City of Jasmine

by Olga Grjasnowa

  ‘Shall I top you up?’ Youssef asks.

  ‘No, don’t!’

  Amal leads Youssef to the bedroom. The windows are wide open but the only air coming in is swelteringly hot. Youssef is embarrassed and stops in the doorway but Amal pulls him after her. They embrace in semi-darkness. Amal smells of soap and kitchens.

  ‘Come,’ she says.

  Youssef raises his eyebrows but she unbuttons his shirt and gently eases him out of it. The topography of his body speaks a clear language. It’s not only thinner, it’s also covered in scars.

  Noticing Amal’s examination, Youssef looks down at his thighs in embarrassment. She kisses his neck and asks him to lie on his front. Her bed sags in the middle; three months ago it belonged to a stranger. Amal rubs Youssef’s back with oil left over from better days, scented with eucalyptus. She tries to loosen his muscles, working her way slowly down to his lower back. There too, he has several wounds that are not yet healed. Youssef relaxes gradually, closes his eyes and falls asleep.

  As day dawns, they wake closely entangled and stay that way, not kissing. Pale blue light passes through the broken blind. Amal strokes Youssef’s cheek and her hands are suddenly everywhere, as if a dam had broken. They look each other in the eye. Her gaze is slightly absent, his concentrated and full of desire. He strokes her body feverishly, his fingers feeling for the thin lace of her knickers, her thighs and belly beginning to tremble at his touch. She grips the headboard and when she comes she throws her head back. Then Amal puts her hands on Youssef’s shoulders and sits up matter-of-factly.

  Hammoudi is making tea when a young mother comes in with her baby. She’s been shot by a sniper, the bullet passing through her shoulder from front to back. The baby wasn’t hit, because the mother attempted to shield her with her body – the little girl has only a few scrapes from falling, which Hammoudi examines while a nurse tries to calm her down.

  After that comes an elderly woman, also with a gunshot wound; the sniper hit her ribcage. There’s nothing more Hammoudi can do for her. She’s followed by two boys with kneecaps smashed by bullets and an old man who’s had a heart attack. Hammoudi doesn’t have time to look at the old man. He operates on the two friends at once, dashing from one table to the other. He manages to remove the bullets but he can’t say whether the boys will ever walk again. Hammoudi hopes they’ll be smuggled out of the city later. The hospital is not safe and doesn’t have enough space, so after major surgery the patients are moved to private homes converted to medical wards.

  A young girl has been hit in the belly and chest by several bullets. When she’s brought in, still in her summer dress, she’s pale, with severe pain at every breath and a torturous cough. Her dark hair is soaked with blood. Hammoudi decides to operate. He sews up her wounds with household needles. His scalpels are blunt. He suspects that only a few ribs are broken, though he has no X-ray equipment to confirm that. The girl holds out on the operating table for half an hour, then dies. Hammoudi doesn’t even have time to take a breath or close the girl’s eyes. He rushes to the next patient. A fifteen-year-old boy has a vertical thorax tangential shotgun wound, injuring not only his lung but also his spleen, liver and kidneys. Here too, Hammoudi decides to operate after a brief hesitation. But another bomb has just fallen and the victims are brought in one after another. Some of them have better chances of survival than the boy. Hammoudi treats them first and hears the boy dying in the next room. It feels to Hammoudi as though he’d killed the boy; he might have been able to save him if he’d had more time.

  He treats a grandfather and his ten-year-old granddaughter. They both have severe burns and broken bones. The girl’s face is turned to stone, her clothing covered in white rubble dust. When the shock wears off, no one manages to calm her down; she screams and lashes out.

  A man brings his son’s dead body. His daughter is carried by helpers, both legs torn off; the mother and the youngest daughter, a baby, died in the ruins of their home. The man stares into space. He was at the market looking for food when the bomb was dropped. Hammoudi operates on the daughter. She’s given artificial respiration by a converted device for asthmatics, one of Hammoudi’s innovations. But when there’s no clean water, electricity or anaesthetics, even the best improvisation is no use. The girl dies. She didn’t live to see her eighth birthday. The father rocks her body in his arms and strokes her cheek. He leaves the hospital with the corpses of his two children.

  Afternoon comes around. A helicopter circles above them, undecided as to whether or not to drop its bomb. When Hammoudi used to hear helicopters landing above the hospital during his training in Paris, it meant an organ was being delivered, or a severely injured patient for whom there was still hope. Hope is a stranger here now. But still, Hammoudi has time for a short break and some food. A neighbour has brought him half-cooked potatoes, with profuse apologies – she didn’t have enough kerosene to boil them for longer. It’s bordering on a miracle that she got hold of anything edible in the first place. People pick dates from the trees, catch fish, cultivate a few vegetables to survive. The only bakery still operating is on the way to the old airport. Their bread is as hard as rock and there’s not enough to go around. People are hungry, and hunger is the most effective weapon – because it dehumanizes. Some roam abandoned homes in search of old tinned food. They still feel guilty when they break down locked doors.

  Over and over, Hammoudi escapes to his daydreams, imagining living in Paris again and sitting in his kitchen on a cold grey November morning, the leaves wet on the ground and swirled up by the wind. He drinks a café au lait, listens to the radio with a croissant on a plate in front of him and Claire on the other side of the table. She’s wearing his T-shirt, which is much too big for her; her nails as ever are bitten to the quick and her tangled hair is down. She’s telling a story that makes her laugh.

  Then, at the end of the day when the sky is dark, illuminated only by occasional rockets, a pregnant woman comes into the hospital, accompanied by her husband. The child is in the breach position and the mother needs a caesarean section. When Hammoudi holds the tiny girl aloft, the nurses cry. For the first time in months, a moment of joy.

  It’s Amal’s first day off this month and she collects Youssef from his new job at a building site. He’s grown stubble and has white paint on his dark curls. A glimpse of his grey hair to come, thinks Amal, and for the first time that thought doesn’t scare her but makes her happy. They hug in the semi-darkness. The place smells of new PVC floors, acrid paint, wall filler and sweat.

  They walk home together as night falls. Youssef has stayed in Amal’s flat without either of them consciously deciding on it – they get on better now that they rarely speak. The days are good, full of care and something like love.

  They cross the neighbourhood with its elegant colonial-era villas, balconies cascading with flowers, orange and lemon trees in terracotta pots and private security crews outside high fences.

  The further they walk, the more run-down the houses become. There are washing lines on the balconies, faded sheets, bright tea towels and children’s clothes drying in the humid air. Syrian accents become more common and people seem agitated, jumpy, some aggressive. Many are still hoping to return to Syria soon.

  They’re yearning for a world that no longer exists. There are signs on some buildings warning Syrians not to be seen on the streets after dark.

  It’s dark by the time the two of them reach their own neighbourhood. Amal’s hand is safely in Youssef’s when a group of young men in dark clothes block their way, clutching machine guns.

  ‘Your papers,’ the teenage leader demands as he points his AK-47 at Youssef’s face. His tone is a military bark. He has a very loud voice, probably to disguise uncertainty, and he’s the smallest in the gang. The others group themselves around him as though he needs protection.

  Youssef holds his ID out to him and the teenager studies the name, place of birth and passport photo at length.

  ‘Arms up!’

/>   Another member of the militia pats Youssef down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Taking a walk,’ Youssef replies.

  ‘Lie down on the ground,’ the leader orders them. ‘If you move a muscle my friend will shoot you.’

  Amal and Youssef lie down in the dirt as a single streetlamp flickers on. That gives the young man with the AK-47 the idea of shining a flashlight at them both. Then he gives Youssef a kick. Amal shouts out.

  ‘You’re not going to occupy our country again,’ another boy says, and then he spits on Amal’s head while Youssef receives more kicks. The leader stands to one side, his legs wide and his face becoming ever more relaxed. After a few minutes, he signals to his men to stop, pulls a handgun out of his belt, aims at Youssef and shoots a couple of times.

  He deliberately misses his target.

  An NGO has announced it’s sending humanitarian aid. It would be the first delivery in a long time and Hammoudi imagines what it might contain: painkillers, thrombosis medication, saline solution, anaesthetics, syringes, bandaging material, surgical instruments. The delivery has to be collected from the Turkish side of the border; international organizations left Syria some time ago.

  In the grey light of dawn, Hammoudi prepares for the journey with a smuggler from the Hamidiya neighbourhood. They pack water, dry flatbreads and petrol into an old ambulance drummed up by one of the nurses, which they hope will help them through the Free Syrian Army’s roadblocks. Before they leave, the smuggler presses a rifle into Hammoudi’s hands and says, ‘For you.’

  Hammoudi won’t take it. ‘You keep it, I’m not going to need it.’

  ‘Oh yes, you will. Here, take it, it’s loaded. When I give you the signal you have to shoot.’

  The smuggler places two more guns in the driver’s cab and turns the key, but the engine won’t start. He tries it again; on the third attempt, it finally complies.

  ‘Nice,’ Hammoudi comments drily.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ says the smuggler, pulling out of the parking space and lighting his first cigarette.

  A year ago, it took four hours to drive to the Turkish border; now it’s at least seven. Hammoudi would never get through on his own – there are countless checkpoints and roadblocks, and not even the smuggler knows them all because they change on a daily basis. At each checkpoint, travellers have to know exactly what to answer. Asked about profession, it’s important to be careful – actors, mathematicians, lawyers and doctors, especially gynaecologists, are regarded as enemies of God, at least at the Islamist checkpoints. At the regime checkpoints they’re enemies of Bashar, equally divine, and are executed on the spot. At the Islamist roadblocks there are tests of religious knowledge: How often does a Muslim kneel during morning prayer? Officially it’s five times, but it can vary – only the ultra-religious know the correct answer. Responses have to come without the slightest hesitation. And accents have to be adapted to the situation too. Even in a region controlled by the regime, the roadblocks can be occupied by all kinds of groups – and then there’s no option but to guess which answer is the right one. Syria has become a microcosm of city states.

  Other than sand and occasional sagebrush shrubs, there is nothing to see on the road. The windows are closed to keep out the dust, so the inside of the ambulance is soon hot and stuffy. They drive along dirt tracks, the vehicle shuddering as Hammoudi’s eyelids get heavier.

  An hour later, he is rudely awakened by a loud bang. The ambulance is parked between the ruins of a burnt-out farmyard and the driver is tapping away at his phone like crazy.

  ‘What’s up?’ Hammoudi asks.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ the smuggler explains.

  They hear artillery fire but neither of them reacts. Their fear reflex has long since dulled. The driver stares at his phone, which keeps signalling new text messages arriving.

  ‘It might be a while,’ he says after a long pause.

  Hammoudi turns aside and falls back to sleep.

  The battle goes on for several hours. The driver smokes his way through a whole pack of cigarettes while he contacts his informants and tries to find a new route. Once the rattle of machine guns grows quieter he starts the engine again. His informants report that some of the troops have defected to the Free Syrian Army, including a general who is now being sought.

  After the city of Raqqa, the scenery gets greener: eucalyptus, cypresses, bitter cucumber vines, apple trees and palms appear. Hammoudi is awake again, chewing on a piece of bread.

  ‘Shall I drive?’ he asks.

  The driver booms with laughter. ‘If I let you take the wheel you’d kill us both. And I don’t want to think about what they’d do to me if I told them our only doctor was dead.’

  As dusk draws in they reach the border crossing, where two Syrian and two Turkish flags fly only thirty metres apart in the bluish light, between them a concrete wall topped with barbed wire and an iron gate with a plastic arch curving over it.

  The soldiers on the Turkish side open the gate and wave the ambulance through. Hammoudi and his smuggler breathe a deep sigh of relief. There are no border guards on the Syrian side any more; they’ve been driven away by the Free Syrian Army.

  ‘The air’s totally different here, eh?’ says the smuggler as soon as they reach the Turkish country road.

  ‘I miss the snipers,’ says Hammoudi.

  ‘It’s so quiet here,’ the driver says.

  Hammoudi stretches his back. It’s almost peaceful.

  The aid-organization office is on the edge of a small provincial town. When they get there after a twenty-minute drive, the smuggler says goodbye until the next day and Hammoudi takes a small room in a cheap hotel. The building is run down but the room is quiet, with running water for a shower. He turns the taps and undresses slowly in the bathroom. Then he stops, pulls his boxer shorts back on and runs back into the room. There, he grabs his telephone and calls Claire’s number. It rings for a long time but she doesn’t pick up.

  He’s put off calling her for so long because he didn’t want the connection to break down in the middle of the conversation or an emergency case to come in. He wanted to talk to Claire in peace, even though he knew he wouldn’t have anything new to say to her. He wouldn’t go back to Paris. But right now he feels like he could leave at last. If she asked him tonight to go back to France, he’d find his way to Istanbul and get to Paris somehow. It would be enough for him if Claire only said she missed him. On that thought, he falls asleep.

  She still doesn’t pick up the phone the next morning, either. Hammoudi gets ready and asks his way to the NGO building. It’s not far but he still gets lost several times on the unremarkable roads of the small town. When he finally arrives, there’s a young man outside the gate, selling sesame rings. He looks like an informer, or at least he’s far less interested in his work than in scrutinizing Hammoudi.

  The reception is small with two fans gently rotating on the ceiling. Hammoudi asks the man behind the counter about the boxes he’s supposed to pick up and take to Deir ez-Zor.

  The man, a timid administrator with fat thighs, starts a hectic search for Hammoudi’s name and the hospital in his files, finding neither. Beads of sweat form on his forehead.

  ‘Can I see your ID?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course,’ says Hammoudi and hands him his old French doctor’s ID card. The man studies it closely.

  ‘One moment,’ he says then, and goes into a back room. A few minutes later he comes back, provides no explanation but gives Hammoudi a sheet of paper with which he says he can collect the promised boxes from the warehouse, and adds, ‘You have to wait until the warehouse opens.’

  ‘When is that?’

  ‘In a couple of hours.’

  ‘Could I please speak to the director?’ Hammoudi asks.

  ‘I’ll have to see.’ The man buries himself in his files.

  ‘Our situation’s really serious. We have no medical supplies or equipment. I don’t want to be ungrateful
but we urgently need help.’

  ‘The director will be in this afternoon. Try again later.’

  ‘I can’t wait for hours, I have to get back straight away.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His teeth protrude from behind a smile.

  Hammoudi waits. He sits down on a plastic chair at the back of the room, closes his eyes and tries to block all images from his subconscious.

  The warehouse doesn’t open until around noon. The warehouse manager doesn’t turn up but the man at reception takes pity on Hammoudi and takes him to the back of the building.

  He hands Hammoudi two boxes prominently printed with the United Nations logo. The boxes are neither large nor heavy, to Hammoudi’s disappointment.

  ‘Do you know what’s in there? What we need most is bandages and medicines, painkillers, anti-thrombosis medication, surgical instruments. Pretty much everything.’

  ‘I don’t know. You can wait for the warehouse manager though.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ says Hammoudi, and takes the boxes outside to where the smuggler is waiting impatiently in the ambulance. He asks him to get in right away so they can get back before dark. They load the boxes and set off.

  At some point, a Turkish police car approaches them with sirens wailing. Hammoudi’s driver curses the policeman’s sister and mother by turn but still pulls over. When the officer knocks at the window, he flashes him a friendly smile and winds the window down.

  ‘Hello,’ says the police officer.

  ‘Hello,’ reply Hammoudi and the smuggler, in perfect sync.

  ‘Papers?’

  Hammoudi hands him his doctor’s ID.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘My doctor’s ID card.’

  ‘Have you got a proper one?’

  Hammoudi gives the policeman his Syrian passport.