by Rafik Schami
In over forty years Salim never drove his carriage beyond Beirut, but on the wings of his words he traveled the globe like no one else. So when it
happened that he of all people suddenly lost his voice,
the whole neighborhood was bewildered.
Not even his best friends
could believe
it.
2
Why
a strange disquiet
interrupted the hitherto quiet
comings and goings of seven gentlemen
If Salim had listened to his father he would have become a happy merchant or craftsman like each of his five brothers, but he was determined at all costs to be a coachman. In those days the profession had a very bad reputation: coachmen were generally considered no better than rowdy drunkards. Nevertheless Salim took an unusual pride in his vocation.
Apart from his gifts as a storyteller—a profession that enjoyed a better, if blander reputation than coachman—Salim was favored with yet another talent: he could make wounded swallows fly again, and this, indeed, was no mean feat. Salim's neighbors were puzzled by his relations with the swallows, and they quarreled among themselves over the source of his gift. Some proclaimed that his hands were blessed; others accused him behind his back of some sort of wizardry. It was this magic, they concluded quietly and not without some fear, that enabled Salim, and Salim only, to restore flight to any swallow. Most adults, however, thought the whole thing a swindle.
Those glorious gliders, whose graceful flights adorned the sky above Damascus, nested underneath our roofs. Time and again we would find a swallow that had somehow fallen out of its nest flapping helplessly on the ground. And of course it's a well-known fact that swallows refuse all nourishment so long as they cannot fly. Had it not been for Salim the coachman they would have died of hunger. We children would carry the swallows to him—and, as I said, to him alone—and he would drop everything, take the quivering bird into his large hands, and walk out onto the balcony. What he whispered to the bird there, and why he kissed it, was his secret. No one else knew how. He gave back to the skies their best acrobats. The swallow would race away, sometimes thanking the old man with an elegant loop above his head.
People didn't know much about Salim. He seldom spoke about himself. And when he did, it was so much like one of his stories that no one really knew whether he, was talking about himself or one of his heroes. People frequently referred to Salim the coachman, but I bet most of them couldn't even tell you what his last name was. As a matter of fact, it was Bussard.
The Bussard family belonged to the nomads of the Arabian desert. Following a failed uprising against the Ottoman sultan in the eighteenth century, the clan was dispersed and resettled. Salim's grandfather was held in a Damascus prison until his death; after that the family was not allowed to leave that city. Salim's father learned the art of tanning and prospered in that trade. His oldest son took over the small tannery; two others traded in leather goods. One son became a tailor. Another became a goldsmith but died of smallpox at an early age. Salim, the youngest, was named after his great-great-great-grandfather. From earliest childhood he was restlessness personified and caused his parents more trouble than all his five brothers combined. Occasionally he would disappear for weeks or months on end, only to return in rags and laugh himself silly at the punishments his parents would then impose. Instead of learning a trade, he spent his time running errands for the coachmen. From one caravanserai to the next he made his way across Arabia, Turkey, and Persia. It was even rumored on the street that he had spent a year in Morocco as an apprentice to a master of black magic. Salim himself would just laugh slyly whenever anyone asked; but he knew more about the habits and habitations of the Moroccan Berbers than any teacher of geography.
For thirty years Salim earned his bread as a coachman. When his son later emigrated to America and his beautiful daughter left with her wealthy husband to settle in the northern part of the country, Salim lived alone with his wife in a small room. In contrast to his beloved son, who sent letters but not a single dollar, Salim's daughter provided her parents with a small allowance. Old coachmen were not eligible for pensions.
Salim's wife, Zaida, was an unassuming person. She lived a quiet life. It was only after her death that Salim's neighbors discovered what a fiery and courageous woman she had been. Once she had disguised herself—as Salim told the story—as a black horseman and rescued him from seven armed soldiers who had come to conscript him. All the neighbors agreed that Salim had never served in the military—but no one could imagine little Zaida scaring off seven soldiers.
Every evening seven friends came to call on the old widower. They were all the same age, about seventy. A locksmith named Ali was the biggest among them; he was so big he practically took up the entire sofa. The last to join the old gentlemen had been the geography teacher, Mehdi, and although he had been coming for eight years, the others still referred to him as "our newcomer." Musa, a short and plumpish barber, was the only one in the group who still attempted to disguise his seventy years by dyeing his hair. The most elegant of the friends was the former statesman Faris. Shortly after Syria had gained independence he became minister of finance, and his radical reforms had earned him the popular nickname "the Red Pasha." Tuma, the fifth member of the circle, was known as "the emigrant" even though he had returned from America over ten years before. Junis, the cafe owner, was the only one of the gentlemen to whom all were grateful. It was in his coffeehouse that they had come to know one another over the years—Salim and Ali were the only ones who lived on the same street. For years they had gathered at the cafe: it was far and wide the only place you could sip a genuine Yemenite mocha and smoke a proper waterpipe. But ever since Junis' son had transformed the old-fashioned, Middle Eastern cafe into a flashy, modern bar, none of them went there anymore.
The seventh member of the group was a small man named Isam, who had served twenty-four years in prison for a terrible murder he did not commit. By chance, the true murderer was caught one year before Isam was to be released. For a man seventy years old, he was incredibly restless, as if he wanted to use his remaining years to make up for the time he had lost in prison. From Monday to Thursday afternoon he pulled a small cart loaded with vegetables through the city's more remote neighborhoods. At the Friday market he traded in songbirds. Saturdays and Sundays he sold toasted chickpeas in front of the movie houses.
Salim liked Ali the best. The locksmith said very little, but he enjoyed listening. He was the perfect complement to the talkative coachman; although he scarcely spoke, he would laugh at the slightest provocation. But that wasn't all. Salim praised Ali as the bravest man in the neighborhood. In the early forties he supposedly boxed a French general on the ear in the middle of the street. At the time the country was under French occupation. People say he did it because the general was drunk and making fun of the Prophet Mohammed, who forbade all alcohol. Ali didn't like to talk about it. But Salim the coachman described the general's terrible revenge in detail. He had Ali arrested and taken to a barracks outside Damascus. There they forced a gallon of red wine into his stomach with a funnel, then bound him to a stake in the scorching sun. When Ali lost consciousness the soldiers dragged him out of the barracks and dumped him in a ditch by the side of the road. A peasant family that was passing by found him and took him in. Naturally they didn't know what was wrong with him, since they had never heard of alcohol poisoning. But the old woman gave him a mixture of olive oil, yoghurt, and vinegar to make him vomit and in that way saved his life. Ali had to spend several days in bed at their house before he regained his strength. Meanwhile his family had learned of his arrest and had gone to the barracks to ask his whereabouts. All they received there was the cynical reply, "He's not here, maybe he's with the Prophet." When Ali had finally recovered his strength, he was too ashamed to return home. He made his way to a certain nightclub and waited a long time outside for the general to appear, then gave him a terrible beating. It was a
wonder the man survived. Ali had to flee to the mountains, where he stayed until the French left the country four years later. Only Salim the coachman knew his whereabouts and secretly brought him food, clothing, and the latest news week after week.
The seven friends met every evening without exception. Whether it was raining or the Army was staging a coup, they arrived just before eight and didn't leave until after midnight. If one of them was sick and couldn't attend, his wife or a grandchild or a neighbor's child would bring a detailed explanation. Colds and similarly lame excuses didn't count.
I was the only child in the neighborhood whom the coachman allowed to stay when the old men arrived. In return I often had to play errand boy. This wasn't always the nicest of jobs, since the old men were so forgetful. The emigrant often forgot his tablets and sometimes his glasses, the cafe owner his snuff, and the former minister more than a few times forgot his elegant handkerchiefs—and no others would do. Sometimes I had to run these annoying errands in the rain, and their houses were scattered all across the city. Only coachman Salim never sent me anywhere. But he did once make me cross my heart and swear to him that I would never reveal a single word I had heard in his room. I swore by the soul of my grandmother Nadjla, whom I loved more than all the saints together, that I would keep every word to myself. But apart from Salim's nosy neighbor, Afifa, no one cared what the old men were talking about anyway; and besides, I never would have told anything to her, that two-legged radio station, even if she had tempted me with chocolate.
Now and then I had the feeling that the old men sent me out just so they could speak their minds a little more freely. I acted as if I didn't understand why one of them would ask me to fetch tobacco for the third time that day or why someone else would request a second tablet only an hour after he had asked for the first. Faris, the former statesman, was the worst. He could sneeze at will, whenever he so pleased, and completely fill his handkerchief with snot. Once outside I would dawdle underneath the window and eavesdrop on their secret stories, which usually began: "Now that the boy is gone ..."
The seven friends came every day. Over the years their visits became one of the thousand customs of our neighborhood. No one, not a single person, paid them any mind as they made their way to old Salim's. Their comings and goings were as much a part of our daily life as the children's shouts and the chatter of the swallows that filled the sky above our street each evening. All of this changed abruptly when Salim the coachman lost his voice. Yes, Salim, the man whose magical words transformed his room into an ocean, a desert, or a jungle, was suddenly struck dumb.
Overnight the mute coachman became the only subject of conversation in the neighborhood. People now followed the movements of the old men with a curious interest—a stranger might even say, with reverence. Knowing my own street as well as I do, though, I seriously doubt whether its inhabitants have ever felt real reverence for anyone. But the fact remains: people were curious. To tell the truth, the whole neighborhood was completely intrigued by Salim's strange silence. I myself was worried sick.
From then on I went to visit him every day and there was no one who could make me leave.
3
How
the old coachman
lost his voice and made
his friends the talk of the town
People in Damascus refer to the last month of summer as "flaming August." By day the city swelters in a state of permanent fire alarm, as the temperature climbs to over a hundred and four degrees in the shade. What's a measly fan supposed to do with heat like that except swirl the hot air, hopelessly, around and around and around? In other months things cool off once the sun has set, much to everyone's relief, but not in August. The earth stays hot even at night, and the mercury seems stuck at eighty-six degrees, so that people can barely sleep. And only an hour after sunrise the temperature again begins to soar.
One night in August 1959, Salim suddenly awoke, bathed in sweat. Sitting up in his bed, he sensed that someone else was in the room. "Who's there?" he asked.
"I was wondering when you'd wake up," a woman's voice answered, somewhat relieved. It was dark as pitch, but the coachman could feel the woman's delicate hand touching his face. She smelled of orange blossoms. "I have come, my dearest friend, to say goodbye."
"What do you mean, goodbye! Who are you?" asked Salim, since he had never heard the voice before.
"I am your good fairy, the one who has breathed life into your dusty, wooden words and made them grow into a magical tree of tales. Do you really think you could have told stories as long as you have if I hadn't been standing steadfast by your side for over sixty years? How many times have I had to pick up wherever and whenever you lost the thread? You are beyond all doubt the best storyteller in Damascus, but now and then you've gone a little too far, and boxed yourself in so badly with all your subplots and digressions, you forgot which story you were telling. Especially when you rescued the Mexican fisherman. Even though you've told that story three hundred times, you're always so taken by your own victory over the octopus that you forget you were really on your way to Cuba to fetch the black pearls you needed to save the princess. And while you were relaxing and smoking your waterpipe, I was so nervous I was shaking—until you finally found your thread again and told your listeners how you discovered the black pearls and finally managed to rescue the princess, and then returned with her to Damascus, where the story began. It was often exhausting, but it made me happy to bring your heart a smile of relief. Those were hard years of labor with you, my friend!" The woman paused a moment. "Now, just like you, I have grown old and gray and am ready to retire. But when I do, you will lose your voice. I've always loved you, Salim. Your voice and your hands have always tickled my heart like a little feather. Which is why I have asked the fairy king for a special favor, which he has granted. He listened to what I had to say and laughed: 'Yes, yes, I know you've always been in love with that funny coachman of yours, haven't you? Well, go and tell him our one condition.' "
"Condition? what condition?" The coachman's throat was dry.
"After that question you have only twenty-one words left. Then you will become mute. However . . . if you receive seven unique gifts within three months, then a young fairy will take my place and stand by your side. She will release your tongue from silence and you will go on telling stories until your dying day. You will be able to box yourself in as much as you want—she's very young and can easily keep up with you.
"Don't squander your words, Salim, my beloved. Words are responsibility. Ask me nothing more. You'll have to discover the gifts for yourself; the fairy king didn't even tell me what they might be. Consider carefully whatever you want to say, you have only twenty-one words left!"
Salim the coachman, molded as he was by the ancient customs of Damascus, never in his life considered any offer final nor any price written in stone. "Only twenty-one words?" he whispered in a voice that would have softened the hardest seller's heart.
"Now it's only eighteen," the fairy reprimanded him; and opening the door, she disappeared in the darkness. Salim sprang out of his bed and hurried after her. Just then a neighbor came hurrying out of his room, heading for the toilet. "Good God, it's hot! You can't sleep either, Uncle?" he asked the bewildered coachman.
"No," Salim replied and cursed himself for having wasted another word. The whole night he paced up and down his little room, constantly looking out his window until morning broke. He made himself some tea, thoughtfully chewed a piece of bread, and when the clock of the nearby church tower struck eight, he left his room with tired steps. The neighbors wondered at his bad mood; the coachman didn't even return their greetings: "May your day be happy and blessed!"
Salim paused outside the door of his house. Two street sweepers were passing by; one was sprinkling water out of a great leather bag he carried on his back, to keep as much dust as possible from swirling up, but the little droplets simply rolled like tiny dust-covered marbles into the many troughs and gorges of the n
arrow street. The second man was following the water-sprinkler with a gigantic broom. Step by step, he worked his way forward through the dust. Salim waited until the air behind the two street sweepers had cleared and slowly trudged off to his friend Ali. The locksmith lived a few houses down the street.
Salim knocked on the door and waited. After a short while, a little girl cracked the door slightly and stole a peep at the old coachman. "Uncle Salim!" she shouted into the house as she opened the door and ran inside. Fatma, the locksmith's plump wife, hurried to the door, apologizing for her granddaughters shy behavior and inviting their friend inside. To her amazement, however, he simply stood there, waving his hands and resisting her insistent invitation. "But Salim, what's wrong with you? Ali's still in bed—our little Nabil has a fever, though even when he's healthy he likes to crawl into bed with his grandfather every morning."
Salim signaled that he would wait at the door until his friend came. It was difficult for him to explain to the woman that he mustn't talk and carelessly waste what few words remained. It was even more difficult for the woman to understand the old man, whose thrashing about made him seem odder than ever. Finally both heard the clatter of the locksmith's wooden shoes, and down the length of the hallway the big man's voice bellowed, "What's this? My Salim's as shy as a young bride today?" He laughed when his wife whispered to him on her way inside that something was wrong with Salim. "Go and put the coffee on the fire. He's just waiting for me to invite him in. And that's the way it should be, too!" Ali looked at his friend with a broad smile and was even more puzzled than his wife had been when Salim declined his invitation. Without saying a word, Salim desperately tried to explain that the locksmith absolutely had to come to his place that evening.
