I keep a photograph of baby Mark at the side of my bed in the hotel where I am staying, and one day the maids cleaning the room ask me about him. I quickly fabricate a story about being married and my son being at home in England with my husband. If anyone in Syria discovers that I am an unmarried mother, I am likely to be stoned or subjected to something equally degrading.
author visa photograph taken in Damascus, Syria, photo © Safar & Vartan
One evening an employee at the nightclub tells me that there had been a public hanging in Damascus that day and that all the schoolchildren had been taken to watch, to be taught a lesson. I don’t bother verifying the veracity of the story. It isn’t something I need to know in more detail. I just know that life in Syria, in many countries, is very different.
It is difficult not to be bored during the day in Syria. Other than the souks there are no real shopping areas. Next to the hotel is a small bookstore selling materials written only in Arabic or French. I peruse the cluttered shelves and confused order of the books, hoping to find something that I can read. About to give up my search, I pull a small hardbound book from a shelf. I am relieved to recognize the name Agatha Christie. I buy a number of Agatha Christie novels, and a French-to-English dictionary, and I spend my afternoons in the hotel lounge reading the books and improving my French language skills.
I cannot spend my entire time inside the hotel, and so on occasion, I go out just long enough to buy some necessities. The square outside the hotel is always crammed with men, most in uniform. Syria doesn’t have much in the way of industry or businesses. The military is a sure way for the men to make a living for their families. Passing through a crowd of Syrian militia makes me nervous. I walk quickly, keep my eyes forward, try to remain inconspicuous, go only where I need to go, and then immediately return to the safety of the hotel.
Today my mind cannot take in another word of Agatha Christie via the arduous translation process, so I have decided to brave the back streets and alleyways of the city and discover what else lies around me. My exploration takes me down narrow passages meandering between dust-colored, stone buildings, all lacking legible signage, and all equally intriguing to me. I ignore the curious stares of the locals, the stray dogs sniffing at my legs, and step aside to avoid the odd cart passing too close to me. I let my curiosity guide me, following sights and smells, all the while looking for out-of-the-way shops selling things I have never seen.
I discover a curious little alcove tucked under a building. The windows don’t have glass. It is dark inside but I see sparks of orange light. Curious, I step inside the doorway to take a better look. I see what looks like a blacksmith’s shop, with a man bending over some kind of kiln with what I surmise is molten metal. My eyes adjust to the dim interior, and looking around, I see he is not making horseshoes but decorative metal objects. I see incense burners, candle holders, and ashtrays, all a similar hue of orangey-gray metal. Brass? Bronze? I don’t know.
“Mam’selle.” I feel a tug at the sleeve of my jacket, and turning around, I see an old man standing beside me dressed in nontraditional working garb. He is at least a foot shorter than I am, but is smiling at me with a delightful three-tooth grin. He continues tugging my arm with one hand while beckoning at me to follow him with the other. I do as I am told and follow the man toward shelf after shelf of handcrafted metal objects. The man waves his hand toward the shelf and nods eagerly at me. His intent is as clear as his pride in the display. He wants me to look at his wares and purchase something. I am happy to oblige. I take my time, browsing the shelves, picking up the occasional item to admire the elaborate decoration etched into each piece, while smiling and nodding at the man to show my appreciation for his talents. I choose a couple of small silver trays beautifully decorated with Arabic carvings, and a small incense burner with a removable conical top with engravings and small holes to allow the incense to escape. The man wraps my treasures in newspaper, and I pay him with coins.
“Merci,” I say as I take my purchases from him.
“Au revoir,” he replies, the three-tooth grin never leaving his face.
My time in Syria includes the month of December, and I use my resourcefulness to go to the souk to find things to create Christmas for the other cast members, even though this holiday does not exist in Muslim Damascus. After a long walk through the souk browsing the hundreds of stalls and small shops, I have not found everything I need. I go out into the streets of Damascus where I know there is a small store that sells some familiar French biscuits that I buy, hoping they are semi-fresh, or at least bug-free. I also find some locally bottled soda which, despite its famous brand name, and because of its local manufacture and inexpensive price of one Syrian pound for a whole crate, tastes like gut rot. I also find some colored paper and other bits and bobs to make decorations for the dressing room, and for each member of the cast I buy some locally made leather purses and bookmarkers, as token gifts. It won’t be a grand Christmas, but it is better than letting it pass uncelebrated.
The nightclub in Damascus is different from anything seen in Europe and is the antithesis of life for the average Syrian. After walking up the stone steps at the club’s entrance and then through the opulent glass front door, I am in a grand, high-ceilinged foyer garbed in red and gold, more like a palace or a swanky West End theater than a nightclub. Red velvet drapes fall from ceiling to floor. Ornate stone scrolls in white and gold are carved into the walls, framing sections of red velveteen wallpaper. Portraits of important someones line the long and wide passage that leads to the various rooms, including the restaurant and showroom. The nightclub is owned by a relative of a government minister, and the club has conference rooms where the Syrian government sometimes has its meetings; judging by the Russian Embassy cars lining the curb at the nightclub door, these meetings are always attended by persons from the Russian Embassy.
After performing in the show at the Syrian nightclub on Christmas evening, the rest of the cast and I are sitting around a table in the nightclub’s restaurant when the owner comes over with a bottle of champagne, saying nonchalantly, “I think it is some kind of holiday in your country. I bring this for you to celebrate.”
What does he mean it is some kind of holiday? It is Christmas for heaven’s sake!
I receive letters and Christmas cards from my family, every one of which has been opened by the Syrian censors prior to it being delivered to me. Every message and personal good wish meant only for me is intercepted by some anonymous pair of eyes receiving the message before I do, and making a determination as to whether I am entitled to receive it, or not. This indignity, this intrusion into my personal life by faceless, foreign strangers, has to be accepted without question, without complaint. This is a stark reminder that people in different countries live differently and not always with the freedoms we enjoy in England.
Another indignity is frequently being held at gunpoint by the Syrian militia. Damascus has a curfew, and after dark people have to remain inside their homes unless you have permission to be out on the streets. The other performers and I have permission to leave our hotel to go to the nightclub to perform our shows for the Syrian elite. But late every night, when we walk back from the nightclub across the main square in Damascus to our hotel, the armed guards point their rifles at us and stop us and ask for our papers. We are careful to always carry our passes.
But for me life at twenty-one is still a big adventure. I am young, and life is still a game. Being held at gunpoint is simply another exciting story to add to my repertoire to recite to my friends back in England, and something more to extend my education beyond anything in any book I had read at school. I see the cars from the Russian Embassy lined up outside the Damascus nightclub where I work and joke to my friends that I should be a spy. It seems that every day something new is added to my education.
In other Middle Eastern countries, dancers in shows have to wear black body stockings under their colorful, sequined, and very scanty costumes to cover up any sk
in from the neck down. Performing in Syria does not require the same restrictions. The other dancers and I wear the sometimes-scanty costumes, showing long legs and bare arms and midriffs. The audience, the elite of Damascus permitted out during the curfew hours, enjoy the show. Except for the one occasion when twenty or more men in business suits, presumably at the club for business meetings, sat in the showroom for the duration of the show. The men refused to watch us perform, instead turning their chairs to face the back of the showroom, rebuffing the dishonorable women on the stage. All we performers can see are rigid backs and heads, but we feel the repugnance from these men. Back in the dressing room we girls laughed at them. What these men think simply doesn’t matter.
An odd event occurs one evening while I am at the club. Generally, when performing on stage, all I see are silhouettes in the audience; the harsh stage lights shining in my eyes wash out color and distinctive features. This night I am dancing onstage, the bright lights in my eyes preventing me from being able to see the audience clearly, when I see what seems to be a familiar silhouette sitting several rows back in the middle of the theater. The silhouette is bulky and matches Mimis’s physique. I think he is looking directly at me and making some comment about me to a man at his side. Surely not. Is it my imagination playing tricks?
After the show as I am putting away costumes and props in the dressing room, and getting changed to go with the other performers to the restaurant, I half-expect Mimis to come into the dressing room, or for someone to mention that they had seen him. I am shaking, afraid to admit to myself that I want to see him again. After all he has put me through, the misery, anger, humiliation, I want him to come back into my life. I want him to want me. No one comes to the dressing room. No one comes into the restaurant after the show. No one mentions the man.
After our show two nights later, I am sitting in the restaurant with the girls when a waiter comes to the table and says there is a phone call from London for the English lady. Since I am the only English girl, everyone presumes the call is for me and all heads turn to look at me, wanting to know what is going on. None of us ever receive telephone calls when we are traveling abroad. My eyes widen. “A phone call for me?” I stop eating, quickly put down my utensils, and leave the table, wondering who could be calling me from London and why. Is there an emergency? I hope not.
Going to the phone located in the foyer, I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” There is no answer. I hear a crackling along the line. “Hello? This is Laraine. Who is it please?” No answer. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Click. The line is disconnected at the other end, leaving me listening to a monotone hum.
I stand alone in the foyer, staring down at the receiver still in my hand, oblivious of my surroundings, my mind replaying the call. I am in no rush to go back to my friends and answer the inevitable questions. “Who was it? What did they want?” I know in my heart who it was. The call didn’t come from London. No one in England would know to call me here. There is one person who does know I am here, who is familiar enough with the area to call this number. I take a mental eraser and began removing the memories from my mind. He had abandoned me two years ago. He had taken the coward’s way out. Even now he could not approach me or talk to me. He is not worthy. He is not good enough to be my son’s father. The eraser completes its job. The memories of this man are gone; he is no one. I replace the receiver in the telephone’s cradle. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I return to the restaurant ready to face the inquisition. I simply state to my companions that it must have been a wrong number because no one was on the phone.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
I am standing in the dark, narrow hallway on the ground floor of the block of flats where Loretta has lived for some fifteen to twenty years. All those years and this is the first time I have visited the flat, visited my sister’s home. I hadn’t even known the address until today when I got it from my mum to tell the taxi driver. Presents and cards for Loretta have always been sent to our parents’ address. I excuse my dereliction of duty to my sister by telling myself that at least today I am taking her for a girls’ day out. Still, I should have come here, to my sister’s home, before now.
From the outside, the complex appears nice enough, a line of joined two- and three-story buildings with a dark modern brick architecture, a series of large picture windows on two or three levels, most with flower boxes offering some form of green and colored flora, and the extra thought of a resident’s garden out back. Loretta has a ground-floor flat, a blessing with her disability.
Inside the dark hallway, I can’t see very much. I can just make out the paler painted door of my sister’s flat at the end of the hall, and as I near the door, I see the identifying metallic number “2” on the left side of the door. My knuckles rap against the wood, which shakes a little at the assault, while my head cocks forward, listening for movement inside the flat. On the other side I hear steps moving toward the door.
author’s sister Loretta, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
The door opens to show Loretta leaning against her walking cane. She smiles at me.
“Hello, Laraine, come in.” Two awkward steps back and Loretta opens the door farther, allowing me room to enter the flat. “The living room’s that way.” Loretta points with her cane down the small hallway. “I’ll be ready in a sec.”
I walk the two or three steps toward the living room door, hearing the front door close behind me, and Loretta’s syncopated three-step moving along the wooden floor toward the other end of the flat. I pause to take in the sight: the living room is small, the entire flat small, but cozy. The décor is light, the furniture a pale pine wood, with frosted glass paneling and a matching coffee table, with a sofa and armchair of cream leather. A small wooden desk follows the form of the room’s back corner. On top is Loretta’s computer and phone. Tucked beneath are a printer and some storage boxes.
Taking a seat on the sofa, I look at the large television screen a mere three or four feet in front of me. My sister’s eyesight is degenerating rapidly, so Mum bought Loretta a large flat-screen television, large enough to allow Loretta to watch television in spite of her poor vision. There had been an inquiry from the social services woman who routinely came to the flat to check on Loretta. She wanted to know why Loretta, someone living off the state, could afford a large expensive television. Mum showed the woman the receipt from Argos, proving that Mum had bought the television as a birthday present for Loretta because she could barely see. In a nutshell, this is the story of how my sister lives.
Beyond the loss of her leg, her diabetes, and her poor eyesight are the illnesses, infections, liver and pancreatic problems, blood transfusions, the constant nausea and diarrhea, doctors’ visits, hospital stays, and the buffet of daily medications and carefully scheduled insulin injections. Loretta can’t work, although she is always into one plan or another, taking a course for home accounting and bookkeeping, computer sciences, something, anything so she can be a useful member of society. The courses never result in work. The hundreds of job applications and résumés Loretta has sent out over the years have generated an equal number of rejections, or cold disregard. Few know of the determined little disabled lady, who is trying so hard not to live off the state, and who wants to be a useful member of society. Her good intent and decent heart are simply set aside with formulaic wording in form letters. She isn’t wanted.
Disabled and unable to work, Loretta is supported by the state. She receives a certain amount of money to live on, enough to pay her bills but barely. If she has money to buy items such as a television, or if her savings account shows money above a certain amount, the state will think it is giving her too much money, and her payments will be reduced. More simply stated, luxuries are forbidden, and her flat reflects the basic needs approved by the social services, upgraded a little through the generosity of Mum and Dad at Christmas and on birthdays, all with the receipt for Loretta to show the social services the proof that the items are present
s and not bought with Loretta’s disability money.
Sitting on my sister’s sofa and seeing the simplicity of Loretta’s lifestyle and comparing it with my own, I recognize I am in a position to help my sister more than I do. I had become a Qualified Solicitor just in case I had to come back to England to take care of my disabled sister if and when our parents passed. It is insurance. I will have some form of qualification to get work in England, if necessary. Meanwhile, there is so much more I can do for Loretta. I see it now, through the guilt and sadness I feel at seeing firsthand my sister’s limited life. I vow there and then that I will come back to England more often; I can afford it. And I will take Loretta on a vacation, just the two of us. Anywhere Loretta wants to go. Two sisters spending time together, making a memory for us both. We will go to a luxury hotel or resort in the country, at the seaside, whatever or wherever Loretta wants. I will hire a limousine to drive us to our holiday location so Loretta doesn’t have to bother with public transportation, trains or buses, or planes. An image of Loretta passing through airport body scanners with her artificial limb, and its metallic harness, flashes through my mind. There will be questions, discomfort for Loretta, perhaps even a body search. We won’t go by plane. It will be by car, or maybe by boat to the Channel Islands, a more southern and weather-friendly location than damp, frigid England.
“Would you like to see the rest of the flat?” Loretta stands at the living room door.
“Of course.” I stand up to follow my sister.
“There isn’t much to see,” Loretta apologizes. “It’s small, but works for me. This is the kitchen.”
Three steps from the living room door along the wooden floor of the hallway, I find myself looking into a small but pretty kitchen. “This is really nice!” The tone of my voice reflects my approval of the room and its darker wooden cabinets with blue tiled and papered walls. I can see how the smallness creates an advantage for my sister. Loretta doesn’t have to move around too much to do her cooking. Everything is within arm’s reach.
Our Grand Finale Page 16