by Rafik Schami
When Halime was in her sixth month of pregnancy she donated a huge vat of sus every week. The drinks sellers stood in Abbara Alley and generously handed it out to passers by, until one day a neighbour went to see the expectant mother and told her he kept dreaming of his dead father, who had seen Halime’s ancestors, and they were in Paradise too. But they were calling for help, because great waves of sus were flooding the place. Many of the saints were already up in the treetops, begging for the charitable donations to stop. Halime listened to this request, and in the end she had a pretty and most important of all a healthy baby.
But her mother wanted to take precautions, and hurried off to visit the sheikh again. In the meantime, however, he had died, and his son was running the business now. He told her to be very careful to protect her grandchild from attack by the envious, and sold her large quantities of talismans to hang around the little baby. When the attractive woman left he held her hand for a long time and looked deep into her eyes. “We ought to get to know one another better in the baby’s interests,” he said in conspiratorial tones. She felt her heart racing, but she suppressed her excitement and hurried back to her daughter. By night, however, as she lay beside her husband, she thought of the young sheikh.
Halime hung the talismans all around the baby. The attack would come from a blue-eyed woman, so the stars had told the sheikh. Her mother carefully kept watch on every woman who came to call, and if someone looked at the baby too long, or was too fulsome in her praise of his good health, she would nudge Halime and prompt her to say, “God protect the boy and blind the envious.” And as soon as the visitor was gone Halime’s mother softly recited two sayings from the Koran for protection against envy.
The baby stayed healthy. His mother fed him from full breasts. But then the inevitable happened. Halime’s mother-in-law took her chance while the baby’s other grandmother was in the kitchen making coffee. She glanced at the child, who had milk trickling from one corner of his mouth, and hissed like a snake. That was when it happened. Halime felt a stabbing pain in her nipple.
Next day her breasts were hanging as flat and limp as two empty bags, and she couldn’t squeeze a drop of milk out of them. Her mother raised the alarm, the sheikh came at once, and listened to the story with a gloomy expression. It was clear to him at once who had hissed the spell specially designed to draw the milk out of a mother’s breast. He asked for one of the mother-in-law’s dresses with her smell still on it, or even better, three items of her clothing. He would see to the rest, he said.
Once Halime’s mother had found a neighbour who was a nursing mother and could suckle her daughter’s child too for a while, she hurried off to call on the mother-in-law and made up an excuse to go into the bathroom. There she abstracted two pairs of panties and a dress from the laundry basket. The sheikh burned the clothes in a copper cauldron, muttering something incomprehensible, while Halime’s mother recited the suras from the Koran that were supposed to fend off the envious woman’s ill will.
Finally the young sheikh sat down on the sofa with Halime’s mother, murmured a mysterious spell, and looked at her with his large dark eyes in a way that made her feel weak at the knees. Taking her hand, he laid it on his heart. His ardent gaze rested on her nipples, and she felt like tearing off her clothes. The young sheikh spoke softly and urgently to her, while the room gradually filled with dense incense smoke.
“Now you must be very strong. Only you and your loving heart can help me to reach your daughter. You must pass through the spiral, and I will pass into it through you, and together we will free your daughter.” So saying, he moved the woman’s hand down from his heart to his lap. She didn’t know what spiral he meant, but she felt his penis and found herself gasping for air.
“For heaven’s sake, God protect it from envious eyes, but it will tear me apart,” she said, stroking his prick without looking down. It was huge, and hard as a stone. The woman could tell that the sheikh wasn’t wearing any underpants.
“Then let’s hang a couple of sesame rings between us,” said the sheikh, rising to his feet. His prick made his robe stick out like an Arab tent. He fetched five of the hand-sized sesame rings that are eaten in the morning and with tea in the afternoon in Damascus. Each ring was almost three centimetres thick. The woman glanced at the rings, and she thought she could just about manage the length that would be left.
“Good,” she said, relieved. “What must I do?”
The sheikh brought a large sheet of paper, the size of an unfolded newspaper, and the woman saw a saying in black ink written on it in the form of a spiral. The sheikh spread the paper out on the rug and asked the baby’s grandmother to lie down on her belly so that her mouth was exactly over the word at the centre of the spiral. Then she was to begin slowly reading without moving the paper. This was the crucial part, he said, and she must concentrate on the words. He himself would have to work through her to reach her daughter, and she mustn’t stop reading the saying aloud whatever happened.
“But put the sesame rings on,” she begged him.
The words of the spiral were written in Arabic characters, but apart from her daughter’s name at the centre she couldn’t understand a word of it. However, she tried hard to decipher the chain of written words, for she fervently desired to help Halime. Suddenly she felt him. A cry escaped her, but she read on. Soon she felt the fire inside her, and began thrusting in response. A little later she got up on her knees, propping her hands on the large sheet of paper.
“Break off one of the sesame rings,” she begged, for the fire was blazing higher and higher. Her longing grew ever greater, and the sheikh broke off ring after ring. Halime’s mother came to the end of the spiral and entered a heaven she had never known before. Suddenly she felt light as a feather. She was airborne, dazed half by pleasure and half by the incense.
Three days later the milk came back into Halime’s breasts. After that her mother visited the young sheikh every week, and she never forgot to take five sesame rings with her.
104. Grandfather’s Glasses
Suleiman’s grandfather read a single book over and over again all through his life: the Bible. He read slowly, very slowly. His image was indelibly imprinted on the memory of all who saw him: bending over the big book, stealing a little more light to read by from the last rays of the setting sun. He would never read by artificial light.
And when he was asked what he wanted most he would reply, “A good copy of the Bible in heaven.” He would sit under a tree there, he said, and read day and night, for in heaven the sun never sets.
As the years passed his eyes grew weak, and he bought a pair of glasses. There were no opticians or eye specialists around at the time, you just went to the general stores where all kinds of glasses were hanging, and tried them on until you found one that was right for you.
The glasses changed Grandfather’s face. He didn’t look kindly and wise any more, but tense, fearful, and constantly surprised. When Suleiman said so to his grandmother, she laughed. “Yes, he’s sometimes tense with fear, and he’s been surprised ever since he was born.”
One day Grandfather died. Suleiman had been away for three days with his mother. When they came back he was lying in the living room, already stiff in death. The boy grieved for a long time. The old man had been the best grandfather in the world, an excellent and patient craftsman, and a good friend to his grandson.
Two weeks later Suleiman found Grandfather’s glasses. They were lying on the shelf behind the Bible. He hurried to his grandmother with them. “Grandma,” he cried breathlessly, “Grandfather won’t be able to read in heaven.”
His grandmother looked at him for a moment, rather confused, and then she smiled. “He’ll be finding his way around heaven for now, and when I join him I’ll take him his glasses.”
Six months later Grandmother fell very ill, and when Suleiman heard his mother tell his uncle at lunch that she was afraid Grandma would soon follow Grandpa, the boy heaved a sigh of relief. He ran to his
room, fetched the glasses, and put them down on his grandmother’s bed.
“Don’t forget the glasses,” he whispered, and she laughed so much that she had a coughing fit. Then she stroked his head and picked the glasses up.
Three days later she was dead. The neighbours were not a little surprised when they saw what was in the coffin with her. Usually people put a rosary in a dead woman’s hands. But Grandmother’s hands were holding Grandfather’s glasses.
“It was her express wish,” Suleiman’s mother told the disapproving priest, and now the boy knew for sure that his grandfather would be able to start reading again that day.
105. Gibran
The man whose name was Gibran sat on the steps leading up to a small house, drunk, with over ten children crowding around him and wanting to hear his stories. By day he wandered the streets of Damascus looking for people who would give him food, cigarettes, and arrack. In return he told stories.
“Another one,” Suleiman was demanding as Farid and Josef came down the street. They saw their friend giving the man a Spanish cigarette that he had certainly stolen from his father.
“It’s not cut with anything, is it?” he asked suspiciously. “Hashish doesn’t agree with me.” He was drunk but not incoherent, although his eyes seemed unable to rest on anything, and roamed unsteadily through space and time.
“No, no, just perfumed, for the high-up diplomats. Now tell us the one about the Frank and his wife again. That’s the kind of story Josef likes.”
“Ah, that’s an old tale, one I read on board ship in the Caribbean. We had to wait for a repair to be done, and we killed rats and time by turn with anything that came to hand. I found a shabby old book without a cover in the hold. It was full of stories. One of them mentioned our quarter here in Damascus and the Hammam Bakri near Bab Tuma. True as I’m sitting here,” he assured them, drawing on his cigarette.
“Well, once upon a time there must have been a Frank around here. The Franks were brave warriors. They marched from their homeland three thousand kilometres away to save Christians, but when they arrived they couldn’t tell Christians, Jews, and Muslims apart, so they killed anyone who got in their way just to be on the safe side. Then they conquered several cities, among them Jerusalem, but they never took Damascus.
“In a long war like that, lasting over two hundred years, there were many breaks, and at those times the Arabs could go into the crusader castles, and the Franks could wander around the towns they hadn’t conquered and buy things. So one day this Frank came to Damascus. He had only just arrived in the Middle East as a crusader, he didn’t know anything about the people here. And he’d ended up in a castle further down south, where he was a guard and his wife was cook to the lord of the castle.
“The city gates were open. The Frank wandered about. In those days Damascus was a jewel among cities; the Mongols hadn’t arrived yet. The crusader couldn’t get over his amazement. He started at the southern gate, the Bab al Sigir, he passed through the spice market, and then went on to our quarter. And suddenly he saw the entrance to a hammam, and couldn’t make out why there were so many men going in and out of the place. He looked cautiously behind the curtain, and the hammam attendant, who knew the Frankish language, invited him in with flowery words and friendly gestures. But the crusader was scared, because he didn’t know the custom. He was a bold, fierce warrior, but bathing naked with other men seemed to him like the devil’s work. However, the attendant stayed close to him, persuading him, until the Frank paid and agreed to try the hammam. The attendant sent a lad to undress the man, scared as he was, until he stood there with nothing on, white as snow and stinking like a pig.
“‘Look at this,’ the attendant called to his Arab guests, who were resting in the hall and drinking peppermint tea. ‘They’re as wild and fierce as lions in the field, but a little soap scares them.’ The men laughed, and looked at the Frank as he hesitantly followed the lad into the dark interior of the baths. There he was soaped, massaged, shaved and washed. A young fellow carefully removed his pubic hair. The Frank rested, and fell asleep now and then. When he woke up and saw handsome youths wandering around in the twilight, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. Only when the man who did the soaping came up and indicated by gestures that he was going to wash him for the last time did he realize that he was still on earth. He happily drank his hot peppermint tea and listened to the water playing in the fountain. When his visit to the baths was over, he dressed, thanked the hammam attendant, and went cheerfully away.
“Two days later he came back hand in hand with his wife. The hammam attendant was just about frightened to death. He tried to explain to the Frank that women weren’t allowed to bathe with men, but the Frank insisted on enjoying the same pleasure as before, only with his wife this time. A great tumult broke out in the doorway. The men who had finished bathing and were resting in the hall near the entrance fled in fear from the lady, whose blue eyes scrutinized them with interest, and escaped back into the baths.
“Women from the neighbourhood came hurrying along, some of them calling the shameless Frankish woman bad names, while others wanted to bathe too. The hammam attendant begged the Frank to take his wife away quickly, before there was a massacre. Surprised and rather disappointed, the couple left. Later the hammam attendant said he had heard the crusader telling his wife, ‘It’s a strange thing, they’re supposed to be fierce warriors who don’t fear death, and they run scared at the sight of a woman!’”
106. Salma and St. John
Suleiman’s mother Salma loved John the Baptist with all her heart. She wasn’t alone in this: the Damascenes are devoted to the beheaded saint. After Salome’s notorious dance, the legend goes, his head was brought from Palestine to Damascus, and his shrine lies in the middle of the prayer hall of the Ummayad Mosque, where the Muslims venerate it.
Salma often went to look at the oil painting of the saint in the Catholic church, lit a candle, prayed devoutly and told him all her troubles. And she swore to Josef’s mother that everything she asked John the Baptist for was granted.
But one wish of hers remained unfulfilled. Salma kept repeating her request, but in vain. She gave even more candles, but nothing happened. Salma reminded the saint first gently, then more and more forcefully, that she had already given nearly seventy candles for this one request and he hadn’t heard her. The priest of the church sometimes had to wait a long time for her to finish her conversations with St. John. It was a nuisance, because if he was tired, hungry, or in a hurry he couldn’t just lock the church door and leave.
One day he had an idea. The large painting stood on a marble table with plenty of room behind it. When all the congregation who had come to Mass had left, and Salma was exchanging a few words with a woman neighbour, the young priest saw his chance. He quickly got behind the picture and waited, standing perfectly still. Soon Salma came along and began explaining volubly that she was disappointed, because St. John had failed her even though she’d already given him seventy-eight candles.
“This is my last,” she said.
“Why so sad, my daughter? Your requests have not yet reached me. What exactly do you want?”
Salma was alarmed, but she pulled herself together, explained her wish at length, and promised that if St. John granted it she would give the church a hundred lira.
“Why the church? There are a thousand and one saints here, and they’ll all want something too.”
“Very well,” said Salma, “then the hundred lira will be just for you.”
“But I don’t want money,” replied the priest behind the painting of St. John. “What else can you offer?” It was hard work to keep himself from laughing out loud, for he could guess how baffled the woman was looking at this moment.
“What do you want? Candles? I could light you a hundred,” offered Salma.
“Oh, how I hate candles,” groaned the priest.
“Would you like me to slaughter a sheep and distribute it to the poor?”
&n
bsp; “Those poor sheep, I can’t stand the sight of blood. Don’t you know I was a vegetarian?”
“A silver cross?”
“You’re mixing me up with Jesus.”
“A, a …” But Salma couldn’t think of anything else. “An outing for all the children in the Catholic orphanage, or …”
“You could never pay for that,” the priest interrupted her, speaking for the saint.
“Just you leave that to me. I’ll bargain for a good price, the manager of the bus company is my husband’s distant cousin, and there are plenty of cheap restaurants where the poor little souls can eat their fill.”
“And what do I get out of that?”
“Well, what do you want, then?” asked Salma, her nerves all on edge. “Tell me what I’m to do for you to grant my wish.”
“I want you to scrub the church three times a week for three months.”
“Oh yes? Scrub the church!” Salma snapped angrily. “I can do without that, thank you very much, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not a bit surprised they chopped your head off, you old misery-guts!” she cried, and she hurried out of the church. From that day on she avoided the picture of John the Baptist.
107. When the Tram Stopped
Farid liked riding on the trams. Unlike a bus, a tram was never too crowded and was always pleasantly airy. In summer it drove slowly along with the windows open. He was fascinated by the elegant uniforms: the tram driver in grey, with a handsome cap, the conductor with his box of tickets and the ticket inspector both in sombre blue. The ticket inspector’s uniform was the finest. Apart from looking at tickets the man really had nothing to do, for it was the conductor who never took his eyes off the passengers. The tram went from Bab Tuma to the terminus in the New Town and back again. Suleiman could get a free ride in return for lending the conductor a hand, and Farid sometimes went with him. While the conductor and driver drank tea together at the terminus, Suleiman would clean the tramcar and then switch the trolley arm around. The latter was a delicate job that the conductor wouldn’t entrust to many people. The trolley arm – a metal rod three metres long – had a copper wheel at the far end with a groove for the cable. A large steel spring on the roof of the tram pressed the rod and wheel against the electric cable. A cord was fitted below the wheel, and when the tram had reached the terminus the cord was used to turn the trolley arm. Suleiman had to brace his whole weight against the strong spring, and then walk around the tramcar and fit the wheel correctly back on the electric cable so that the trolley arm was pointing the way the tram would be going. Finally, while the driver and conductor were still sipping their tea, he took out the steering handle and went to the other end of the platform to fit it into the engine block there. He did all this as naturally as if he had worked on the trams all his life. The conductor and driver admired the little fellow who had the strength of an adult. Suleiman was the only boy who got to shake hands with all the conductors and didn’t need to buy a ticket wherever he boarded the tram. He often brought the men things from his home: sandwiches, apples, sometimes Spanish cigarettes. His father brought large quantities of these cigarettes back from the embassy.