by Rafik Schami
In the distance someone had turned up the radio very loud. Salim knew for certain it was Mahmoud the butcher, a bachelor who, night after night, listened to the songs of the Egyptian singer Um Khulthum. Every Thursday night, Radio Cairo broadcast Um Khulthum into the wee hours. The butcher was enamored of her voice. He would often cry and dance around his little room, his only partner a pillow pressed inside his arms. And he wasn't the only one who idolized her. Millions of Arabs loved her so much that no head of state who took himself seriously dared give a speech on a Thursday evening—not one single Arab would have listened.
Like a wave, the singer's voice surged out of the room and across the small courtyard of the neighboring building, over to the dovecote, past the walkway crowded with flowers and climbing plants, and finally broke upon the wall. The sound cascaded into Salim's own courtyard and kept its course unerringly through the flood of other voices until it streamed into his ear.
Salim had always been a good listener, but silence simply didn't suit him. Only now, in the stillness of his soul, did he first discover that every voice has its own peculiar taste. His ear became a magical palate. He flitted from one voice to another like a butterfly. Um Khulthum's song had the beauty of a patch of carnations so carefully tended that not a single thistle strayed inside.
Salim tarried for a while in the singer's well-kept garden, then he was drawn away by the homelier blossoms of other voices. A sudden disturbance turned him toward a painful whispering that tasted a little overspiced. Salim smiled: Afifa was exaggerating again, she had a habit of making every burp or broken wind into an almost incurable disease. She would speak very softly, to cajole her listeners into believing that what she was saying was a matter of national security.
Suddenly he heard the concerned voice of an old woman. "God protect us all if it's true what they're saying about a cholera epidemic in the north." Salim froze. Cholera? So it was true! He had heard the news for the first time that very day on the BBC, but the state news agency had denied all reports: "All rumors of a cholera epidemic are completely unfounded! Whoever says there is one is a foreign agent."
"Who told you that?" Afifa wanted to get to what mattered most with cholera epidemics.
"I don't know, I just heard that the hospitals in Aleppo are full," answered the old woman, and Salim recognized her concern despite her lie. He was certain that she knew her source exactly, but there were several unknown guests playing backgammon with their neighbor Tanius, and two strangers had joined the card game at neighbor Elias's. That was reason enough to be cautious about every utterance. People said that the only thing to come out of the union with Nasser's Egypt was a new and improved secret police. No longer known by the modest name "Secret Service," it was now called the "National Security Service." Its nets were being woven even tighter, so tight that fathers and mothers were no longer sure of their own children, and neighbors lived in mutual distrust.
Salim tried to picture the expression on a speaker's face by the taste of his voice. Now and then he would stand up and look across the courtyard to check his accuracy, but his shortsighted eyes were no match for his sensitive ears. A blur of figures was all he could see.
The excited voice of one of the card players, who was threatening to throw down his cards and go home, tasted a little sour. The other players tried to calm the man down and assured him that no one had so much as glanced at his hand. Afifa and her guests were also whispering their concern, since the man was known for his temper. But the more the other players tried to pacify the man, the angrier he became. Finally one of the men he was accusing took up the threat, threw down his own cards, and said in a voice that was quiet but tasted of fire: "Go on! Leave! You're a miserable loser, anyway. We're just trying to have some fun, understand?" Each word, quiet as it was, bored into the ears like a flaming arrow. The player who had started the row in the first place immediately whimpered an apology. Salim smiled with satisfaction.
Salim stayed up the entire night, sitting on his sofa, even after all the neighbors' guests had gone home.
The last sounds he registered in the early morning hours before he turned on his side and fell asleep were the loud chirping from under the pomegranate tree and some tender whispers from Afifa's bedroom.
Tuma the emigrant was the first to appear early that afternoon. He paced up and down Salim's room, asking where the others were keeping themselves so long. Then he sat down a while, stood up impatiently, and again started pacing quickly back and forth. It was eight o'clock before everyone arrived.
"It's been forever," the emigrant began, "since old Salim took his last trip. And that's exactly what's keeping him from speaking—the longing in his soul for foreign places." Tuma stopped, took a deep pull on the waterpipe, and passed it along.
"Okay"—Tuma's speech was infected with American idioms from his days in the United States—"we all know he's a born coachman! And what coachman ever rests once he's reached his destination, even if he's managed to find the most beautiful oasis in the world? Well? No coachman worth his whip. And that's what's made our friend sick."
At these words Salim nodded thoughtfully.
"He has to travel over seven mountains, through seven valleys, and across seven plains. He has to sleep under seven foreign skies in seven foreign cities, and you'll see, then his words will come back."
This idea so enthused the former minister that he offered to cover all expenses. And Mehdi and Tuma offered to serve as travel guides.
The friends scoured Damascus for days until they secured an old coach. Their hopes rose when they saw Salim, with gleaming eyes and fresh attire, climb aboard and give his whip a masterful crack. Only bad coachmen actually hit their horses—the good ones only hint at what the horses will be spared if they obey. The horses trotted off, and a few neighbors cried as they waved goodbye.
Salim drove with his entourage through seven cities and over seven mountains. He crossed seven plains and valleys. The trip lasted forty days. He came back exhausted and excited, but still unable to speak. Tuma had to listen to the others complain about how much valuable time had been lost due to his suggestion.
Next came the nature healers—all kinds—and even Um Khalil, an experienced midwife. They administered to the coachman the most repugnant potions, ointments, and herbal concoctions imaginable, and Salim grew paler from day to day, but he was still unable to speak. Roman Catholic holy water was as ineffective as its Greek Orthodox competitor, and holy sand from Mecca did as little to free his tongue as dust from Bethlehem.
"There are only eight days left," said the former minister, full of worry, and his words terrified the entire group on that late night. They sat mutely in their circle, as if their fairies, too, had tied their tongues. The clock struck twelve, but despite the late hour the friends were not the least bit tired. "I've got it," the teacher cried out and slapped himself hard on the knee. "I know it for sure. It's as plain as day," he spoke loudly, as if he were trying to buck himself up after all the defeats. "It's seven stories—old Salim has to hear seven stories in order to regain his voice."
Musa the barber was immediately enthusiastic, but not the taciturn Ali. Tuma and Isam failed to find much merit in the proposal, whereas Junis was quickly convinced. Only the minister refrained from giving his opinion right away.
'Talk, talk, talk. That's all teachers and barbers know how to do! That's how you make your living," Isam waxed indignant.
"I don't have the faintest idea how to tell a story, and I don't think this rubbish is going to cure Salim," declared Ali.
The friends quarreled a long time, and it was almost dawn before the minister, full of concern for the old coachman's voice, was able to intervene. With well-chosen words he quieted the emigrant and Isam. Even Ali, himself at a loss for any other solution, agreed. "Go ahead," he said. "If that's what poor Salim wants, I won't stand in the way." And that was what Salim wanted.
"Who should start?" asked the barber, and the newly reconciled friends were once again
quarreling. No one wanted to go first.
"Fine!" Isam shouted. "In prison, whenever we faced an unpleasant task, we would let the cards decide." He looked at Salim. "Do you have any playing cards?" Salim nodded, then stood up and fetched his old, crumpled deck of cards.
"Now watch!" Isam spoke quietly. "I am holding six cards. I put in one ace and shuffle them up. Whoever draws the ace tells the first story. Agreed?"
They all nodded their heads in silence. Only the barber spoke, to urge Isam to shuffle the cards well.
Isam lay the cards down on the small table. Because he was the oldest, the emigrant was allowed to draw first. He drew a jack, the caf'e owner a deuce, and the barber a king. The teacher then pulled his card and flipped it over. It was the ace of spades. The former inmate, the minister, and the locksmith all sighed with relief.
Salim, however, was doubled over in silent laughter,
so that the barber once again began
to doubt whether the old coach-
man was really mute or simply
pulling their
leg.
5
Why
one man allowed
his voice to be chained,
and how he later set it free
Mehdi, a tall, haggard man, had taught geography for thirty-five years. He couldn't put an exact number on how many pupils he had acquainted with the countries of the world, their rivers and mountains, but he was proud of counting among his former students two bank directors, one general, and several doctors. In the old quarter he commanded a certain respect—which he basked in somewhat proudly—with the result that many people respectfully avoided him. It was difficult to converse with him at any length, at least as an equal partner. Moreover, even if the talk started with the weather, the latest price hikes, or a cholera epidemic, sooner or later it always came back to geography—and the ignorance of his interlocutor. "If you don't know how high the Himalayas are, how can you appreciate how low things really are here in Damascus?" he is supposed to have said to a neighbor with deliberate ambiguity. The gossipmongers on his street dubbed him "Mister Himalaya" from that day on. The only time Mehdi left geography out of the conversation was when he met with Salim and his circle of friends.
That November afternoon dark clouds had once again gathered above Damascus. It had just rained for half an hour and the streets and people smelled of fresh earth. The air was cold as ice. Mehdi adjusted his scarf as he stepped outside. He greeted the Armenian cobbler sitting at his large sewing machine. The man peered over the rim of his lowered glasses and held up two fingers, to inform Mehdi that the new shoes the teacher was having made would be ready in two days.
"That's fine," Mehdi whispered and went his way. "When was the last time the cobbler actually smiled," he asked himself, but didn't know the answer.
A column of military vehicles rolled across the square in front of the Bab Tuma, or Thomas's Gate, and veered off to the east. The children were delighted by the spraying and splashing from the abundant puddles. "Charge! Off to the war!" they shouted with glee to the soldiers sitting crammed inside the trucks, who simply stared directly ahead, full of worry, completely oblivious to the general jubilation.
That spring, an uprising had broken out just across the border, in the Iraqi city of Mosul, and had ended in great bloodshed. The Iraqi regime accused Nasser of having financed and incited the rebels.
Something between the two countries had gone wrong. The Iraqi president Kassem, whom Radio Damascus had proclaimed the hero of the Iraqi revolution only a year before, suddenly fell into disgrace, without the slightest explanation. From then on, the Syrian radio characterized him as the bloodthirsty "Butcher of Baghdad." Reports of starvation, rebellion, and cholera in Iraq were now filling the airwaves almost daily, but no mention was made of any unrest or open conflict in Syria itself. Rumor had it that a group of young Syrian officers had mutinied against the government. They were said to have captured important positions in the east with the help of Iraqi troops. Radio Damascus issued assurances that the situation in the east was calm, but Mehdi refused to believe the speaker's reassuring words. Governments in Syria, without exception, made a habit of proclaiming peace and order just when they were on the verge of collapse. A bitter feeling arose in Mehdi. What kind of times are these? The regime declares the dictator in a neighboring country a brother and a hero, then condemns him as an enemy and cowardly traitor, without asking the people of either nation for their opinion, although it was their sons who would be fighting each other if it came to war.
Mehdi glanced at the rifles. Like the faces of the young soldiers, they were shiny and clean on the outside, but on the inside, charged and loaded.
That day, he had left his house, located near the French hospital, a little earlier than usual. He was overcome with a longing to see his childhood home on Bakri Street. It wouldn't take him very far out of the way. When Mehdi spotted the house, in which he had not set foot for over forty years, he was surprised at how tiny the door actually was; it had seemed like such a mighty gate when he was a child. His heart started pounding. As is often the case in Damascus, the front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open. The smell of laundry and heating oil immediately came to greet him from the courtyard.
A small barefoot girl ran up to him. Mehdi smiled at her. "What's your name, little girl?"
"Ibtisam," the girl answered. Mehdi heard the clatter of wooden house shoes. An ample woman came out of the room that had once served his parents as a bedroom. When she saw Mehdi, she smiled, though slightly flustered. "That's the third time today she's gotten away from me! God is my witness, the devil himself would sooner fast and pray and make a pilgrimage than attempt to give these children a bath. Six of theiti, and each one like quicksilver! You just keep grabbing at nothing!" The woman paused and grabbed her daughter by the shoulder. "But come in! May I get something for you?" she invited Mehdi inside.
"No, thank you, I only wanted to have a look. You see, I was born in this house. We used to live here a long time ago. My grandparents, too. Mohammed Riad al-Karim—his name is chiseled in the marble plate above the door. That was my grandfather," Mehdi said, a little embarrassed.
"You don't say! And could you get water on the third floor in those days?" Without waiting for his answer, the woman continued: "For a year now the pressure's been so low it only flows down here. The neighbors from upstairs have to fetch their water from us, and every Saturday, when it's bath day, there's always a big fracas."
"No, back then there was enough water. How many families are living here now, anyway?"
"Three upstairs and two downstairs, plus one student, but he doesn't need much water. He always takes his wash home on the weekend. He's from Daraia. A very courteous man. Our little Ibtisam likes to sleep in his bed most of all. He really loves the children. But I keep telling them to leave the man in peace. You ought to see the thick books he plows through night after night!" The woman illustrated her speech with her hands.
Mehdi looked at the small room next to the staircase. "And who lives there?"
"In that little-bitty room? My dear man, God have mercy on your eyes! You think a human being could live in there? That room barely holds three oil heaters in the summer and two bicycles in the winter. Take another look!"
Mehdi was visibly shocked when he peered into the tiny room. He said goodbye quietly and left. And although his wife had asked him to buy fish for the next day at Batbuta's—right near Bakri Street—he forgot all about it. Batbuta the fishmonger was shouting so loud they could hear him in Turkey, but Mehdi walked quickly past his shop. Not even the pungent smell of fish could jolt him from his thoughts.
All six friends had already gathered at Salim's by the time Mehdi opened the door to the coachman's room. No one ever had to knock. Isam was kneeling in the corner in front of the wood stove, puffing away. The room smelled pleasant, like burnt resin. Mehdi closed the door behind him, just as Isam exclaimed, "Finally!" A little flame was glowing inside t
he pile of wood.
"I've run out of breath. I used to be able to blow a fire hot enough to roast a whole mutton to a crisp," Isam sighed and coughed.
"Good evening!" Mehdi greeted everyone and rubbed his hands; he was delighted by the tea's aroma.
The minister was the first to notice that Mehdi was wearing his brown suit, along with a white shirt and a brownish scarf made of silk.
"Have you been to a wedding?" he teased him, then stood up like the others and shook hands with his friend.
"All right, I'm going to start," Mehdi said after a short while and took a hefty swallow of tea, as if he wanted to prepare his vocal cords for the great task that lay ahead. "Now open your ears and your hearts. May God grant you health and a long life if you pay close attention to what I say," the teacher began.
"Just a moment, please," begged Tuma the emigrant as he took his glasses out of their leather case and put them on. The others grinned, because Tuma always insisted on wearing his glasses whenever he listened to their stories. "Okay, now I can pay close attention to what you're going to say," Tuma added, smiling contentedly.
"I'll never understand that," said Mehdi. "Old Socrates used to say, if one of his pupils was sitting without saying a word, 'Speak so that I may see you,' whereas you—you want to hear me with your eyes?"
