“They’re shutting down the newspapers!” said Bassem. “You really want to go back there and become a Turk? Omar, look at the,” he grabbed a journal lying beside him on the sofa, “at this, look, death, death, death. No alliances, nothing.”
“I think,” said Hani, still reclining, “that actually, the missions of the Christian countries, ya‘ni, this will be our greatest obstacle. Because at the moment, they want to undermine the Turks, yes. But then later … I mean, they are empires. We know what empires do. They are hungry. The muthaqafeen in this country, at least, they see Zionism as a project to make, you know, make the Arab world this European thing.”
“I don’t know that Zionism is really the issue,” said Omar, frowning.
“How can you say that?” said Hani, with an energy that pulled him upright. Midhat noted the yellow scarf that slid out from under his lapel.
“Our issue is independence,” said Omar.
“What? The two are completely intertwined.”
“I have to say,” Raja Abd al-Rahman raised his hand. “You’re forgetting that the Europeans don’t want the Jews here. You heard the story about this Dreyfus? Yahud, Muslimeen, we’re all the same to them, they don’t trust us. Just put us over there. So it’s not a matter of colonialism. It’s more a matter of disposal.”
Yusef Mansour heaved to his feet. “Glass of cognac anyone?”
“Please!” said Raja.”
“Careful. Anyone else?”
“So what was I saying,” said Raja, “yes, so, the Jews in Europe.”
“Is that glass dirty? Forgive me, I’m going blind.”
“Shush, let him finish.”
“Sorry.”
“Whereas we, on the other hand, we have always had Jews. Always, there have been Jews in Syria. They’ll just be Syrian Jews.”
“Raja, habibi, listen to me,” said Hani. “They already have their own stamps.” (“Stamps?” said Yusef to Bassem. “Ya Allah. We don’t even have our own stamps.”) “Exactly. So this really is the issue.”
“Still, at the moment, France is the bigger threat,” said Omar.
“You are all talking about independence as though Britain and France had won the war,” said Bassem. “The Turk is still fighting, there might be a truce or something. We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“But if you look at the news,” said Midhat, weighing in for the first time. “And now that the Americans are in, the Germans are really … I think it’s only a matter of time.”
“Midhat, come sit here. You look uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine. The chair is just a bit broken.”
“Faruq your place is falling apart,” said Yusef.
“That’s because I have fifteen Arabs sitting on my furniture every night.”
“What are you talking about, we are as thin as reeds.”
“Speaking of which, is there any food?” said Raja. “I brought carrots.”
“It used to be chocolate we’d bring to a party,” said Bassem. “Now it’s carrots and potatoes. And bread.”
“Did you bring bread?” said Faruq.
“No, sorry, I was just saying …”
“Well we don’t have bread. But we do have some biscuits,” Faruq slid off the desk, “they’re in the cupboard, there should be enough. And there’s a stock boiling.”
“I actually bought some bread on the way home,” said Midhat.
“Habibi that’s marvellous.”
“Midhat the Messiah,” said Yusef. “Oh, it’s warm, ya Allah.”
“But what I was saying is,” said Raja Abd al-Rahman, carrying his carrots into the kitchen, “the Jews are good agriculturalists. You know? They might be a boost to the local economy.”
“That’s because you’re in Damascus, Raja,” said Hani. “You’re not Palestinian.”
“We are all Syrians,” said Yusef. “None of this ‘Palestinian, mish Palestinian.’ We are united, we will be one nation.”
“Enough,” said Omar. “I’m starving, I can’t think anymore.”
“See?” said Yusef to Faruq. “How could we break your chairs. Look at Omar’s stomach. He doesn’t even have one.”
As Midhat grew in confidence he became more vocal during these evening conversations. Remembering what Jeannette had once said to him, about how she began to speak up at the university without fear of making errors, he felt his ability to argue develop like a muscle, which he exerted in his essays on the Revolutionary Wars and Jeanne d’Arc as much as over coffee and cigarettes, and which, though not totally detached from any notion of truth, seemed discrete from it, as if words could wind around and through the truth without manifesting it link by link. Besides, the fluidity of these debates and the changing political facts meant that none need be held to any assertion he had made, and each was free to swap between positions as served the present conversation. Then