Farewell, Damascus

by Ghada Samman

  One morning she took out the raincoat her father had given her. It was reversible—black if you wore it one way, and pink if you wore it the other way. Turning the coat pink-side-out, Zain announced to the woman who lived inside her, “I’m going to look for a second job, and I’m going to help my dad pay the household expenses!”

  * * *

  She started her search at the school where her mother had taught, and which was bound to her family by ties of friendship. The people who ran the school had an uncle who had volunteered in the Rescue Army that had fought for Palestine in 1948 under the command of Fawzi Al Qawuqji. He had died in the arms of Zain’s maternal uncle, who, as she learned from her father when she told him she wanted to apply for a job at the school, had worked as a volunteer physician for the Rescue Army.

  She was received at the school by Irfan, the young new principal who had returned from France with a Ph.D. in Engineering. She remembered Irfan’s father who, when she had walked one day with her father from Bloudan to Zabadani, had scolded her for wanting to marry somebody she was in love with. He had said to her, “If you go on trying things that haven’t worked for other people, you’re not thinking right!” He’d been right, as had her father. But that was in the past now. It was over and done with. Besides, she’d been a hard-headed teenager at the time, and as far as she was concerned, she was right and the whole world was wrong! The things some of her girlfriends were saying about her were completely off the mark, so she figured everybody else who criticized her must be wrong, too. She realized now, of course, that what people say can be right sometimes.

  Dr. Irfan, who had heard a lot of things about Zain that would have gone against the grain of a traditionally-minded Damascene, said to her, “I see that you’ll be getting your Bachelors Degree in English and World Literature, and that you’re applying to teach English to elementary students. So actually, this job would be beneath your level. You’re overqualified for it.”

  The woman inside her, who didn’t take well to people who say one thing and mean another, whispered, He’s blowing you off politely, the old-fashioned Damascus way. But he’s still blowing you off! He used to play with me when I was a little girl. I was five and he was ten, and he’d push me around in a pretty little red car my mother had brought me from Paris since they didn’t have that sort of thing in Damascus. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten any of that. Yet he’s rejecting me. I’ve got to quit being stupid and naïve and learn the law of life: everything changes. The friend of the past might be the enemy of the future. Feelings slip and slide like mercury, and worldly interests rule the day. So I need to be careful. I learned a lesson in being careful when I was ten years old. My aunt had slipped a thermometer into my mouth, and I sneaked it into the bathroom and broke it open to get at the mercury inside. I tried to get hold of it, but it kept eluding my grasp. Little did I know at the time that it was poisonous! Stupid kid that I was, I wanted to see what it tasted like! So it was to my benefit that I couldn’t get hold of it! Likewise, it might be to my benefit today that Dr. Irfan doesn’t want me to teach in his school. The woman inside me added, The things you write shake people up, scare them. It isn’t that they hate you. In fact, what you say arouses their curiosity, and they may even admire you for it. But they don’t want you in their lives! Don’t give up, though. Remember that women are more likely to sympathize with what some people around here refer to as your “craziness.” So why don’t you apply at the Dawhat Al Fikr School?

  * * *

  One morning Zain caught sight of a rainbow. She walked toward it, and it led her to the Dawhat Al Fikr School. The school’s founder and principal was a dignified woman by the name of Adela whose eyes were ringed by dark halos like the moon on a cloudy night. To Zain’s amazement, Madame Adela welcomed her warmly. Her voice tinged with enthusiasm, she told Zain she’d been a friend of her mother Hind, and that she was proud of the things Zain was publishing in the newspapers. That night Zain announced to her father that she had found a job as a twelfth-grade English teacher.

  Zain was still a university student, and high school girls often had to repeat a grade or two, since they figured there was no use wasting their time studying if they’d just end up spending their days in a kitchen once they were married. Consequently, most of her students were either her age or older.

  When Zain gave her first lesson, she discovered that a girl in the class had been one of her ex-husband’s mistresses. To her surprise, Zain found herself able to relate to the girl, whose name was Amal, with complete neutrality. She knew then that she was over her husband once and for all. This discovery came as a happy relief to her, and she helped and encouraged Amal just as she did all the other girls in her class. Amal for her part adored Zain, perhaps even more than she’d adored Zain’s ex at one time. Zain would never have dreamed of such a thing, of course. What she didn’t know was that Amal had suffered badly on account of the man who had once been her teacher’s husband although, being Zain’s student, she never dared talk to her about him.

  * * *

  Zain happily bought a used car from a neighbor, who said he was only selling it so that he could buy one big enough to hold his growing family. It wasn’t long, though, before Zain realized that the car was a lemon. She also discovered that the neighbor who had sold it to her didn’t have any kids, and that he wasn’t even married! She’d been excited at the thought of being able to drive herself places, and of going all alone to Sahat Al Muhajirin to watch the sun set in a golden glow over the domes of her city’s mosques and churches.

  By the time she realized that her newly acquired vehicle was nothing but a rattle-trap, she’d already made a hefty down-payment with an agreement to pay the rest out of her salary in monthly installments. She was even told it needed an operation people referred to as khart al-mutur, which she’d never heard of. After inquiring of people who knew more about cars than she did, she found out from her neighbor Ammo Marwan that it meant replacing the engine! According to Ammo Marwan, she would have to send the car with her father’s driver to a place called Ziqaq Al Jinn, or “Goblins’ Alley,” the neighborhood behind the fire station where all the car repair shops were. Goblins’ Alley? She liked the name. As far as she was concerned, Damascus itself was nothing but a goblins’ alley with a refined veneer.

  When Zain told her father what had happened, he whispered to her, “I knew you’d been taken for a ride when you bought that piece of junk! But I wanted you to learn from the experience.” He tactfully refrained from adding “the way you had to learn from your failed marriage!”

  Chuckling, he continued, “From now on be careful not to buy things you don’t know anything about! And now, go ahead and correct your mistake.”

  Zain loved the saying, “correct your mistake.” She’d grown up on it, and it was what she’d been acting on when she went through with her divorce, whose repercussions had been felt throughout their social circles. “Correct your mistake.” She’d decided to make it her personal motto.

  Her father went on, “The neighbor’s son got rid of his old clunker at your expense, and now you’re putting your own time and money into a repair operation that might work, and might not. Anyway, you’re an expert now on khart al-mutur!” Okay. So I made another mistake, but it’s minor compared to the earlier one, and I’ll correct this one, too.

  “But don’t worry,” her father added, “I’ll have my driver take care of it.”

  Without a word, Zain made up her mind to take care of it herself. To do that, she’d have to find her way to Ziqaq Al Jinn. The first thing she wanted to do was learn how to change a flat tire. Her father thought to himself: If I know Zain, she won’t be intimidated by a name like Ziqaq Al Jinn. In fact, she’s probably all pumped up now over the idea of going to some part of Damascus she’s never seen before. That girl’s so determined to assert her autonomy, she’d be prepared to do it even in hell—or especially in hell! She’s the new, revised edition of her mother, written in boldface type that nearly punc
tures the paper and sets it on fire!

  * * *

  The minute I got to Goblins’ Alley in my little blue car, I knew where it had gotten its name. It’s a place where the clanging of hammers against the bare bodies of weary, dilapidated automobiles mingles with the hissing of blow torches and gruff voices, where most faces are blackened with car grease, and where the brawny arms on display weren’t chiseled by playing golf, swinging a tennis racket, or swimming laps at some upscale sports club, but by grueling labor day in and day out.

  Zain didn’t feel the slightest bit awkward or intimidated in this so-called Goblins’ Alley. On the contrary, she felt right at home. Unlike the mercurial Jasmine Alley, where people’s lips dripped honey one day and poison the next, this was a place where the facts were bare and out in the open. Zain had heard that Abu Kaoud lived in the poorer section of Ziqaq Al Jinn, or, as her Aunt Buran termed it, “the butt-end of the neighborhood,” so she headed in that direction. Walking up to a mechanic whose face was smeared with grime, she asked, “Where can I find Abu Kaoud? Ammo Marwan, a neighbor of ours, told me he was the person to fix my car.”

  Once he’d recovered from the shock of seeing a young woman who’d dared bring her car to Ziqaq Al Yasmin without a legal guardian or even a little brother, Zain went on to explain that she wanted to get her engine replaced. But before that, she wanted to learn how to change a flat tire. I’m grateful to my ex-husband for at least teaching me to drive. Thanks to his lessons, I passed the road test without any problem.

  It wasn’t long before Zain noticed she was the only woman in the entire neighborhood, which wasn’t actually a neighborhood so much as a series of open spaces dotted with tired-looking cars, every one of which was the source of a huge racket. Maybe it’s the sound of all that old, worn-out iron moaning and groaning. Before long, more workers had gathered around her with curious stares. But she didn’t feel afraid. On the contrary, they gave her a feeling of camaraderie. After getting married I worked my tail off just the way they’re doing, whether it was studying, doing my job at the library, doing housework, or keeping up appearances at bourgeois social gatherings. I’d have to go to fancy parties wearing a shoulderless, low-cut brocade dress with a gold filigree shawl over it to hide how thin I’d become, stud my hair with diamonds and have it done in a Farah Diba hairstyle,7 and put on pointed high heels I could hardly stand up in, much less walk in. On top of that, I’d have to lie to anybody who asked how old I was, adding a few years to my age so that they wouldn’t say, “Who’s that little girl playing dress-up?” But here in Ziqaq Al Jinn, people don’t wear masks.

  Zain got a lesson in how to loosen the nuts on the hubcap of the flat tire, jack up the car, take off the flat and put on the spare. She also learned how to change the oil and the sparkplugs. The scene was a source of amusement to the men who managed to slip away from their work stations to come see this high-society girl who was silly enough to want to learn her driver’s profession.

  When Zain was ready to leave, Abu Kaoud insisted on giving her a ride home. Thinking that she still lived in Ziqaq Al Yasmin, he drove her to the entrance of Souq Al Hamidiya. Zain didn’t say anything. She welcomed the chance to go walking down the streets of Damascus, the city she loved and that had given her so much strength. Before dropping her off, Abu Kaoud admonished, “Don’t come to get the car, child. I’ll deliver it to the door of your father’s office.”

  “But why?” she asked him, surprised.

  He didn’t reply at first, but just smiled. “Let’s put it this way,” he said after a pause. “Ziqaq Al Jinn is no place for you!”

  “Thanks, Abu Kaoud,” she said in farewell. She’d been about to say, “That’s not true. It’s just the place for me, and for any other citizen!” but thought better of it.

  “By the way,” he added, “You were planning to drive it to Beirut, right? Well, you shouldn’t try that, Miss Zain. After you put a new engine in a car, it needs some time to recuperate, just like people do after they’ve been sick. So you’ll have to go easy on it for a while.”

  “I see,” she said. “So for how many kilometers do I need to ‘spoil’ it?”

  But he drove off without answering. Her question had been drowned out by the honking of the driver behind him.

  Once I’ve gotten the engine replaced, I’ll sell the car and buy another one. “There’s plenty more fish in the sea!” as my favorite aunt in Homs always used to tell me.

  Zain walked from the entrance of Souq Al Hamidiya to the Hejaz Station, and from there to the Barada River, where she paused on the bridge. Next to Sahat Al Muhajirin, it was her favorite spot. It surprised her that Abu Kaoud hadn’t heard the news of her moving from Ziqaq Al Yasmin to Sahat Al Midfaa. I guess working-class folks aren’t that interested in other people’s gossip.

  No sooner had she taken a few steps than she glimpsed the face of a young man who seemed to have emerged from the land of legend and myth. He was getting out of a dilapidated, antique-looking car that looked as though it had come straight from Ziqaq Al Jinn. She recognized it as the face of Ghazwan— Ghazwan, whose name she had repeated soundlessly over and over to herself during her adventure with the late Amer!

  “Oh!” he exclaimed brightly when he saw her, “You’re the Subki Park and Havana girl! Do you remember me?”

  She couldn’t have forgotten him if she’d tried! Nor would she have wanted to forget that most endearing Palestinian face of all time.

  “The first time I met you was in Subki Park. Do you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Man, are you a bad liar! You were like a little sparrow with a broken wing. Then I saw you again at the Havana Café, where women never go! You were sitting there relishing your coffee and spreading your wings like nobody’s business. I saw them sprouting with my own two eyes. And then today I saw you in Ziqaq Al Jinn—another place where women never go! I watched you from a distance, and you were surrounded by male goblins. You gave Abu Sitam a warm handshake, and when I saw you leaving with Abu Kaoud, I followed you. So who are you, you little pixie!?”

  With a calmness that belied the intoxication she felt when she was near him, she said, “I’m a Syrian citizen. And now, would you be so kind as to take me to Kaddura Pharmacy?”

  “So that you can disappear again? Well, I’ll do whatever you ask. I know now, by the way, that Kaddura Pharmacy has a back door that opens onto the alley, and that you’ll make your getaway through there. The second time we met I asked you if you had a sweetheart. And you said, ‘Yes, and its name is freedom.’ So who is your sweetheart now? Is it money? Do you want stylish, expensive clothes? Or is it madness? It might be, judging from the fact that you went driving alone through Ziqaq Al Jinn!”

  “My one and only sweetheart is called Freedom. Everything else is a luxury, and I can do without it!”

  As she got into the car with him, he said, “What do you say we take a quick tour of the ‘Green Grass and Fresh Air Pharmacy,’ AKA, the Ghouta? I can take you to Kaddura Pharmacy after that.”

  She looked at him, fully intending to say no. But she started drowning in the dimple on his chin, his luminous, captivating eyes, and his overwhelming good looks. From there she got to thinking about how ingenious, smart, and funny he was, and she was a goner.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Why not?”

  “You do your best to say no even when you say yes!”

  The conversation flowed as smoothly between them as the water in her grandfather’s wall fountain. And since she had read the short story collection he’d published a month earlier, she gave him an entertaining description of the things she had liked about it. Like, what author would pass up a chance to hear from an admiring reader? Besides, if I distract him with conversation about his writing, he won’t be able to ask me questions about myself.

  There’s nothing half as wonderful as the Ghouta in springtime. The newly budding trees had produced a riot of white, pink, and crimson that was complemented by red anemones and other w
ild flowers on the ground beneath. It was springtime written in Mother Nature’s brightly colored inks, and scented with the perfumes exhaled by blossoms of every shape and kind. It’s springtime in Ghazwan’s face, too. I’m soaking up bliss in a momentary escape from my difficult existence. But what’s happening to me? I used to think the failure of my first love meant any love after that would fail just as miserably. But I’m higher now than I was the day I stood in Sahat Qasioun with my fiancé, sure that nothing like it would ever happen again. Even my owl seems happy as she flies proudly alongside Ghazwan’s old jalopy with flowers on her head.

  * * *

  When Zain walked into the dirt-floored café at the foot of Mt. Qasioun, she found Dr. Manahili waiting for her as usual. He greeted her warmly, and then launched into an animated monologue on his impressions of what she was writing. He was so enthused about his topic, she couldn’t get a word in edgewise! A few days after my abortion I was walking down Salihiyah Street when I saw him coming in my direction. I nearly panicked. It was like coming face to face with a ghost from the past. I imagined him surrounded by scissors, tubes, needles and anesthetic gas masks— and I hate masks no matter what kind they are. Terrified that he might see me too, I ducked into a shop. And now here I am thoroughly enjoying a conversation with him with nary a mention of my abortion! It’s as if he senses that I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Does your father read what you’ve written before it goes to press?” he asked.

  “Yes. He’s afraid I’ll make some grammar mistake! But he doesn’t comment on the content no matter how radical it gets. He’s never objected to a single word. I guess deep down, he’s a rebel like me!”

  “Do you plan to collect your stories into a book?”

  “Yes, I’ve already done that, actually. I put them all together and sent them to a publishing house in Beirut, and I’m waiting to hear back.”