The Calligrapher's Secret

by Rafik Schami

  “Thank you very much, but I have to go home. My mother isn’t feeling well,” said Salman. And for the first time he felt afraid of Karam.

  Outside, the evening air was cool. The tram drove through the Damascene evening, and he thought the city did not look at all as it did in daytime. People were hurrying, laden with shopping bags, full of plans, glad and tired at the same time as they made their way home down the streets.

  For a moment he forgot that he was in a tram. He felt as if he were on a carousel turning and turning as it passed lighted rooms, colourful shops, cheerful children, old men and women bowed by the weight of their years. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he was looking straight into the laughing face of a drunk, who turned round and asked the driver in a loud voice, “Going to Argentina today?”

  The driver seemed to know the man. “Not today, no. We’re going to Honolulu today. Argentina won’t be on our route again until the 30th of February,” he called back.

  Only a few passengers were going, like Salman, to the city centre. There he boarded another tram to reach Bab Tuma in the Christian quarter. It was rather crowded, and Salman was glad to find a seat. Men and women in their best clothes were joking together on their way to a party.

  Somehow he couldn’t get the devilish glint in Karam’s eyes out of his mind. He wondered why his friend was taking such an interest in the calligrapher’s secrets all of a sudden. But as he was on the point of thinking further about that, the tram shot full tilt around a bend. The driver, infected by the partying mood of his passengers, began singing along with them, changing gear in time. A beautiful if rather plump woman lost her balance and landed, laughing, on Salman’s lap. Other people were suddenly thrown into each other’s arms. The driver saw his tottering passengers in the rear mirror, braked, and disentangled the screeching crowd.

  “The poor boy, you’ll crush him!” cried a man in an elegant dark blue suit with a red carnation in his buttonhole.

  “Oh, come on, he’s enjoying it,” responded another man, this one in dress uniform.

  The woman, giggling, tried to climb off Salman’s lap. He liked the scent of her perfume, a mixture of lemon blossom and ripe apples, when her cheek brushed his face briefly. He breathed its fragrance in. The woman was on her feet again, looking at Salman in some embarrassment.

  Years were to pass before he remembered the devilish glint in Karam’s eyes again, making an effort to go back in his mind to the Paradise that he had known in Noura’s arms. He could remember the evening tram ride as well, and at that later date he understood why the Devil had made Karam’s eyes glint.

  On the night after his adventurous tram ride, Salman heard that Shimon the vegetable seller had fled to Israel. He wondered why. Over the next few days he kept looking up to Shimon’s room from his own window, hoping to see light there, but it stayed dark.

  Not until a month later did a married couple rent the two-roomed apartment, and the owner of the shop was complaining even years later that Shimon still owed him three months’ rent.

  Salman and all the neighbours in Grace and Favour Yard knew, however, that the miserly owner was lying. The proceeds of the dried herbs, olive oil and exotic fruits that were now his property would have paid the rent for a year.

  29

  Master Hamid underestimated the fanatics. He himself was not a religious man. He did believe that some mighty being was responsible for all creation, and he was proud to the farthest corner of his soul that God felt such a particular liking for Arabic that he had dictated the Quran in that language to his Prophet Muhammad. Apart from that he was indifferent to all religions, and saw piety and extremes of faith as the basis on which simple-minded attitudes were built. However, he respected Jews more than Christians, because he saw many parallels between Judaism and Islam, while Christians arrogantly insisted on holding to their belief that God had fathered a son who drank wine and got himself crucified. And in addition the man Jesus required his followers to love their enemies!

  Hamid seldom went to the mosque. But that suddenly changed in early January 1956, when his revered master and teacher Serani recommended him to go to the Umayyad Mosque on Fridays. It was a meeting place for highly respected theologians, politicians, the best-known businessmen in the city, and influential heads of clans. Serani was anxious about Hamid, who had been his favourite pupil. “People are whispering about your plans, and their whispers are gradually assuming a shape that I do not like. Come to the mosque on Friday with me, and they will see that you are a good Muslim.” Hamid was touched by the old man’s concern for him, and he decided to pray in the great mosque every Friday.

  Soon after that, in the spring of 1956, he appreciated his master’s wisdom. Great men of theology, science, and politics invited him to drink tea, approved of his radical support for the wearing of the veil and headscarf, and had to admit that they had previously entertained an entirely different idea of him.

  In May, he boasted to those he met here that he had just declined a large commission for the Catholic Church, and would soon be going on pilgrimage to Mecca for the first time. Only his assistants didn’t believe in this new piety of his.

  “There’s probably a big commission for the Saudis in prospect,” surmised Samad in private. The other journeymen also doubted the new devotion to religion of their boss, a man who, as Mahmoud claimed, went to an exclusive little brothel in the new part of the city with three other calligraphers every Thursday.

  “He plays cards on Thursday,” objected Samad.

  “Yes, but not at a café, at Madame Juliette’s. So my cousin told me. He’s worked for one of those calligraphers, and he lives near the madam. They play cards there every Thursday, and the winner of the game can choose a whore at the others’ expense.”

  In the autumn of 1956 Hamid Farsi felt that he had convinced all the prominent men of Damascus, as well as the sternest theologians, of the importance of paying attention to the art of calligraphy. He did not say a word about reforms to them, although most of them, for all their friendliness, kept their distance from his project. Yet he felt sure that the conservative theologians had their hounds, the Pure Ones, firmly on the leash.

  However, he was overestimating the influence of the liberal theologians on the fanatics in the underground. Two weeks after Farsi had signed the contract to rent the building for the School of Calligraphy, a bearded man walked into Nasri Abbani’s office and asked sardonically where the owner of this outfit was. Tawfiq had some difficulty in suppressing his laughter. “I’m the errand boy around here. How can I help you?”

  “Your master has made a mistake. We have nothing against his clan, but he has been giving money to support Hamid Farsi in his devilish work. Tell him to withdraw that support, and give the money to poor Muslims instead, or donate it for the renovation of our mosques, and then nothing will happen to him.” The man showed no emotion as he spoke, and he frightened Tawfiq badly. He had feared cold characters like this since childhood. They understood very little, but shrank from nothing because, in their blindness, they thought they had one foot in Paradise already. No scientific knowledge in the world could equip warriors better.

  “Now listen to me: my boss has given his support to a School of Calligraphy, not a brothel, “ replied Tawfiq in tones of superiority, to cover up his fear.

  “We think, however, that this calligraphy of his is only a cloak to disguise the work of the Devil. And I didn’t come to discuss the matter with you or with him, but to give a warning,” said the man, suddenly agitated after all. He turned on his heel and left.

  Tawfiq stood in his office, shaking. It took him a little while to get over the fanatic’s appearance. Then he took a deep breath and called Nasri. Nasri was in high good humour.

  “Let them go to the Devil. A shower and a shave would do them more good. If calligraphy is blasphemy and the work of the Devil, then I don’t know what God still stands for,” he said.

  Tawfiq nodded. His old distrust, howe
ver, reawakened as soon as he had hung up, and he thought of a saying of his dead father: “You can’t take your eyes off that Nasri for a moment, or he’ll be getting a woman pregnant and taking his business to the point of ruin.”

  Nasri’s loyal assistant thought for a long time, trying to work out ways of averting misfortune from his master. He phoned Islamic scholars, professors, journalists both liberal and conservative, and they all laughed at his fears and assured him that calligraphy was the highest form of art ever produced by Arab culture. “And now those barbarians want to forbid us the divine game of letters as the work of the Devil,” protested Mamdouh Burham, editor in chief of the conservative Al Ayyam newspaper. “They’re hostile to all the pleasures of life anyway, and to that extent they’re anti-Islamic. Our Prophet, God’s blessings be upon him, was a man who enjoyed sensual pleasure,” he concluded.

  Only one man gave an answer that went beyond mere reassurance. He was Habib Kahaleh, the experienced journalist and chief editor of the satirical magazine Al Moudhik al Moubki. “It is not Arabic script or calligraphy,” said that elegant man, “but – so I have heard – the calligrapher’s secret plans that upset the fanatics, and if that is the case you needn’t worry about Nasri Abbani. Their main target is Hamid Farsi.”

  He recommended Tawfiq to forget the crazy fanatic. But the dead eyes of the bearded man followed Tawfiq into his dreams.

  Unlike Tawfiq, Nasri Abbani forgot all about the phone call at once, ate dessert, drank a coffee, and went up to his room on the first floor.

  He took a folder out of his briefcase, opened it, and the two-page letter lay before him. A work of art. The description of the woman was perfect. And if you narrowed your eyes, the lines turned into a blazing flame.

  What divine script! Nasri could hardly bring himself to fold that superfine paper. The fold itself seemed to him brutal, but he did it in exactly the right way for the edge of the paper to meet the central fold. He took the heavy gold coin that he had bought in Goldsmiths’ Street near the Umayyad Mosque, placed it right on the middle point of the strip that the letter had now become, fixed it in place with a little glue, and the coin was in place. He climbed on the bed, held the strip aloft, and let it fall. The strip rotated like a propeller as it moved almost vertically toward the floor.

  Now he was waiting patiently for his mother-in-law to finish washing the dishes and clearing up the kitchen. After an eternity, she too went to bed. He knew that Almaz had been snoring for a long time already beside her daughter Nariman, who grew more and more like her every day.

  All was more silent than a graveyard when Nasri slowly went to the wooden ladder, climbed it cautiously and without a sound, and quickly closed the attic door behind him.

  Outside, the sun was spreading a bright carpet over the city. It was pleasantly warm, but the cold night air still lingered in the attic. Nasri shivered, and went over to the window. He glanced out at the courtyard below, where the woman was sunbathing in a large chair beside the fountain. She was reading. When he opened the window, she looked up and smiled. Nasri could have died with delight. He responded with a nod, and showed her the paper. The wind had died down. He let the paper strip sail down and saw the surprise on the woman’s face. She laughed, and clapped her hand over her mouth. The propeller landed two metres from the wall, not far from the fountain.

  The woman sat up, smiled at him again, and got to her feet to pick up the strip of paper. Then Nasri heard footsteps and a bang. It sounded like someone hitting a door with a hammer. He quickly closed the window, waited for a moment, and stepped out on the little terrace in front of the attic. At that moment he saw his wife come into the stairwell that led from the first floor to the ground floor. He waited by the ladder to see if he had been wrong. But no one appeared up the stairs.

  A hallucination, he thought, the result of his pangs of conscience, and he smiled, because he had not in fact felt any pangs of conscience at all since childhood. He stepped on to the first rung of the ladder, and as he felt for the next rung with his other foot the wood collapsed under him and he fell, flailing about in the air for something to catch hold of, until he struck the ground hard with his left leg.

  Darkness full of pain came down on him like a plank. When he came back to his senses, he was lying in hospital. His left leg was in plaster, and he couldn’t move it.

  30

  Hamid Farsi was standing in front of his assembled employees in a towering rage, for only they knew about Nasri Abbani’s generous gift, and the two marble slabs that the journeyman Samad had chiselled to his master’s design in the workshop. It was also he who had drawn Hamid’s attention to the errand boy Salman as a possible informer, for of all his staff the errand boy had more chance to overhear conversations with the customers than anyone else.

  “But he’s a Christian,” said Master Hamid, dismissing the idea. That did not deter Samad. “Christians or Jews, they’re all traitors. They sold their Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Let Mahmoud get to work on him, and he’ll sing like a canary.”

  Master Hamid, did not reply, but he finally agreed.

  The unfortunate errand boy arrived at work next day bruised all over, with his hands and one eye swollen, and a wound close to the base of his left ear was thickly encrusted with a brown scab. However, Mahmoud had not been able to get him to say anything at all. Samad stood in front of his master with his head bowed.

  With apparent innocence Hamid asked Salman what had happened to him, and Salman, for fear of Mahmoud, said he had fallen off his bicycle and down a steep slope.

  It was the day before Christmas. Hamid looked at the thin boy sympathetically. “You celebrate the birth of your Prophet tomorrow, don’t you?” he asked. Salman nodded. “And after that everyone celebrates New Year’s Eve. Stay at home until the second of January and get better,” he said, taking his wallet out of his pocket. He gave Salman his full month’s wages and sent him off. At that moment his sister Siham appeared at the doorway of the studio. “You get out of here,” cried Hamid, much annoyed. “I have no time for you today and no money either,” he added, pushing her out. His sister muttered something, struck the glazed door with her fist, and left.

  “And Mahmoud can be errand boy today as punishment,” shouted Hamid loud enough for everyone in the workshop to hear him.

  For Mahmoud his journeyman, a grown man, that was indeed a severe punishment. But worse was to come in January.

  When Salman called Noura from a phone kiosk and told her what had happened she said she wanted to see him. Salman was ashamed to think of her seeing him like this, but she insisted on a meeting.

  They sat in a café in the new part of the city, near the Fardous cinema. Salman said nothing, but Noura was horrified. What had they done to Salman? How could her husband be so cruel? She wept at the sight of him, and she kissed his eyes, unafraid of being seen. The café owner looked sympathetically at the couple. Noura felt bitter hatred of her husband. After their meeting she went to see Dalia. She told her nothing about what had happened, but for the first time in her life she drank some arak. After that she felt better. When she said goodbye, the dressmaker hugged her and held her close. “Look after yourself, my child,” she said softly. Noura nodded, and walked slowly home.

  On the third of January, when Salman was back at the workshop, Karam asked him at lunchtime whether he had heard that Mahmoud was sick. Salman shook his head.

  “Very sick indeed, so I hear, and after tomorrow he won’t be able to work again,” said Karam, with a smile full of meaning. Salman’s mind was elsewhere that day. Noura had mentioned, in passing, that she knew someone who, at the price of a hundred lira, could get you genuine papers and give you a new identity.

  How can anyone, he wanted to ask, get genuine papers in another name? He had heard only of good forgeries and bad ones. “It seems,” Noura went on, as if she had heard his unspoken question, “that he has access to the data in the office for the registration of residents, and he can bring the dead to lif
e or duplicate people.”

  Salman was still thinking about the implications of this tale of a second identity, and he wasn’t greatly interested in whether that lout Mahmoud was sick or not. Not until the next day was he to discover that he had not really been listening to what Karam said properly, let alone understanding it.

  On the night of the second of January the calligrapher’s journeyman had been set upon by four muscular, bearded men. They beat him mercilessly, and at every blow they cried Allahu Akbar, God is great, as if they were performing a religious rite. And then the largest of them crushed his right hand with a sledgehammer.

  If a passerby had not discovered Mahmoud whimpering quietly in the dark entrance of a warehouse, he would have died of internal bleeding. And as if that were not enough, an unknown man phoned Hamid early next morning and told him that his journeyman had tried to rape a young woman. Under this provocation, he added, her brother had broken the hand that had touched her.

  Hamid brought the receiver down on the rest as quickly as if it were burning. He said not a word about the attack, but a day later the whole studio knew about it. Master Hamid had gone to a meeting with the minister of culture, and when the telephone rang it was Samad who answered it.

  The caller was Mahmoud’s wife. In tears, she told Samad that her husband, thanks be to God, was no longer in danger of death, but he would never be able to use his right hand again. She wept bitterly, because everyone in the hospital knew that Mahmoud had been beaten up because of a rape, and now they were both equally despised.