The Calligrapher's Secret

by Rafik Schami

  Both women laughed.

  Noura’s mother seemed fascinated by this intimate conversation, but she herself thought it embarrassing, and longed to get away.

  Months later, Noura discovered that her mother had gone to her future bridegroom’s studio the very next day and had taken a good look. It was a fine, light studio, with a marble and glass reception area like a modern museum. The Souk Saruya quarter was considered a very good address. All the same, Noura’s mother couldn’t imagine how anyone could make a living by writing – after all, her husband had written several books and was still poor. When she confided her doubts to Badia, their neighbour reassured her: Hamid Farsi was one of the best calligraphers in Damascus, she said, and he owned a wonderful house. He was not to be compared with Noura’s father. She even got hold of the key to the house. But Noura’s mother didn’t like the idea of intruding on the future bridegroom’s premises without his aunt. So they met at the spice market, Souk al-Busuriyyeh, and walked to the house together.

  “It’s not so much a house as a piece of Paradise,” whispered Noura’s mother, and all her reservations were swept away. The house did indeed have the features of Paradise as the Damascenes imagine it. Once you entered through the front door on the east side of the house, you were in a dark corridor that reduced the noise, dust, and heat of the street to a minimum. About halfway down the corridor a door opened into a very large kitchen, the kind that Noura’s mother had always dreamed of. Opposite, besides a modern toilet, there was a storeroom for old furniture, empty jars, large preserving pans, domestic still and other household equipment needed at most only once a year. The corridor then led to an inner courtyard which was everything you could wish for, with coloured marble, fountains, lemon, orange, and apricot trees, as well as several rose bushes and a climbing jasmine. Niches protected from the elements and spacious living rooms, guest rooms and bedrooms surrounded the courtyard. Noura’s mother didn’t need to see the first floor. All she had seen on the ground floor was enough for her.

  She did not tell either her husband or Noura, then or later, about this secret visit.

  But from then on she was convinced that Hamid Farsi would be a great catch for her daughter. So she began cautiously preparing the ground by talking to her husband. Later, however, after Noura’s flight, she claimed that she had had her doubts about the man from the first. Noura’s father seldom fell into a rage, but when his wife misrepresented this phase of the negotiations as she remembered them, he reproved her.

  A week after that expedition to see the house, Badia and Mayyada came to coffee with them. They sat beside the fountain and talked about the dreams of women, which all seemed to agree on one point: they dreamed of making their husbands happy.

  At the time Noura thought this kind of talk was hypocrisy, for neither her mother nor Badia lived by that precept. Even as a child, she had been sure that her father would have been happier with any other woman.

  Mayyada talked to her for a long time, uttering civil nothings to which Noura must and indeed did respond, like any Damascene girl. On leaving, Mayyada surprised her by giving her a hearty and powerful hug. She said Noura could call her just by her first name of Mayyada. But then Noura took fright when the woman kissed her right on the mouth. It was not unpleasant, for the woman smelled fragrant and had an attractive mouth, but it embarrassed Noura.

  “Why did she do that?” she asked, irritated, when she and her mother were alone again.

  “Mayyada wanted to find out what you smell like at close quarters and whether you have an appetising mouth.”

  “But why?” asked Noura in surprise.

  “Because Mayyada’s nephew the famous calligrapher, is looking for a wife,” replied her mother, “and you can count yourself lucky if this comes off.”

  Noura felt oddly happy to think of a famous man wanting to marry her. A week later she and her mother were to go to the hammam, and meet Mayyada and their neighbour Badia there.

  Only later did she realize that Hamid Farsi’s aunt wanted to inspect her naked body before making her final assessment.

  But now came the next surprise. Her mother, who was ashamed even to show herself to a sparrow in the courtyard, allowed the stranger to feel her own daughter and inspect her in detail. Noura felt dazed. She let the woman do as she wanted, checking up on her vagina, her breasts, her armpits, nose and ears.

  Noura was spared another embarrassment, one that was usually part of the process. The high reputation of the Arabi family was known far and wide, and made it unnecessary to ask their neighbours questions.

  Then followed weeks of uncertainty.

  After that visit to the hammam, nothing was heard from the woman for a long time. Noura’s mother could hardly sleep, as if she herself were about to get married.

  But then she did come to visit, and reassured Noura’s mother with the glad tidings that Hamid Farsi would very much like to marry her daughter. Noura’s mother wept for joy. Aunt Mayyada and she fixed all the details, from the dowry to be paid to the date when the men would discuss everything that the women had been negotiating over for weeks.

  Hamid’s uncle, Aunt Mayyada’s husband, travelled from Saudi Arabia specially. He came to visit accompanied by three very rich merchants from the Souk al-Hamidiyyeh, as if to demonstrate the kind of men who were behind the bridegroom.

  Noura’s father, Sheikh Arabi, impressed the visitors with his knowledge. They competed in asking him tricky questions to do with morality and religious faith and, at their leisure, ate fruit, smoked, and drank sweet black tea. Only then did they come to speaking of the purpose of their visit, and soon both parties had agreed. When the conversation got around to the bride price, Noura’s father, contrary to what his wife wanted, assured them that it was a matter of complete indifference to him. The main thing was, he added, that he could be sure his daughter was in good hands. Money is transitory, he said, but not the respect and love of a woman’s partner, and that was what he wanted for his daughter. His wife, eavesdropping in the kitchen, later told him accusingly that with a little skill he could have bargained for a considerably higher bride price, the sum on which she and the bridegroom’s aunt had already agreed. He was giving his daughter away cheaply, she said, as if Noura were an old maid. Hamid’s uncle shared that opinion, but he kept his mouth shut and privately laughed at Noura’s father, who confirmed his view that a man interested in books had no idea of business or real life. He himself, he thought, would have made sure he got three times that bride price for such a pretty, clever daughter.

  When they had also agreed on the date of the wedding, they all rose to their feet and shook hands, and Noura’s father recited a sura of the Quran to seal the alliance.

  A few days later a messenger came from the bridegroom bringing part of the bride price, and then everything happened very quickly. Dalia the dressmaker got her biggest order of the year; she was to provide the most beautiful dresses possible for the wedding. In retrospect, Noura felt that had been a time of frenzy. Never before had she visited so many shops and spent so much money, and she never did again. Her mother couldn’t buy her enough china, clothes, and jewellery, although Noura was moving to a house already furnished, a house that her future husband had bought years ago, and where he had lived with his first wife. Noura’s mother, however, insisted on new china and new bed linen. The bridegroom tried at least to save his own expensive china, but Noura’s mother said it was unlucky to eat from plates that a dead woman had once used. Reluctantly, the bridegroom surrendered, gave his future mother-in-law a second key to the house, and took no more notice of what was being removed from it. And he closed both eyes to the changes that his future mother-in-law made to it. As Noura’s mother saw it, he was showing generosity and a noble attitude, and from that moment on she took him to her heart.

  Only the heavy furniture, however, was delivered straight to Hamid’s house. Everything else was stored in Noura’s parental home until the wedding day. Room after room filled up with new p
urchases, and her father longed for the day when all this stuff was taken to the bridegroom’s house. However, he still had to wait for some time.

  Dalia was working solely for Noura’s wedding. She often groaned and complained that she wouldn’t get it done in time, she drank a lot of arak and hardly snatched any sleep.

  “By the time I spend the wedding night with my husband, you’ll be in the cemetery,” joked Noura, trying to placate her own guilty conscience.

  Years later, she remembered those last weeks at the dressmaker’s. Dalia was very sad. “The people I love always leave me,” she said suddenly one evening when she and Noura were working on their own. She was sorry that Noura’s bridegroom was very rich, she said, for Noura was her best assistant, and would make a good dressmaker. And as they said goodbye to each other, tears ran down Noura’s cheeks. Dalia gave her a silk shirt as a present. “Here – I made you this in secret,” said the dressmaker, much moved herself. “The silk was a remnant, and I pinched the expensive buttons from a rich customer. So you don’t have to give it another thought. Stolen goods taste better and look better than if you’d bought them.”

  Dalia was dead drunk.

  Later, Noura remembered that goodbye with particular clarity, because she went to the hammam that evening and had an unpleasant experience. There was not long to go now before the wedding. A few minutes after she arrived a midwife well known in the quarter approached her mother, and a little later Noura was told to follow her. The women in the big room were making a lot of noise, playing with water like young girls. They were sitting in groups, soaping themselves and scrubbing one another, or singing songs.

  Noura followed the plump woman to a distant niche that looked like a cubicle without a door. The midwife glanced inside and said, “We can do it in here.”

  Noura knew from her mother that all her body hair was to be removed for the wedding day. The midwife went about the process as if it were routine, and without any consideration for Noura as she removed the hair with a special sugary dough, strip by strip. It hurt like being struck with a nail-studded board or stung by a wasp. The pain got worse, and when her pubic hair was removed it was unbearable. Noura felt as if the midwife were tearing the skin off her body. She wept, but instead of comforting her the midwife slapped her face. “Quiet, girl!” she growled. “If you can’t bear a ridiculous little bit of pain like this, how are you going to bear your husband’s prick? This is child’s play.” She washed Noura roughly and hurried out. A few minutes later the hairdresser came along. She soothed Noura, telling her the midwife was always rather harsh. She cut Noura’s toenails and fingernails, washed and arranged her hair, and told her tricks to use if she didn’t like what her husband was doing and wanted to bring him to a climax quickly when he slept with her.

  In retrospect, Noura thought she had been like a lamb being seasoned and prepared for cooking in the days leading up to the wedding. The hairdresser powdered and perfumed her. Her throat felt terribly thirsty, but she dared not say so. Her body was burning, and the air in the hammam grew hotter and hotter. When she tried to stand up the walls were going round before her eyes. The hairdresser immediately took her under the armpits. Noura felt the woman’s breath on the back of her neck. The hairdresser kissed her throat. “What’s the matter, my child?” she whispered tenderly.

  “I’m thirsty,” said Noura. The hairdresser let her slowly sink to the floor and hurried out. She soon came back with a brass bowl of cool water, and when Noura gulped it, her dry throat hurt. As if dazed, she watched the hairdresser’s hand stroking her breasts. She had no will of her own, and saw her nipples swelling as if they belonged to another woman.

  “You can always visit me if you like. I’ll spoil you the way no man ever can,” whispered the hairdresser, and kissed her on the lips.

  After the bath Noura and her mother went home in silence. Noura was sad because all her pleasure in anticipating the wedding was gone.

  The official betrothal party was held in her parents’ house, which was just able to take the crowd of guests. The place smelled of incense, heavy perfume and wax. Her mother had ordered hundreds of big candles of the best quality from Aleppo, to supplement the electric light. Her mother didn’t trust electricity. It had always worked while the French were still in the country, but since independence there were power cuts twice a week in the Old Town. Darkness on the night of the betrothal or the wedding seemed to Noura’s mother the worst misfortune on earth, a bad omen for married life.

  When her niece Barakeh was married, her mother was always saying, no one would listen to her. Noura remembered that there had been a power failure then. No one else minded, only her mother panicked. Oil lamps were lit, but her mother said the smell of the oil was stifling her.

  Three years later, after her third miscarriage, the young woman poisoned herself. Noura’s mother accounted for it by the power cut on the wedding night.

  Long after her betrothal party, Noura remembered the incense. Her father hoped to turn the house into a temple by burning it. She thought the smell was very sensual. A young niece, on her mother’s instructions, added little pieces of the desirable incense resin to several copper bowls where it was burning.

  When Noura’s father got up on a table with a book in his hand, the guests fell silent. He read a couple of stories from the life of the Prophet aloud, now and then looking sternly at several women who kept stuffing sweets and candied fruits into their mouths.

  The official religious ceremony of betrothal, at the wish of the bridegroom, was conducted by Mahmoud Nadir, the well-known sheikh of the great Umayyad Mosque. The bridegroom himself was not present. Custom forbade him to see his bride before the religious act of betrothal had been concluded.

  Noura did not take in much of the long betrothal ceremony. As her bridegroom’s father was dead, Hamid’s uncle appeared as the representative of the Farsi family. He and his wife had flown in again from Saudi Arabia the day before, and it was whispered that he had been allowed to use the royal plane for this family occasion, since he was a close friend of the Saudi king. The man gave his hand to Noura’s father before the sheikh, confirmed that it was his nephew’s wish to marry, and handed over the remaining part of the agreed bride price. The men prayed briefly together, and then Sheikh Nadir made some instructive remarks about the sanctity of marriage.

  Noura had to sit some way from everyone else on a high chair like a throne, surrounded by roses, basil, and lilies. She must not smile, for that would be taken as sarcasm and mockery of her own family. “You should cry if you can manage it,” her mother had recommended. Noura tried to think of sad scenes in her own life or out of films, but the only films about weddings that occurred to her were comedies. Several times she had to work hard not to laugh when she saw a guest behaving as comically as someone in a cheap Egyptian movie.

  To make matters worse, Uncle Farid also kept making her want to laugh. He was standing very close to her with a group of guests. He had now been divorced for the sixth time, and he was as round as a watermelon. He kept telling jokes and making his audience laugh out loud and infectiously. Finally Noura’s mother asked Uncle Farid to go somewhere else and leave Noura in peace.

  Noura was grateful, but only when she closed her eyes and thought of the helpless boy being circumcized and crying so miserably did she begin to cry herself. She listened, unmoved, to the consoling words of her mother and the other women.

  Her father’s voice came to her from some way off. Now he was reciting out loud, with the other men, the chosen quotations from the Quran to bless the marriage.

  “My little princess,” said her mother, her face tearstained with her sympathy when Noura opened her eyes, “it’s our fate. Women always have to leave their parents’ homes.”

  Then came the henna day, a few days before the wedding. A large quantity of henna was bought, and the house was full of women from the family and the neighbourhood. They were all celebrating, dancing, and singing. They coloured their hands and fee
t with the reddish mineral. Some had geometric patterns painted on them, others just dabbed colour on the palms of their hands, their fingers and their feet.

  And then at last the wedding day itself came. The newly bought stuff was carried to the bridegroom’s house in a long procession. Noura’s father breathed a sigh of relief.

  More than ten respected men of the Midan quarter walked slowly at the head of the procession. They were followed by a tall man in an Arab robe. He was holding a large, open Quran up in the air. After him came a little boy, beautifully dressed, carrying the bridegroom’s pillow on his head, followed by another with the bride’s pillow. After them came four strong young fellows carrying the new mattresses and bedsteads. After that was a column of six men walking in pairs, each pair with a rolled-up rug over their shoulders. Next came four men pushing a cart with two small cupboards and two bedside tables fastened to it. A man of athletic build was carrying a large framed mirror in which the houses did a little dance as it passed them. Ten more men were laden with china, six with kitchen equipment large and small, others followed with chairs and stools, pillows, folded curtains and bed linen. Noura’s clothes alone, packed in large, brightly coloured bundles, needed six young men to carry them.

  In the bridegroom’s house the procession was received by friends and relations with rejoicing, singing, and refreshing drinks.

  The bearers were well paid for their help by Noura’s father. They kissed his hand and went away singing happily.

  Noura had another visit from the hairdresser, who examined her body and plucked out little hairs here and there that had escaped the first depilation, and then she massaged Noura’s body with jasmine oil. It had a powerful fragrance. And then Noura slipped into the heavy wedding dress, ten gold bangles were pushed up her left arm, a broad gold necklace went around her neck, and two earrings, also gold, were placed in her ears. Then came the powdering of her face and the rest of the make-up. When the women had finished, Noura didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. She was much more beautiful than before, and much more feminine.