by Rafik Schami
"One day an immigrant from Crete asked to hear an authentic Arabian love story. This man was like our Salim. He loved stories more than anything else.
I wanted to tell him the story of Kais and Leila, but he knew that one—also the one about Antar and Abla. He had heard them before, from other Arabs. Okay, so I told him about the sad fate of a young woman who hadn't wanted to marry her cousin because she was in love with the village smith. My grandfather had told me the story a long time ago. In fact, he had lived it, because he was the village smith.
"So the workers listened, and one or two of them cried, even though they had never been in Arabia. But Mr. Wilson—that was the man's name—just stood by the door, pretending to be engrossed in his stock reports. After I'd finished, he laughed himself silly over my heroes' sufferings and sorrows. 'My dear Thomas'—that's how they say Tuma in English— 'what's the point of this idiotic story?' Then he went on with what was for him a very detailed explanation: 'All the happiness that's taken you hours to describe in your story I can buy in five minutes: I can buy your beautiful woman—and the Arabian horse to boot. For a few dollars I could have someone kill the stubborn father of the bride who refused to give his consent. What's the big deal? You don't need a story for all that, just plain hard work.'
" 'Mister, there's a lot of things that nobody on earth can buy,' I answered bitterly, since he had made light of my grandmother's suffering and her courage.
"He laughed. 'Such as what?'
" 'Such as a single moment of happiness, even one as fleeting as the wind,' I answered and walked out. I could still hear his laughter ringing out behind me.
" 'You can buy wind, too, my dear Thomas! My portable fan costs ten dollars and fifty cents,' he roared whenever he saw me over the next weeks.
"Well, Mr. Wilson was successful. Stock reports and news about wars and droughts were all that interested him; he detested stories. And so the years passed. One day his wife suddenly left him. He was absolutely miserable; nothing could change her mind, neither threats nor money. Mr. Wilson was so unhappy he completely lost his will to live. For days he wouldn't eat. He just hung about the office, dead to the world. He refused to wash or shave. After three days we informed a close business associate of his—he had no other friends. Well, this Mr. Eden was a man of the world and he happened to like Wilson. He hurried to see him and took him to some island for a vacation. Okay, so Mr. Wilson was already over fifty, and as much as he liked to boast about buying happiness, he was basically an unhappy man who had never found any peace.
"Well, he went with his friend and stayed away for a month. When he came back, he was suntanned and happy. Following his friend's advice, he resolved from then on to enjoy a leisurely breakfast every morning, to swim for at least an hour every afternoon, to have a long massage every day, and every evening to take a young woman to a restaurant and the theater, or to the movies. In the office he started reading all the New York tabloids. We brought him every bit of rubbish that was printed on paper. He read the colorful pages and laughed.
"One day he read that the costliest thing in life was time. It was worth more than gold and jewels. Mr. Wilson remembered me and had me sent for. 'You're right, my dear Thomas, time is worth more than gold. It says so right here!' He showed me the picture of a healer whose hands had the power to prolong life by years. The healer was supposedly one hundred fifty years old. But his face was as smooth as an eighteen-year-old's. Mr. Wilson's eyes grew bright when he told me everything he now intended to catch up on. So he went to this healer and paid a large amount of money to have his life prolonged by one year. From then on, Mr. Wilson lived very happily. Whether just by a fluke or not, the very next day he fell in love with a young woman who brought him even more happiness. But no more than nine months had passed when he called me in a second time. Again he looked worried. He was concerned he might die too soon, now that he had tasted happiness. He tried to persuade the healer to sell him twenty years, but the healer refused. He could only sell time by the month, as he had so many customers waiting in line.
"A few days later, Mr. Wilson again appeared somewhat relieved. He had gone to great effort and spent a huge amount of money to buy two and a half months from the healer. The miracle man assured him that only Henry Ford could buy more than that.
"Well, the months of happiness passed quickly and made Mr. Wilson's lust for time even greater. Two days before the time he'd bought ran out, he caught pneumonia. But he refused to go to the doctor. Instead he sent for the man with the miraculous hands, but it turned out that the old healer had died the week before.
"Mr. Wilson's secretary raced back to him in the hope of convincing him to send for the doctor after all. But when Mr. Wilson heard the news, he cried out like a wounded animal. He died the very next day."
Tuma looked at the pale faces of his listeners, and a smile curled briefly around his mouth.
"Now that's a story!" Junis raved, "My friend, you really have seen the world!"
"It's true," said Musa. "Nobody could make up a story like that. You have to experience it!"
"The great Napoleon knew what he was talking about when he said a man must spend three years abroad before he really becomes a man," Faris added.
"That was easy for Napoleon to say," Tuma answered drily. "I'm sure he didn't say it in New York Harbor or on the Hudson River on some rainy day so cold you curse the hour you were born."
The friends went on talking about time and happiness late into the night, but Tuma didn't hear a word. He was mulling over his disappointment, over the fact that the others had not only accepted this lie as plain truth, they had even praised it—whereas all he had done was cobble together a story from a small announcement in the New York Times and the names of presidents and prime ministers.
Shortly after twelve, Isam started to lay out the
cards, but the old barber tapped him on the shoulder.
"Leave it, my friend. After such a wonderful story,
I'm craving to tell one myself. I will volunteer to be
the ace tomorrow, if no one minds." The
minister and Isam didn't mind. And Ali
the locksmith? He was so relieved
he whooped for joy:
"Wonderful!"
9
How
a certain man
mastered all the lies in the world
but missed the one truth right in front of his nose
If in the late 1950s you had asked for Musa the barber, anyone in the old town would have been sure to ask right back: "Do you mean the Musa who raises doves or Musa the miser?" And since Salim's friend did not possess a single dove, it was easy to guess how bad Musa's reputation really was in the old quarter. But like so many reputations, this one, too, was unjust: the slanderers of Damascus failed to distinguish between carefully hidden poverty and true stinginess. And the truth was that Musa was poor; in fact, very poor, and he had a large family to feed. A half-hour battle with the wildest bush of hair earned him no more than half a lira, while for a shave he received a pitiful quarter-lira. He had to shear through a full hours worth of hair to earn three quarters of a lira. After that, Musa was exhausted, but he was nonetheless happy when the next customer arrived to keep the barbers chair warm. Each day, every day (except on Monday) Musa plowed through ten hours of hair; even so, the money he earned was barely enough to stave hunger from his door.
Of course, it was difficult to tell whether any barber in Damascus was truly poor. The white smock, the freshly shaven face, the neatly oiled hair, and the constant fragrance of cologne made every barber shine like a well-to-do gentleman. If he were also on the plump side, as was Musa, then no power on earth could persuade Damascenes that he was poor. In Arabia to be fat meant you were rich. Of course, there's nothing surprising about that, since the majority of Arabs hardly ever had anything to eat and always led such a hard life beneath the scorching sun that it was almost impossible to find a single gram of unnecessary fat on their bones. The only
people who actually did grow plump were those who lived lives of comfort in the palaces. Film stars and belly dancers followed this aristocratic tradition, keeping themselves royally stuffed so that they, too, would radiate health and prosperity.
Not only was Musa a bit portly; he also kept his hair oiled and dyed and parted crisply down the middle; and his smile revealed two rows of pearly white teeth that were visible from a great distance, so that his overall appearance was that of a well-nourished film star. Who could possibly believe that this barber began every morning by dividing up his customers? The first three for the rent, the next two for vegetables. One customer for salt, sugar, and tea, and two more had to provide for the children's clothing and medication. If another client showed up, Musa's family might have a little meat. When the barber was especially lucky and a generous gentleman tipped him an extra quarter-lira, Musa would immediately spend it on fruit, which he would carry home that very same day, happy and proud.
As mentioned, Musa never skimped on oil and dye for his hair. People in the old quarter muttered rumors about his seducing young girls, but that was an exaggeration. Only once in his life, over forty years ago, had he seduced a young woman, and that was the one he married.
Every day Musa gave the flower vendor, Nuri, a special shave—in exchange for a red carnation, which he wore in his buttonhole. Musa's boutonniere confused his poor neighbors even more, since the only people who wore carnations in their buttonholes were Farid el-Atrash, the famous singer, who came from a noble family, and the millionaire George Seh-naui.
This evening everyone was anxiously awaiting the barbers tale. It was understood throughout the old town that he was a terrible barber but a great storyteller, and his customers put up with a bad haircut and one or two nicks in order to listen to him talk, or else to tell him their secrets, for Musa was a deep well indeed.
When Musa walked into the coachman's room, Salim and his friends wondered for a moment at the old brown leather bag the barber was carrying, but then went right back to their quarrel. "Wherever you go, people tell you, 'Shhh, the walls have ears and ever since the walls grew these ears, we've lost our tongues." Junis was shouting at the minister.
"But what does that have to do with the transistor radio?" Faris angrily wanted to know.
"I don't know, but the whole damned thing began with this miserable transistor ..." Junis groaned.
"That's my impression as well," confirmed the teacher. "Before, people used to argue with one another, as equals among equals. Nowadays transistor radios have descended on the country like a swarm of locusts. There's one in every room, even if there isn't any electricity. The government can reach you in the remotest steppe to proclaim the one and only valid truth. There's nothing that separates the government from its subjects anymore. The president and his cronies whisper and shout their opinions right into our ears, as if they were old friends. Isn't that right? Back when you were in office, my dear Faris, you and your colleagues were pretty bad off without this portable radio. But now, just look at Nasser. He can reach anybody. He can even tell jokes to the man on the street. That's right, jokes: 'Go on and laugh, my friend,' says Nasser. 'Have you heard the one about price hikes?' Oh Nasser's good, all right—there's never been anyone better, at least not when it comes to making an ass of the entire population."
"Would you please let Musa tell his story!" interrupted Faris.
Ali and Salim nodded their heads in clear support of the ministers suggestion.
"So, may I finally begin? After all, tonight is my night, is it not?" Musa asserted unambiguously. "I have a feeling," he said as Salim handed him the tea glass, "that the face muscles loosen up when they're soaped, and that's why my clients tell me things they wouldn't even trust to their wives or confessors. But a lot of what they say is boring, and you need the patience of Job to sift through it all and find a plum.
"Of course," Musa went on, "all of us are pretty bad listeners, since Salim has spoiled us with the best stories around. Anyone can listen to an exciting story; but a good listener is like a determined gold prospector patiently digging through the mud to find a little nugget of the prized metal. But enough talk about listening, now I want to say something about telling. When I began my apprenticeship, my master told me: 'A barber tells a client whatever he wants to hear.' In my opinion that's good advice for bad barbers. I've always told only what I wanted to tell. Under my shears every head was equal, whether it belonged to a judge or just any poor devil. I was never afraid to talk; after all, it was me holding the razor, not the customer.
"So. Tonight I want to tell you a little story about lies, since I know my friend Salim loves lies. And if it doesn't bother you, I'd like to cut my friend's hair at the same time. One snip of the scissors and one word, a stroke of the comb and a sentence—that way I feel better, and besides, Salim hasn't had his hair cut in ages."
Salim rolled his eyes, as if he preferred to stay mute rather than subject himself to the barber's blades and scissors.
"Don't be afraid, Salim," Ali consoled. "I'll be sitting across from you, and if Musa nicks you, just close your eyes and I'll whack him one that'll have him hanging on the wall next to the portrait of your wife."
The others all laughed, and this heartened Salim. Junis spread a newspaper under the chair so that the clippings wouldn't fall on the small carpet, and the old coachman took his seat in the middle of the room.
Musa opened his leather bag. With one swing he put on his snow-white smock, then covered Salim with a brownish barber's wrap. Next he carefully arranged his shears, brushes, and an old electric cutter on a cloth he had spread out on the bed. Musa hadn't felt this good in a long time. He clicked his Solingen shears in the air a few times, gathered a clump of the coachman's hair with his comb, and snipped it off in a single swipe.
"So ... they say Damascus has had more rulers than its buildings have stones—although the smallest heap of mortar and the tiniest of stones live longer than any human being." Musa grabbed a second bunch of hair, but as he did so he ran his comb right into the coachman's scalp.
"Watch out!" called Ali.
"Salim's still counting on a long life ahead of him!" Isam reminded the barber.
"My hands aren't what they used to be," Musa continued, paying careful attention to the next cut. "Anyhow, as I was saying, more rulers than stones. And very few of these rulers actually died in their beds, though the king I want to tell you about today had lived a long life, and now he was lying on his deathbed. When death began to quietly stroke his feet, the king sent for his only son, Prince Sadek, who came and sat beside the royal bed. In a quiet voice, the king asked his ministers and servants to leave the royal chamber so that he could be alone with his son."
Salim winced when he felt another stab behind his ear, and his hand jerked up. But this time Ali didn't notice because he was putting a log into the stove.
Isam laughed. "Now listen, Musa, just because Ali isn't watching doesn't mean you can butcher our Salim!"
The barber went on cutting and then snapped his scissors for show. "Oh, that's all part of the haircut. His hair's just shaggy. It pulls a little." Nevertheless, he wetted some gauze with a little cologne and dabbed it on the wound.
"So, alone with his son, right. 'My son,' said the king, 'soon I will leave this world and knock at the door that opens but once. You are inheriting a mighty kingdom. Show mercy to your friends when they eat at your table, and to your foes when they fall into your hands. Be a friend to highwaymen and smugglers, but protect yourself from liars. They will be your slow death.' Thus spoke the king and his soul expired.
" The king is dead! Long live the king!' the messengers cried out across the land.
"So, King Sadek hadn't yet turned eighteen the day he ascended the throne. He was merciless with friend and foe. In less than a year Damascus had become a city of misery. His people were going hungry, but that didn't bother King Sadek. Instead, he announced his resolve to learn every lie in the world. From early in the morn
ing until late at night he listened to the master liars recite all the lies known to date, whether about foxes, humans, demons, or elves. For thirty years the king worked diligently to learn the lies of Arabs, Jews, Hindus, Greeks, and Chinese. For thirty years he paid out generous sums until he had mastered a thousand and one lies. When he began the thirty-first year of his reign, the king proclaimed: 'No man on earth can tell me a new lie!'
" 'Come, now!' the court fool disagreed. 'Lies and locusts are cousins. Every new person born into the world is accompanied by seven lies and seven locusts. And no one can live long enough to count all those lies and locusts,' he explained."
"A wise man, this fool," said Faris. "From what I can tell, our whole government consists exclusively of lying locusts." Salim laughed so hard he shook, and if Musa hadn't been paying attention, he would have inflicted a second wound upon the old coachman. Ali, too, roared with laughter.
"You better quiet down," Junis warned. "Yesterday they took away the son of Um Khalil, the midwife, for talking about a banana."
"A banana?" Musa wondered.
"He happened to be holding a straight, green banana. It was small and strange-looking; the devil only knows where he found a banana like that. He was drunk and said out loud, 'I know why it's so hard to find bananas these days. It's because they're all being forced to follow the government line, the crooked creatures. Take this one here. It still smells like a banana, but see, it's already beginning to look like a cucumber!' He was standing in front of my son's bar, babbling out loud and laughing. Some neighbors tried to pull him inside, but before they could, two men from the secret police showed up. They beat him and took him away."
"Miserable scoundrels," sighed Tuma.
"So . . . where was I?" asked Musa, and without waiting for an answer, he went on: "So . . . right. King Sadek thought he had heard all the lies on earth and nothing in the world could surprise him; the court fool said that lies and locusts were cousins; no man on earth could count them. So . . . that's where I left off.
