The Dark Side of Love (69 page)

‘We won't go into the church,' she said firmly. ‘It's about to fall down.' And then she took my hand and walked home with a firm step. Grandfather laughed at her crazy ideas.

“As we sat on the terrace, we could see the village square and the church from up on the hill. Bells were ringing for the beginning of Mass. Grandmother closed her eyes and kept still. Suddenly, without any warning, the whole church collapsed. The bell in the tower rang just once more, and then it fell silent as dust rose. First the roof and then the walls fell in, burying seventy people under their stones. Only five adults and three children survived the disaster, badly injured. To this day I don't know why my grandmother didn't warn the congregation.”

Gabriel fell silent, pressing his feet more firmly into the sand. Then, without looking at Farid, he said, “Keep away from Bulos. His heart is full of hatred. That's not Christian.” He looked into the distance. Farid
walked along beside him in silence, expecting Gabriel to invite him to join the Saturday meetings of the Early Christians group at this point, but the monk said no more, only smiled with relief as if he had been suffering from bearing the weight of his warning.

They were about to turn back when Bulos appeared with a few other pupils, all on their way back to the monastery. Bulos greeted Gabriel, gazing hard at him as if intent on ignoring Farid.

That evening Matta said Bulos had had a letter from his mother, who wanted to come and visit him soon. Then Matta changed the subject; it seemed as if he had something he wanted to get off his chest. He'd been surprised, he said, by Bulos's startled look when he, Matta, happened to mention the name of Farid Mushtak. Bulos had asked twice if he was quite sure that Farid's surname was Mushtak and he came from Mala. He didn't say why he was so surprised, said Matta.

When Farid met Bulos himself next day, his manner was strangely cool.

“How's your mother?” asked Farid. Bulos didn't reply at once, but gave him a dark look.

“What's that to you?” he snapped. “
You
don't tell
me
why you're so thick with Gabriel these days, do you?”

Farid was baffled for a moment. He hadn't expected this coldness.

“You have it all wrong. Brother Gabriel was only being friendly, as usual.”

But it was like talking to a brick wall.

The teachers were very indulgent to the pupils taking the fast-track course to become village priests, but no leniency and patience could do anything for Matta. It was Brother Gabriel's view that the boy should be sent home as soon as possible. But the monastery administration took no notice, regarding it as a challenge to discipline him instead.

The teachers obeyed, and so Matta's ordeal began that December. Whenever he made a mistake, however small, he had to kneel down,
and if that didn't work he was made to stand facing the wall for the entire lesson. Matta bore it all with the patience of a camel. The next punishment was more painful: he wasn't allowed out into the yard for a breath of fresh air during the break between lessons, but had to stay in the classroom writing out meaningless lines. Farid and Bulos forgot the coolness between them for a while as they tried to help Matta. They offered to give him extra coaching, but Abbot Maximus turned the idea down. The trouble with Matta, he said, wasn't ignorance but a lack of self-discipline.

Farid could see how much his friend was suffering. His laughter had gone, and although he tried hard with his work he just fell further and further behind.

During that icy January Bulos's mother came to visit him. Wishing to please him and be back on good terms, Farid said he hoped he'd enjoy the visit, and offered him some money so that he could give his mother a present. Bulos just looked straight through him. Farid was worried. He tried to find out from Matta what had made Bulos so hostile, but Matta didn't know either.

Not until fourteen years later, in a place very far from the monastery, was Farid to discover the answer from Bulos himself.

The next night Matta jumped out of the washroom window into a tree, and then fled into the darkness. When the monk on duty raised the alarm next morning, Abbot Maximus sent for Marcel, Bulos, and Barnaba.

Bulos was pale with rage, and scented treachery. But he couldn't say much, for Maximus was cool to Farid as well, and was acting the part of detective.

“I know you're all in league together,” said Maximus sharply. He looked straight at Bulos. “And as for you, you should have told us that our son Matta needed help.”

Bulos lowered his eyes.

“Barnaba, did you know that Matta was planning to run away?” asked the Abbot.

Farid took fright. “No,” he lied.

Marcel was the only member of the trio who had really had no idea, but it was a fact that Matta, in desperation, had asked Bulos and Farid for help. He had to run away or he would choke here, he said. After their offer to the Abbot to give him extra coaching failed, Farid gave Matta a hundred lira, and Bulos told him two addresses in the port of Latakia where he could hide.

When Marcel too denied having known anything about Matta's flight, the Abbot was beside himself, and said that all three must eat every meal on their knees for a week. It was one of the most humiliating punishments that could be given.

From now on Bulos would speak to neither Farid nor Marcel. He exchanged his place in class with another pupil, and avoided all eye contact with the other two as they knelt. Farid was less bothered by that than by his guilty conscience over Marcel, who had been dragged into this even though he was an innocent party. Kneeling on the icy cold floor didn't hurt nearly as much as knowing that he and Bulos had obviously planned Matta's escape so clumsily that Maximus was able to track them down at once as his helpers. Since none of the other monastery pupils showed any sympathy, Farid began to feel that the Syrian Brothers had been infiltrated.

But Bulos wouldn't hear of any such idea. Gabriel had been spying on them, he said, and told tales to Maximus. Farid couldn't help thinking that when Bulos said “Gabriel” he was also accusing him.

It was true that the monk was suddenly keeping his distance, and just shook his head whenever Farid's eyes met his. There was little regret in his glance. He ate and spoke as if he didn't see three of the monastery students being tormented before his eyes at that very moment. He, the sensitive soul who never punished a pupil, suddenly seemed unmoved. That hurt Farid, and he couldn't help thinking of Matta's last words to him. “I'll miss you so much. That's the only bad part of running away.”

Farid would have liked to run away too.

On the twenty-first day after his escape, Matta was found in a village not far from the monastery and brought back. Next time he celebrated Mass, Abbot Maximus thanked God for what he called
Matta's return of his own free will. He told the pupils that the prodigal son needed a period of rest and reflection to become his normal self again.

Farid would never have believed the upright Maximus could tell such outrageous lies. Matta was consigned to the House of Job, an out-of-the-way building behind the stables. “It's a prison for students who sin really badly. It's hell,” said Bulos. “They'll send him crazy there. We have to tell him we'll soon get him out, and then he must go straight to Damascus and hide there.” And Bulos had the perfect plan.

Two days later, when lessons stopped for the midday break, Farid stole into the visitors' room, which had a door to the car park. He walked through it and with a firm tread went on to the stables, as Bulos had told him to do, as if he had been sent to look at the animals.

Wet snow was drizzling down. There wasn't a soul in sight. When he reached the stables he quickly went around the corner, and then he was in front of the small door. The key fitted. He slipped into the dark hut and quickly closed the door behind him.

He was in complete darkness. He listened for a while until he heard whimpering from the floor above. Cautiously, he groped his way up the stairs.

Two tiny windows covered with moss and slushy snow gave a faint light that showed the single room on this second floor. Matta was crouching in a corner, chained to the wall.

“Matta,” whispered Farid.

The boy wept when Farid hugged him and kissed his forehead. “They beat me almost to death,” he said.

“But they won't get you down. You're from Mala. Who beat you? Who did it?” Farid asked, suddenly furious when he saw his friend's swollen face. His head was encrusted with dried blood in several places, and his hands and feet were red.

“Brother John,” murmured Matta. Suddenly he looked at Farid, and asked, “You have come to let me out of here, haven't you?”

“Yes, but you must hang on for a few more days, until we've been in touch with the bus driver. He'll take you with him, and once you're in Damascus no one can bring you back.”

“A few more days?” asked Matta. His mouth was dry. “Get these
chains off me, and I'll make my own way to Damascus. A few more days?” he repeated, almost giving way. “Look at me, see what they've done to me, look at me!”

Farid felt wretched. “You must be patient. I'll get you out of here. Trust me. You're still too weak. They'd catch up with you and bring you back before you'd gone far. Trust me.”

“I do, I trust you more than anyone else in the world, but John beats me every day, and he kicks me in the head with his boots. He wants me to go crazy, and now you tell me I must stay here?”, he sobbed.

The keys to unlock the chains were hanging on the wall, but Farid knew that Matta would never survive another escape attempt. He rose. “I'll be back just as soon as I can. Don't worry. We'll see to John,” said Farid, tearing himself away. He felt as if he were chained up there too.

“Oh, Mother, help me,” he heard Matta say before he closed the door of the little building behind him.

Large snowflakes were falling outside now. Fortunately the door of the visitors' room wasn't locked, and the cleaners were busy sweeping it out. Farid waved to them and strode past at a steady pace. Only in the inner courtyard did he begin to run. He went straight to Bulos.

“I'm going to Gabriel right away. He must tell John to stop it,” Farid finished his account.

Bulos looked at him, horrified. “Are you out of your mind? Gabriel? Gabriel! He'll know at once that you've seen Matta, which means you'll be giving us away. And what for? To persuade that miserable wretch to show mercy? Don't you remember we've been kneeling on the icy floor for a whole week now, right in front of his nose? No, we'll deal with John ourselves.”

“How do you mean, deal with him?” asked Farid, but just then the bell rang for afternoon lessons.

A thick blanket of snow lay over the landscape, softening all its outlines. Because it was so cold, the snow turned to a dry powder that blew through every crack. The students muffled themselves up in scarves and caps to walk the short distance to lessons.

The monastery administration extended the midday break from two hours to three, and let the students play in the snow outside the walls. The inner courtyard was left almost empty.

Bulos briefly observed the busy scene, and then beckoned to Farid, who pushed his warm cap further down over his face, and followed. Bulos was making for John's workshop, and quickly slipped in with Farid after him.

John was lying on his plank bed in the back room, arms and legs outstretched, snoring loudly. Bulos picked up a piece of metal pipe, taking care to make no sound. Next moment he was standing over the colossus, pressing the end of the pipe to his throat. John woke with a start. He sat up, making a loud gurgling noise which sounded like, “What's going on?”

Staring at Farid with red, bewildered eyes, he tried to stand up, but a blow crashed down on his forehead. Farid jumped, and briefly closed his eyes. He heard John's body fall back on the bed. When he opened his eyes again he saw the man's bleeding forehead. Bulos was standing in front of John impassively, leaning on the piece of pipe like a fencer on his foil.

Suddenly he swung it back.

“What are you doing?” whispered Farid in alarm.

“Breaking the hand that tortured Matta,” replied Bulos, and before Farid had taken in what he was saying, Brother John's right hand shattered under the blow. It sounded like wood splitting.

“Come on, quick, let's get out of here,” gasped Bulos, throwing the piece of pipe aside and slipping out of the door again.

When Farid himself came out, Bulos had already disappeared. Farid felt his throat tighten with fear. He couldn't go and join the others romping around in the snow. He had to be alone. Just before he reached the gateway he turned, and trudged through the snow to
the flight of steps beside the church. His stomach hurt, and there was a throbbing in his temples.