Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

"When they heard Sahar's voice, they burst into the room. There stood the wizard. He was still tall and strong, but his face was pale, and his hair was streaked with gray. 'Give me the sliver and take your wife's image!' he said in a rattled voice.

" 'Never in my life!' the farmer answered and hurled himself upon the wizard, who at that very moment turned into a gigantic snake that wrapped itself around the image of Sahar. The farmer smote the reptile's head, and Sahar was able to free her voice from its chains. 'Go!' he cried as he struggled with the snake. He had almost strangled it when it turned into a scorpion that gave the farmer two venomous stings. The man cried out in pain and stomped on the scorpion, which instantly turned into a tiger, which fell upon the man. Sahar hadn't run more than two steps when she heard the thudding blows; she went back, took the chain that was lying on the floor and beat the tiger until it released her bleeding husband. The farmer looked at Sahar in astonishment and urgently waved her on, but she stood in front of her husband and kept striking away at the bleeding beast. Suddenly the tiger disappeared. The farmer felt death slowly creeping into his limbs. He drew Sahar to him and kissed her on the lips. Carefully he passed into her mouth the glass sliver, still wrapped in its cloth.

"Sahar now knew that her beloved husband was fated to die. She cried out loud and clutched his head tightly to her breast. The wizard, who had changed himself into a gust of wind, noticed that the splinter was now in Sahar's mouth. But at the same time he also felt his end was nearing and turned himself into a poisonous spider. Suddenly Sahar felt a bite on her neck. She slapped herself with all her might. The spider dropped to the floor, dead.

"The two lovers died embracing each other. That same night a thousand and one voices slipped away from the ruins of the castle. Some of them found their images, and some are still looking to this very day. But at midnight on the dot two stars shot from the castle ruins up into the sky. One of them sparkled like a diamond, the other was fire-red.

"Ever since that day the red star has been following the sparkling Sahar star, and when they meet each other, a thousand and one pearls will fall into the open mouths of the oysters. And in that night the birds will sing marvelous songs late into the wee hours.

"That's what my father's helper told me," Mehdi said, "and when he had finished speaking, I asked with the curiosity of a child: 'And what's the name of the fire-red star?'

" 'Shafak,' he replied."

"May God bless your mouth for this story!" Faris was the first to speak. The others nodded their heads.

"But what happened to the apprentice?" asked the barber.

Mehdi paused for a long time. "You won't believe it. One night I heard a shout of joy. I woke up, pulled back the curtain and saw Shafak dancing in the courtyard. He was dancing with his hand outstretched, and a pearl was gleaming in his palm. He spun around one more time and flung the pearl into the sky. The next morning I told this to my mother. She just laughed at me and claimed I must have dreamt it — but Shafak disappeared that very day."

"Are you serious?" the minister made sure, and Mehdi nodded in silence. Only Salim gave an odd smile.

"If a fairy changed me into a star right now they'd call me the yawning star," Musa said, then yawned loudly and stood up. It was already after midnight.

"Before we go," Isam interjected without getting up, "we should draw cards to find out who's next."

"Oh, right, that's right," mumbled the locksmith like a child who has been caught in the act. Isam placed six cards on the table.

"I'd prefer to take the last card, you go ahead," Ali

snapped at Tuma the emigrant, who was prodding

him to draw. But it was the

cafe owner, Junis, who

drew the

ace.

Salim hadn't spent such a peaceful night in a long time. Sleep drove the fatigue of the last months out of his bones. When he woke up, he saw Afifa standing right outside his window, despite the icy cold. She gave an embarrassed smile. "May today bring good fortune to you, Uncle! Will you join us for some coffee?" she called to him. The old coachman shook his head with a smile and jumped merrily out of his bed.

Shortly after eight the baker's boy brought him his bread. Ever since he had received his pension, Salim had been giving the lad a piaster every morning.

That morning the olives tasted especially delicious with the warm pita bread and hot tea. Salim started thinking about the teacher's story, and about Sahar and Shafak. What ever became of the carpenter's apprentice? Was he really the fire-red star, or just a storytelling carpenter? With these questions in his head he cleared his little table, locked the door to his room, stored the key inside his leather bag, and hurried out of the house.

At that hour his street was still quiet: the children had long since gone to school. In the summer, the cries of one vegetable peddler overlap with those of the next, but on this wintry day only a single man could be seen slowly pushing his cart past the houses. And all he was hawking in the courtyards was a couple of onions and a pitiful pile of potatoes. "Seven pounds for one lira!" His whiny voice was practically begging. The dog that belonged to the pastry chef Nassif was barking incessantly as it did every day. A small mongrel with a big mouth, it began yapping when the sun rose and continued throughout the day until its master, a wealthy widower, came home. Many housewives were on the verge of despair. And the barking was also a constant annoyance to the men of the neighborhood. One day Afifa's oldest son, goaded on by his mother, climbed the wall, stuffed the dog into a sack, and let it loose in a field on the outskirts of the city. But the cur found its way back to its owner. Until then, the neighborhood believed that only cats come back. A dog, they imagined, would wag its tail and follow anyone who tossed it a bone. But they had seen for themselves: this mongrel, half starved and wholly shaggy, leaping into the open arms of the teary-eyed pastry chef.

The saw that belonged to Ismat the carpenter broke the brief silence that had arisen between two barked chords — just as Salim was wondering about Afifa's watch at his window. What had she been looking for? Was she spying on him to see whether he would talk in his sleep? He shook his head to free himself from his suspicion.

Every street has its own face, its own smell, and its own voice. Abara Street, where Salim lived, has an old, earth-colored face covered with furrows, children's scribblings, and stories. The windows wake up each morning bursting with curiosity as they wait for every bit of news, for every swift and swallow, for every scent. The street smells of anise even in winter: about halfway down the block there is an enormous anise warehouse belonging to two brothers. People tell the craziest stories about their miserliness. Apparently the two brothers fell in love at the same time, with two sisters — and were overjoyed they would only have to pay one priest at the wedding. It seems that everything was working out very well, until three months into their engagement, when one of the ladies suggested: "Every day you come and sit here until midnight. Why don't we hire a carriage, just for once, take a nice drive around Damascus, and then have some ice cream at Bekdash's in the Hamadiya bazaar." The brothers gazed at one another in horror, rose from their seats, and slowly staggered out on wobbly legs. They spent the rest of their lives celebrating their last-minute escape from the two spendthrifts, and neither brother ever married. People told many stories about their stinginess, but neither their own millions nor their neighbors' disdain made a whit of difference where that was concerned. On the contrary, the older and richer they grew, the more miserly they became.