A House in Damascus - Before the Fall

by Brian Stoddart

  "Yes, which ones are nice?"

  Try them all on again.

  She did.

  Those ones are nice.

  "These ones?"

  Yes.

  She took them over to the mirror, put them on and took the clasp out of her hair.

  By now the daughter is chuckling, along with me and the shop men.

  "Nice?"

  Yes.

  "I am nice, too? Beautiful?"

  Yes.

  "You love me?"

  The daughter is now hysterical.

  My wife would have a lot to say about my answer to that question.

  "Ah, perhaps, then, you smile me?"

  Yes, I smile you.

  "You will buy them for me?"

  The banter and the laughter filled the shop, as she and daughter then began bargaining over the cost of the preferred "nice" glasses. Interestingly, they used a method to which most Westerners are reduced—write a figure on a piece of paper, then hand it over. Several numbers were exchanged between customer and salesman, the deal was closing.

  "Expensive!"

  That was directed at me.

  Really?

  She handed over the number on a piece of paper.

  They are very nice. Is that the number?

  "What you think? Perhaps my phone number?"

  Yes for glasses, no for phone number.

  The daughter looked on, smiling, but now fascinated to watch her mother having fun.

  "When are you leaving?"

  Any foreigner in a shop must be a tourist, especially in the Christian Quarter near Christmas.

  Wednesday morning.

  The hair clasp went back in, the smile genuine.

  "Are you rich?"

  Not enough for you, I think.

  More laughter filled the shop as she feigned disappointment.

  The deal was done, mother and daughter departed amidst loud chat and laughter in Arabic. Waves and farewells were exchanged through the window and they went off into the throng, leaving the shop, its assistants and remaining customer still laughing.

  This human interaction might have taken place anywhere in the world, or become the logline for a Hanks/Ryan remake of Sleepless in Seattle (Dazzled in Damascus, possibly):" a visiting expert about to leave Damascus has a chance meeting in a spectacle shop with a local woman, then re-finds her on a later mission". However, this was in Damascus, after all, the imagined centre of all sorts of horrors where there would reportedly be no fun, human spark, interaction or challenge. This was not in Macy's or Harrods, but on Hamman Bakri up from St Thomas Gate, five minutes walk from Straight Street, ten from the Umayyad Mosque.

  When Said wrote of the "Other", he was commenting on people gone from the West to observe people in the "Middle east" or "Asia". Really, though, that can be turned around easily, so that the "Other" is really the person coming to observe, but being observed. How might this tourist (he must be a tourist) in the optometrist react to some banter? Oh, he is just like normal people, but why would he be buying glasses here? Perhaps he is replacing broken ones, except he seems to be looking for women's frames. Pity he has no Arabic, it would be interesting to learn his story. He likes a laugh, though, that is always nice.

  The other reminder here was that gender relations are complex within and across the Damascene communities, but not universally dour. One previous consultant was apparently asked to leave because he was more interested in getting the phone numbers of almost any woman encountered whether scarfed, Christian, Muslim or anything else than he was in the work. Best behaviour was always called for, but here was yet another reminder that some things are universal. Am I interesting? Am I still attractive? Do I still have a life? Who cares what my daughter thinks? This is fun. Let's have a laugh. Back to normal as soon as we leave the shop, same old same old. Wonder how he got here, or what he is doing? He will know now we Damascenes have humour, and are approachable. He will remember that.

  She was right, and I hope she enjoyed the glasses.

  A Road From Damascus

  ~

  A torrent of water was leaving the roof of the main room in the house in volumes not experienced by the Barada River for many, many years.

  The long spell of dry weather broke emphatically one mid-December morning, teeming rain accompanied by massive thunder and impressive lightning. Colleagues come to a seminar from Lattakia and Aleppo confirmed that they had experienced this all the way to Damascus, so the rain was blessing most of Syria. There was great rejoicing because the rain had arrived, as well as spirited but good natured office debate about the cause—the day before had been a special Friday, ending three days of extraordinary prayers inviting divine assistance to deliver rain, such had been the drought. The debate was between the convinced and those less convinced about the efficacy of that prayer, emphasising that Islam, too, has adherents with varying levels of faith and conviction.

  Meanwhile, mini-rivers flowed through Old City lanes from Straight Street heights, seeking and finding a level down somewhere near the Mosque. Those rivulets were swollen further by water streaming out of pipes high up on houses, sloshing straight off the roofs. Two almost impassable lakes blocked laneways leading to the sweet souk (difficult to get supplies that day, though my supplier was open) while, elsewhere, my puny umbrella was deluged by waterfalls from roofs struggling to manage the deluge now being dumped on them.

  This was followed immediately by snow. It began south of Homs, a cold snap rushing over the quirkily named Anti-Lebanon Mountains from, yes, Lebanon and Israel which both experienced violent storms, thick snow dumped on the lower slopes and onto the high plains. The road passes up from Damascus to Homs climb steeply into the hills, so the snow piled quickly as we edged our way towards an aid donors update conference in Aleppo. Cars and trucks soon slid off the road as inexperienced and/or impatient drivers raced by in the fresh snow outside the traffic lines, only to find themselves adrift or, worse, slid down the bank. We were stuck for almost two hours but, even in the standstill of a huge traffic jam inundated by snow, the horn blowers continued their tune. Agatha Christie would have recognised the refrain. That would get rid of the snow. If not, then it might relieve the frustration. The storm passed through eventually, travelling south and dumping Damascus with one of its most significant snow blankets for years. Reports had it several centimetres thick, sitting heavily, disrupting traffic and blocking thoroughfares. Given Christmas was imminent, it would be picturesque to return to the city where the symbolic trees had already appeared, along with all the other Christian festive season markers.

  Returning to Damascus a day later down those heights from Aleppo, passing by Hama and Homs, snow was everywhere evident. Off in the distance, Mount Qassioun looked altogether different, the new stark white colour making it seem even taller and more severe than before. In the nondescript outskirts through which the city must now be approached, massive water pools covered the road as the big melt began and "Car City", a long line of dealers in low lying spots at the side of the road, was up to its hubs in water. Mercedes raced by with impunity and no control. Driving our van, Hammad Ali (yes, named for the former Cassius Clay) expressed frustration with those passing drivers: no brains, he thought. In the Old City, great lumps of snow still graced cars, clogged corners, blocked alleyways and fell off roofs. It was at once bedraggled and distinguished, citizens patiently sidestepping any waterfalls and lakes they encountered.

  The steps up to the house had big drifts of snow still lying about, turning to slush but starting to freeze. Snow was even piled up against the door into the entry way, and against the door of the squattie. Even more snow was lying about the courtyard, much of it sliding from the roof up top, and from the one above the kitchen that was piled high beneath the clothesline.

  But a background sound of running water complemented the visual change. There were two sources. One was a small hole in the roof above the bed at the other end of the main room. Water from there was cascading onto, humorou
sly enough, the London Fog raincoat I had carefully laid out in preparation for but forgotten to take to Aleppo. The other contributor was a series of leaks along the roof join where the once-separate room had been opened up to join the one in which I worked. The join was faulty. Those two sources ensured that clothes were soaked, the spare bed saturated, and some furniture and coverings dripping. The plasterboard roof near the chandelier bulged ominously, water obviously gathering between it and the upstairs balcony floor. All the floor coverings at that end of the room had given up absorbing moisture and begun dispatching it to low-lying corners. It was vaguely reminiscent of a Venetian aqua alta.

  Well, I had wanted the full Old Damascus experience. The main problem was the snow still lying on the flat roof of the upstairs bedroom. It was sliding onto the upstairs landing, where the resulting water then found another fault line in the landing tiles. From there it fed into the underlying roof cavity, adding even more pressure to the plasterboard now was in imminent danger of collapse. The only relief was that creek flowing onto the bed and the floor, from where it meandered towards the stepwell and out into the courtyard. This situation needed a solution, or the roof would collapse. The agent called the landlord who soon arrived, huffing and puffing.

  Mein Host had been an interesting person from the outset. Neglecting to clean the place before I moved in, he had corrected that with a lot of humphing and other expressions, then pushed off muttering. He was a now-tubby but once strong man, short with an expressive face, the obligatory moustache and swept-back trimmed hair. He rolled into rather than arrived at places, but with enthusiasm and purpose. Having accepted the rent money, he was surprised to learn that also meant he could not come and go as he pleased. That was surprising news for him, it transpired. It also delivered some hilarious phone conversations with the agent, because the landlord's way of dealing with a mobile phone was to hold it as far away as possible, then shout at and/or into it. There were occasions when he could have dispensed with the phone, because at his decibels many recipients were well within earshot. His heart was always in the right place, and his efforts to mime meaning memorable and meritorious, but his alleged practicality was monumentally confusing, and his priorities baffling.

  A few days before this great snowfall, the newly-arrived heater had its plug burned out by a faulty socket. The arrangement was that Mein Host would arrive with an electrician and all would be well. He arrived alone. His idea was to replace the heater plug himself, then we would simply shove that into the blackened and melted remains of the wall socket. It was a good idea, he thought. There then followed the usual loud and impassioned speeches with the agent via the phone before he left, to return a few minutes later with a young man who clearly knew what he was doing in matters electrical. The expert set to and solved the problems, albeit with some of his own adaptations, like sticking a screwdriver into the live socket to widen the pinhole so that the heater plug might fit. The already short heater cord ended up being shorter still, but heat was restored. A serious haggle ensued before the sparky departed with SYP 550, about $12, for working in the early evening on a weekend, along with a farewell speech from the owner which doubtlessly emphasised specialist help had not been needed anyway.

  Mein Host had his own way of doing things as, let us admit, do we all. Immediately upon arrival at the scene of the Great Snow Dilemma, he proceeded to clear the courtyard, his pride and joy. When reminded there was a waterfall in his main room he seemed little interested, essaying a quick look before returning to more important matters. Then, when alerted that the main problem lay on the bedroom roof upstairs, he promptly proceeded to the bathroom roof on the other side of the landing, and cleared snow that was causing no problem at all. Meanwhile, downstairs, the lake swelled. There was a simple solution to that—he replaced the London Fog with a tarpaulin so as to better hasten the flow of water into the lake. He then decamped, to continue the more important courtyard sweeping.

  He did eventually begin to clear the bedroom roof. I knew that, because great chunks of grubby snow suddenly descended from on high with resounding thumps into the courtyard. Huge snow showers resulted, smashing in through the open door of the flooded end of the room where, like Canute, I was waging futile battle with the rising tide. Long streaks of muddy slush careened in, muddying the walls, wardrobe, floor, and me.

  By now we were disagreed about the best course of action. That produced another series of loud and animated megaphone discussions with the agent. Somehow, we worked through it all and parted jolly friends, though neither of us had a clue about what the other was thinking, or doing, or why. He probably considered me an odd and unfathomable foreigner, just as I thought him illogical and impulsive. By now it was dark so he left, allegedly to return the next day to clean up. I shifted all my clothes, given the possibility that the dam building in the roof might well bust without Bomber Harris' assistance, but by next day the threat had passed, though the temperature was now cold rather than cool.

  Christmas tree numbers had already increased exponentially, underlining yet again just how ecumenical Damascus could be. There was a perfect tableau in one of the main Old City laneways: a lovely Arabic inscription in marble on a wall, above a stall selling Xmas bears and other seasonal things as would occur anywhere throughout the Christian world. From the courtyard at the Orthodox church came sounds of a brass band pounding out a spirited rendition of semi-recognisable carols. Luckily, there were still a few days left for them to practice. The usual signs of Xmas had appeared in all the churches, the Christian Quarter looking like it belonged anywhere in the West. Some churches displayed Christmas lights, as did many buildings and houses along Straight Street. Church bells rang in the special services, and crowds flocked into all the chapels. Christmas shopping with intent could be observed everywhere, especially in the boutique jewellery store I had come to know well, attracted by the quality of design skill and beauty of the finished product. A couple of colleagues bought pieces there to take home as gifts, along with their own memories of Damascus that would not fade.

  In the house, the Hammam Minor bathroom was now distinctly cooler in the mornings, so the routine was to get up at first prayer call, speed up the stairs to turn on the Heath Robinson heating affair (because the two hours earlier switch "up" was definitely now needed), then bolt back to bed. The mornings were clear, cool and lovely, when it did not rain, the quiet broken only by the occasional protesting shout from a child roused early to prepare for school. The distinctive sound of the street sweeper's broom and cart betrayed the fact he was now starting in the dark to give us the clean streets that made the Old City so attractive. There were fewer people to greet on the way to the taxi, but there were still some regulars—like the short, squat, splay-footed man with the ready smile and the always committed greeting, "As-Salaam Aleikum", accompanied by the traditional hand to the heart, surely among the loveliest touches in the Arab and Islamic way. "W'aleikum As Salaam", I would reply, feeling acknowledged, and as if I really did belong there.

  When they were open, and many now opened a little later, most shops had their doors drawn, gas burners blasting away to both prepare coffee and warm the interior. In that respect, the house was true to its traditional design principles. Late in the day the main rooms were cool, until a heater arrived to work for a few days before burning out that power point. Into evening, though, the rooms retained the original temperature because of the thick walls, so to come in from outside was to feel immediately warmer, although the allegedly alpaca wool-lined, $15 dark Bedouin coat was a welcome addition to the wardrobe. The house was still a marvellous escape. It was a delight to walk up the steps, open the battered door and enter the dark but strangely welcoming passageway, often about the time dusk prayers now began because it was almost dark by 4.30 p.m.

  Writing late into the night, the door to the courtyard now closed unlike in the warmer weather, I had a wonderful sense of being separated from but still welcomed as part of a different world just outside. By
now one of the Brokar Boys had decided I needed to learn some Kurdish, so every time I went for a meal I learned some new words, most of which I never used elsewhere, knowing that the humour of my restaurant friends meant some dubious meanings might be involved. The Bakery Pilot, while Muslim, was concerned to ensure I would be with my family for Xmas. That was the Damascene way. The Antique Dealer made sure that tea was even more available than ever, because of the weather, and because soon I would leave. The Other Bakers still waved, as did all the friends I had come to recognise if not know well. There were a lot of them. I was the fortunate beneficiary of their friendly approaches, warm natures, and open minds. The Aramean still sat in his chair at the head of the souk, now rugged up warmly and cap pulled firmly down, ready to chat because tourists were few.

  The house and its neighbourhood were now a home, and it would be difficult to leave.

  Last Day

  ~

  I woke just before the morning call and went up to switch on the water, then returned to bed listening to the long, lyrical sound of the prayers cut through and echo around the air and the city. I did some final packing, ate breakfast, then braved the bath house for the last time. It was cold, and would be even colder in a month.

  It was strange and sad to be leaving a place that had become central to my life. Despite the leaks, peeling walls, odd lights and the coldness, it still had the "something" that had attracted me in the first place, a character. I looked around, walked through the door, down the steps, out into the alley. My splay-footed friend was behind the Azem Palace, walking along and reading the newspaper.

  "As-Salaam Aleikum."

  "W'aleikum As Salaam."

  Hand on heart.

  The Other Baker was firing up, and the usual sweet shops were already open. I liberated some money from the ATM, walked past the watchman seated by the jewellery souk, and the traffic cops enjoying an easy start to what would be a frantic day. The shopkeepers were brewing their first coffees.