Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

"No, what he says about the dogs is true, I know that from France," said the minister, at whom Tuma had glanced imploringly. "The French don't really treat their dogs better than people, but they do pamper the little mongrels!"

But Faris' defense of Tuma only poured oil on the fire, and soon Salim began clapping his hands and laughing.

"Don't try to confuse the issue with all your talk of France and America," said Junis. "Next you're going to say that dogs are waited on in restaurants. 'What will you have, Mr. Dog, for your entree? Today I especially recommend my right thigh with thyme and tomato sauce!' " The men all laughed, and Salim threw himself onto his bed and gripped his stomach. Tears were streaming down his red cheeks.

"No one said anything about a restaurant!" said Tuma, annoyed. "But, in America, dogs do have over twenty brands of food!"

"I trust they have barbers as well?" Musa taunted.

"No," Tuma lied, and hated himself for doing it; on his way to Salim's he had solemnly undertaken to tell only what he had personally experienced in America — and now he had broken his oath. For years he had been longing to open his heart to his friends.

He had known it would be difficult, but he never imagined the old men would resist so fiercely.

"What about a dog cemetery?" Ali suddenly wanted to know.

"No, no," Tuma lied, out of exhaustion and desperation. He looked at the faces around him and thought how lucky Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed really were, not to have had such companions. Now he determined simply to lie to them. "Okay," he said and sighed with relief, "I still wanted to tell you about this one unusual man. I worked for him as a bookkeeper for ten years. As a young man he'd been very poor, but he was a sly devil and completely without scruples. The wars had made him rich, and he traded in anything that could be bought and sold. He wasn't exactly a miser, but he didn't put much stock in idle talk. Whenever you mentioned someone, he'd ask, 'What does he sell?' And if you told him the man didn't sell anything but was a very important person, he'd ask, 'What's his price?' You couldn't tell this moneybags a thing without his asking for the price.

"Okay, so during our lunch break we used to sit in the yard and swap stories about our countries. But all he ever did was laugh at us. 'You'll never get anywhere that way. Buying and selling — that's all a man needs to know,' he scoffed.

"One day an immigrant from Crete asked to hear an authentic Arabian love story. This man was like our Salim. He loved stories more than anything else.

I wanted to tell him the story of Kais and Leila, but he knew that one — also the one about Antar and Abla. He had heard them before, from other Arabs. Okay, so I told him about the sad fate of a young woman who hadn't wanted to marry her cousin because she was in love with the village smith. My grandfather had told me the story a long time ago. In fact, he had lived it, because he was the village smith.

"So the workers listened, and one or two of them cried, even though they had never been in Arabia. But Mr. Wilson — that was the man's name — just stood by the door, pretending to be engrossed in his stock reports. After I'd finished, he laughed himself silly over my heroes' sufferings and sorrows. 'My dear Thomas'—that's how they say Tuma in English— 'what's the point of this idiotic story?' Then he went on with what was for him a very detailed explanation: 'All the happiness that's taken you hours to describe in your story I can buy in five minutes: I can buy your beautiful woman — and the Arabian horse to boot. For a few dollars I could have someone kill the stubborn father of the bride who refused to give his consent. What's the big deal? You don't need a story for all that, just plain hard work.'

" 'Mister, there's a lot of things that nobody on earth can buy,' I answered bitterly, since he had made light of my grandmother's suffering and her courage.

"He laughed. 'Such as what?'

" 'Such as a single moment of happiness, even one as fleeting as the wind,' I answered and walked out. I could still hear his laughter ringing out behind me.

" 'You can buy wind, too, my dear Thomas! My portable fan costs ten dollars and fifty cents,' he roared whenever he saw me over the next weeks.

"Well, Mr. Wilson was successful. Stock reports and news about wars and droughts were all that interested him; he detested stories. And so the years passed. One day his wife suddenly left him. He was absolutely miserable; nothing could change her mind, neither threats nor money. Mr. Wilson was so unhappy he completely lost his will to live. For days he wouldn't eat. He just hung about the office, dead to the world. He refused to wash or shave. After three days we informed a close business associate of his — he had no other friends. Well, this Mr. Eden was a man of the world and he happened to like Wilson. He hurried to see him and took him to some island for a vacation. Okay, so Mr. Wilson was already over fifty, and as much as he liked to boast about buying happiness, he was basically an unhappy man who had never found any peace.

"Well, he went with his friend and stayed away for a month. When he came back, he was suntanned and happy. Following his friend's advice, he resolved from then on to enjoy a leisurely breakfast every morning, to swim for at least an hour every afternoon, to have a long massage every day, and every evening to take a young woman to a restaurant and the theater, or to the movies. In the office he started reading all the New York tabloids. We brought him every bit of rubbish that was printed on paper. He read the colorful pages and laughed.

"One day he read that the costliest thing in life was time. It was worth more than gold and jewels. Mr. Wilson remembered me and had me sent for. 'You're right, my dear Thomas, time is worth more than gold. It says so right here!' He showed me the picture of a healer whose hands had the power to prolong life by years. The healer was supposedly one hundred fifty years old. But his face was as smooth as an eighteen-year-old's. Mr. Wilson's eyes grew bright when he told me everything he now intended to catch up on. So he went to this healer and paid a large amount of money to have his life prolonged by one year. From then on, Mr. Wilson lived very happily. Whether just by a fluke or not, the very next day he fell in love with a young woman who brought him even more happiness. But no more than nine months had passed when he called me in a second time. Again he looked worried. He was concerned he might die too soon, now that he had tasted happiness. He tried to persuade the healer to sell him twenty years, but the healer refused. He could only sell time by the month, as he had so many customers waiting in line.

"A few days later, Mr. Wilson again appeared somewhat relieved. He had gone to great effort and spent a huge amount of money to buy two and a half months from the healer. The miracle man assured him that only Henry Ford could buy more than that.

"Well, the months of happiness passed quickly and made Mr. Wilson's lust for time even greater. Two days before the time he'd bought ran out, he caught pneumonia. But he refused to go to the doctor. Instead he sent for the man with the miraculous hands, but it turned out that the old healer had died the week before.

"Mr. Wilson's secretary raced back to him in the hope of convincing him to send for the doctor after all. But when Mr. Wilson heard the news, he cried out like a wounded animal. He died the very next day."

Tuma looked at the pale faces of his listeners, and a smile curled briefly around his mouth.

"Now that's a story!" Junis raved, "My friend, you really have seen the world!"

"It's true," said Musa. "Nobody could make up a story like that. You have to experience it!"