by Rafik Schami
Every Friday, when the master – like all Muslims – took his day of rest and his studio was closed, Salman went to the room Karam had made ready for him. It was an attractive little room with a desk, an ancient but comfortable stool, a narrow bed and a tiny shelf. The room was light, there was a big window facing north level with the desk through which the heavy scent of myrtle wafted into the room in spring. There was even electric light.
Salman had his own key, and from now on he could come to his room every day except Mondays. In return he had to pump water from the river, water the shrubs, roses and trees, and then do Karam’s shopping and clean the house. That was easy, because the floor was covered with coloured tiles, and except for Mondays Karam himself came to his house only to sleep. A laundry washed his clothes for him.
“You can use the telephone in the kitchen to call out, but don’t ever pick it up when it rings,” said Karam. He telephoned a lot himself when he was at home.
Karam had given Salman two large notebooks, one for practising calligraphic script, the other for writing down secrets and recipes.
Salman began to look forward to Fridays when he could indulge in writing down his impressions, neatly entering all his remarks and notes scribbled on little pieces of paper in the notebooks. Every time he entered his room he found two or three little poems that Karam had left ready for him. He was expected to learn them by heart. “Poetry opens the heart to the mysteries of language,” said Karam, and Salman felt ashamed of himself if he couldn’t memorize the poems.
Calligraphy was a new continent in which Salman was travelling. The quiet way the staff talked to each other in the studio was a discovery in itself! They whispered. In the first few days it struck Salman that, used as he was to competing with the noise of the café, he was speaking in far too loud a voice in the workshop. Samad, who ran the place, simply laughed at that, but the three other journeymen Mahmoud, Radi and Said, and their assistants Basem and Ali, tried to draw Salman’s attention to the pitch of his voice by laying their forefingers on their lips.
Apart from Mahmoud, whose manners were rough, none of the others smacked him around the head or used bad language. When Salman used the word “ass” one day, Samad said he should leave such words out in the street, and wait to pick them up and use them again until he had left the studio. The way he put it appealed to Salman, and from then on he stopped at the entrance to the studio and told his bad language to stay outside, promising to collect it again after work. And as if the coarse words had weighed as heavy as lead, he went into the studio with relief.
Hamid Farsi observed him one morning getting rid of his swear words, and when Salman explained what he had been muttering just now, Farsi smiled. But the smile was as cold as the smile of a monarch, and he was absolute monarch here. You couldn’t joke with him, or even touch him to get his attention when he was deep in conversation, as you did with the customers in Karam’s café. Farsi always sat at the front of the studio at his elegant walnut-wood desk. And they all spoke of him respectfully, indeed reverently, even Samad, who was older than his master. The studio in front of the workshop was forbidden territory to the assistants unless the master had summoned them. Samad, his right-hand man and in charge of the workshop itself, was a man of forty with a handsome face and a cheerful nature. He conscientiously directed and supervised the work of the three journeymen, two assistants, and one errand boy. Everything had its place, and none of the staff seemed to envy any of the others. They all had their fixed wages, on a scale taking their years of experience into account. Those who earned more could do more, and were regularly given the more difficult commissions.
Salman’s pay was half what he used to earn in the café. Karam consoled him by saying that all the masters of the craft of calligraphy had begun as errand boys.
Every day Salman went round to Karam’s café at lunch time. He had something to eat and drank tea, all free of charge, and then went back to the studio. Samih and Darwish seemed to be changed men, friendly and inclined to indulge him. “Be careful,” Karam said. “Don’t tell them anything about your work or your master. And not a word about your room in my house. That pair are both stupid, they’d sell their own mothers for bakhsheesh.”
Salman felt as if he had been caught somehow red-handed, because he had nearly talked to Samih and Darwish about his master Farsi, who was so rich and yet lived so simply. He didn’t drink or smoke, he never played backgammon, never laid a bet, never went to the café. He had lunch sent over by his wife in the middle of the day, and drank nothing but coffee and tea, which he had prepared for him in his own workshop. Only when important customers visited him did he send out to Karam’s café for lemonade or coffee.
Salman learned willingly and fast under the supervision of the journeymen. Hamid Farsi seemed to take no more notice of him, and called for him only when he wanted something from the market or it was time to make tea of coffee. That didn’t bother Salman, because Hamid seemed aloof with the others as well and took little interest in them, although he knew exactly what each of them could do. He never reproved them at length, but he was pitiless in his judgment of quality. The men trembled when they handed him their work, and if he approved of it they came back to the workshop in great relief. Hamid never showed enthusiasm. Samad, head of the workshop, consoled the journeyman Radi when he once came back from the master looking downcast and dropped to his chair like a sack of potatoes. He had to design a scholar’s letterhead all over again because the harmony of the characters did not satisfy Master Hamid.
“If God himself were to write a saying out for him, our master would find something wrong with it,” said Samad, helping the journeyman to redesign his style and rearrange the words, and Salman had to admit that the new calligraphic work was much more attractive. A day later Hamid Farsi glanced at it. He nodded, called for Salman, gave him the scholar’s address and told him the sum that the customer was to pay. The scholar lived in the nearby Salihiyyeh quarter. He was delighted with the work, and tipped Salman a lira. Salman brought his master the money for the calligraphy and said, innocent as a lamb, that he had been given a lira, shouldn’t he share it with the others? Hamid Farsi was visibly impressed.
“But how will you share it out fairly?” he asked, amused. He did not suspect that Salman had already worked out an answer to that on his way. He considered that lira a necessary investment to win him extra goodwill.
“The best idea,” said Salman, “would be to spend the lira on Darjeeling tea. It has a delicately perfumed flavour and smells as if you had a garden full of flowers in your mouth when you sip it.” At that moment Hamid felt, for the first time, that he liked the thin boy.
His colleagues in the workshop were also pleasantly surprised. They were happy to drink the Darjeeling tea he bought for them, but said that in future, unlike their master Hamid, they would stick to their strong Ceylon.
“It’s flowery, yes, but the aroma passes off too quickly,” said Samad.
“And it looks too pale,” joked Radi. “It reminds me of the fennel tea my grandmother makes for her stomach trouble.”
Salman quietly cursed their mothers for bringing such ungrateful folk into the world. Karam just laughed. “You’ve gone the right way about winning your master’s approval, and that’s more important than what the others say,” he told Salman.
And sure enough, two days later Hamid called for him. “You’ve been with me for a month, you’re making good progress. From next week on you’ll be going to my house to fetch me my lunch and take the empty matbakiyya from the day before back to my wife. And you can take her any shopping I get you to do. The errand boy before you took an hour and a quarter about it. He was slow and let every street seller and conjuror distract him. I’m sure you can do it in half the time. Anyway, I want my lunch here on the table at twelve on the dot, even if there’s chaos in the city,” said Master Hamid, trimming the edges of a reed pen as he spoke.
“Don’t ruin your life, take it slowly,” the journeym
an Radi told him as he stirred ink. And Karam whispered to him over his midday meal, “They say he has a pretty wife, so feast your eyes on her curves.” He laughed so loud at his joke that Salman kicked his shin under the table in annoyance. “What do you think I am?” he muttered.
“What do you think I think you are?” replied Karam, laughing even louder. “A man with a hungry snake between his legs, and along comes a fat little rabbit.”
“You’re impossible today,” said Salman, marching out of the café.
Only outside did he calm down. He went to the ice-cream vendor, bought his favourite ice, Damascus mulberry flavour, and it cooled his seething soul and sweetened the bitter taste in his mouth. Slowly, he set off back to the studio, and as he passed the café Karam called from inside, “See you on Friday.” Salman was mollified, and called back, “See you on Friday too.”
Next day Hamid Farsi paid off the old man who had been bringing his hot lunch daily. There were up to fifty earthenware pots in the trailer to his bike, belonging to the local craftsmen and tradesman. The old man couldn’t read, so the pots were not labelled with names and addresses. But he never mixed up a single one of his customers or their earthenware pots. Now Salman had to do the job for Hamid Farsi.
“But whenever you need me, just call on me,” said the old man courteously, and he bowed and went away.
“A good, decent man,” said Hamid. He had always used the old man’s services when he had no errand boy, or didn’t trust the one he had. Samad made jokes in the workshop about his master’s avarice. He himself, however, ate only dry bread with olives or sheep’s milk cheese during the day, going to Karam’s café at most once a week to eat a hot meal. “Our master is disgusted by snack-bars and restaurants,” replied Said. Samad smiled. Radi, overhearing, shook his head. “No, he’s just miserly,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together – which means the love of money, and not only in Damascus.
Karam’s café was too expensive for the journeymen Radi and Said. They ate at a grubby but cheap snack bar every day, with the assistants Ali and Basem. Only Mahmoud ate nothing at all during the day. He was a tall man who smoked all the time. He did not enjoy food, and would have liked to nourish himself by smoking, he said if asked to explain his reasons.
One Thursday Salman was told to wait for Hamid that evening. Around six o’clock he shut up the studio and walked ahead of Salman through the streets at such a fast pace that Salman could hardly keep up. They went from the Souk Saruya to the Citadel, and from there through the Souk al-Hamidiyyeh toward the Umayyad Mosque. Was taking him on this long-distance walk meant to show how short the way was? Just as Salman was wondering about that, his master slipped. He had been about to turn into Bimaristan Street, and missed his footing on the smooth basalt edge of the pavement. It was strange for Salman to see his great master lying helpless among the legs of the passersby. Could Hamid have slipped because he, Salman, had been wishing he would?
“Oh, curses on them all,” cried his master, and no one knew whom he meant by that. A vendor of drinks helped him up and offered him a glass of cold water. Hamid Farsi brusquely rejected it and went down Bimaristan Street, walking considerably more slowly now, past the famous Bimaristan Hospital dating from the twelfth century. One knee was bleeding, and his trousers were torn on that leg, but Salman dared not point it out to him. He followed him into Mahkama Street with all its colourful shops, which then led to Tailors’ Alley, a street Salman knew well because he had often taken orders to a tailor in the Christian quarter. Tailors’ Alley led directly into Straight Street.
The alley where his master lived was off Straight Street. Jews’ Street was opposite it, but if you went straight on along Straight Street you reached the Christian quarter. The Orthodox Church of St Mary and the Roman arch stood not a hundred metres from the way into the alley. Salman’s street was about five hundred metres from his master’s house.
“Here it is. You’ll knock three times and wait here,” said Hamid Farsi, outside a handsome house, and he pointed to the bronze knocker. “Then my wife will give you the lunch, and you will give her back the empty pot from the day before,” he added, opening his door, which like all front doors in Damascus was only closed, not locked.
“And one more thing,” said Hamid. “No one must know my address, neither your family nor Samad. Do you understand?” he asked, and did not wait for the answer but disappeared, without saying goodbye, through the doorway and bolted the door on the inside.
Salman breathed a sigh of relief. Now he must explore the way thoroughly, because after his master’s fall he hadn’t been paying attention to it. So he went back and made sure he had memorized the way to the studio, street by street. It took him exactly twenty minutes, but it made him sweat.
On Saturday, the first working day of the Muslim week, he woke up very early. It was going to be a warm autumn day. His father was still asleep, and his mother was surprised to see him up and about. “So early? In love, or is there an alarm clock inside you now?”
“Today I’m fetching the master’s lunch to take it to the studio for the first time. His wife is going to give me the matbakiyya from the day before, and I’ve never seen a Muslim woman so close or been inside her house.”
“Muslim, Jewish, Christian, what difference does it make? You’re not going to eat the woman. Just collect the matbakiyya and take it to your master. Don’t worry so much, dear heart,” she said, kissing him on both eyes.
At eleven he left the studio and went to Karam’s café, drank some tea and quickly left again. Karam held him back by the arm. “Why, how nervous you are. I believe you’re going to fall in love today,” he said, and stroked Salman’s short hair.
Salman’s heart was thudding as he stood outside Hamid Farsi’s house. He took a deep breath, knocked once and said softly, “Good day.” And when he heard footsteps, he repeated in a louder voice, “Hello, good day, mistress… madame?”
A beautiful boyish face appeared in the slightly open doorway. The woman was not reserved and cold. She wore modern clothes, and she didn’t have opulent curves, she was rather thin.
“Ah, you’re the boy who’s coming to collect the lunch at midday now,” she said in a friendly tone, and gave him the three-tiered matbakiyya . He handed her the washed earthenware pot from the day before.
“Thank you,” she said, and closed the door even before he could say “Good day.”
On the way back he tried to calm down. He had broken out in a sweat, so he kept on the shady side of the street as he went back to the studio. He arrived just before twelve. Hamid Farsi looked at him sympathetically. “You don’t have to run. You saw what happened to me, and I’d rather you didn’t sweat or get sunstroke and my lunch arrived intact instead.” His lunch was salad, lamb in yoghurt sauce, and rice. It all looked appetizing in the little pots, and it smelled delicious. Salman could see why his master thought poorly of restaurant food.
There were aubergines stuffed with ground meat at Karam’s that day, a good dish when Salman’s mother made it, but in Samih’s hands it ended up overcooked and tasted as bitter as the man’s soul.
“Well?” asked Karam, when Salman had finished his meal and drunk tea with him. “Did you fall in love?”
The question troubled Salman.
“No, but if such a thing does happen,” he said, “of course I’ll let you know at once.”
Next day, when Salman went to collect Master Hamid’s lunch, he got his greeting out even before the woman had fully opened the door. “Hello, good day, madame,” he said. She gave him a friendly smile and handed him the matbakiyya, as she had the day before, and also a bag of apricots from her mother’s cousin, as she explained.
Hamid was having meat pie, baked potatoes, and salad that day. At Karam’s there were bamya, okra pods, in tomato sauce with rice. Salman hated the slithery okra, so he made do with sheep’s cheese, bread, and a few olives.
When he went back to the studio, the smell of apricots filled th
e whole place and even seeped into the workshop. After that day, Salman always connected their fragrance with the calligrapher’s beautiful wife.
Over the first few months Salman learned the secret of making ink. He was only the humblest of assistants, of course, but he memorized the quantities and wrote them in secret on notes, transferring them neatly to his notebooks on Friday at Karam’s house.
The studio was using huge quantities of coloured ink for the commissions of an architect who had designed a new mosque. Samad supervised the making of the ink, Radi did the work. And Salman had to fetch gum arabic from the spice market by the sackload.
Samad dissolved it in water and added a carefully weighed quantity of sulphur arsenic and some powder from a bag with no wording on it. When Salman asked what it was, Samad murmured something about sodium. Radi mixed and boiled up large amounts of bright yellow colour every day. For small and very small works of calligraphy, Master Hamid used expensive saffron extracts, but only he could use ink of that noble hue. Samad made orange from arsenic sulphide, white from white lead, and blue from powdered lapis lazuli. Various shades of red were made from powdered cinnabar or lead oxide, for others soapwort, alums, and water were used; for a more intense red, cochineal was added to this extract, a red powder obtained from the insects of the same name.
Samad warned Salman to go carefully with colours, because apart from harmless black ink most pigments were very poisonous. When Radi the journeyman heard that he laughed at Samad’s fears. Radi mixed everything with his hands, and would eat afterwards without washing them. A year later he was suddenly attacked by stomach cramps, and as he was very poor he couldn’t afford to visit a good doctor. He made do with herbs and other household remedies. Then he turned as sallow and grey in the face as a construction worker. In winter he started vomiting regularly, and soon after Salman left the studio in February of 1957 Radi fell so ill that he couldn’t work. His hands were crippled, and when he spoke his mouth was a terrible sight. His gums were rimmed with black. Hamid gave him a small final payment and dismissed him.