THE TESTAMENT OF AL-HARIQA
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
Adnan decided to travel to Damascus by land, despite all the advice he had been given to fly directly from Frankfurt to Damascus International Airport, or even to hire a private car with a trusted driver from Beirut. But he felt that this particular journey had to be made as he had made it the first time, forty-five years earlier: slowly, in a way that would allow him to watch the landscape change beneath the wheels, to feel the true distance between his present life and the distant past that had begun to awaken inside him once more.
He hired a car with a driver named Abu Khaled, a quiet man in his fifties, through a reputable service recommended by the hotel’s security manager himself, after Adnan had explained, with cautious brevity, that he needed a driver who knew the alternative routes and had little taste for unnecessary conversation.
On the road, as the car climbed the mountain roads separating Lebanon from Syria, Adnan looked through the window at the familiar green terraces and felt a strange measure of reassurance amid all the tension he carried. Some things, at least, had not changed: the mountains themselves, the bends in the road, even some of the old stone village houses the car passed from time to time.
But as they approached the Syrian border, entirely different features began to creep into the landscape: numerous checkpoints that had not existed in his old memory, tall concrete walls in some areas, and road signs pocked with bullet marks, their edges eaten away by rust. The car passed through several security checkpoints. Abu Khaled presented the papers with the calm of a man accustomed to this routine, while Adnan sat silently in the back seat, his German passport in his hands, trying not to show any outward sign of tension, even though his heart raced each time a soldier approached his window.
While they waited at one of the checkpoints, Abu Khaled asked with friendly curiosity touched by caution, “Is this the first time you’ve returned to Syria in a very long while, sir?”
“About forty-five years.” Adnan answered honestly, surprised himself by the weight of the number when he heard it spoken aloud.
Abu Khaled nodded with quiet sympathy. “You’ll find that a great deal has changed, sir, unfortunately. But the spirit of the country, God willing, is still the same beneath all this rubble. The people here are stronger than anyone from outside can imagine.” Adnan said nothing, but he felt quietly grateful for the simple words, which carried a human warmth he had sorely missed during the tense days of his recent journey.
2
When the car finally entered the outskirts of Damascus, Adnan felt a deep knot tighten in his chest. The city he knew—or thought he knew from the memory of a twenty-one-year-old young man—had changed in ways too vast to absorb all at once: entire neighborhoods still bearing the scars of destruction, buildings pierced by great craters left by shells over the long years of war, and, by contrast, other neighborhoods that seemed untouched by time at all—crowded markets, open cafés, children playing in the alleyways just as he himself had once played. He saw old minarets still rising proudly despite everything, and the domes of mosques gleaming beneath the late-afternoon sun with the same gold he remembered from childhood. He felt that this stark contradiction between ruin and endurance was perhaps the most accurate description of the spirit of a city that had never fully surrendered, no matter how cruelly it had been tested.
Adnan asked Abu Khaled to pass, before anything else, by Al-Hariqa market, even though he knew his appointment with the lawyer, Ziad Salloum, was only an hour away and there was not enough time for a long stop. Abu Khaled agreed without questions and drove through narrow, winding streets until they reached the entrance to the old market.
Adnan got out of the car and walked a few steps into the market, his heart beating with unusual force. The place had changed enormously: some shops had closed for good, their façades covered in dust and neglect, while other new shops had opened, selling goods entirely different from those sold in his day. He walked until he reached the place where Hajj Tawfiq’s shop had once stood. It was now a mobile-phone and accessories store, blue neon lights flashing above its modern glass frontage, as though history itself had been erased from this particular spot, leaving nothing but a living memory in the heart of a single man now standing before it, a stranger in his own old city.
Adnan stood for a long while before the new shop, indifferent to the curious looks of passersby at a well-dressed man in unmistakably European clothes standing motionless before an ordinary phone store as though he could see something no one else could. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to summon the place as it had been: the smell of new cloth, the sound of Hajj Tawfiq’s scissors cutting fabric with precision, the morning sunlight slipping through the front door. When he opened his eyes again, there was nothing but cold neon light and a display of gleaming smartphones. He felt an enormous gulf of time separating him from the frightened boy who had once stood here, wiping his sweaty palms against the hem of his shirt.
A young man working in the shop approached him, noticing his strange, prolonged stillness. “Please, sir. Are you looking for something in particular?”
Adnan gave a sad smile. “No, thank you. I was just… remembering an old place that used to be here a very long time ago.”
The young man looked at him curiously, but did not ask anything further, perhaps because he saw something in Adnan’s eyes that made him respect his silence. Adnan felt a single tear slip from the corner of his eye and wiped it away quickly before anyone could notice. Then he finally turned and returned to the car, his heart far heavier than when he had arrived.
3
Lawyer Ziad Salloum’s office was in a relatively modern building in the Mazzeh district, far from the bustle and noise of the old city. The lawyer himself received Adnan at the door, a man in his fifties, elegantly dressed in a dark formal suit, wearing fine prescription glasses and a cautious professional smile that suggested long experience handling sensitive cases.
“Mr. al-Rafi’i! It is a pleasure finally to meet you in person, after all those calls.” He shook his hand with measured warmth and led him into his private office, a simple, elegant room with carefully arranged shelves of law books and traditional artwork on the walls.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mr. Salloum. I apologize if I seem somewhat tense. The last few days have been… full of unexpected events.”
The lawyer sat behind his desk and gave Adnan a brief, assessing look before saying, “I did hear about the hotel incident in Beirut. A friend of mine who works there told me about it. It is genuinely troubling, Mr. al-Rafi’i, and it confirms everything I have been trying to warn you about regarding the sensitivity of this file.”
He took a thick file from his desk drawer and placed it carefully before Adnan. “This is a complete copy of the original document, duly authenticated and certified according to the proper procedures. I want you to review it yourself, with your own eyes, before we discuss any next step.”
4
Adnan opened the file with a slightly trembling hand and read the carefully typed document: an official copy of a paper Hajj Tawfiq al-Nabulsi had written by hand forty-five years earlier, precisely dated and signed before a notary public whose name was recorded in the document itself. The legal language was relatively dry, but amid all those formal terms, several sentences carried a deeply personal weight for Adnan:
*“…And as I make this testament while in full possession of my mental faculties, I direct that the trust described below be held for the person named Adnan Mahmoud al-Rafi’i, born in the village of al-Husayniyya in 1955, who has worked with me in my shop in Al-Hariqa market since the summer of 1976, and who has demonstrated to me on more than one occasion a rare integrity deserving of complete trust. This shall remain subject to the temporal and circumstantial conditions described in a separate appendix, kept in Safe-Deposit Box No. 47 at the Arab East Bank, Al-Hariqa Branch, to which the aforementioned Adnan al-Rafi’i holds a formal power of attorney…”*
Adnan stopped reading for a moment, feeling a lump tighten his throat. Even after all those decades, and after his mysterious disappearance, Hajj Tawfiq had thought of him, had written his name in a clear hand, as though he had known—or hoped—that one day Adnan would return to claim what was rightfully his within that trust.
“Safe-Deposit Box No. 47…” Adnan whispered, remembering the small silver key he had worn around his neck during the final months of 1976, before losing it, along with the few simple possessions he had left, in the chaos of his hurried departure for Damascus decades earlier.
“Does this bank still exist, Mr. Salloum? The Arab East Bank?”
The lawyer shook his head regretfully. “Unfortunately not, Mr. al-Rafi’i. That particular bank was closed, along with several other private banks, in the early 1980s as part of a series of banking reforms that included the nationalization of certain private financial institutions during that period. I am not yet certain what exactly happened to the contents of the safe-deposit boxes at that bank. That is one of the matters I need additional time to verify through somewhat complicated official channels.”
5
Adnan felt a heavy disappointment settle on top of all the tension that had already accumulated. “So even if I found that key, it would be useless now?”
“Not necessarily, Mr. al-Rafi’i. Syrian law, in cases such as this, generally provides for unclaimed safe-deposit contents to be transferred into the custody of the central bank, with records preserved that may, at least in theory, be accessed through lengthy legal procedures—especially when there is an official document proving ownership and entitlement, such as this testament.” The lawyer paused and looked at Adnan with greater seriousness. “But this will take time, patience, and perhaps certain connections that I do not possess on my own.”
At that exact moment, someone knocked on the office door with confident authority, then opened it without waiting for full formal permission. A man in his forties entered, elegantly dressed in a dark-blue, modern-cut suit, his hair styled with meticulous care and a broad, prearranged smile on his face.
“Ziad! I apologize for coming in without an appointment, but I heard our distinguished guest had finally arrived.” The man looked directly at Adnan and extended his hand with conspicuous enthusiasm. “Mr. Adnan al-Rafi’i! What a truly historic moment. I am Elias al-Nabulsi, grandson of Hajj Tawfiq al-Nabulsi, may he rest in peace, through his younger brother.”
6
Adnan shook his hand cautiously, trying to conceal the surprise caused by this unexpected entrance. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Elias. I had no idea Hajj Tawfiq had any living relatives until today.”
Elias sat down without being invited, taking the chair directly opposite Adnan with the confidence of a man accustomed to occupying whatever space he entered. “Very distant relatives, Mr. al-Rafi’i, to be honest. My family lost contact with Hajj Tawfiq many decades ago because of old family disagreements that need not be discussed now. But when I heard about this strange testament, I felt a moral and family obligation to follow the matter, even if only out of simple family curiosity—unless it turns out to be something more.”
Adnan looked at Ziad Salloum, trying to read the lawyer’s reaction to this sudden intrusion. He found a faintly suppressed tension on the lawyer’s face, a tension that had not been there only moments before Elias entered.
“Mr. Elias, how exactly did you learn the precise time of Mr. al-Rafi’i’s arrival?” Ziad asked in a tone he tried to keep professionally neutral, though a slight edge had slipped into it despite himself.
Elias gave another broad smile, apparently unconcerned by the sharpness of the question. “Damascus is a small city, my friend, especially in legal circles. I heard it from mutual acquaintances. No need for concern. I’m here simply to help, not for any other purpose.”
7
Elias turned directly toward Adnan, his broad smile fixed in place. “Mr. al-Rafi’i, I know all of this may seem confusing to you: a stranger claiming kinship with your old teacher suddenly appearing in the office of a lawyer you yourself have only met today. But I assure you that my intentions are entirely sincere. I simply want to help close this matter in a fair way that satisfies everyone and honors the memory of my elder uncle in the manner he deserved.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Elias, but frankly, I am not yet certain what exactly you mean by ‘a fair way,’ especially since I myself do not yet know the full details of this trust.”
“Exactly. That is precisely what I mean.” Elias leaned slightly closer, with an enthusiasm that seemed perhaps a little too pronounced. “I know this city, and I know how these matters work bureaucratically here—far better than a lawyer, with all due respect to Ziad, who specializes mainly in ordinary commercial cases.” He gave Ziad a quick apologetic smile before turning back to Adnan. “I can help you accelerate every procedure, gain access to the old bank’s records, determine where the box is or what became of it. All of that can be done much faster if you allow me to work with you, rather than merely alongside you.”
He paused and looked at Adnan more intently, some of his earlier manufactured friendliness falling away. “But in order for me to help you effectively, Mr. al-Rafi’i, I need you to share everything you personally know about this trust. Every detail, no matter how small or apparently unimportant. Especially anything concerning that ‘box’ mentioned in the document.”
“Which box, exactly? The document mentions only a bank safe-deposit box.”
Elias gave a quick smile that struck Adnan as though it concealed a small mistake he had just made. “That is exactly what I mean—the bank safe-deposit box, yes. I only wanted to make sure we were talking about the same thing.” But Adnan, whose sensitivity to fine details had grown sharper with age, noticed that Elias had seemed on the verge of saying something else, something more specific, before quickly catching himself.
“Do you know anything about the contents of this trust, Mr. Elias? I mean, have you heard any details from your family over the generations?”
Elias shook his head quickly—perhaps a little too quickly. “No, not at all. As I said, our family lost contact with Hajj Tawfiq decades ago. All I know is what reached me through scattered rumors in legal circles: that there was an old, mysterious testament, and nothing more specific than that.”
Adnan noticed the slight contradiction between that answer and Elias’s earlier eagerness to obtain precise details, a small inconsistency, but enough to make him more cautious with every passing moment.
8
Adnan felt an internal alarm bell ringing hard, a bell he had learned to trust over decades of negotiating major commercial deals, where excessive enthusiasm and premature insistence on details were often signs of motives less noble than those being publicly declared.
“Mr. Elias, frankly, I myself don’t know much yet. I received a letter only a few days ago, and I’m here first of all to understand the whole story, not to share details I don’t even possess.”
A faint shadow of disappointment crossed Elias’s face, quickly hidden behind another smile. “Of course. I completely understand your natural caution, especially after what happened to you in Beirut. But I assure you, Mr. al-Rafi’i, that I am here for your benefit, not my own. Our family, the al-Nabulsi family, no longer possesses any meaningful part of its old wealth, and I personally have no interest in any portion of this trust, whatever its nature. All I want is to see justice finally done, and to have my elder uncle’s name honored in the way he deserves, after all these years of uncertainty surrounding his fate.”
Adnan looked at Ziad Salloum once more and found the lawyer avoiding his direct gaze, occupied with rearranging papers on his desk in movements more tense than necessary. Adnan felt with increasing certainty that something unspoken existed between the two men, some old tension or disagreement that had not been fully disclosed in front of him.
“Mr. Elias, I genuinely appreciate your offer, and I will think carefully about it,” Adnan said at last, in the cautious diplomatic tone he had learned through decades of commercial negotiation. “But allow me to take my time and speak with Mr. Salloum privately first, since he is the official legal representative assigned to this matter from the beginning.”
9
A fleeting shadow of genuine irritation appeared on Elias’s face, barely concealed behind his familiar smile this time. “Of course, of course. Take your time, Mr. al-Rafi’i. I am only concerned that you not lose this opportunity because of the slowness of ordinary official procedures.” He rose from his chair, took an elegant business card from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Adnan. “My personal number is on this card. Call me at any time, day or night, if you change your mind, or if you need any assistance that our friend Ziad here cannot provide quickly enough.”
Before leaving the office, Elias paused at the door and turned toward Adnan with one final look. This time it carried something entirely different from the manufactured friendliness he had displayed throughout the meeting—something closer to a veiled warning.
“By the way, Mr. al-Rafi’i, I advise you not to trust too easily everyone who approaches you in connection with this matter, including some of those you may think are old friends of your family or of my late uncle’s family. Things in Damascus, as in Beirut, are not always what they appear to be on the surface.” He gave one last enigmatic smile, then left the office, leaving behind a silence thick with tension.
Adnan waited until he was certain Elias’s footsteps had disappeared completely down the outer corridor before turning to Ziad Salloum with a direct question. “Who exactly is this man, Mr. Salloum? And why did you seem so tense the entire time he was here?”
10
Ziad Salloum sighed deeply and removed his glasses for a moment to rub his tired eyes. “Mr. al-Rafi’i, I am going to be completely honest with you, because I think you deserve that after everything you have been through. Elias al-Nabulsi is a real lawyer, yes, and he is indeed a distant relative of Hajj Tawfiq. That is formally correct. But he is also a man known in Damascus’s legal circles for a reputation that is… somewhat complicated.”
“What do you mean by complicated?”
“I mean that he has been involved in more than one contentious inheritance case in recent years—cases that usually ended in his favor or that of his clients, through methods that raised many questions, without any formal violation ever being proved against him. He is extremely skilled at what he does, that much is certain. But that very skill makes me, personally, prefer extreme caution when dealing with him, especially in a sensitive file like this.”
“Could he be the one who sent that strange man to the hospital forty-five years ago? The one who asked Hajj Tawfiq about the ‘old deposit’ before he disappeared?”
Ziad was caught off guard by the question and considered it with genuine seriousness before answering. “I cannot say for certain, Mr. al-Rafi’i. Elias was still a small child at the time, according to what I know of his current age. But it is entirely possible that there was a family story passed down from generation to generation about ‘something’ Hajj Tawfiq possessed—a story that may have reached Elias through his father or an older relative, and eventually driven him, many years later, to search for the whole truth himself, in his own way.” He looked at Adnan seriously. “I did not tell him when you were arriving, Mr. al-Rafi’i, despite his claim that I had. I am not sure how he knew exactly, and that is what worries me more than anything else he said during this meeting.”
Adnan sat silently for several moments, absorbing the weight of this new information, realizing that with every passing day the circle of people he could trust on this mysterious journey was becoming narrower—and more uncertain—than he had imagined when he first decided, only a few days earlier, to travel from Frankfurt.