by Rafik Schami
Suddenly, with his eyes still closed, Salim saw Hassan the one-eyed farmer, who at the crack of dawn, every day for decades, had led his ten Damascus goats—this was an especially docile breed of goat, with soft, red hair and large, well-rounded udders—through the streets of the city selling the fresh, warm milk. A year before, the government had ordered him to stop, claiming that the milk was unhygienic and that the goats were an eyesore that marred the image of the city. The farmer, however, stubbornly persisted in coming to town despite the police warnings —until his goats were finally confiscated.
So now, whenever there were funeral processions, Hassan would carry the floral wreaths in front of the coffins, or else he would help the flower seller Nuri with weddings, presenting magnificent bouquets to the celebrants. But when nobody was dying or getting married, Hassan would kill time by shining shoes. He was convinced that one day his goats would break out of their captivity and find him here, where he used to take a little rest each day, after covering three streets, to feed his beloved animals.
Whether Hassan was carrying bridal bouquets or polishing shoes, he always called out loudly to his goats. Only at funerals did he lower his voice and simply murmur their names quietly. People made fun of him, but Hassan was absolutely certain his ten goats would soon appear. He might occasionally forget to eat his lunch, but never, ever, had he confused one goat with another. "No, Happy Dew has a round white spot between her eyes but no black dot on her left ear like her twin sister, Cool Breeze," he would answer testily when people teased him by mixing up the names of his goats. "Shoe-shiiine, Salim, my friend? Greetings! Silver Moon, here I am! Shoe-shiiine!" he called out again loudly.
Salim touched the shoeshine man on the shoulder and steered around his pungent shoeshine box. One step more and he could hear the noises of the woodworking shop, famous for its fine inlay. The old coachman, afraid he might at any moment trip over one of the wooden boxes drying in the winter sun, proceeded cautiously along his way. So he was all the more surprised when he stepped right into a deep, muddy pothole and lost his balance. Flinging his arms out wide, he hit a woodworker rushing over to help him smack on the nose. Tears welled up in the man's eyes, and all Salim could do was smile at him in embarrassment.
Instead of being ashamed at his own childish sport, Salim inwardly cursed the president, whom he held personally responsible for every pothole in the ancient city. Then he continued on his walk, with open eyes and a muddy right foot.
Inside the coppersmith shops the small chisels sounded as if they were chattering with the blank copper plates. While they left their marks on the copper cans and pots, the chisels themselves stayed blank, as if unimpressed by the tinny copper prattle. Salim stopped at one of the smallest booths, whose owner he knew well. The somewhat squat, fifty-year-old man recognized the old coachman right away. He left the tray he was working on, and hurried over to Salim. "Uncle Salim, what's this I hear? Junis told me the whole story. By my children's health, I've been worried sick about you. Come inside. Do me the honor and come inside for some coffee."
Salim went in with the man, who immediately sent an apprentice to a nearby cafe to bring the old coachman a mocha.
The small shop smelled of tar and burnt cloth. The coppersmith noticed the anxiety on the old coachman's face. "God has been merciful to me. My apprentice wanted to heat up the tar a little to keep the copper plate from nicks and dents, and in the process the curtain caught fire. I was sitting with my back to the shop and didn't smell a thing. I've had a cold for days. But God protected me and the bread of my children—probably because I took this orphan in as my apprentice." The craftsman grabbed Salim by the sleeve and looked around. "What kind of times are these?" he asked quietly. "Have you heard about the cholera up north? You I can tell this to. I heard about it from my cousin. He just came from there. Uncle, what kind of government is this that doesn't even tell its own people about a cholera epidemic? And why? So the tourists won't be scared away. God knows I'm not some frightened little rabbit; besides, it's all the same to me. I've lived long enough. But my six children! The poor children. For weeks now they haven't been allowed to buy any treats on the street, and we wash everything we eat with hot water and potassium permanganate. Maybe I'm overdoing it. Do you think there's an epidemic?"
Salim shrugged his shoulders and took the coffee that the apprentice was politely offering.
The old coachman slurped his mocha loudly and with delight; he set his cup down on the small table, then pointed to a magnificent, round copper platter and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate money, in order to find out the price.
"Just take it. I will give it to you!" the man declared.
Salim raised his bushy eyebrows the way Damascenes do to say no with the least possible amount of effort. Only Damascenes—so people say—could have come up with this particular brand of laziness, this method of saying no without even moving their head. The most diligent among Arabs actually say the word no. Those somewhat more inclined to comfort will raise their head and click their tongue. But the laziest of lazy Damascenes simply raise their eyebrows without a sound. And it was this manner that Salim followed his whole life long.
The coppersmith laughed with delight. "You like stories, don't you?" And since he well knew the coachman's vice, he went on without waiting for an answer: "You know the Englishman who lives next door and works in the museum? His name is Mister John. He used to be so worried about his beautiful wife that he would lock up the house whenever he went out. The women in our neighborhood, they all liked her and kept inviting her to coffee, but she just sat smiling by her window, sad and lonely. Her husband, he was afraid she might leave him. A month ago he had to drive to Palmyra. They've dug up some more treasures there.
"Normally, when Mister John went away for any length of time, he always took his wife with him, but he didn't want to take her to Palmyra. There's a hotel there called Hotel Zenobia—you know about the beautiful Queen Zenobia who defied the Romans. Mister John was afraid of the legends surrounding this hotel. It had been founded by a rich Frenchwoman named Madame d'Andurian who fell in love with the desert, the Bedouins, and their Arabian horses. So Madame d'Andurian moved to Palmyra and had this hotel built. In its stables she kept Arabian horses of the best blood. Madame was very generous and often gave lavish banquets. Rumor had it that they were wild orgies. Tales of her charm and generosity quickly made the rounds, so libertines of all stripes— governors, politicians, generals, diplomats—they all traveled to Palmyra to be pampered by Madame d'Andurian. But Madame was not only admired; she was also hated. In time her name acquired a certain tinge of notoriety. Some people called her—perhaps out of jealousy—'the enchantress of the desert.'
"One day her husband was found murdered in a barn. You know how back then the French and English were fighting their secret spy wars all over the Middle East, to see who would wind up with all our riches. With all the horrible goings-on, spies and innocent people alike frequently disappeared without a trace. I'm sure you remember the beautiful, the fabulously beautiful singer Asmahan. Who could forget her? Well, she was murdered as well—maybe she knew too much, or maybe she wouldn't carry out an assignment. Well, anyway, people whispered that the English secret service did away with Madame d'Andurian's husband because he was a highly placed French agent. But the English spread rumors that the Frenchwoman had instructed her Bedouin lover to murder him. In any case, from then on, all the well-known personalities stayed away from the hotel, and Madame was lonely to the point of suffocating. She, the great Madame d'Andurian, was now all alone, forsaken in the sand. She couldn't stand it for long. One day she decided to buy a sailing ship, and she sailed the seven seas until a mutiny broke out among her crew. By then Madame was quite old, and there was little her charm could do to save the situation. But she stuck to her guns—literally—and charged the mutineers all by herself, brandishing a small pistol. The seamen simply picked her up and threw her overboard. They heard her crying out 'Zenobia
! Zenobia!' until the waves devoured her.
"Well, Mister John also knew the story of Queen Zenobia, who is said to have had her husband, King Odenathus, murdered so that she would inherit the crown. And being the good Englishman, he probably believed that it was a Bedouin who killed Madame d'Andurian's husband. He feared the Bedouins even more than he mistrusted the Damascenes, and so he decided to leave his beautiful wife at home. He lied to her and told her there was no hotel in Palmyra, that he and his workers would have to make do with tents and sleep on the hard ground. Mister John bought a week's supply of food for his wife—that was how long he planned to be away—and locked her in. He warned her never to speak with Arabs and she answered him 'Yes, yes,' and 'No, no,' the way the English do.
"Meanwhile the women in the neighborhood had conspired to have a key made for Mister John's door. They took the woman into their midst and plucked out all the little hairs on her legs, the way our women do. Then they all had great fun. Not only did they teach her Arabian dances, they also instructed her how to deceive men with her cunning. Uncle, the things they say in these circles about us men, it's enough to turn your hair gray!
"One week later, the Englishman came back and found his wife—how shall I say?—somewhat changed. She was sassy to him and very cheery. She showed off her legs and made fun of his pale face.
"Mister John was stricken with concern. 'Have you been talking to the Arabs?' he asked. His wife just looked at him without saying a word . . . and slowly raised her eyebrows."
Salim laughed with pleasure, frightening the artisan with his noiseless guffaws.
"Let's say twenty liras," the coppersmith said casually. "In the Hamadiya bazaar they sell the same platter for fifty. They buy theirs from me."
Salim took another sip, put the cup on the table, and used his fingers to show he would only pay ten liras.
"Uncle, that's too little. I'd rather give it to you. There's a whole day of work in a platter like that. Look here at the woman's face. She's practically talking to you. And damask roses like these, do you know how much work is in each leaf?"
Salim nodded and bid eleven liras.
"That copper comes from America. I pay twice as much as the others do for their cheap tins that start streaking blue and green after one week. Here's something that will last you for life, fifteen liras, my final word."
Salim raised his eyebrows, stuck obstinately to his eleven, and stood up. He started to leave.
"No, I don't want you to go empty-handed. Give me thirteen." And without waiting for the coachman's answer, he called back into the shop: "Ismail, come over here! Wrap up this pretty platter for Uncle Salim."
Salim took out his coin purse and handed the apprentice twelve liras, rubbing each one between his fingers before giving it away, as if he were afraid his government pension was escaping his company all too quickly.
"Mabruk! Blessed be the tea you serve on this platter," said the apprentice, handing the package to Salim. The coachman smiled and gave him two piasters. Then he turned around, pointed to the empty cup, and nodded his thanks for the coffee. He was visibly pleased with the bargain. The tooth of time had nibbled all the color from his old tea tray.
The street grew narrower and narrower, and the warning cries of the porters sounded louder and louder. "Watch out, man, make room!" "Watch out, make way!" "Watch out, ma'am!" They shouted and laboriously snaked their way with their unwieldy loads through the sea of people that grew denser and denser the closer Salim came to the spice market. The old coachman, too, had to strain to find his way through the ringing of the bicycles, the honking of the carts, and the cries of vendors, porters, and beggars, and although it was quite cold, he began to sweat.
When Salim reached the spice market, he took a short rest in a tiny cafe. The tables were just large enough for a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and an ashtray—nothing more. The only person seated inside was a man with gray hair and a stubbly beard who seemed to be a friend of the owner. The private conversation died down as soon as Salim walked in. The old coachman was just able to catch the word
Mazzah—the prison for "politicals." "It's colder today than it was yesterday," the proprietor repeated from time to time and thoughtfully ran his fingers over the amber beads of his rosary.
Salim drank his coffee slowly and looked through the steamed-up windows at the people hurrying by on their way to the market. An old horse stopped in front of the cafe. Despite the cold the horse was dripping with sweat and panting loudly as it tugged away at the heavy cart: a wheel was stuck in a deep pothole. The young driver cursed and whipped the horse without mercy. Salim tensed up and shook his head, and not until some passersby helped pull the cart, heavily loaded with bulging sacks, out of the pothole did the old coachman feel relieved.
When Salim left the cafe, he was enveloped in an aromatic cloud that came wafting from the spice market. Star anise, cardamom, and coriander were crassly celebrating their triumph over all the other spices, though thyme from the Syrian mountains kept chiming in as well with its deep voice and a stubbornness impossible to ignore. Now and then cinnamon would whisper sweetly and seductively, when the master spices weren't paying attention. Only the saffron blossoms kept silent, preferring to rely solely on their radiant yellow to entice prospective buyers.
Lies and spices are siblings. A lie can change even the blandest occurrence into a piquant dish. The truth and nothing but the truth is something only a judge wants to hear. But just like spices, lies should be used solely to add a little flavor. "Not too little, not too much," thought Salim, "that's how they're best savored." He paused for a moment at the entrance to the bathhouse and looked over at the shops whose shelves were filled to the brim with spices.
It had been years since Salim had taken a steam bath. He bathed every Saturday in his kitchen using an ancient tin basin. He had just, managed to take a couple of steps inside when he was jostled by a young man wearing nothing but a towel. The man gave a shriek—he was running from another man who was hot on his heels with a bucket of icy water. The place was crowded with soldiers; they had occupied all the benches in the tearoom. Salim recognized them by their short hair. The room reeked of sweat, and that repulsed the old coachman. It seemed the men had never been to the baths before; they were making as much noise as they would at a fairground. Gone was the peace and quiet so treasured by every connoisseur of the steam bath. Salim could hear them shouting for hand towels. He had never heard such a thing in all his years, for the attendants always provided more than enough towels for their guests the moment they began undressing. "They must be enlisted men or very young officers," he thought, and hurried out, just as the two young men who had raced past a moment before started wrestling on the ground in front of the fountain, to the great amusement and applause of their comrades.
Salim suddenly felt hungry. Not far from the bath two vendors were selling kebabs, grilled innards, boiled tongue, and roasted liver. They were hawking their wares loudly and aggressively. "Walk up and have a taste before I sell out!" shouted one. "You don't need a single tooth to eat mine!" countered the other, "the meat's so tender it'll melt on your tongue!" Many passersby let themselves be tempted— the spice market had already set their mouths to watering. Salim listened to the loud offers and decided on the man who was loudly proclaiming his generous use of fresh parsley. Since Salim wanted to pamper himself he purchased three kebab sticks for one lira. But he was only able to enjoy one. Not because the vendor had been exaggerating: no, the fresh parsley really did make the kebab taste delicious. But then, on top of a table inside the shop, he saw two boiled sheep heads. The one on the right was munching a bunch of parsley; his tongue was hanging from his mouth at a particularly odd angle. The other one was grinning right at Salim, showing off his mighty maw. Clutching his kebabs, Salim turned and looked down at the ground, but there he saw a third mutton head beneath the butcher's block, in the middle of the offal. It had yet to be boiled and was gazing up at Salim with large, reproachful eyes and a
dangling tongue. Salim wrapped the two kebabs in some pita bread and hurried away; he felt an unbearable, burning pressure in his stomach. He waited for the fresh air to cool off his head. Salim hunkered down in front of a spice shop and hastily devoured the kebabs with the bread. But they no longer tasted very good.
After his meal he made his way through the goldsmiths' market to the Umayyad Mosque.
A remarkable calm emanated from the great hall of the mosque. The people walked noiselessly across the floor covered with heavy Persian rugs, lost in thought or engrossed in silent prayer. Or else they sat in a group around a learned elder, talking. Others were sleeping or staring intently at a point in the high dome, at an ornament hanging on the wall or from the ceiling.
Salim's legs were sore, and the fatty meat made his stomach heavy. He stretched out on a rug and wondered why he had recently felt this emptiness inside his head. Never in his life had he had such difficulty thinking his thoughts through as in the last months. They were becoming more and more blurred—probably because he was no longer able to speak with anyone. So the tongue, he reasoned, is like a potters hands, which give the clay such beautiful and useful form. Salim smiled at the droll insight that he could think clearly only if he talked. And just as that thought was taking shape, he saw his wife coming around the corner. He rubbed his eyes in amazement. Zaida was walking toward him wearing a blue velvet dress and smiling. Her delicate fingers had the red tint of henna. Her hair was gray, but it had a reddish cast. She laughed when she saw him. "What are you doing here, my Salim, little tassel of my heart? Why are you sleeping here?"
