by Rafik Schami
" 'I can tell you that exactly,' answered the old lady. 'Ismail died two years to the day after Hamad's Fart. His wife died three years later.'
"Hamad shrieked like a madman and hurried back to Brazil."
"A lovely story, but don't you think it's time we heard Junis?" suggested the teacher.
"I forget where I left off," said the cafe owner.
"You were talking about how the hakawatis have to have a good memory," Isam reminded him.
'That's right, a hakawati has to have that. But I also wanted to say that their profession is very hard work. I saw it night after night. The hakawatis would walk off the stage as exhausted as heavy laborers. And they earned very little. When I paid them, I sometimes asked: 'Why do you tell stories all evening for so little money.' Some said: 'We never learned to do anything else. Our grandfathers and our fathers were hakawatis.' But one day one of the best storytellers I ever had answered me like this: 'My listeners pay me very well,' he said, 'and no gold in the world can equal the happiness of seeing this miracle take place in their eyes, as full-grown savage lions turn into meek and eager children.'
"Well, I thought long and hard about what I would tell Salim tonight, and all of you. Naturally I've held on to a few of the stories my hakawatis told, but on the way over I felt this desire to tell you about myself. We've been friends for over ten years, and you hardly know anything about my life. It's a strange enough story.
"Well, I don't know when I was born. My mother said it was a very hot day. I was the youngest of ten children."
"Please, wait just a minute," Faris said and hurried out to the toilet. Ali seized the opportunity to throw two large pieces of wood in the oven, and Tuma put on his glasses.
When Faris came back, he stood beside the oven and rubbed his frozen hands. Junis took a tin of snuff from his vest pocket, carefully tapped a small heap of tobacco in the hollow above his left thumb, and inhaled it deeply, moving his head back and forth. Then he wiped his nose with his large handkerchief and leaned back.
"Well," Junis began again after Faris had sat down, "we lived in Harasta, which in those days was still a tiny village. My father was a poor stonemason. I shared a small room with my nine siblings: six boys and three girls. We had only one other room, which was used as a kitchen during the day and served as a bedroom for my parents at night. I didn't have a happy childhood. Of course, I'm experiencing one now, with my grandchildren . . .
"Well, back then we had to get up at four o'clock almost every day. My three oldest brothers had to go to the building site with my father to learn his trade. One brother was apprenticed to a butcher, another to a baker, and a third worked for a knife grinder—and they all earned next to nothing. The girls had to help out at home as soon as they could stand on their own two legs.
"The school was a horror. An old imam taught us more about kicks and canings than about the Koran. Still, my father never gave up the hope that one of his sons might become an imam. He wasn't religious, but any family that provided the mosque with its imam earned great respect in the village. So he sent me to the horrible old man. But just like my brothers, I didn't last more than two years. It was a bitter defeat for my father, and since I was his youngest son, I was also his final disappointment. He never spoke to me from that day on. Never again. For years he never answered when I greeted him; he treated me like I was air. As far as he was concerned I didn't exist. He wouldn't even beat me. That's how much this final disappointment had hurt him.
"I didn't really care what was going to become of me—all I knew was that I didn't want to go back to the imam. I would rather have died. The decrepit old man acted as if he would live forever; he didn't want any of his pupils to advance. When the reaper of all souls finally came for him, among the three thousand inhabitants of our village it was impossible to find a single young man who could read the Koran respectably. That's how bad this imam really was. They had to bring someone in from Duma in order to keep the mosque going. The new imam had a gentle demeanor but a voracious appetite. All the chickens in the village would gladly have emigrated to America if they could. But that's another story.
"Well, my father had leased a field for a small amount of money in order to raise wheat and vegetables to keep the family fed. My three sisters, my mother, and I had to do all the work. Winter was the only time we could rest. From spring on we had to get up every morning before the sun rose to work the field. All day long we pulled weeds, planted the rows, and watered them over and over. When the vegetables were ripe, we all worked together harvesting the eggplants, zucchinis, tomatoes, and cucumbers.
"One crate of vegetables a day was all we could manage. I had to go to market by myself. My father didn't want the girls to go there, although women and young girls often sold things at the market. At first I carried the heavy crate on my head, but then I scrounged together two wheels and a metal rod and fixed them so I could pull the crate behind me. From then on, going to market was fun. I enjoyed selling the vegetables, and the market was so full of life it helped me forget how exhausted I was from the field work. Sometimes in the summer, if I made a good sale, I treated myself to an ice cream. That was like a holiday meal for me. First I would wash my hands and face at the fountain, then walk over to the ice cream vendor and with a loud voice order an ice cream. 'Sir,' I would call out, 'may your hand be guided by a generous heart, for my half-piaster is honestly earned!' The ice cream vendors would laugh with pleasure and give me an extra spoonful.
"Although I was often dead tired, I hardly ever fell asleep tending my goods, but once I did nod off, and someone stole an eggplant.
"Well, there was one thing I hated worse than the plague, I can tell you, and that was the wheat harvest. The cutter's work is a living hell for back and hands. The cut wheat had to be carried to the village threshing floor and threshed there. We had no good sickles and no good rope; we didn't even have a donkey— although I would have preferred to be one myself so I wouldn't feel the pain so much. The damned chaff burned my eyes and throat. The sun beat down on us without mercy. I would have given the world for a little bit of shade and a drop of cool water.
"My mother was often sick. She was sick the whole time I knew her, but she wouldn't hear of our going out into the field alone, and even when she was so frail she could barely walk, she would sit in the middle of the field and sing us songs, to cheer us up a little. They were funny songs, and I can remember we sometimes laughed so hard we cried. We were concerned for her health and always pleaded with her to stay home, but she didn't want to leave us alone. 'As long as I can see, I want to fill my eyes with the sight of you,' was the way she always answered.
"After the harvest she would go with us to the threshing floor and sit there despite the heat. There wasn't a single tree on the hill where the village did its threshing. When one of us children grew tired we could go to her and lay our head in her lap for a little while. She would bend over us and shade us.
"My mother died in the spring of the year I turned twelve. I ran around the fields like mad, screaming out loud for her. I cried and cried and cursed heaven. I stayed outside in the fields. Today I'm sure that the pain I felt that night made me crazy for a while. The next morning I started running; I ran through villages I had never seen before. I stopped people on the street and asked, 'Do you really think my mother's dead?' Most people just pushed me away, but finally someone took me in, although who it was I have no more idea today than I did then. The only thing I remember is being terribly afraid of the way the room looked, with this dim oil lamp glowing and flickering. It was practically empty—just a mattress and a stool—and the ceiling had a large, strangely crooked beam running through the center. I sat huddled in a corner and stared at the beam for a long time before I fell asleep. I don't know when I came back to our village, half starved and completely filthy. My sisters said that it was a month after our mother's death.
"When it came time to harvest the wheat that year, I built a small tent of twigs and foliage on the t
hreshing floor, which my sisters and I called 'Mother.'
"Well, my oldest sister had married at the age of sixteen, shortly before my mother's death. The second-oldest was fifteen at the time and had to take care of the household all alone. That left the youngest of my sisters—who was only one year older than I was—and myself to do all the work in the field. It was my job to turn the wheat and guard it until sunset. Then my father would relieve me, without saying a word, and spend the night on the threshing floor. Unbelievable! He would come, sit down, and stare into the distance. I would always kiss his hand, but he would shove me away and wipe off the back of his hand. Every day I was very fearful of our meeting, and every day, when I kissed his hand, he would shove me away.
"The wheat took time to dry; one rainshower meant putting the threshing off for days. We had to keep watch over the wheat around the clock, until it was safely stored in sacks inside our house. Times were very bad; people were starving. We heard the wildest stories about thieves stealing wheat in broad daylight, while the farmer was taking his midday nap
"I had to stay with the threshing the whole day. But a few boys from the village who were somewhat better off met every day and took a short hike to the village spring. I watched them go, and inside I was boiling over with envy and rage because I was not allowed to play with them.
"Well, once I saw the boys sitting around the village spring. My sister was in a good mood that day. She let me go down to the boys and play for an hour. When I reached the spring, they were sitting in a circle, drinking tea that they had made over a small fire and taking turns telling stories.
"I sat down beside the boys, and sooner or later it was my turn and I started to tell a nice story. They just laughed. 'We don't want to hear a story, we want to hear what you dreamt last night!' I was terrified—I had never even heard the word dream before. It took me some time to figure out why each one began his story with the words I was ... I told the children that I had never dreamed.
" 'No wonder!' said the son of the village elder. 'How could you have, you poor devil. You sleep ten to a room, and you're up at the crack of dawn. A dream needs time and space!' I'll never forget those words as long as I live. That night I couldn't sleep. I took my blanket and sneaked out of the room. I went to the threshing floor, and lay down next to my father. He didn't notice anything, but that night I dreamt for the first time in my life. When I woke up, my father had already gone off to work. But I felt different the whole day, and from then on I was glad that I could dream just like the other boys. Night after night I would sneak off to my father, and one morning I was awakened by the stubble of his beard as he kissed me. He hugged me tightly to his breast and cried.
"On that day the world became a piece of heaven. Before noon I had turned the wheat three times. You didn't have to do it that often, once in the afternoon was enough. But a new power was flowing through my veins. And then came the catastrophe.
'The children came as usual to play at the spring, and waved to me to join them. I was afraid of leaving the wheat unattended. My sister had to help with the wash that day, so I was alone. My fear held me back, but my joy at the dreams I could tell the boys kept drawing me to them. I felt torn in two. Well, finally, when I saw them sitting in a circle, my desire won out. I went over to them, sat down, and told them several dreams. The children were fascinated. They said my dreams were wilder than anything they had ever dreamed.
"Well, after I had listened to the dreams of the other boys, I said goodbye and walked slowly back. You had to cross through a large vineyard and then spiral up the bald hill like around a snail's house. It was then I remembered the wheat. I looked up, but I couldn't see the large pile that had covered the middle of our floor. First I thought I had confused our floor with another, but then I recognized the tent I had made, the one we called 'Mother,' standing on the bare floor. My heart was pounding, and my legs began to wobble. I ran as fast as I could. When I reached the floor, I almost died: not a single hull was left. The neighbors all said they hadn't noticed a thing. They hurried with me to our place and couldn't believe their eyes. We looked far and wide but saw neither beast nor rider. For a long time I just sat there and cried, until finally, before the sun went down, I left. I couldn't bear to face my father.
"I had no idea where to go. I started off toward Damascus until at last it got dark. Then I saw a coachman who was still trying to make it to Damascus, despite the late hour. He was goading his horses on and they were galloping like mad. I ran after the coach and with one great leap was able to grab on to the back bar. The coachman could tell that someone was hanging on his coach. But he didn't have time to stop and look, so he just cracked his whip in back of him, and that goddamn whip was long and hit my arms and legs like spears of fire. Never again did I see a whip as long as that. He kept on flogging both his horses and me. More than anything I wanted to jump off, but the ground beneath me had turned into a whirring grindstone. Whenever I tried to put my foot down, the road tore open my naked toes. The whip was searing me from above and the road from below. It was a hell. When the coach reached Damascus, my arms were bleeding. I climbed down, staggered away on shaky legs, and cursed the bones of this coachman's ancestors.
"Well, I'll keep it short, so as not to bore you," said Junis, looking at his friends.
"For God's sake, go on, in as much detail as you can!" replied Faris, and as if he had spoken the minds of the others, they all nodded and mumbled in accord.
"Your words are scarce drops of water, and we are like the thirsty earth," Mehdi the teacher exaggerated, and laughed at his own words.
"Well, all right. That night I soon found a place to stay. There was a blind man sitting in front of a courtyard; I greeted him as I walked by. Then the blind man returned my greeting and—God is my witness—he asked me why I was so hurt. I told him about my ordeal, and he cursed the heartless coachman, and gave me water and some salve from a small pot to lessen the pain. He let me spend the night on a small mattress in his room.
"The blind man had a box that he carried from a strap around his neck, and which contained everything from thimbles to candy. He was already very old, but when I told him the next day that I would be glad to do his selling for him, he declined. Earning money wasn't what made him happy, he said, but helping people in need did. This blind man was a strange fellow. I stayed with him for three days. Each day he left at dawn and didn't return until late. He was very excited when he told me how happy a woman on the other side of Damascus had been to discover that he had the very button she had been looking for for years. He kept a large tin box full of buttons. Whenever he found old, ragged clothes, he would cut off the buttons. He had a thousand colorful buttons and was as proud of them as if they had been Solomon's treasure.
"Well, after three days I thanked that good man and went on my way. I loafed about the city for weeks. Vowing never to return home, I swore to myself that I would either make it on my own or end like a dog—but I never wanted to see the sadness and bitter disappointment in my fathers eyes again.
"I started hanging around the Hamadiya market; there was a real battle for every inch of space. Naturally, as a newcomer I received the worst spot, right across from a tailors: the only other shops nearby sold various odds and ends like yarn, needles, stationery, ice cream—in any case, things that rarely required carrying. The stronger boys got the coveted places in front of the stores that sold furniture, cloth, and dishes.
"But one day I was lucky and saw this man coming out of the tailor's shop carrying a large packet. He was dressed finely and had the look of a wealthy gentleman. I hurried over and offered my services. 'I'll lighten your load for half a piaster, sir!' I called out, as I had learned from the other children who, like me, were hanging around the bazaar.
"Well, that was over sixty years ago, but to this day I don't know whether I met an angel, a devil, or both in one person. I accompanied the man home. He lived on Lazarists Street—just a few doors down from Tuma—in a small villa. I carried t
he packet to his home, and when we arrived he asked me how much I wanted. A half-piaster would have been plenty, but to suggest a fixed amount would have been stupid. I had also learned from the children how to answer. 'Whatever your generosity permits,' I said. He liked that, and asked me where I came from. I joked that I was an exiled prince from the Sahara now working as an errand boy to earn enough money to buy horses and hire warriors. He laughed and gave me some food, and a glass of rose water to drink. Then he asked whether I knew how to read. I enjoyed joking around with him. I answered: 'Yes, but I would be ashamed to show my writing to you, O sir.'
"'Ashamed?' he said. 'One is never ashamed to show that one can write, boy. Writing is a noble art. Show me how you can write!'
" 'Sir, it will hurt you!' I answered.
" 'It doesn't matter. Show me!'
"First I asked for my pay, since I didn't know how he would react. He gave me four piasters, which at that time was as much as a worker earned for a full day's work. 'Now I'm anxious to know how your writing is supposed to hurt!' he said, laughing.
"I kicked him in the behind. 'That's A,' I said. Then I hit him in the stomach. 'And that's how you write B.'
" 'What's that supposed to mean?' he asked in horror.
" 'Didn't I tell you, O sir. That's the language I learned from the old imam. I know perfectly which beating goes with which letter, but I can't write a single one.'
"Instead of getting angry, he gazed at me with sad eyes. Then he paced up and down, examined me with an earnest expression, and shook his head. I drank the sweet rose water in silence, and was a little ashamed of my patched rags and naked feet. 'And would you like, O prince, to tarry in my humble abode until you have gathered enough gold for your horses and riders?' I heard his voice and couldn't believe my ears. Even today I have to cry when I think of it . . ." Junis' voice was choked with tears.
