Arnold Zable - Cafe Scheherazade

And Yossel? The landscape which appeared about him made little impression. It was irrelevant, a mere backdrop at the periphery of his vision. He was already at work as he entered the bay. He scoured his address books. He underlined the names of contacts, gem dealers and market stall-holders, factory foremen and speculators. His mind teemed with the same schemes that had allowed him to prosper, wherever he had gone. The city was yet another arena of opportunity to revel in, to impress upon with his cunning and charm. A place for future fortunes made, fortunes lost, wealth squandered, wealth regained.

Yossel stepped ashore with a sense of anticipation. His heart was light. He envisaged a new paradise of crowded cafes and meeting rooms, of hotel foyers and elevators, soft carpets and polished floors. He glanced about him, sniffed the air, and knew at once what was what.

And Masha? Avram?

Masha has the clearer recollection. A sense of isolation was her dominant feeling. The surrounding land seemed to reflect it: the empty beaches, the windswept dunes, the expanse of low-slung houses squatting by the coast. She felt adrift, disconnected from the vibrant cities of her past. She saw the new city as a wasteland. She had a baby to nurse. And she harboured regrets, resentment over ambitions thwarted.

Yet, in time, a sanctuary it proved to be. It is Zalman who 218 holds the key. We sit in Scheherazade, at the window table, from which we can observe the passers-by. "I know now, there are moments," says Zalman. "There will always be moments. This was the memory that returned to me as I grew accustomed to yet another city. The space allowed it. The sense of peace fostered it.

"I resumed my walks in search of those moments of solitude and grace. And they returned. In the slight nod of a passer-by. In a bemused smile. In the sudden rearing of a breeze, or a fog lifting on a winter's morning on the way to work.

"On such mornings I would detour to a city garden. I would sit down on a park bench and observe a single leaf, covered in dew.

Gradually a droplet would form. I would watch it slide on the leaf's veins. For a moment it would balance, on the edge. I would be willing it to hang on, to remain poised, fixed in time. But slowly it would slip over, and fall. And I would say, "Ah. Now I can go to work."

"This is what all my wanderings have taught me: that the moment itself is the haven, the true sanctuary. If only we could hold on to that. And savour it. Perhaps then we would not be so inclined to tear each other to pieces."

We remain seated as darkness descends, Zalman and I. We eat our evening meal garnished with fables and tales. We imagine cities, strung across the globe, like pearls upon a silver chain. We see frayed maps etched in the foreheads of the old men who sit at neighbouring tables. Rivulets from distant continents course through their veins.

219

We sit until the last customer departs. We sit until the waitresses and chefs leave for home. We sit until the night manager shows us to the door.

We make our way along Acland Street. The pavement echoes beneath our feet. The air is warm, scented with a breath of summer breeze. Teenagers weave by on rollerblades. A streetwalker hovers in the shadows. She takes out a compact and powders her face. A young boy plays Beethoven's one and only violin concerto, for small change which he hopes will convey him to the great concert halls of Europe. A cardboard sign proclaims it. We stop, and listen for a while.

A man carrying a duffel bag stops every few metres to conduct imaginary conversations with passers-by. "It was a time of evil.

There were seven hundred and fifty-nine men. They were surrounded by the police, by security forces. They were trapped. What chance did they have?" He recites the same lines at every stop, the same refrain every night.

We turn left into Shakespeare Grove. We stroll to the fore-shore.

Families are camped on the beach. Conversations bubble like froth on a breaking wave. Toddlers wade in the shallows. Lovers lie entwined on blankets. A tram floats by, a ghost rider in full flight.

We make our way to the pies Boats sway within the marina. Some are returning from the sea, conveying the heat of a summer's day.

It can be seen on the passengers' faces as they step onto their allotted jetties: the sun absorbed into their skins, their cheeks flushed by northern winds.

220

The inner city rises across the water in congregations of light.

All we need do is extend our hands to touch the many lives that pulse within them. The streets of the new world are emptying. A mechanised sweeper moves by, absorbing the litter of a fallen day. The streets glisten with its spray.

We follow the rim of the sea. Phosphorus dances on the lips of shallow waves. We walk as silence descends upon the bay. We walk as our own voices are stilled, and are left trailing in our wake.

One tale is ending, while others begin.

Storytelling is an ancient art. They stood by the fire, the first storytellers, and held their audiences entranced. Their faces glowed, half in darkness, half in light. Their voices flowed into the star-laden night. They recounted tales of battles fought, the first woman, the first man, the first moments of love and hate.

Yet, perhaps there is something beyond our endless recycling of words. The faintest traces of sunrise seep into the sky. The first rays are moving. They wipe away the stars, one by one, teardrops suspended in space. They sweep the shadows from the night-darkened sea. Blues give way to silvers, tinged with rose.

A ship makes its way in the emerging light, bound for foreign ports.

The beach is strewn with seaweed and kelp. It covers the rocks, it clings to the pier, it sprawls by the bluestone wall. It lies in piles, interlaced with driftwood and bloated fish, sodden feathers and fractured shells: the detritus of the sea. The air is still, the sky mute. Spent waves lick the shore. Sailors know the 221 moment well. The ancients knew such moments well, the calm after the storm.

We sit on the foreshore, against the retaining wall, Zalman and I, our backs turned to the streets, beyond desire, beyond reach, in the time before tales.

And, at the dawn had broken, Scheherazade fell silent, as at last she was at liberty to do.

THE END