Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

"Well, I'll keep it short, so as not to bore you," said Junis, looking at his friends.

"For God's sake, go on, in as much detail as you can!" replied Faris, and as if he had spoken the minds of the others, they all nodded and mumbled in accord.

"Your words are scarce drops of water, and we are like the thirsty earth," Mehdi the teacher exaggerated, and laughed at his own words.

"Well, all right. That night I soon found a place to stay. There was a blind man sitting in front of a courtyard; I greeted him as I walked by. Then the blind man returned my greeting and — God is my witness — he asked me why I was so hurt. I told him about my ordeal, and he cursed the heartless coachman, and gave me water and some salve from a small pot to lessen the pain. He let me spend the night on a small mattress in his room.

"The blind man had a box that he carried from a strap around his neck, and which contained everything from thimbles to candy. He was already very old, but when I told him the next day that I would be glad to do his selling for him, he declined. Earning money wasn't what made him happy, he said, but helping people in need did. This blind man was a strange fellow. I stayed with him for three days. Each day he left at dawn and didn't return until late. He was very excited when he told me how happy a woman on the other side of Damascus had been to discover that he had the very button she had been looking for for years. He kept a large tin box full of buttons. Whenever he found old, ragged clothes, he would cut off the buttons. He had a thousand colorful buttons and was as proud of them as if they had been Solomon's treasure.

"Well, after three days I thanked that good man and went on my way. I loafed about the city for weeks. Vowing never to return home, I swore to myself that I would either make it on my own or end like a dog — but I never wanted to see the sadness and bitter disappointment in my fathers eyes again.

"I started hanging around the Hamadiya market; there was a real battle for every inch of space. Naturally, as a newcomer I received the worst spot, right across from a tailors: the only other shops nearby sold various odds and ends like yarn, needles, stationery, ice cream — in any case, things that rarely required carrying. The stronger boys got the coveted places in front of the stores that sold furniture, cloth, and dishes.

"But one day I was lucky and saw this man coming out of the tailor's shop carrying a large packet. He was dressed finely and had the look of a wealthy gentleman. I hurried over and offered my services. 'I'll lighten your load for half a piaster, sir!' I called out, as I had learned from the other children who, like me, were hanging around the bazaar.

"Well, that was over sixty years ago, but to this day I don't know whether I met an angel, a devil, or both in one person. I accompanied the man home. He lived on Lazarists Street — just a few doors down from Tuma — in a small villa. I carried the packet to his home, and when we arrived he asked me how much I wanted. A half-piaster would have been plenty, but to suggest a fixed amount would have been stupid. I had also learned from the children how to answer. 'Whatever your generosity permits,' I said. He liked that, and asked me where I came from. I joked that I was an exiled prince from the Sahara now working as an errand boy to earn enough money to buy horses and hire warriors. He laughed and gave me some food, and a glass of rose water to drink. Then he asked whether I knew how to read. I enjoyed joking around with him. I answered: 'Yes, but I would be ashamed to show my writing to you, O sir.'

"'Ashamed?' he said. 'One is never ashamed to show that one can write, boy. Writing is a noble art. Show me how you can write!'

" 'Sir, it will hurt you!' I answered.

" 'It doesn't matter. Show me!'

"First I asked for my pay, since I didn't know how he would react. He gave me four piasters, which at that time was as much as a worker earned for a full day's work. 'Now I'm anxious to know how your writing is supposed to hurt!' he said, laughing.

"I kicked him in the behind. 'That's A,' I said. Then I hit him in the stomach. 'And that's how you write B.'

" 'What's that supposed to mean?' he asked in horror.

" 'Didn't I tell you, O sir. That's the language I learned from the old imam. I know perfectly which beating goes with which letter, but I can't write a single one.'

"Instead of getting angry, he gazed at me with sad eyes. Then he paced up and down, examined me with an earnest expression, and shook his head. I drank the sweet rose water in silence, and was a little ashamed of my patched rags and naked feet. 'And would you like, O prince, to tarry in my humble abode until you have gathered enough gold for your horses and riders?' I heard his voice and couldn't believe my ears. Even today I have to cry when I think of it. ." Junis' voice was choked with tears.

Salim stood up quickly and handed him the water jug. Junis drank one swallow and calmed down a little. "That of all the people in the world I had to deliver this man up to the hangman grieves me to this day."

"Tell us about it, and lighten your heart," Mehdi said, taking Junis by the arm. "Tell us!" he begged quietly, while Ali gently stroked the cafe owner on the back.

"From that day on I lived with Omar — that was his name. He had good clothes made for me and sent me to school. At first I didn't know anything about him. A housekeeper came every day, cooked, cleaned, and did the wash, and Omar paid her well. He lived alone and chose not to marry. I was allowed to go every where in the house except the cellar. When after a few weeks I asked him where his money came from, he answered, From my gold mine,' and laughed like a devil.

"Once I woke up in the middle of the night. Since it was very hot, I went into the small courtyard to cool off. I saw a light burning inside his cellar, so I crept down the stairs and peeped through the keyhole. There I saw him, sitting at a table, pouring glowing metal into a mold. Next he took out a shiny piece of metal that looked as round and golden as a gold lira, and filed it and polished it for a long time.

'The next day I told him I knew all about his gold mine. He was shocked, but I assured him that I was a deep well, and asked him why he had made only the one gold lira.

" 'One gold lira is enough for one week, and no one will ever find out he answered. For anyone but Omar one gold lira would have been enough for a whole month back then. It turned out he had obtained the finely crafted mold as well as the recipe for the brilliant mixture from an old master counterfeiter who had lived off this craft his entire life; every week he had poured one gold lira and then spent it in a different place. Omar, too, kept traveling north and south to exchange his fake gold liras for real money, and, like the master, he never poured two coins.

"I thought it was stupid. I told him he should make hundreds of them, trade them in, and then retire. 'That way I'd never make it to retirement, my boy,' he answered.

"Well, the years I lived with Omar were the most wonderful years of my life. He was a father and a friend to me, until the day I divulged the secret to a schoolmate. This boy told me we ought to make a gold lira for ourselves every day and sell it somewhere else. Syria was big enough to handle two fake gold liras, and Omar wouldn't suspect a thing. At first I refused, but this damned devil kept pushing me more and more, until finally I agreed to try just one gold coin. So one day, when Omar was away, my schoolmate and I sneaked inside the cellar. We heated up the yellow alloy and poured it into the mold. The gold lira came out looking shabby, and I was afraid, but my friend said that he knew a dealer who was so greedy he'd buy anything, as long as it was cheap.