by Nihad Sirees
“After all the amazing things I’ve seen, life has taught me not to trust anyone, no matter who they might be. But, my brother, you’re different from the others. I can tell from what your eyes are saying to me. You’re my guest. Come and sit with me until this rain lets up.”
I thanked him and then told him what had happened to me and my colleague Mr Tameem, how the car broke down and I’d had to abandon them for personal reasons. Then I asked him to send someone to look for the car and the people stranded inside. He immediately ordered the butler to do exactly what I had requested. After pouring us some tea, the butler took off right away. I could sense that the butler wasn’t too pleased about this, so I felt the need to beg his forgiveness. The old man and I were left to sit there near the fireplace, listening to old songs by Umm Kulthum as they played on the stereo in the corner nearest him. I watched how he would drift off into these songs from the Thirties or perhaps from the Forties. He drifted far, far away with the songs, “May God Increase Your Beauty”, “May Night Go On and On and Never Let Me Go” and “O, Neighbourhood Doctor”. I respected his silence and tranquillity, his desire to keep listening. Umm Kulthum’s songs came to an end and the broadcaster, or perhaps the one who had made the recording, announced that the next songs would be by Mounira al-Mahdiya. The band started to play, “He Can Forget Anyone But Me” followed by “Your Love Covers Everything, Sidi” and “The Best Time for Fooling Around Is After Dinner”.
The atmosphere was electric. The warmth and the classic songs and the silence only added to the magic. Those melodies blended in with the sound of the old man’s breathing. Why did he enjoy listening to the oldies? He seemed taciturn by nature, but I wanted to get him to explain to me why he had decided to go off the grid like this and live in the middle of nowhere. When the recording finished, I asked him:
“Tell me, respected sir, what made you come and live here? It may be impolite to ask but the question keeps nagging at me.”
He raised his head, gazed at me with a gentle and resigned expression, and said:
“You have every right to ask, my new friend, but mine is a long story. It would take a very long time to hear the whole thing. To tell you the truth, I enjoy telling it, and would love to have someone around who wanted to hear my stories, but my butler keeps me from talking too much because he says it’s better for my health not to.”
“Please, old man, tell me the story. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve loved stories. I’ve craved hearing them.”
Handing me his cup, he asked with his customary gentleness:
“Would you mind pouring me another cup of tea?”
“At your service.”
After pouring the tea, I dropped in two sugar cubes for him. After all, he was a diabetic. He sipped his tea with two shaking hands, which must have been the result of Parkinson’s, or something like that, I thought, and then he began to tell me his tale, which was the strangest thing I had ever heard in my entire life.
On the Margin of the Story
I WANT TO JUMP AHEAD for a moment and inform you, dear reader, what happened both while and after these stories were being told. I stayed in the old man’s house for five days and five nights, because that’s how long it took the septuagenarian to get through all the events and details. He was quite generous and hospitable, without any skin off of his nose. That’s an expression I stole from some literary work. We stayed up very late into the night, catching some sleep during the daytime and not waking up until mid-afternoon. There were particular aspects of the story that kept me there that whole time, until the story was finished. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself and give everything away before its time, but there’s no harm in saying that the butler tried to stop the old man from talking.
By the time I finally made it home, my family had given up hope of ever finding me. The office had been searching for me with the assistance of the police as well as the efforts of dozens of village leaders whom I know and who know me as well. After heading off in search of the Land Rover and the driver and Mr Tameem, the butler came back two hours later to inform us that he couldn’t find any trace of the car. I concluded that the two of them had managed to fix it somehow and continue on their way to the village of Abu al-Fida. Later they would tell me how they had waited there for me until morning, but when I didn’t come back they went to get help towing the car. Unfortunately, the old man’s house didn’t even have a telephone from which I could call the office or my house during the entire time I spent there. Because what the old man was telling me remained so captivating, I forgot all about calling the city, and it never once occurred to me that they might believe I’d got lost in the wilderness on that stormy and rainy night, and had been eaten by wolves, which led to my colleague being hauled in for questioning. He remained under suspicion even after I finally made it home in one piece.
The stories affected me so deeply that I felt as though they had become a part of my own life. My family felt the same way, especially my wife, who believed that something terrible must have happened to my mind because I decided to get out of the car in such frightening weather. But it was really nothing more than the fact that I was taken by those stories I’m about to narrate for you starting in the next chapter.
All that’s left for me to explain to you is the form of writing that you’ll find here. As I mentioned at the outset, I’m not accustomed to writing literary texts or such modes of expression. All I’ve ever been good at is writing accounting reports that are only of interest to my bosses at the Agricultural Bank. Am I even capable of writing as long a story as this one?
I was convinced that this story needed to live for ever in a book. As you know, the old man had reached a ripe old age and he had only a short time left. If it had ever occurred to him to write it down, he would have done so a long time ago and not allowed it to fester in his chest. That’s why I found myself facing this great and challenging task. How should this story, or these stories, be preserved? And who would have written them down, if I hadn’t done so?
One day I heard about this well-known poet who was very good at writing prose, and so I went to see him, to ask him to listen to me tell the story so that he could then write it down in his own words. After I had convinced him to hear part of the story, he told me to stop, begged off writing, and wished me well. Truth be told, he did the right thing, because there is something in this story that offends common decency, as they say, despite my own belief that nothing can offend common decency anymore, not these days. Once I made it home, my preoccupations and fears about dying and the story dying with me became more and more pronounced. That’s why I decided to write it down myself. And yet, dear reader, I found that I am not very good at writing stories, so please forgive me. Just yesterday I opened up a literary book and discovered that the author had introduced his book with a caveat for his reader that the book wasn’t complete, as perfection is a characteristic of the Creator. If professional writers offer their own excuses, then certainly I can write now and apologise later.
It remains for me to say that I tried going back to the old man’s house another time, but couldn’t find it again. I also tried once more in the summertime, relying on a compass and asking all the peasants and the shepherds where the house might be, but none of them could tell me anything. That was strange, of course, but I assure you that I actually showed up there on that stormy, rainswept night.
So here you have these stories. You’ll find me emerging from the frame of the story in order to speak with the old man, to discuss what I heard with him from time to time, or you may find me describing the old man and his butler and the house where I stayed for five days, or you may hear me talking about the shocking events that happened to me there. So, I beg your forgiveness… and God is behind every good intention.
CHAPTER ONE
How Innocent Widad Appeared in a Photograph with the French High Commissioner
THE OLD MAN SAID…
“It all started on 27th September 1936�
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“The train was slowly pulling into al-Sham Station, its whistle blowing nonstop.
“Widad didn’t stand up to look out the window the way most of the other passengers did. She was glued to her seat, trying hard not to make eye contact with the man sitting across from her, beside the compartment door, who was staring at her intently. She wished he would get up and stick his head out the window the way everyone else did as the Orient Express passed through the narrow tunnel. Her eyelashes fluttering, she stole a quick glance. She wished he would turn his eyes away from her, towards the sky, towards the first city buildings that had come into view, towards the trees that were slowly receding behind them, or even towards the picture of the Eiffel Tower hanging above her head in the wooden compartment. But he just kept on staring at her, which was particularly unnerving given how her mother had always warned her to be modest around men. He might have smiled at her if she hadn’t retreated further inward, pushing herself against the window, looking down at her hands, which were folded in her lap.
“She abandoned her sense of sight, and was aware of what was going on by way of her ears alone. The train was coming to a halt, even as it continued to sound its whistle. She could hear the conversations of other passengers in the corridor, then some enthusiastic cheering, because the train was carrying several notable people, and it was expected that they would receive an ebullient reception. She wished she could get up to see the celebrations, but that man continued to gawk at her, threatening to ogle her behind if she stood. She had to remain where she sat until the train stopped, at which point she would be able to get away. But what if everyone except for the two of them disembarked from the train? She shuddered. Her forehead felt warm. She experienced a few seconds of panic, the kind of terror she used to feel on nights that were filled with thunder and lightning, when her mother would tell her what men were capable of doing to a little girl. But now her fear was due to something real, because there was a man sitting across from her, staring right at her, oblivious to all the other passengers who were amusing themselves by looking outside and shouting patriotic chants against France, cheering the returning delegation. Which delegation? What was the delegation? And why were they cheering for it? Where was it coming from?
“She had waited on the platform at Maydan Ekbas Station for more than three hours before the train coming from Istanbul on its way to Aleppo finally arrived. They had sent Bayonet Abduh to see her off, a feeble-minded crazy boy whom they had given the name Bayonet because one day when he crossed over the border—Maydan Ekbas is located near the Turkish-Syrian border—a Turkish soldier stabbed him with his bayonet. From then on he walked with a limp, which led people to make fun of him even more. There was a third infirmity that made him seem even funnier to people: there was a gaping hole in his upper row of teeth that made him whistle unintentionally whenever he spoke. Before her mother died, Widad always had a good time with Bayonet Abduh when he came over to their house. He would come round often in order to do odd jobs for them, but also to amuse Widad, that sweet girl who would laugh and laugh whenever he moved or ran or spoke. He would joyfully lie down on his back and start giggling, his hands and legs flailing in the air. Sometimes, when she wasn’t paying attention or while she was laughing with her eyes closed, he would touch her and experience a strange sensation that left him feeling happy all day long, sapping some of his strength, which might send him to sit under a tree in the shade. She never understood what those caresses meant to him, what they did to him. One day when the village imam Shaykh Abd al-Sabbour saw what he was doing he scolded him and then chased after him with a pomegranate switch threateningly held high in the air. At the time Widad couldn’t understand the anger of the shaykh and his muezzin. She hated the shaykh. When he sat at her ill mother’s bedside whispering to her and staring at Widad, she became convinced that he was badmouthing her because of how much she hated him. That’s what she thought, anyway. When they were alone together at night, her mother would repeat warnings about men, but Widad never thought of Bayonet Abduh as being one of them. She never felt afraid of him.
“On the verge of losing Widad for ever, Bayonet Abduh spent those three hours waiting for the Orient Express in tears. Despite his impaired mind, he knew that Widad’s mother had decided to send her to Aleppo after her death. He saw Shaykh Abd al-Sabbour hand her an addressed envelope that contained a letter and some money, so she wouldn’t be left waiting all alone any longer than an eighteen-year-old girl could handle. The carriage that was supposed to pick her up was often delayed. In an attempt to beat back her sadness and make her forget her fears, he made her laugh the way he had always done. She was nervous of what lay in store for her. This was her first time travelling alone by train. Widad distracted him, too, chatting away the whole time, lying to him by saying that she would be back soon, knowing full well that she wasn’t coming back. And as the train rolled into the station, preceded by a long, drawn-out whistle, Abduh’s mood changed. Bayonet Abduh scampered around with glee at the sight of those carriages adorned with flags and banners, which caused him so much joy that the other half of his rational mind flew away altogether. At this point she started to cry even as he laughed harder, oblivious to her. It was difficult for her to get a grip on him, to calm him down, until she squeezed his hand firmly and dragged him over towards one of the undecorated cars. By the door she took his hand in both of hers, mustering up the courage to board the train and leave the village in which she had been born, and which she had never left before.
“She hopped up onto the train and searched for an empty seat in one of the compartments. After stowing her suitcase on the overhead shelf, she sat down. Abduh stood there beneath the window. Rubbing the hand Widad had held just a moment before, he gazed up at her sitting there on the other side of the glass. Tears cut paths down her cheeks. Just before the train departed Abduh felt like he was the happiest person in the world and started hooting, giggling in order to make his little girl laugh in turn, but she kept on crying until the train left the platform. Once Bayonet Abduh and the train station were far behind her, she wiped away her tears and looked away from the window, immediately meeting the stare of the man who would spend the entire trip fixated on her without raising the slightest notice from any of the other travellers in the compartment.
“She heard other voices that gradually blended in with the sounds of the train whistle and the passengers’ chanting and the screeching of iron against iron. The sound of music was approaching, getting louder, and she felt a sudden affection towards the station where the train was about to stop. Without even looking at the man, she quickly turned her face towards the window. A huge crowd of people had gathered to welcome the delegation arriving by train. They were chanting raucously, holding up banners and flags, waving towards the first few cars. A state music troupe started to play military marches. She smiled in spite of herself. This jam-packed reception had cheered her up.
“‘They’re here to greet the delegation…’
“She spun around instinctively, irritation written all over her face. The man was talking to her, having moved closer to the window as well. Just then the other passengers came in to get their bags, chattering and making a lot of noise. She thought about getting up, too, but she might bump into this man if she did, so she remained in her seat. It was the first time she had looked at his face up close like this. His eyes were red, staring into hers as if he wanted to penetrate them, as if he were marvelling at something that only she possessed. In that instant she felt that she had to get out of there. The situation was getting dangerous. She mumbled something from her seat, looking at him solicitously as if to ask whether she could get up and leave. Taking advantage of the fact that they were the only ones left in the compartment, though, he thrust out his hand and touched her face. She recoiled and started shivering as the music grew louder, feeling as though nobody would be able to hear her even if she shouted.
“‘I beg of you,’ she found herself pleading.
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sp; “His hand continued to roam around her cheeks, her chin, and her nose. She couldn’t calm down. Heat was spreading across her face. She saw no other option than to shove him away and run out of there. As he fell back into his seat, she grabbed her suitcase and rushed out. Looking back to check whether he was coming after her, she saw that he was just sitting there, smiling, elated. Fearing that he was about to pounce, she raced off, in search of somewhere she could jump down onto the platform. This was pretty near impossible, though, because the crowd was mobbing the train, blocking the exits on both sides. She had to zip from one car to another several times before she managed to find a way out.
“The musical troupe continued to perform military marches. Crowds of people undulated through the station, rolling back and forth, until the platforms were jammed. Some people were forced to climb up onto the train, to leap up onto the roof and scamper over to the car where the delegation was about to disembark, just to catch a glimpse of them. When the head of the delegation peeked his head out—that was Hashim al-Atassi, by the way—he heard a powerful roar. Welcomers tried to slip past the French policemen to get closer to the train. But orders are orders. The policemen had been instructed to keep the people away from the car as the delegation descended so that High Commissioner Monsieur Damien de Martel would be able to approach and shake hands with the Nationalists returning from Paris.
“The High Commissioner approached, in his gleaming white suit, his chest festooned with various medals and commendations. After Hashim al-Atassi drew in so close that the High Commissioner was able to detect the scent of Paris in autumn, he went on to shake hands with all the remaining members of the delegation; they disembarked from the train one by one, waiting on the steps until it was their turn to shake hands or embrace. Every time one of them appeared on the train steps, they would receive raucous applause and renewed chanting from the assembled audience. Although they had spent six days on the train, none of them looked worn out or overwhelmed from all the sitting and boredom. They had prepared themselves before arriving at Aleppo Station by trimming their beards, washing their faces, and changing their clothes. The sight of them was so affecting that a number of the greeters broke down in tears. Then His Excellency the High Commissioner invited them to pose next to him for a souvenir photograph. The photograph was composed to memorialise the fact that the delegation had just returned from splendid Paris to occupied Aleppo, arranged so that the train would appear in the background behind them. At the moment the flashbulb popped to illuminate the shot, Widad appeared on the train steps with her suitcase, which is why she can be seen in the photograph that was later circulated to all the local periodicals as well as newspapers in the capital. Her face looked so innocent there just above de Martel’s head. There are some who say they even saw her on the front page of French newspapers in Paris. The photograph was enlarged and hung on the walls inside the offices of the High Commissioner and the National Bloc as well as in some of the delegation members’ homes.
