Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

Like many who returned from America, Tuma dressed in a European suit and always wore one of the many hats he had in his possession. They were as beautiful as those worn by the gangster bosses in American movies. And in the winter, when Tuma wore his light-colored raincoat with the collar turned up, Faris often greeted him with the words "Hello, Mister Humphrey Bogart!"

That night, when Tuma walked in the room, his friends were already waiting.

"I see that tonight Tuma's planning to entertain our stomachs as well," Isam joked and made some room on the small table for the tray of cookies Tuma had brought along. Salim gave the emigrant a slightly disapproving eye: an Arab guest does not bring cookies. Tuma smiled, a little embarrassed. "In America," he said, "guests always bring something. Jeannette insisted. She sends you her greetings and says she's dying to know how you like her cookies. She made them according to an old Mexican recipe."

Salim smiled and took one; the others followed. "Now you can get away with any story you want," said Mehdi, laughing. "You've already bribed us."

"Okay, you all know I spent over thirty years in America, but none of you has ever asked why I went there in the first place." Tuma took a swallow of tea. "When the First World War broke out," the emigrant began his story, "I was eighteen years old."

"Eighteen!" Musa interrupted. "You were at least twenty-eight, my dear!"

"Let's call it twenty," the emigrant offered as a compromise.

Musa signaled his acceptance, and Tuma went on with his tale.

"We lived on the outskirts of Latakia. When the Ottoman military authorities called me up, I fled, but I had no idea where to go. Until that time, Latakia had been my whole world. My parents were very poor basket weavers. I had an uncle and an aunt who lived in Tartus, but I couldn't stay with them because their sons had also fled the draft and their houses were constantly being searched by the police.

"I wandered around the city and spent my nights by the sea with the poor fishermen. There were over twenty of us young men staying there. One day in the summer of 1916—I had been hiding there for two years — we woke up at dawn. A large detachment of soldiers was combing the coast, looking for people like me. Some informer had blown the whistle on us. I heard that for every man they caught he got one piaster! Anyone who ran was shot. I could see the soldiers' torches and could hear the cries of those they had captured.

"An Italian freighter was lying anchored off the coast; it had taken on tobacco in Latakia and was waiting for papers to put out to sea. I ran and ran, but the soldiers were closing in. There wasn't a single tree or bush for me to hide behind. I was so afraid, I found a high cliff and clambered up. One slip and you'd fall to your death. From my hideout I could see the flat beach off to my right. The soldiers were driving their quarry into the water and beating them with the butts of their rifles. Then they chained the prisoners together like unruly camels. I lay as flat as I could on the rock ledge. Soon it was light, and the soldiers kept on searching. They set fire to many of the fishermen's huts as a punishment. Even so, I thought my hiding place was safe until one of the soldiers with a pair of field glasses called out from the beach below: 'Bring that dog down here!' and three soldiers started climbing up to get me. My end was approaching — I could see it. The war was in back of me, and in front of me, the sea: two monsters! I didn't know how to swim. Funny, isn't it? We all lived by the sea, but most of my friends were every bit as scared of the water as I was."

"The proverb says: The cobbler goes barefoot, and the tailor is naked," said Faris.

Isam laughed. "You could also say: The fisherman drowns!"

"Okay," Tuma went on, "so the soldiers were cursing out loud as they climbed up to get me. Their clumsy boots kept slipping on the smooth rock. Their sergeant threatened to punish them if I escaped. When there was only about twenty feet left between us, I stood up. The soldiers gently tried to persuade me to spare them the danger. They said they were just poor devils too, who had no choice but to carry out their orders. I took one step in their direction, but then I cried out and jumped into the ocean. I had no idea how high the cliff really was.

"When I hit the water, I started thrashing my arms furiously. All I could hear or see was water. The freighter wasn't far off but the sea kept pulling me down. I struggled like a crazy man. I no longer remember how long I kept going. I just kept shouting, 'I want to live!' and flailed about and flailed about until I had exhausted all my strength. When I came to, I found myself surrounded by friendly faces. I jumped up and wanted to run away, but the sailors calmed me down. They had watched the whole search action, and when they saw me jump, they secretly let down a boat. As long as the ship was anchored their captain had to be kept in the dark, otherwise he'd get into trouble and have to hand me over to the authorities. But the next day the ship set sail for Venice.

"Okay, so in Venice I was able to find work as a porter. There were many Arabs working there. But I wanted to go to America. A cousin of mine lived in Florida. At the time I thought: Well, why not? I'll find him. America's big, sure, but it can't be much bigger than Latakia — and in Latakia you can mention a man's name and before the day is over you've found him." Tuma laughed, took a draw on the waterpipe, and passed it to Salim. Then he went on.

"My word, was America bigger than Latakia! I've often told you what hell the immigration authorities put us through. Okay, so it turned out that in the meantime my cousin had moved on to Argentina looking for work. Argentina means 'land of silver,' and my cousin hoped he'd find some in a country that size. You know, when an emigrant needs something to hold on to, a spider web looks like a wooden beam. None of you have ever emigrated, but let me tell you, it's a hard life. Bread was like a horseman, and we emigrants were always racing after him on foot with our tongues hanging out, huffing and puffing, trying to catch up with him. A curse, I can tell you.

"Okay. You've told some fantastic stories. But I experienced so much in America that I won't have to tell you anything but the truth. It often hurts me that so many people here think there's money lying in the street over there. They say that in America things are different: you just bend down and you can pick dollar bills more easily than tomatoes in the fields outside Damascus. And if you tell these people it isn't true, maybe they won't tell you to your face that you're an idiot, no no, but they'll make you feel like one. Look at this man, or look at that one, they say. He spent two years in America and came back a millionaire! It hurts to see the contempt in people's eyes. A neighbor once told me when he was drunk: 'Anyone who makes it in America doesn't come back.' Let me tell you, that may be the case for a lot of people, but not for me. The older I got, the more homesick I became for my Latakia. I never felt any kind of longing for homeland, or fatherland, or any other bullshit — but I had to go back to Latakia. It's like you have to take revenge for the disgrace of running away. You go back to prove yourself as a human being, to show you're stronger than war, stronger than hunger, or stronger than the sea. Meanwhile here they're waiting for you with the question: 'Come on, Mr. America, why don't you buy yourself a villa?' No one asks: 'What did you get out of being abroad?' Last night I thought for a long time about what being abroad had given me, and what it had taken away. That's what I want to tell you about tonight. So please listen as if it were a story. Okay?

"I did get rich living abroad, but not so much with money as with a second life. I think there was one Tuma who died when he jumped into the ocean and another Tuma who was born on board that boat. In my first life I used to be scared of my own shadow, but when I walked off the deck of that ship I went into the New World like a lion. What more did I have to lose? From then on, the greatest danger was no worse than the cackling of a hen. So, being abroad gave me a courage I had never known.