Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

"The great Napoleon knew what he was talking about when he said a man must spend three years abroad before he really becomes a man," Faris added.

"That was easy for Napoleon to say," Tuma answered drily. "I'm sure he didn't say it in New York Harbor or on the Hudson River on some rainy day so cold you curse the hour you were born."

The friends went on talking about time and happiness late into the night, but Tuma didn't hear a word. He was mulling over his disappointment, over the fact that the others had not only accepted this lie as plain truth, they had even praised it — whereas all he had done was cobble together a story from a small announcement in the New York Times and the names of presidents and prime ministers.

Shortly after twelve, Isam started to lay out the

cards, but the old barber tapped him on the shoulder.

"Leave it, my friend. After such a wonderful story,

I'm craving to tell one myself. I will volunteer to be

the ace tomorrow, if no one minds." The

minister and Isam didn't mind. And Ali

the locksmith? He was so relieved

he whooped for joy:

"Wonderful!"

If in the late 1950s you had asked for Musa the barber, anyone in the old town would have been sure to ask right back: "Do you mean the Musa who raises doves or Musa the miser?" And since Salim's friend did not possess a single dove, it was easy to guess how bad Musa's reputation really was in the old quarter. But like so many reputations, this one, too, was unjust: the slanderers of Damascus failed to distinguish between carefully hidden poverty and true stinginess. And the truth was that Musa was poor; in fact, very poor, and he had a large family to feed. A half-hour battle with the wildest bush of hair earned him no more than half a lira, while for a shave he received a pitiful quarter-lira. He had to shear through a full hours worth of hair to earn three quarters of a lira. After that, Musa was exhausted, but he was nonetheless happy when the next customer arrived to keep the barbers chair warm. Each day, every day (except on Monday) Musa plowed through ten hours of hair; even so, the money he earned was barely enough to stave hunger from his door.

Of course, it was difficult to tell whether any barber in Damascus was truly poor. The white smock, the freshly shaven face, the neatly oiled hair, and the constant fragrance of cologne made every barber shine like a well-to-do gentleman. If he were also on the plump side, as was Musa, then no power on earth could persuade Damascenes that he was poor. In Arabia to be fat meant you were rich. Of course, there's nothing surprising about that, since the majority of Arabs hardly ever had anything to eat and always led such a hard life beneath the scorching sun that it was almost impossible to find a single gram of unnecessary fat on their bones. The only people who actually did grow plump were those who lived lives of comfort in the palaces. Film stars and belly dancers followed this aristocratic tradition, keeping themselves royally stuffed so that they, too, would radiate health and prosperity.

Not only was Musa a bit portly; he also kept his hair oiled and dyed and parted crisply down the middle; and his smile revealed two rows of pearly white teeth that were visible from a great distance, so that his overall appearance was that of a well-nourished film star. Who could possibly believe that this barber began every morning by dividing up his customers? The first three for the rent, the next two for vegetables. One customer for salt, sugar, and tea, and two more had to provide for the children's clothing and medication. If another client showed up, Musa's family might have a little meat. When the barber was especially lucky and a generous gentleman tipped him an extra quarter-lira, Musa would immediately spend it on fruit, which he would carry home that very same day, happy and proud.

As mentioned, Musa never skimped on oil and dye for his hair. People in the old quarter muttered rumors about his seducing young girls, but that was an exaggeration. Only once in his life, over forty years ago, had he seduced a young woman, and that was the one he married.

Every day Musa gave the flower vendor, Nuri, a special shave — in exchange for a red carnation, which he wore in his buttonhole. Musa's boutonniere confused his poor neighbors even more, since the only people who wore carnations in their buttonholes were Farid el-Atrash, the famous singer, who came from a noble family, and the millionaire George Seh-naui.

This evening everyone was anxiously awaiting the barbers tale. It was understood throughout the old town that he was a terrible barber but a great storyteller, and his customers put up with a bad haircut and one or two nicks in order to listen to him talk, or else to tell him their secrets, for Musa was a deep well indeed.

When Musa walked into the coachman's room, Salim and his friends wondered for a moment at the old brown leather bag the barber was carrying, but then went right back to their quarrel. "Wherever you go, people tell you, 'Shhh, the walls have ears and ever since the walls grew these ears, we've lost our tongues." Junis was shouting at the minister.

"But what does that have to do with the transistor radio?" Faris angrily wanted to know.

"I don't know, but the whole damned thing began with this miserable transistor…" Junis groaned.

"That's my impression as well," confirmed the teacher. "Before, people used to argue with one another, as equals among equals. Nowadays transistor radios have descended on the country like a swarm of locusts. There's one in every room, even if there isn't any electricity. The government can reach you in the remotest steppe to proclaim the one and only valid truth. There's nothing that separates the government from its subjects anymore. The president and his cronies whisper and shout their opinions right into our ears, as if they were old friends. Isn't that right? Back when you were in office, my dear Faris, you and your colleagues were pretty bad off without this portable radio. But now, just look at Nasser. He can reach anybody. He can even tell jokes to the man on the street. That's right, jokes: 'Go on and laugh, my friend,' says Nasser. 'Have you heard the one about price hikes?' Oh Nasser's good, all right — there's never been anyone better, at least not when it comes to making an ass of the entire population."

"Would you please let Musa tell his story!" interrupted Faris.

Ali and Salim nodded their heads in clear support of the ministers suggestion.

"So, may I finally begin? After all, tonight is my night, is it not?" Musa asserted unambiguously. "I have a feeling," he said as Salim handed him the tea glass, "that the face muscles loosen up when they're soaped, and that's why my clients tell me things they wouldn't even trust to their wives or confessors. But a lot of what they say is boring, and you need the patience of Job to sift through it all and find a plum.

"Of course," Musa went on, "all of us are pretty bad listeners, since Salim has spoiled us with the best stories around. Anyone can listen to an exciting story; but a good listener is like a determined gold prospector patiently digging through the mud to find a little nugget of the prized metal. But enough talk about listening, now I want to say something about telling. When I began my apprenticeship, my master told me: 'A barber tells a client whatever he wants to hear.' In my opinion that's good advice for bad barbers. I've always told only what I wanted to tell. Under my shears every head was equal, whether it belonged to a judge or just any poor devil. I was never afraid to talk; after all, it was me holding the razor, not the customer.