The Calligrapher's Secret

by Rafik Schami

  Samad made two or three consoling remarks, and hung up. Salman was torn between gratitude to Karam, who must certainly be behind this act of retribution, and abhorrence at the brutality of the punishment, which also affected Mahmoud’s family. They would be destitute now. What kind of cruel game was Karam playing?

  On that sad day the journeyman Radi vomited for the first time. They kept his sickness secret from their master. Radi’s prospects did not look good, but he recovered to some extent over the next few days. Salman made herbal teas to help Radi when he was pale and had stomach cramps.

  Hamid did not lament the loss of Mahmoud for long. A week later he sent his assistant Samad out to seek the services of a capable young calligrapher whom he had heard of. Samad was to settle the matter over a good lunch. Hamid gave him twenty lira, saying, “See that he’s well fed. The stomach rules the mind.”

  Two days later the new journeyman arrived. His name was Bashir Magdi, and he dreamed of redesigning all the scripts used in printing newspapers and magazines some day. He was a cheerful companion, and liked Salman from the first. Only Hamid had some reservations about him. “You’re not producing rough work to be thrown away here,” he told him, “you’re doing work to last forever. Let time, not haste, dwell in your characters.”

  But Bashir couldn’t work slowly. Two months after joining the workshop, he threw in the towel and went to work at a major newspaper. He became its chief calligrapher.

  Salman’s mother was not at all well. She ran a high temperature over the Christmas season, and then recovered slightly, only to take to her bed again, drained of strength again. Salman bought her expensive medicines, but they could only alleviate the pain, they couldn’t cure his mother.

  Every Friday he took her to see Dr Sahum, who treated the poor free that day. His practice was crowded, and you had to wait a long time, but Dr Sahum was friendly to all the patients down to the very last. In the end he couldn’t say exactly what was wrong with Salman’s mother. General exhaustion? A viral infection? And then he took Salman aside and told him that his mother did not have much longer to live. She was not yet forty years old.

  What a wretched existence, Salman thought on his way to work. Someone like his mother, born in poverty, sold off to a strange man whom she neither loved nor respected and who neither loved nor respected her, she had spent her life in pain and was now dying a slow, tormenting death.

  “Sometimes I think God avenges himself on the wrong people,” he said to Noura.

  In the morning, after cleaning the studio thoroughly as he did every week, Salman was to deliver a framed work of calligraphy, already paid for, to a customer. He wrapped the valuable calligraphy in newspaper and set out just before ten. When he came to Victoria Bridge he saw Pilot sitting placidly in front of a blind beggar. “Pilot, oh, my dear dog, who’d have thought it?” he whispered in agitation. He wanted to run straight to him, but he feared for the expensive piece of calligraphy. So first he went to see the architect three streets away and delivered the work of art. His instructions were to wait for the architect to receive the calligraphy in person and thank him for it. Hamid was a proud calligrapher who often told the tale of the Egyptian ruler Muhammad Ali and the Persian calligrapher. Muhammad Ali, the great pasha of Egypt, asked the Persian calligrapher Sinklakh to copy a famous religious poem in fine calligraphy to be hung in the Great Mosque that the pasha was building in Cairo at the time. The calligrapher spent two months on his work of art. When he had finished it, he told his servant to take the scroll to Egypt. At court the servant was to announce that he had the calligraphic poem with him, and if the pasha did not stand up to receive the scroll with due honour, the man was to turn and bring it back again. Sinklakh demanded respect for calligraphy. But not only Muhammad Ali, his entire court also rose and applauded when the servant entered the hall with the great scroll.

  In the architect’s office, the secretary wanted to take Salman’s package from him at first, but he stuck to his guns until she finally fetched her boss. He was delighted with the calligraphy, gave Salman a tip, and sent the master calligrapher his heartfelt greetings and thanks, as was right and proper.

  Salman rushed out and ran all the way back to Victoria Bridge. Thank heavens, the dog was still there. He was lying down now, watching the passersby. Behind him, the young blind beggar was singing, in a heart-rending voice, of his sad fate. Suddenly the dog sat up. He looked older now and scarred, but the bold, mischievous expression he had worn even as a puppy was the same as ever. Dogs can sometimes look at you in a way that makes you think they understand everything, thought Salman.

  Pilot ran to Salman, bounded around him, wagging his tail, and almost knocked him over. He had recognized him, and was barking with joy at their reunion. “Pilot!” cried Salman, “Dear Pilot!” The beggar stopped singing. “Aini,” he called, “come here, Aini, heel!” But the dog took no notice. “Help, someone’s trying to steal my dog,” shouted the beggar at the top of his voice. “Please, help a blind man and God will reward you!”

  “Stop shouting like that,” Salman called back. “No one’s trying to steal anything from you. This dog is mine. I saved his life when he was abandoned, and he grew up with me until someone stole him. His name is Pilot.” Salman saw uncertainty and fear in the young beggar’s face. “See how he listens to me. Pilot! Sit!” And the dog sat down, wagging his tail, and stayed put, much as he wanted to go to Salman. The beggar sensed that the dog was obeying.

  “He’s my dog, and I’ve been looking for him for years. How much do you want for him?” asked Salman.

  “Maybe he was your dog once,” said the beggar pitifully, “but now he’s my eyesight. His name is Aini to show that he is my eyes, and he looks after me all day long. You can’t take him away from me. Once some bad boys tried to rob me, and he protected me bravely – can you see his scars?”

  “But…” Salman began to protest.

  “No buts. Aini and I have been living happily together for years. He’s my brother, he cares for me, he even sheds tears with me when I’m sad.”

  “All right. I understand,” said Salman. “I’ll leave you the dog and give you a present too. Call him Pilot from now on, and I’ll show you a coffeehouse, a very fine one in the rich Souk Saruya quarter, not far from here. Pilot once saved the life of the owner, Karam. He knows the dog and loves him. You’ll get a hot meal there at noon every day, and Pilot too, all right? Karam is a generous man, but he’ll do it only if you call the dog Pilot.”

  “That’s fine. I’d call myself Pilot for a hot meal. I haven’t had one for days. What’s the name of the café?”

  “The Café Karam. I’ll be there between twelve and twelve-thirty,” said Salman, patting Pilot, who was dozing now, reassured by the friendlier sound of their voices.

  But Karam was like a changed man. He wouldn’t have anything to do with either Pilot or the beggar, and refused in no uncertain terms to give the man a meal.

  When Karam saw Salman coming, he shook his head, then grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him into the café, while Darwish was asking the beggar, if rather more politely than his boss, to go away and not bother their customers with his dog. Surreptitiously, he gave him a falafel roll.

  “Are you crazy, sending that lousy beggar and his mangy dog to the café?” Karam hissed at Salman.

  Salman was both shocked and ashamed. He wanted to ask what was so bad about letting a beggar sit in the café for once, but Karam gave him no chance. “You keep your mouth shut! Do you know what kind of people come here? People from the best circles, former ministers, the present prime minister, his cousin, jewellers, professors, scholars, the sheikh of the Umayyad Mosque and several generals are among my regular customers, and you can think of nothing better than to send this impudent beggar to me. Get out and take this loud-mouth away from my café,” he cried angrily. At the same moment Salman heard the beggar call to his dog. “Come along, Aini, this place stinks of greed and decay. God punish the man who led us here. Com
e on, Aini, come on,” he called, and he walked away.

  Salman was weeping with rage. He hated Master Hamid, who hadn’t given him a moment’s peace that morning, he hated Karam for making such an outcry, but most of all he hated himself.

  He never saw Pilot again.

  Salman used the bicycle only for his daily journey to his master’s house and back. He would have liked to show it off in Grace and Favour Yard, but he was afraid someone might give him away, for Basem and Ali, who worked at the studio, lived less than a hundred metres from the Yard.

  On the bike Salman saw the city of Damascus in a different way; it wasn’t like being on foot or sitting in the bus. He suddenly noticed how many foreigners worked in the city. One day he saw a farmer walking along behind his strong, heavily laden mule. You could hardly see the animal under the long trunks and branches of the timber it was carrying. The farmer kept calling wearily, “Firewood! Watch your backs! Firewood!”

  Salman had been told by his father that farmers sold the wood of old, sick trees because it fetched good money. They themselves burned only dried cow dung and straw.

  The farmer reached a road junction where three men, leaning on gigantic hatchets, were smoking and telling jokes.

  When a woman bought two of the tree trunks, one of the men came over and chopped the wood up. He came from Albania and earned a meagre wage here.

  The knife-grinders of Damascus came from Afghanistan, the watchmakers were Armenian, the carpet dealers Persian, and the men who sold nuts in the streets came from the Sudan.

  Early in February the weather improved, and after a few sunny days the Damascenes breathed a sigh of relief. Salman’s mother also felt better. She got up, some colour came back into her cheeks and she made a thousand plans. But the doctor warned her not to overtax her strength.

  One morning his mother surprised Salman at breakfast. “Do you know what I’ve always dreamt of?” she asked, a little shyly. Salman shook his head.

  “Going for a ride on your bike. I mean, I can’t ride it myself, but if you were to take me on it I’d be so proud of you. Will you do that for me?”

  “Happily,” said Salman.

  And one afternoon they did it. After work, he rode the bicycle through the front gate into Grace and Favour Yard. He fetched a quilt, laid it on the load surface of the carrier, and invited his mother to sit on it.

  Then Salman rode proudly all round the big courtyard with her. The neighbours, men and women alike, came out, sat outside their doors on stools, and watched the happy woman on the front of the transporter bike. Barakat, the baker’s journeyman with the beautiful daughters, all of them married now, threw Salman’s mother a little red windmill fastened to a stick. She laughed, held it up, and the wind blew the small red sails round and round. For the first time in his life, Salman heard his mother strike up a cheerful song.

  Salman rode round with her more than twenty times, sometimes with a crowd of children in his wake, shouting happily and singing. Anyone who also had a bike rode behind Salman, and they all kept ringing their bells. It looked like a wedding procession. Kamil the police officer, Sarah’s father, stood in the middle of the yard directing the traffic by whistling.

  Salman noticed how handsome and youthful Sarah’s father looked by comparison with her mother, who seemed old and tired these days – and who was very jealous. He remembered what Sarah had told him, years ago: “My mother swallows her jealousy every evening and decides to trust my father, but at night the jealousy comes out of her open mouth again, and as soon as my father leaves early in the morning it jumps right back on my mother’s shoulder and whispers that her suspicions are justified. And she feeds the horrible clinging thing like a pet. By evening it’s the size of a rooster. And when my father comes home from work, tired, my mother is ashamed, she gives him a kiss, guilty as she feels, slaughters her jealousy and eats it up again.”

  Salman rode around in circles with his mother until, exhausted but happy, she asked him to stop. He rode back to their apartment door with him, and she got off the bike and hugged him. “It was even better than the dream I’ve been carrying around with me ever since my childhood.”

  A week later she lapsed into a coma. Salman sang her own songs softly by her bedside, but she no longer reacted. Sometimes he imagined she had moved her hand to show that she wanted him to go on singing.

  At the end of February, a day after Salman had lost his job, she died in the night. She lay there perfectly still, with the hint of a smile on her lips. Salman was woken by the noise his father made, crying like a child, kissing his wife again and again and begging her to forgive him. They found the little red windmill under her pillow.

  After the incident with the beggar, Salman stayed away from Karam’s café for a week. He didn’t even go to Karam’s house on Friday.

  Days later, he was going to take the bike back to the yard of the pottery when he saw Karam there. Salman padlocked the bike and was about to disappear fast. “Hey, wait, where are you off to?” shouted Karam in friendly, almost imploring tones.

  Salman did not reply, but stopped and lowered his gaze. “You must understand me,” said Karam. “I can’t take in all the hungry folk in the world.”

  “No one asked you to. I just wanted to see Pilot again, and I couldn’t manage to tell you in advance that day. I’m sorry, but you mustn’t go saying I ruined you.”

  “No, you haven’t ruined me. I’m really sorry, and I ask you to forgive me. Shall we be friends again?” he asked. Salman nodded, and Karam hugged him and held him close.

  “Hey, not so tight or someone will be setting Badri on me,” joked Salman.

  They walked side by side to the café. “Well?” asked Karam. “So what’s new on the amorous front?” However, Salman wasn’t going to say a word to him about his passion for Noura. Not out of suspicion, simply because he did not want to share that precious thing, his love, with anyone.

  “No, it’s still one-sided on my part. Maybe she likes me, she’s friendly to me, but very faithful to her husband, and she wouldn’t start anything with a man whose ears stick out,” he said, but inside he was grinning so widely that he almost got hiccups.

  31

  It was his letters that made Asmahan forget she was never going to love anyone. But it was a long time since she had been mistress of her heart, and her self-imposed sober good sense vanished as soon as Nasri stepped into the house. Once again she became the young girl who, over ten years ago, had waited longingly for the words of the boy she loved then, and lay awake at night if one of his letters was late.

  She had been ten or eleven when she fell hopelessly in love with Malik, the pale boy next door. He wasn’t yet fifteen, but he held the secret key of poetry, which he used to unlock the worlds behind written characters and show them to her. That was long ago.

  Asmahan’s mother came from a rich family. She had been the third woman in Syria to take her higher school certificate two years before Asmahan’s birth.

  Her father’s family were merchants in the city, with trading links dating back to the Middle Ages with Venice, Vienna, London, and Lübeck. He was director of a tobacco factory, and although he was a Muslim he sent her and his other four children to elite Christian schools. Hers was in the Salihiyyeh quarter, three streets away from her present house. The school was run by stern nuns who wore strange clothes and snow-white headdresses with large, angular wings bending up on both sides. When the nuns walked the wings of their headdresses bobbed up and down as if they had swans on their heads, flapping to keep their balance.

  The school had a large library, but the schoolgirls were not allowed to touch the books. Nor could Asmahan choose what she read at home. Her father kept his books in a handsome glass-fronted bookcase. She learned all the titles on the spines of the books by heart, but she never thought of trying to take one of the books off the shelf and reading it. It was Malik who told her that banned books, more than any others, hold everything that it is valuable to know. One day she found th
e key to the bookcase and took out a book. Its title, The Secret of Words, had fascinated her. Malik knew the book, and he told her to go on reading, because even what she didn’t understand would gather inside her, like a flower-bud, waiting for the right moment to unfold its petals.

  It was to be five years before she had read all the books in her father’s library. She always took a book to her secret meetings with Malik, and read him a poem or an anecdote about love. Malik seemed to turn even paler than he already was as he listened. Sometimes he shed tears when the poem was about the torment of love.

  Asmahan never again met a better listener. She felt that Malik was drawing her words into his ears with an invisible magnet, so avidly that he almost tore them out of her. So her tongue tingled in a strange way when she spoke to him.

  And after she had read to him, he told her what the allusions in the lines of poetry meant, and she felt as if he were taking her by the hand and leading her into secret gardens of pleasure. Malik could not only read the visible words, he could also see their hidden roots.

  Almost every day she slipped through a secret gap in the hedge into the garden of his parents’ house, and they met in the toolshed. The big garden had become a jungle of trees and shrubs run wild, because his parents hated gardening and had no wish to tend roses, grapevines, orange, and mulberry trees. They had inherited the place and let it go to rack and ruin. Even before they immigrated to America in 1940 the house, once grand, was well on the way to falling into ruin.

  But that was only much later, when Asmahan was already married and Malik had been underground for three years.

  They met almost daily for five years. Her mother and her brothers and sisters never noticed anything until Malik’s death.