her for her generosity, and she also distanced herself from the Mushtaks. She was the only woman in the clan known everywhere by her first name, as Madame Claire.

The local dishes of Mala, which always smelled of sheep or goat urine, were not to her taste, nor were the cakes baked there, and certainly not the dried fruits that the village people offered visitors. She amused herself by watching the comings and goings in the streets and the village square from her balcony as if she were in a theatre. Claire loved vaudeville drama.

Together with autumn, Easter was the best season in Mala. There was summer sunshine, but without the disadvantage of summer heat. A fresh breeze blew from the mountains of Lebanon, still snow-covered at this time of year. Nature was already in full bloom, and the picturesque rocks on the outskirts of the village were surrounded by young green shoots.

But Farid felt ashamed of his father, who underwent a metamorphosis every Easter. The man who played the part of distinguished and elegant city gentleman in town, larding his Arabic with French words, changed on arrival in Mala and became a grunting, bawling, quarrelsome peasant who staggered home night after night on the verge of alcohol poisoning. At home he seldom laughed; in the village street he was a clown and a tiresome, sentimental groper of women.

Farid was embarrassed when he was with the villagers because, particularly when drunk, they were free with their comments and gibes, always on the same subject: his father’s affairs with women and the outsize thing that Elias had between his legs. The assembled men of the village often laughed at Elias’s shy son. Only Sadik the village miller, who was hard of hearing, never bothered him with sly digs – but talking to Sadik was hard work. You had to shout the whole time. Sadik was funny when he was telling secrets. He acted like a man whispering, but in fact he broadcast his allegedly confidential news at such loud volume that even the dead in the distant cemetery must have heard it.

The ones who laugh loudest are the men whose wives your father’s already screwed, Sadik had shouted in his ear at the barber’s last year. Farid had gone red in the face, and hated the village, where life seemed to consist solely of working in the fields, guzzling, drinking, and crapping everywhere. The villagers were also puffed up with pride because Jesus Christ had, allegedly, saved them from ruin.

If I were Jesus, Farid had said to his mother when he was only ten, I’d appear above the altar on Sunday – even if it was only for a minute – and shout in their hypocritical faces: ‘You can all kiss my arse, you and your horrible Christianity.’

9. Rapprochement

Farid could always find interesting children to play with in Mala in summer. They came to spend the vacation here with their