The Dark Side of Love (46 page)

You might have thought she was blind, for even when Farid put on his best clothes and asked for Saki at the door she merely said her brother wasn't in. Farid was well aware of that, having just seen his friend with her father in the family textiles store. Then she would turn and go away. Yet about every tenth time she said something that had him thinking for nights on end.

“Grey doesn't suit you. If I were you I'd try black and white and make the most of the contrast,” she once advised him. So she
was
noticing him after all.

Next day, when Saki was working with his father in the store, Farid turned up not in contrasting colours but in white trousers and a white shirt. However, Sarah simply looked through him and said, “Saki's out.” She didn't notice that he hadn't taken her advice, nor did she ask how he was. Nothing, no sign of interest, and that was worse than if she had called him and all his ancestors bad names. But just before turning she examined him scornfully once more, and said, barely audibly, “Black suits you better.” Then the door closed.

“There's a secret message to you somewhere in all those remarks,” said Josef, when Farid told him about it. Farid felt the same, but he didn't understand the message.

One night he dreamed of Sarah. She was lying on the marble floor of the hammam beside him. Steam hovered above them, and they were both perspiring. Sarah smelled of jasmine, her favourite perfume. She looked intently at him with her blue eyes, and he could have died of love.

“Now you must be brave or I can't marry you,” she said, coming closer and kissing him on the lips, and then she lay down on her back beside him again and held his right hand. Suddenly he heard the voice of Claire's cousin Michel the barber.

“What's he doing here?” he asked.

“He has the best knives. Made in Solingen,” she replied. And
suddenly he felt a heavy weight on his outstretched thighs. Michel in his barber's coat was sitting on his thighs, holding his penis firmly between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and a razor blade flashed in his right hand. Farid wanted to jump up, but his body was heavy as lead. He heard the barber laugh. “You'll be a Jew in a minute,” he cried, and Farid felt a sharp pain on his glans.

Breathing heavily and sweating, he sat up. His room was dark. Two cats were fighting on a rooftop somewhere. They hissed loudly, and then all was still. His prick hurt. He got up and put on a light. His foreskin was intact, but the glans was slightly inflamed.

“We just have to see that movie,” said Josef up in the attic. It was Charlie Chaplin's
The Kid
. Josef loved films. But as all the cinemas were in the new part of town, and his parents worried about him; he always had to keep his cinema-going secret.

Although he was only nine, Josef had seen all the films about Flash Gordon the space traveller, and he knew the names of all the American film actors. He didn't like Arab film stars. “They just aim to make women cry. That's not what boys want to watch,” was his crushing verdict.

“You have to see Chaplin before you die,” he announced portentously, as if hatching a conspiracy. Rasuk was keen to go off to the cinema at once. He thought Chaplin was a genius. Saki and two other boys joined them, and at the last moment Toni said he'd come, but Josef didn't want him tagging along. “He'll only attract sex maniacs in those shorts of his.”

So Toni went off to change and arrived at the bus stop, gasping for breath, just in time. His long trousers weren't properly buttoned up yet, and he was still fumbling with his flies.

“There are two people with congenital defects in this street,” said Josef. “Aida ought to have been born a boy and Toni a girl.” Suleiman's sturdy little sister could compete with any boy. Her stone-throwing was feared, for she always hit her mark.

It was Farid's first visit ever to the cinema. The man on the door took their tickets and laughed. “Here come Ali Baba and his thieves.” He seemed to know Josef well.

When the lights went out Farid's heart raced with excitement. However many movies he saw later,
The Kid
was always his favourite, because of the magic of that first film show. He soon forgot everything around him and plunged into the world of the little orphan boy to whom the large-eyed tramp took such a fancy. Unfortunately the film kept tearing, and the light coming on in the auditorium was like a cold shower.

The show wasn't over until half an hour later than scheduled, and they ran for the bus. The driver took his time, stopping at every other store on his way through the bazaar to pick up people who had booked seats. This seemed to be his last trip of the day, and he was in no hurry.

It was after seven when Farid walked through the front door at home. He could hear his father's angry voice in the drawing room.

“Hello,” he said, but he got no further. Before Claire could say a word, Elias had jumped up and hit him in the face. Farid fell backward and crashed into the door of the room. His nose was bleeding.

Claire begged her husband to stop, but he was like an angry bull. He grabbed the boy by the collar, kicked his backside and hit him on the head. Then he pushed him out into the courtyard and over to the storeroom near the kitchen. He thrust him inside and locked the door. Farid lay there for a while, but finally sat up. There was a light switch, but nothing to sit on, only shelves of foodstuffs, cans, rice, flour, salt, sugar. He crouched on the floor and tried to stop his nosebleed by raising his right arm and putting his head back. It did begin to dry up, but the pain in the back of his head, his ears, and his back was still there. He heard Claire crying and Elias shouting, telling her she'd be responsible if anything happened to her son on the street in the evening.

The memory of Chaplin's slapstick routines made Farid smile. All was quiet outside now, and it was late when he heard soft footsteps.

“How are you doing?” whispered Claire.

“I'm okay, don't worry,” said Farid.

“I can't let you out. Elias has the key. But I can slip something under the door. I can …”

“Oh yes, please, some bread and my geography exercise book. And a pencil. I have to draw the solar system. And I need an eraser too.”

“I'll be right back,” said Claire.

Soon after that she pushed his exercise book, ruler, compasses, a pencil, and an eraser under the door, as well as two flatbreads and a slab of chocolate in a flat paper bag.

Only later did he find a note between the flatbreads. “I love you!” it said, and, “I want to hear all about the movie tomorrow.”

His solar system was not a huge success, but better than nothing. The geography teacher was strict, and seemed to have his hand welded to his cane. He rapped the pupils' knuckles for the least little thing. The children were afraid of him, and learned the lengths of rivers and the heights of mountains by heart, parrot-fashion.

Next morning a number of them were punished, including Josef and Suleiman. Farid escaped because of his drawing, and he thought gratefully of Claire. For the first time he understood what mother-love really means.

“How did you manage to get your drawing done?” asked Josef curiously at break, not without envy.

“The nights are long in my father's prison,” he replied, aiming for a tone of histrionic pathos.

Aunt Salime wasn't really any relation; Claire and Elias just bought their eggs and chickens from her when they were in Mala, and called her Aunt out of civility and respect.

She had been a brave woman all her life. Wonderful tales were told of incidents in which she had played a prominent part, usually showing more courage than all the men in the village put together. Perhaps that was why she had never married.

If anyone asked why men avoided her, she said, “It's because they
eat too much meat steeped in fear. Meat is digested in the body and everything that was in it goes its own way, the nutrients into the blood, the waste matter out again, and the fear into the heart.”

She herself knew no fear and ate no meat, whether beef, mutton, or goat, because in her view not all the seasonings in the world could do away with the fear felt in its last moments by an animal going to slaughter.

Aunt Salime raised chickens and lived from selling their eggs, which were in great demand, because she fed them only the best grain. And when she had nothing else to do she sat with them and sang them nursery rhymes in a quiet voice. The chickens seemed to like her singing. They clucked quietly and melodiously, as if echoing Aunt Salime's voice.

She told her fowls tales of love, loyalty, and treachery. Claire was amused by them, and said Aunt Salime had a brain no bigger than her chickens did, that was why she understood them so well. But Farid thought her stories were exciting.

One day she told him about a hen who put up with all kinds of dangers and humiliations for love. She refused the advances of the magnificent rooster who ruled Aunt Salime's poultry yard, and instead went through a hole in the fence to the yard next door, where a gaunt white rooster lived. She made love with him until he fell over, exhausted, and only then did the hen go home. Aunt Salime's jealous rooster pecked her and flapped his wings, but the hen took her punishment, and went back day after day on her amorous outings. When Farid saw Aunt Salime's magnificent rooster, he doubted her story. The bird was a fine specimen, with all the colours of the rainbow in his tail.

“There, look at that! What did I tell you?” she suddenly said. The hen was on her way through the fence. Farid stood up and saw the two lovers dancing around each other. Then the white rooster mounted Aunt Salime's hen, who willingly squatted down and raised her rear end for him. Meanwhile Aunt Salime's rooster was throwing a fit of rage and jealousy, crowing himself hoarse. But the lovers took no notice. He couldn't get through the small hole in the fence; Aunt Salime had made sure of that. Whenever the white rooster finished
the hen wooed him again with her dance, until he mounted her once more. And just as Aunt Salime had said, she didn't come home until the white rooster was lying in the sun half dead, and didn't even have the strength to keep his eyes open.

Farid shooed the jealous rooster away, and wouldn't let him get near the love-sick hen.

When a chicken was too old to lay, Aunt Salime killed it and sold it to one of her family or the neighbours. The way she killed the chickens so as to keep their meat free of fear was an impressive sight. When she had chosen an old hen, she took a long, very sharp knife and went out. She fed the chickens. She lured the bird whose life was about to end to a wooden platform set up in the middle of her meadow, drove all the others away from this raised dais, and finally made a great fuss of the hen, feeding her a few nuts and grains. The hen pecked, felt happy, and suspected nothing. Aunt Salime sang songs to her.

Then, quick as lightning, she drew the knife from its sheath, which she wore on her back, and stabbed, but not like a butcher, more like a dancer. Seconds later the knife had disappeared again. Her hand, now free, moved gracefully back to the bowl of corn. The other chickens were alarmed for a split second or so, but next moment they were greedily pecking at the grain that Aunt Salime scattered around the platform, while the star of the day performed a headless flight. It looked as if she were going to loop the loop in the air by way of farewell, but before she had finished she fell to the ground a few metres away, and Aunt Salime quickly vanished into the kitchen with the dead fowl.

“Okay, so that one left this life without fear, but what about the others?” asked Farid. “They've seen their companion die. How will they ever get up on that platform without feeling afraid?”

“Yes, the chickens do see it,” replied Aunt Salime, “but they have very short memories – if they didn't, they'd have stopped laying eggs long ago.”

His family's summer residence was not in a pleasant location. In the hot season, when Damascus was unbearable, his parents fled to Mala in the mountains, and Farid was woken every morning by a terrible sound: the bleating of sheep on their last journey through the village.

Nothing ever changed in Mala. Grapes, figs, sweet corn and tomatoes certainly tasted better there than anywhere else, but the butchers still slaughtered animals right outside their doors. There were three butchers in all, and one of them had his shop opposite Farid's house. The butcher was one-eyed but witty, and his fine voice was popular with the women.

Every morning he led one of the sheep from his distant sheds to his butcher's shop. He did it with the composure of a conqueror. He walked patiently behind the sheep, and kept stopping when it stopped and bleated pitifully, obviously with some presentiment of misfortune ahead. It was a short-winded, bloodcurdling bleat. The sheep looked around with its eyes wide. The butcher sang soft folk songs about longing and loneliness, and pushed the animal almost considerately forward. The sheep seemed to rouse itself from its sense of loss. It walked on as if automatically for a while, only to stop again. Interestingly, it was more hesitant and bleated louder the closer it came to the shop. It wouldn't walk the last few metres at all. All its legs seemed to go rigid, but with the ease of long practice the butcher pushed the poor animal to the door, tied it up to a metal ring there and opened the shop. At this time of morning Farid was already sitting out on the balcony.

The butcher soon came back from the shop with a knife and a tin bowl to catch the blood. He skilfully caught the sheep by both front and back hooves, threw it over like a judo fighter, and pressed his knee against the animal's head. It was taken by surprise and made no more noise. The knife flashed quickly and the sheep began bleeding to death. Its last twitchings pursued Farid into his dreams.