The tile was as beautiful as it was simple, hence its revolutionary aesthetic. Rendered by hand, no two tiles could be exactly alike. In a sprawling room, hundreds piled together, their numbers multiplying, each had its own character and each told a story. Or conveyed a mood or ambiance. Most meaningfully, they crossed borders that, for a time, were still crossable.
Again and again, as I had wandered through Isber’s house, my mind had journeyed back to the past. When I gazed at the arches buried beneath cement for decades, I envisaged the stately entrance created nearly a century before. I imagined Bahija polishing the tile and marble on her knees until it reflected her eyes, perhaps sad, perhaps concerned, as they considered the fate of the land now called Lebanon.
On September 1, 1920, the French high commissioner, General Gouraud, proclaimed from the porch of his official residence in Beirut the birth of the state of Greater Lebanon. Soon the French would draw further arbitrary borders to divide their newly won domains in neighboring Syria. By the time the colonial powers finished, a territory previously divided only by the geography of mountains, rivers, and valleys was transformed into a puzzle of political divisions represented by five states of uncertain identity: Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq, Syria, and Transjordan.
Once a gateway to Damascus and Jerusalem, Sidon and Haifa, Marjayoun was now part of Lebanon, pitifully small and dominated by Maronite Catholics, aligned with the French. Its environs had been incorporated into other new nations. Parts of the Houran were, for a time, two borders away. The new frontier between Lebanon and Palestine was eventually demarcated by a British and a French officer on horseback, who put a stake in the ground every two kilometers. Lost was the Hula Valley, an expanse long frequented by Marjayoun’s traders and landlords. Its rich farmland, with its lake and marshes, was now included in Palestine. (In 1947, the United Nations made it part of Israel. Marjayounis were never compensated for properties seized.)
Customs posts traced borders that defined the reach of the French in Syria and Lebanon, the British in Palestine. Trade routes were severed, landholdings partitioned. Towns like Quneitra, Haifa, and Jerusalem, where residents of Marjayoun had worked and visited for decades, became more distant.
Isber and the other Greek Orthodox in Marjayoun were more comfortable as Arabs—not only in language, but in customs, tradition, and history, still drawn from the Houran, where some Christians continued to live as Bedouin tribes. To some, they were more Arab than their Muslim neighbors. And, after World War I, memories of Mourad Gholmia’s hastily stitched flag remained resonant. Sympathy ran deep for Feisal and his ambitions for a greater Arab kingdom. All this irked the Maronites, who chanted at Marjayoun’s residents: O girl in the red skirt with the ruffled trim, the French are now governing, so let the anger kill you, O Orthodox!
The French divided as they conquered, favoring Catholics over Orthodox, Christians over Muslims, the countryside over the city, and minorities over majorities. While many Orthodox may have been skeptical of Maronites speaking on their behalf, Muslims were aghast at the notion of being ruled by a French overlord, a Christian one at that. Opposition among Muslims percolated—from gangs exploiting the prevailing lawlessness to insurgent bands fired by nationalism. Sectarian agitation had begun to rumble across the country. As each year passed, it deepened dangerously. One chronicler called it rare to see a man lacking either a French- or a German-made gun.
Subtle and coy, the cemento at Maalouf’s did not speak of war, or frontiers, and the spaces they narrowed, but, rather, grandeur. The tiles returned one to a realm where imagination, artistry, and craftsmanship were not only appreciated but given free rein, where what was unique and striking, or small and perfect, or wrought with care was desired, where gazed-upon objects were the products of peaceful hearts, hands long practiced and trained. War ends the values and traditions that produce such treasures. Nothing is maintained. Cultures that may seem as durable as stone can break like glass, leaving all the things that held them together unattended. I believe that the craftsman, the artist, the cook, and the silversmith are peacemakers. They instill grace; they lull the world to calm.
The tiles at my feet were the remnants, in Arabic the atlal, of a lost Marjayoun. They were artifacts of an ideal, meant to remind and inspire, vestiges of the irretrievable Levant, a word that, to many, calls to mind an older, more tolerant, more indulgent Middle East. The Levant was, in part, a geographic concept. Loosely defined, it stretched across the eastern Mediterranean, the arc of the Fertile Crescent, the frontiers at the Isthmus of Suez in the south, and the Taurus Mountains in the north. But the Levant was really more a culture than an expanse of land or group of nations or homelands. It was a way of living and thinking that bound Asia Minor to the Middle East and Egypt to Mesopotamia. It was, in essence, an amalgamation of diversities where many mingled, a realm of intersections, a crossroads of language, culture, religions, and traditions. All were welcome to pass through the territories and homelands within its landscape, where differences were often celebrated. In idea at least, the Levant was open-minded, cosmopolitan; it did not concern itself with particularities or narrow definitions or identities. Isber Samara, whose house was a Levantine expression, could roam from Hayy al-Serail to the volcanic plains of southern Syria, past the wildflowers and basalt cliffs of Mount Hermon’s snow-capped range. In the time of the Levant there was freedom to savor the worlds of others. But borders, rendered with caprice, ended what had been. Cemento was not just a relic of the time; it was a tribute to the imaginations it nourished.
This is why I wanted it in my home, but Maalouf was a tough negotiator.
“Twenty-five dollars,” he repeated once more, no less certain than before, as we kept haggling in his store over the price of tile that had become my obsession.
I shook my head, and he pointed to the wall, against which a vast ceiling panel leaned. Obviously wrought by loving hands, the panel was composed of twenty-two squares of eight designs—a purple flower, an arabesque vine of blue and red blossoms, an inverted fleur-de-lis painted the same green as the doors, and more somber plants, carved but unpainted.
“Uff,” he grunted when I estimated its worth. The piece was going for $12,000.
The rest of his rooms were filled with more of the same: There was darabzin, iron railing finished in black or gold. A carved marble fireplace was propped against another wall. A testament to the divine right of a monarch, the hearth appeared more European than Arab, more emperor than caliph. Two columns towered over everything. One was inscribed In the name of God. Their capitals, no longer attached, stood with no burden.
In these negotiations with Maalouf, I tried to be Lebanese, attempted to gain leverage, sinking to a new low: manipulation of shipping charges. I talked fast, tried not to give up, went back and back, attempting to shave off pennies of the cost of transporting the tiles to Marjayoun. I suggested the quality was, well, not so great and made excuses—my price had been put forth by the project’s engineer, foreman, my architect, and the tile layer. Experts all. This is what they said was not fair but generous. Maalouf simply ignored me.
“What’s twenty-five dollars, really?” he said, as if my paltry concerns were irrelevant.
The instructions of the man named Abu Ali were clear. Wait outside, don’t enter the parking lot, I’ll find you, he said by telephone. The taxi dropped me off on a street in Beirut, and fifteen minutes later, Abu Ali showed up in his dark green Toyota 4Runner, pulling up at the curb near a McDonald’s and a Spinneys, a British supermarket chain.
Slight and haggard, but with a hint of menace, Abu Ali was smoking a Marlboro Red as I climbed into the front seat. We exchanged a few pleasantries before he took a phone call, berating someone. “Don’t do it again,” he instructed icily. Abu Ali spoke slowly, clearly, in tough little riffs.
The negotiation that ensued for more cemento had a surreptitious tone. Meaning, lots of vague pronouns.
How much did I want? Abu Ali asked me, voice low.
As
much as he had, I told him.
He told me he thought he had thirty-five or so square meters.
No broken pieces, I emphasized.
What are you going to do with broken pieces? he asked me.
I suggested paying half now, half later, and he seemed shocked. It was all so practiced, all so smooth, yet a little clandestine. I felt as if I was buying heroin. Any minute the sirens would start flashing.
Merchant, connoisseur, looter, Abu Ali had no office; he made deals in the midst of the rubble he created as he tore down historic buildings. Abu Ali lived in a hardscrabble neighborhood, a quarter that remains among the most political of Lebanon’s urban geography. The Dahiya, it was called. Over it flew the yellow banner of Hezbollah, its color taken from the breastplate of Imam Ali. To Hezbollah’s supporters it was terra sancta, the bastion of their steadfastness.
Abu Ali’s real name was Hussein Ali al-Bureidi, and like many in the Dahiya, he had originally hailed from the Bekaa Valley, a town near Baalbeck famous for its thieves, stone, and fruit. His parents had come to Beirut looking for work, and brought him, along with his six brothers and four sisters. Abu Ali, twelve then, dropped out of school in a few years, became a carpenter, then found his calling, becoming a merchant of destruction—a deconstructor—and a salesman of the things this activity unearthed. Someone had to tear down what remained after the soldiers departed and the guerrillas took off.
Abu Ali’s work was profitable only because of the valuable leftovers he took: oak doors, window grills and ironwork from balconies, cemento and other tile, and anything portable in steel or stone. Sometimes he supplied builders with material. His estimate: seventy percent of the houses restored in Lebanon bore his mark.
“People have come in here cursing me: ‘What are you doing taking all this old stuff?’ Some people, friends even, get disturbed by the fact that I’m tearing down these old houses. But I love old houses more than they do. I tell them, ‘If I don’t do this, someone else will.’
“There are many, many old houses. Always will be. I’ve been at this for twenty years, demolishing houses, and they keep popping up,” he said.
Abu Ali had two basic cemento designs, sphere or diamond. The colors were earthy: green, gold, and a remarkable purple that threatened to become brown. For years they had been secured to the floors of a three-story villa, one of the last historic houses in the neighborhood of Museitbeh, along the sprawling road that leads to the airport and, eventually, Marjayoun.
Thirteen dollars, Abu Ali offered as a price for each square meter of the tile. It was almost half what Maalouf demanded. Don’t act surprised, I told myself, shifting to a moderately convincing impression of disinterest. I had to think about it, I said.
And so we returned to Abu Ali’s Toyota 4Runner, pulled up near that McDonald’s, where the negotiation would end. He never put himself in the position of begging. He was the giver, the one helping. It all reminded me of a line my landlord in Beirut had once told me. As we haggled over my rent, he declared, with a hint of irritation, “I’m not going to cheat you.” He paused, reconsidering his words. “Well, I might cheat you, but not that much.”
Abu Ali knew he had the deal before I got in the car. He started at $455, about $13 a square meter. I countered with $12. He agreed, adding another $100 for transportation, making the total $520. I said $500, and he agreed again, without hesitating. Without a pause. It was a clear sign of what I grimly expected from the outset. Abu Ali may have been cheaper than Maalouf. But I was overmatched, and got a bad deal.
If charm were indicated by a range of colors, Edgard Iskander Tannous Andraous Chaya was the deepest of reds. He was my last stop for the rest of the tile, and minutes after meeting the Lebanese merchant, I knew I would never address him as Edgard, sir, ustaz, or monsieur. I would always call him Mr. Chaya. Seventy-nine years old, Mr. Chaya was impeccably dressed, a silk scarf stuffed in the breast pocket of his suit. His pipe was a constant, though he didn’t seem driven to reach for it, as I did for my cigarettes. When he did light up, the flame flickered past his groomed mustache toward the lenses of his square-rimmed glasses, and he smiled, as if he believed no one else could pull off so deft a gesture.
Gazing at a shapely Lebanese colleague who had joined me, he flirted zestfully. “You’re simply a mannequin,” he declared in appreciation, somehow lacking in crassness.
I took longer to assess. We began speaking in English, before he arbitrarily interrupted, as a look of surprise crossed his face. “Hold on!” he said. “I have clients from Bayt Shadid in Canada. Where are you from?”
Marjayoun, I told him.
“Don’t you speak Arabic?”
“Walaw,” I answered. It took this expression—only one word—for Mr. Chaya to celebrate my accent. It meant something. “How may I help you?” he asked in Arabic, without pause. “You need tile for your house in the United States?”
“No, no,” I said, “it’s for bayt Sitti,” my grandmother’s house.
“For what?” he asked exuberantly.
“For bayt Sitti,” I said again. “In Marjayoun.”
“Bayt Sitti!” he cried, exaggerating my accent. “Bayt Sit-tee!”
To everyone there, he asked me to repeat the phrase, again and again.
Bayt Sitti! Bayt Sitti!
From our first meeting, Mr. Chaya was never anyone but Mr. Chaya. It did not matter whether I was addressing him or mentioning his name to friends. Even in my phone book, I wrote “Mr. Chaya,” with reverence and respect. And from that moment, Isber Samara’s house was, in Mr. Chaya’s recollection, never again Bayt Samara. Nor was it my house or my family’s house. It was bayt Sitti. As in: Bayt Sit-tee! As in, grammar aside, his voice rising in ecstatic celebration: How is bayt Sit-tee?
Mr. Chaya’s family had a century of experience in cemento, but were less assertive than, say, the Maaloufs about reminding others of their extended experience. His grandfather had begun making tile in 1881, passing on the trade to his son, Mr. Chaya’s uncle, then his son, Mr. Chaya’s cousin. By 1975, though, the business was bankrupt, the victim of war, competition from cheap machine-poured tiles, and his cousin’s lack of dedication. As a younger man, Mr. Chaya never believed that his family’s pursuits could ever hold his interest. He became a moneychanger, growing wealthy. In 1995, at sixty-six and without financial concerns, he decided to retire and indulge his passion, sailing the turquoise waters off Lebanon’s Mediterranean coast. It was not enough. “I got tired, restless,” he admitted.
Because of his family, an elderly cousin gave him a box packed with brass molds. Rickety pieces resembling cookie cutters, they had not been used in a generation. “This was very important to your uncle,” the cousin told him, as Mr. Chaya started playing with them—“like a child plays with Legos,” he recalled. His interest was soon serious. No surprise, really. He had never been a dabbler in anything; he was always committed to achieving the finest. That was what he survived for. “It took me three years to produce my first tile. Imagine the determination.”
He surprised himself: “It took me three years!”
He said it unlocked memories of his grandfather and his childhood. “I didn’t come back to tile because I wanted to make money,” he said. “I came back because of my roots. I like going back to the old, to the roots of things. My love for the old grew in proportion to my hate for the new and the modern.” In tile, he felt he had discovered himself, and he was determined to make sure that the atlal, the remnants, of yesterday were never lost.
The civil war that began in 1975 extinguished an older Beirut. When the late Rafik Hariri, the tycoon turned politician who proved that no fortune was big enough, razed the warren of souks, Ottoman houses, and serpentine alleys that were what was left of downtown Beirut, Mr. Chaya bought twelve thousand tiles that had been salvaged. He purchased them merely to preserve them, before they were lost in the new downtown hub that Hariri envisioned, of half-million-dollar apartments and designer stores, faithful in style to its a
ncestor but shorn of any soulfulness beyond the frivolity of a playground.
“I hate things that are superficial and factitious,” Mr. Chaya told me, smiling.
There was nothing imitative about the tile he had bought from Hariri. None approached the generic. Each had its character, its own mark, its distinguishing feature or quirk. “Sometimes, when I see a tile with a mistake, I laugh. It makes me happy,” he said. “Because I know where the maker messed up and why. He was exhausted, he was sweating. And this is the beauty in making tile. It’s human.”
Eleven years later, his own tiles, inspired by the designs of the others, were gracing restored villas and the American University of Beirut in Lebanon, shopping malls in the Persian Gulf, a hotel in Ghana, resorts along Jordan’s Dead Sea, and eclectic homes in Europe and America. He went from the smaller molds inherited from his grandfather to larger tiles, some twice as big. Each of his own designs included the name of a Beirut neighborhood or Lebanese village, from Hamra to Rawshe, from Sidon to Zahle. With three workers in his plant, he had produced twenty thousand or so tiles the year before, between twenty and sixty a day. Patience, he noted: Each tile took fifteen minutes to pour, one day to dry, and two weeks to cure.
Mr. Chaya’s prices were high. Some designs, I would eventually learn, were twelve times more expensive than their century-old equivalents. I say eventually, because it took time, a lot of time, to learn this from Mr. Chaya, who had none of Abu Ali’s desire to close the deal, none of an impatient Maalouf’s appreciation of time. He could wait. While others fretted, he could appreciate the colors that filtered through the sky at dusk.
House of Stone Page 14