Sophia, p.37
Sophia, page 37
So the two of them took a walk through the city. They trekked silently along Straight Street, all the way to its western end, and then onto Revolution Avenue, before turning left at a mosque, past the Suez Canal Hotel to the city center and Marjeh Square. Karim followed Salman. They soon reached Yusuf al-Azmeh Street and the square, where the statue of the martyr Yusuf al-Azmeh stood. He had been an officer in the Ottoman army and Syria's first minister of defense after the country was liberated.
But this liberation, under the leadership of Prince Faisal and Lawrence of Arabia, turned out to be a beautiful sham. Although thousands of young men gave their lives on the battlefield, the Arab countries had long ago been invisibly divided up in a secret agreement between the French and the British. Syria and Lebanon would be the spoils of the French. The Syrian army had eliminated the king beforehand, so that the French could occupy the country without meeting any resistance. But Yusuf al-Azmeh, the proud Kurd, would not be subjugated and he called upon the people to resist the French. Some three thousand men followed him, singing and dancing. Many didn't carry guns, but daggers and hookahs. The Damascenes hadn't waged war in centuries. They were an Ottoman province. Even those members of the four-hundred-strong cavalry with war experience had no idea of what was in store for them. They were armed with swords and muzzle loaders.
In Maysalun, some twenty-five kilometers from Damascus, they found themselves facing the modern French army, with a full military arsenal and led by General Henri Gouraud. Within hours, the French with their tanks, planes, and modern weapons killed over five hundred men, among them, thirty-six-year-old Yusuf al-Azmeh. The year was 1920. In the entire history of the Arabs, he was the only minister of defense to have died on a battlefield.
Salman gazed at the statue, which stood amid the chaos of traffic and the stink of diesel fumes.
42
A Lover's Distraction
Rome, January 7-8, 2011
Stella wanted to start work again on Monday. Still in bed, she phoned her secretary and told her to collect all the mail that had arrived for her while she was out, and she would come by and pick it up some time during the day. Then she'd have the whole weekend to read through it and be ready for Monday. The secretary offered to drop it off, but Stella refused. “No, thanks a lot, but I'm going to have to get used to driving in to the university again.”
Stella kept her work strictly separate from her private life. Only seldom had she invited her boss or colleagues and coworkers to her home. Salman had to learn to get used to that. From his experiences in Syria and Germany, he was accustomed to having friends and colleagues over to his home. Whenever Stella invited colleagues, they mostly went to a restaurant.
But Paolo had other plans for his mother. “You can pick up your mail later. You have to come shopping with me.” He informed her that Nora's father had invited him and Stella for dinner to get to know his daughter's boyfriend better. Paolo wanted to bring gifts for Nora's parents and her little brother, Giacomo, who was six years old.
Right now he was off with Nora to the Piazza Venezia, but then he'd be back to go shopping with her for the presents for the Calabrese family.
“Ciao, see you!” he shouted and hurried out.
Stella was amazed at how much life changed all the time. She didn't get up immediately but treated herself to another half hour in bed. Here was Stefano, the strict Sicilian, inviting his daughter's fifteen-year-old boyfriend—with his mother—to dinner, and Paolo wanted to go! From thinking about ways her son had changed, she returned to her own life.
Stella's mother was her total opposite, a typical Italian mama, on the plump side, good-natured and slavishly devoted to her family. There was never a meal with fewer than three courses, no laundry that didn't smell like fresh detergent, no underwear that wasn't ironed, and her father never had to wear a white shirt twice.
Her mother would have preferred to have three children. She would have pampered and coddled them, and raised them to become bamboccioni, those big babies who still live at home at thirty-five and start or end each sentence with “Mama.” Stella, on the other hand, wanted to leave home at sixteen. In this, her father encouraged her. He had always dreamt of a son and had raised her as if she were one. When as a little girl she cried, he would even sometimes say, “But, Stella, brave little boys don't cry.”
But her mother, like her grandmother and greatgrandmother, concentrated all of Stella's education on the fact that girls should please men: “Men like that.” “Men don't like things like that.” “What would they think of you?” “You'll never find a good husband that way!” Her remarks got on Stella's nerves. Stella had no idea what she was going to be in the future, but she was certain she would never be a woman who conformed. Above all, she would never be a housewife. The world was full of wonders and she wanted to understand a few of them. Her mother had probably caught on to this wish of hers, and so she repeated even more often what men expected from an Italian woman. One day, it was too much for Stella. She screamed at her mother in fury, “I don't want a husband, Mama. I don't want a family.” Whereupon her mother wept for an entire afternoon and told her father that Stella was ill. He calmed her down, saying it was just the hormones playing up at her age.
But now, strangely enough, according to everything Stella read in the newspapers, this phenomenon was on the way back. The number of young Italian women, and particularly young Italian men, staying at home with Mama, was on the rise again. Stella had been convinced from very early on that there were other paths for women to follow. That was why she had filled her bookshelves with works about famous women: Camille Claudel, Joan Baez, Marie Curie, Hypatia, Clara Schumann, Catarina Cornaro, Natalia Ginzburg, and many others. And her greatest supporter was Salman. They shared the housework and the child-rearing. Once they started to earn more, he employed a housekeeper, but one who never had to look after Paolo. “That's reserved for the boss,” he said.
Stella was still lying in bed when Paolo came back. She jumped up and dressed quickly, laughing in embarrassment. Then she drank the espresso that Paolo had made for her and ate the brioche con marmellata that he'd brought her back from the baker's. They then spent many pleasant hours together, first in town and then at the Calabrese's.
The dinner was excellent and the delicious Sicilian wine crept up on you. Paolo and Stella didn't leave their neighbors' apartment until about ten. A slightly tipsy Stefano hugged and kissed Paolo at the door. “My son-inlaw,” he called out, “from today you are under my protection. If any suicidal dog should happen to insult you, just let me know and I'll finish him off," he announced and kissed Paolo again. Nora and Stella rolled their eyes at the same time. Nora turned away in embarrassment.
Stella was pleasantly tipsy and soon went to bed. Just before she fell asleep, however, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to drive to the institute and pick up her mail. The following morning, to take her mind off worrying about Salman, Stella decided to finally look through her mail. She drove to the university, but on Viale delle Scienze she noticed the little university chapel, and a sudden desire to go in overcame her. She found a parking space just next to the entrance to the campus and walked over to the chapel. There were only a few people around. Sitting in front of the round chapel was a young woman who recognized Stella and nodded to her.
Stella had seen the chapel countless times over the past fifteen years, but this was the first time she'd felt drawn to it. She had heard that famous choirs sometimes performed there, even Christmas programs, but she had never been interested.
She entered the church and her glance was drawn to the statue of Our Lady of Mercy on the left wall. In her mind she compared the statue's simplicity to the perfection of Michelangelo—this modest figure in white stone radiated sadness, despair, but also fortitude. “Holy Mother, protect Salman," Stella whispered. She murmured a short prayer that came out falteringly. Then she looked up to the cupola and read the quote along its bottom edge: In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud deum et deus erat verbum et verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. For years she had thought that these were the first words in the Bible. But Salman had corrected her, explaining that these were the opening words to the Gospel of St. John. Salman, dear Salman, where are you now?
The statue of Mary was unlike the picture of Ignatius Loyola to the left of the altar, in which Loyola seemed like an officer, waging war for the faith. She knelt down and spoke from her heart.
“Holy Mother of God, I don't know how the prayer goes, but I'd like to speak to you, in all humility. I know I haven't prayed to you in years, but I always felt you close by me. Please protect Salman. I love him, but we lost sight of... we both got so lost in... work... ourselves. How stupid we were. Now I miss him so much. Please help, Holy Mother. Please help me… help us…” She began to cry.
A Jesuit priest was standing between the altar and the statue of Our Lady of Mercy. He approached Stella as she wiped away her tears and was getting up to leave. “Do you need any help?” he asked. “No. Thank you, Father. But please pray with me that my husband comes home safe and sound,” she asked, feeling small and helpless.
The priest was the church chaplain. Stella confided to him about Salman. He listened to her and as she was leaving, he pressed her hand firmly. “I will pray for Salman every evening, Signora,” he said. She felt relieved.
She climbed into the car and drove home.
It wasn't until she had parked that it occurred to her she had forgotten her mail again, and she began to laugh. She had no idea of how long she had been sitting behind the steering wheel laughing when a young policeman knocked at her window. “Good day, Signora. Can I help you? Are you all right?”
“Oh, I'm fine,” she replied, climbing out. “I just won a prize,” she said still laughing.
“Congratulations, Signora. What sort of prize is it?”
“I discovered a drug that makes people forget. And it just won me the prize for the worst discovery of the year.”
“How's that?” the policeman asked, wanting to detain this beautiful woman a little longer. “Because people are forgetful all by themselves, even without any drug,” she said, and ran off into the building.
She was lying in bed that evening when she heard Paolo whistling their signature tune. Salman, Stella, and Paolo often split up at the entrance to big supermarkets when they went shopping. They would disappear in different directions and bring back what they'd found to the shopping cart every now and then. Whoever was at the shopping cart would whistle the tune and the others would whistle it back. Sometimes other shoppers would laugh when they were heard whistling to themselves, but nobody grumbled because it was a pretty tune.
Salman had declared, time and again, that he'd whistle this tune in Heaven until Stella and Paolo found him. “Heaven would be a wasteland without the two of you,” he said.
That night, when she heard the tune, she got up and went to Paolo's room. He was lying in bed and looked at her in embarrassment. He didn't look like a teenager. He looked like a seven-year-old boy. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I was whistling so that Dad would find us.”
43
On a Tightrope
Damascus, January 7-8, 2011
On the day before his father's funeral, Salman asked Karim if he'd deliver an envelope to Tarek. Salman had written a farewell letter to his father, for his cousin to slip unnoticed into the coffin.
“I'd be glad to," Karim replied.
Salman drank his coffee but skipped breakfast and lunch. He filled a small notebook, stuck it in a large envelope, and gave it to Karim. Afterward he felt relieved.
Karim and Aida were engrossed in the news. Widespread rioting had broken out among the poor in Tunisia and Algeria. Tunisian president Ben Ali said the trouble was being instigated from abroad. Karim just shook his head.
In Egypt riots were continuing after Islamists carried out a terrorist attack against a church in Alexandria. “More than twenty-three innocent people died," Karim fumed, cursing the fanatics with a well-chosen swear. Aida agreed.
Early in the morning, Karim rode off on his bicycle and was away for many hours. Aida's heart began to sink. Salman, too, kept glancing out toward the house door.
When Karim came back shortly after seven, it was already dark. “What happened?" Salman and Aida admonished him before Karim even had a chance to lean his bike against the wall.
“Nothing happened, it just wasn't easy to meet Tarek without being noticed. He stayed at your mother's for a long time. I only managed to speak to him when he went to the florist's. We were lucky, the big shop was full and we could talk unobserved. I gave him the letter. He plans to slip it into the coffin this evening. Your father will be laid out overnight at your parents' apartment for the neighbors to say their last goodbyes.”
“Your mother's well,” Karim continued, smiling. “If you'd kindly treat me to a mocha instead of leaving me here to freeze, I could tell you something nice.”
“Of course,” Salman shouted, running into the kitchen. Aida hugged Karim and kissed him.
“You can be proud of your mother,” Karim began after warming up at the oil stove and taking his first sip of coffee. “Your parents' apartment is packed with friends and neighbors offering their condolences. Even the goldsmiths have come. Your mother's very touched. She had no idea how loved your father was. Now she's hearing for the first time just how many people he discreetly helped over the years, or even saved from ruin. So, today your mother was sitting in her living room like a queen, with Tarek, Takla, Mona, and Maria all there. Around twelve, Elias and his wife Isabella arrived. Tarek said that the mourners—about seventy people—all froze. Just as Elias was about to offer his condolences, your mother jumped out of her chair as if she'd been stung by a tarantula and shouted at him, ‘Get out, you traitor! Clear out! You swindled us and now you're persecuting our only son. No one despised you more than my Yusuf. Get out of here, you and your whore!' Elias at first tried to dismiss the accusation in a friendly way, before insisting that Sophia had to be confused or crazy. That's when your mother retorted, ‘I may be crazy, but I've kept my dignity, you despicable traitor. Go ahead, denounce me. I'm sure you'll think of something, perhaps I killed someone before I was even born. Get out of here! Out!' She was screaming so loudly that two of the neighbors summoned up all their courage—which usually disappears into thin air whenever Elias is around—and escorted him politely but firmly to the door. That's our Sophia!" Karim said proudly.
Salman nodded. He was smiling, but his eyes were filled with tears.
~
“It's time to discuss the situation at the airport," Karim said the next morning after breakfast. “Can you remember everything I wrote down for you about my half-brother and his family?"
“I've learned the whole two pages by heart," Salman answered.
“Aida will bleach your hair in a minute, and then you should stay in the house until seven tomorrow morning. At dawn we'll sneak through the streets, catch a taxi on Straight Street, and drive to the airport. Your flight doesn't leave until nine, but you still have to check in and go through passport control."
“Wouldn't it be better to stay over at my place? Then the taxi could come right up to the door," Aida chimed in.
“Yes, but if we go to your place with a large suitcase, the carrier bag with the presents, and the shoulder bag, it will attract attention and we'll have informers on the scene. But early in the morning, most informers are still in bed, and if my nephew Habib takes a taxi to the airport, that's normal and credible because he's flying back to Canada. Informers couldn't care less because they know that the checks at the airport are strict enough to catch any suspects."
Salman drowsed as Aida bleached his receding hairline with hydrogen peroxide. She finished by shaving his three-day growth of beard.
The clean shave brought out the moustache, and Salman looked very much like the passport holder. His face was a bit thinner than the portly chocolate manufacturer's, but Karim had drummed it into Salman that if anyone asked him about it, he should describe in detail a successful diet he was on, one that sounded so tough that officials would lose interest.
~
Aida wanted to prepare a three-course meal for dinner. For starters, she would she would make tabouleh salad, Karim wanted stuffed grape leaves as the main course, and Salman wanted crème caramel for dessert. Karim and Salman went into the guest room on the first floor so that Salman could rehearse the airport checks and practice answering the trick questions calmly. Time and again, Karim reminded his friend not to be nervous, because the inspectors actually knew nothing about him.
“What if the trap that Elias talked about is waiting for me there?” Salman said despondently.
“I think he's assuming that you'll try to escape via Lebanon or Jordan, so that's where he's set his traps, at the border crossing points. He definitely doesn't expect you to have the guts to escape via the airport, with all its controls. That's what I'm counting on.”
“And what would you have done if I didn't look like your half-brother?” Salman asked. “We have our friends, even at the passport office,” Karim answered. “It would have been more complicated and would have cost a few thousand dollars, but I would have brought you a genuine Syrian passport with the name of someone they'd never look for.”
“You're boasting! Is there anyone in this country that they'd never look for?” Salman interjected ironically.
“Yes, he died fifteen years ago. The forgery only consists of raising him up from the dead for a short time, just on the computer, before we let him die quietly again, as soon as the fugitive is over the border with the passport. That's how my friends have managed to get three wanted philosophers and poets out of the country.”
