by Rafik Schami
12
Why
Salim was sad
after giving birth
to a beautiful story
It was past midnight by the time the guests went home. But Salim was wide awake. Inside the small stove, the wood was quietly crackling. Faris' story had begun sadly and ended sadly—what torment the king must have suffered during his last hour on earth!—but as far as Salim was concerned, the minister had spoiled its heart. He had told it so badly that Salim couldn't remember exactly what the middle of the story looked like—despite the fact that he had the memory of a camel. Salim wondered: "Did I nod off like Musa and Ali?" He didn't know for sure.
It's true that Faris had chosen a very difficult story. You can't tell a story about someone who doesn't want to listen and make it sound funny. Salim thought and thought: How should such a story be told?
He kept getting up and feeding wood to the stove, in order to drive the icy cold from his room. His thoughts wandered into the depth of time and the faraway of exotic lands he had always told about. A howling wind swept over the rooftops. All of a sudden he heard two stray cats snarling in the dark. They were fighting. A tin washbowl fell crashing to the ground and the cats ran away in fright. The clatter echoed a few times in the large courtyard. Then the quiet returned. And as if it no longer wanted to disturb the sleeping, the wind abated into a gentle breeze.
Salim's eyes grew wide. Suddenly the story was there, one he had thought up over fifty years ago. He had never told it, and so it had slumbered in his heart all these years. It had first come to him in Great Horn Gorge, when he had cracked his whip and heard it echo off the canyon walls. And now it came back.
Once upon a time—Salim listened to the voice of his memory—there lived a king who didn't know how to listen. Whenever his subjects came to him, he would interrupt them after the first sentence and shout, "Enough! I believe you! Guard, give this man a thousand gold liras!" Or: "Enough, I don't believe you. Guard, give him eighty lashes and take him away!" What he said depended on his mood. He did not want to listen, and because he didn't listen, he was also unjust in dispensing mercy. One day the court jester came to him. The king was in a good mood and asked his fool to tell a story.
The jester sat down at the king's feet and spoke: "I was told, O mighty king, that in earlier times, long before man walked on the earth, in the country of demons, may God protect us from their wrath, there lived a demon and his wife who roamed from canyon to canyon, dwelling in the caves and hollows. Other demons considered him a very poor listener. But his wife suffered more than anyone, because not only did her husband refuse to listen to her, he contradicted everything she said and called it stupid. His ears were completely closed to what her heart was urgently trying to tell him.
"One day she quarreled with him, and when she stood up for herself, he began to beat her. But the worst was that he then insisted on explaining to her, gently and kindly, why the beating was for her own good. His words dripped with honey, but his wife's limbs throbbed with pain. 'You ought to have two mouths instead of one,' she cursed her husband with all her heart, 'and one ear instead of two.' It so happened that at that moment the god of the demons came floating through the canyon. He heard her curse and felt sorry for her. And since he had heard so many bad reports about this demon, he decided to make the wife's words come true. The hard-hearted demon fell into a deep sleep, and when he awoke he discovered that he had two mouths—one above the other—and one tiny ear on top of his forehead, no larger than a chickpea. His old ears lay on his pillow like two shriveled autumn leaves.
"At first the demon was overjoyed and got down on his knees to thank his god for this blessing. Now he could speak faster and louder. From then on he never ceased talking, for even when he ate or drank with one mouth he could still speak with the other.
"The other demons didn't understand the punishment, for now this demon was able to interrupt them even more often, and ask a second question at the same time he was answering the first. And the poor wife, for whom his first mouth had been one mouth too many, was near despair, since now his snoring came rattling out of two.
"More and more the demon heeded only his own two voices, so that his words became an invisible wall that separated him from friend and foe alike. The other demons avoided him like the plague. No one paid any attention to what he was saying. Not even his wife could bear to hear his words. Words, O king, are delicate, magical flowers that blossom only in a listener's ear. This demon's words, however, found no ears at all and wilted the moment they left his lips.
"Soon the demon felt miserable with his dead words. In his loneliness he finally recognized his stupidity, and from then on he practiced penance. He kept both mouths shut and listened better with his one tiny ear than he had with his two large ones. With all his heart he begged the god of the demons to give him a second ear, so that he could hear better. He begged and begged for years. Even his wife felt sorry for him, and his neighbors who dwelt in the nearby hollows, springs, and volcanoes also forgot their anger and begged their creator to pardon the poor soul. But the god of the demons nursed his wrath for years and barred all supplicants in this matter from his palace. Not until the thousand and first year did he grant the unhappy demon an audience. 'Do you regret your evil deeds?' he asked with angry indignation.
"The demon nodded.
" 'And will you do anything and everything to regain your two ears and one mouth?'
"The demon was willing to make every sacrifice.
" 'Then as of this day, in place of your second mouth you will receive a second ear. But only upon the condition that, until the end of time, you repeat every call and every sentence, whether spoken by demons, animals, or humans. Woe unto you if you should ignore the chirping of even a single cicada.'
" 'Your wish is my command, master of my soul. May the sun and moon be my witnesses: I shall fulfill this condition to the end of time. Please bless me with the second ear,' said the demon, much moved. He began his oath with two mouths and finished it with one.
"To this day the demon roams from canyon to canyon, dwelling in the caves and hollows. And ever since that time he repeats every call and every sentence spoken by demons, animals, or humans. No noise escapes his ears, not even the sound of a rolling pebble."
The jester finished his story, deep in thought.
"And what was the name of this poor demon?" the king wanted to know.
"Echo," answered the fool.
Morning was breaking by the time Salim finished remembering his story. Earlier he had always felt relieved after telling a story, but this time he felt heavy of heart. Why was he so sad? At first he thought it was because the story was too naked and unadorned, stored as it was inside his memory. But no, that wasn't the reason, because that was how he stored all his stories. It was in telling them that he developed his thoughts and clad his bare stories with the appropriate dress and scent and gait. Only bad storytellers retain a story along with all the details. No, what was really burning inside his breast was that there was no one he could tell the story to. In his head, of course, Salim had always known that a story needs at least two people in order to live, but only now did he feel this in his heart.
He placed some wood in the oven and sat down in front of it on the large chair. The flames danced gaily around the wood. They clung softly to its gnarled skin, as if they wanted to caress it. For a moment the wood stayed hard-hearted and cold. It ignored the flames' seduction, but the fire kept sweetly licking its body and tickling its soul with warm poetry. A few splinters and sharp edges, ignoring the warnings of the trunk, dropped their stubborn opposition and finally caught fire. The wood crackled its displeasure, but soon gave up all resistance and started dancing and singing loudly in one great flame. A short while later both wood and flame melted into a quiet whispering glow at rest on a soft pillow of ashes.
When Salim awoke, it was already noon. He jumped up and lifted the blanket from the birdcage. The goldfinch hopped about and rejoiced i
n the light, drank from its water glass, and let out a loud trill.
Salim was surprised to realize he had spent the entire night on the chair in front of the stove. And he couldn't remember whether he had
actually recalled his story, or
simply dreamt
it.
13
How
one story's magic
broke two spells and
why seven old men broke into song
October came with splendid colors—so bright that people forgot it was a harbinger of winter. Wearing its alluring dress, the month managed to slink away just in time, so that it was up to November to deliver the unpleasant news to the people of Damascus, and for the next nine days it was rainy and cold. The farmers were overjoyed when the rain began to patter on their fields. But not the Damascenes, who just moaned and groaned about it being dark and wet. But the tenth day of November dawned so sunny and warm it appeared to have escaped from summer.
Every day has its own soul, so people say, and its own personality: good, bad, boring, exciting—just like people. And some days are loners, who eschew the company of conformists and run away. Who can tell what is really going on inside a summery day that decides to leave July and suddenly pop up in the middle of November, completely unannounced?
On this particular day the sun was radiant above the ancient city. The Damascenes—if they weren't inside their shops and offices complaining about having to work on such a day—came out just to behold the sky, or else to sit in their courtyards, drinking coffee and talking about engagements, colds, and broken gutters. In the middle of the afternoon the street burst into life, as the children released all the energy they had kept pent up during the cold weather—which is why a day like this was likely to see many a broken window.
This afternoon was no exception, and a stray ball shattered a windowpane in the home of the post office clerk Khalil. In the heat of the summer that same broken windowpane would have caused Khalil's wife to curse the ancestors of the perpetrator unto the fourth generation, but now all she did was stand up, call her fifteen-year-old son, hand him money for the repair, and urge him to hurry. Then she sat back down beneath the large lemon tree and continued to drink coffee and gossip—without the slightest trace of anger. In fact, she was laughing heartily half an hour later when one of the children gave away the name of the wrongdoer. The boy's mother was also sitting under the lemon tree. Instead of denying her son's guilt, however, or making light of the broken pane, she apologized for his poor manners—something a mother in Damascus rarely does—and the wife of the postal clerk found the sweetest words in reply.
The beautiful weather lasted until late in the afternoon, when clouds gathered to chase the summer day away—apparently they didn't take well to strangers. The summer day struggled desperately as the evening weighed more and more heavily upon the bosom of the city.
Salim and his guests were waiting anxiously for the locksmith. Darkness began to fall, and still no sign of Ali. When the clock tower struck eight, every one in the room felt the air begin to crackle. "Where is that man? Only four hours left until midnight of the last day!" proclaimed the minister. He had no sooner finished his sentence when the locksmith entered the room—together with his corpulent wife, Fatma.
"Good evening," Fatma greeted the men, who had frozen in amazement. Then she nudged the barber in the ribs, and after the bewildered man had made room for her, she sat down beside the old coachman as if seeking his protection.
The old men returned the greeting, as propriety demanded, but annoyance oozed from every pore in their faces. It was the first time in over ten years that a woman had joined their circle.
'"I've never told a story in all my life," the locksmith explained to his dumbfounded friends, "and my friend Salim knows that better than anyone. When I was little I used to love to talk, and I always wanted to tell stories, but my father warned me: 'Hold your tongue, child, or else it will expose you. With every true sentence you speak about yourself, you grow more naked, bit by bit, and so more open to harm.' My mother, God bless her soul, always used to add: 'But remember, child, if the conversation does turn to you, never resort to lies. With every lie you weave, the blanket you are hiding under grows bigger, bit by bit, until it finally suffocates you.' Well, since I didn't want to suffocate or come to any harm I've simply never told anything at all, and I don't think I chose to become a locksmith just by chance. Locksmiths don't talk much. It's always so loud in the shop that you have to shout to be heard, so you only say what you absolutely have to.
"Well, I couldn't sleep the whole night. It would be horrible if I left my good friend Salim in the lurch and he lost his voice forever. But I racked and racked my memory and couldn't find a single story. When my wife found out why I was so upset, she told me that she would gladly tell Salim a story."
"I don't know whether the fairy would agree to that," the minister objected. "Didn't she say the gifts had to come from us, his friends?" he checked with Salim. But the old coachman shook his head in a definitive no. Disappointed, Faris wrinkled his forehead and leaned back.
The barber rolled his eyes, the teacher mumbled something, and the cafe owner looked over at the closed door, as if something there could offer consolation. Only Isam and Tuma the emigrant actually smiled at the woman.
"I came here for Salim's sake—I'm not sitting in your court, Excellency, for you to pass judgment on my visit," said Fatma, annoyed.
The minister sat up straight in his chair. "Tell your woman," he said to Ali, "that she should mind her speech!"
"And this is supposed to be an educated man?" Ali snorted. "I don't care whether you were a minister or a shoeshine boy, don't you go telling me what to say to my wife," he went on loudly.
"You knocked on his door," Tuma the emigrant came to Ali's aid, "and he who knocks must bear his reception."
"If you're so smart," Musa turned on the emigrant, "then tell me, because now I'm knocking on your door: Why is Fatma the only one allowed to take part in our meeting? Why couldn't my wife ..."
"Calm down, boy," Isam scoffed at the barber. "Who said she couldn't? Who?"
Now the old men broke into an unholy quarrel. Junis didn't understand why Ali was allowed to bring his wife, either, and he formulated his objection so cleverly that Musa made an even more insulted face. Other old disputes soon resurfaced. Fatma's presence no longer mattered at all; what did matter was why the barber had praised President Nasser as the savior of Syria despite the fact that two nephews of the cafe owner and a teacher who professed a deep and sincere love for the locksmith's grandchildren had been sitting in jail for months without the slightest guilt.
Fatma just shut her ears, took out her tin of tobacco, and carefully rolled a very thin cigarette.
Suddenly her mother was at her side, a midwife named Leila, who during her lifetime was known and feared. People said the most amazing things about her magical hands, with which she had brought many of the neighborhood children into the world. But the things they said about her magical stories were even more extraordinary.
No one dared make an enemy of her, for not only could Leila interpret dreams and stars, she was also adept at concocting poisons. Her unknown origins seemed spooky, mysterious, and her sudden disappearance even more so: for no one had laid eyes on her since the day of her daughter Fatma's wedding—it was as if she had dissolved into thin air. Only Fatma knew more, but she guarded this knowledge as her innermost secret.
"Daughter," this wise woman had told her when they parted, "you should know I'm not one of you. I put up with Damascus for eighteen years, until you grew up. And now you have found a good companion—Ali has a good heart. But don't forget: if you want him to listen to you, talk to him now, tell him all your stories, for men understand best while they are in love." Fatma's mother then walked away, ignoring all her daughter's pleas to wait just one more hour, until Ali returned from the mosque, to tell him goodbye. "Why goodbye?" asked the mother. "I'm leaving you behi
nd. You are a part of my soul," she added, kissed her daughter, and left.
But Fatma couldn't bring herself to tell Ali any stories—neither on that first night nor in the next few days, nor in the days and years that followed. Ali seemed to her a little hard of hearing, and he rarely ever spoke, not even during their first night. She felt how much he loved her and how much he desired her. But he never said so. In general, he only said what was absolutely necessary, and that succinctly and quietly.
Fatma looked at the crabby old men snapping away at each other. What a brouhaha these old grandfathers were making just because she wanted to tell a story! And her Ali . . . the look on his face when she told him that morning that she could tell Salim not one but fifty stories! "Can you do it well enough?" he had asked her. "Why don't you first tell it to me, so that I can hear whether your story is worthy of my friends." That's right, "worthy"! He, who had no idea about telling anything, was acting like the master hakawati, wanting to test her, the daughter of Leila.
But it's also true that she herself had become less and less talkative over the years. While every new birth had brought new life into the house, instead of speaking more to each other, Fatma and Ali said less and less. Her sister, Rahima, reported the same thing, and her husband, unlike Ali, was the talkative type. Why is it that people tell fewer stories to each other the longer they're together, and not more? Fatma thought about it. Then she remembered her mother's words from fifty years before. 'That's it," Fatma whispered to herself, "married couples talk to each other less and less because they're no longer in love."
As a matter of fact, just a few years into the marriage, Fatma had even started to stammer whenever Ali came back from the shop—yet she spoke easily with children or neighbors. She was always afraid he would find her stories silly. It was different with Salim. Whenever he visited she never stuttered; she always knew how much he liked her stories.
Salim interrupted her thoughts to hand her some peppermint tea. She looked up, took the tea, and followed the quarrel with obvious disinterest. The faces of the old men were sour and severe.
