Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

"That's not true," the minister interrupted. "After the mosque in Damascus, the great master Sinan went on to build many wonderful mosques, both large and small, including the one at Edirne in Turkey. My father once took me there. A dream in paint and stone, shadow and light. The man found murdered here under the minarets the day after their unveiling was a dervish in love with the daughter of the regent of Damascus. He used to visit her secretly at night in the garden of the mosque. It's a sad story. I was. ."

"What does it matter?" Isam picked up where he had left off. "In any case, it was on that spot where I met this devil. He knew more about me than my parents. He told me our stars had met in heaven. You know, words know how to tickle better than fingers. And his words were so clever and so sweet, he could have moved a hippopotamus to sprout wings and fly! He claimed that my cousin had been born under an unlucky star, and so he should stay out of the house on the day we dug up the treasure, otherwise his presence might turn the gold coins into snakes — but he would still receive his third of the treasure.

"Now, my cousin was always suspicious of everybody. He was afraid that Ismail was out to swindle us, but I convinced him otherwise, and so he took his wife and child and left the house. Then this devil and I started digging; from dawn until noon we shoveled out a tremendous hole in the middle of the courtyard where the treasure was supposed to be, but we didn't find anything. At noon we ate some bread with cheese and olives — I remember to this day — and after that I made some tea. Then I had to use the bathroom.

"When I came back, there was this devil, calm as could be, sitting there sipping his tea and talking about his travels. I sat down under an orange tree and drank the tea without the slightest suspicion. It tasted good. All of a sudden I felt this strange drowsiness start to overpower me. I staggered into the kitchen and doused my head with cold water, but I couldn't make it back outside. Then everything went dark, but I could still hear this devil laughing loudly.

"When I came to, the man was long gone. The shards of a great clay urn were lying scattered on the pile of dirt. On a flat stone I found two gold Ottoman liras. Without thinking, I put them in my pocket.

"When my cousin came back I was still groggy. 'So where's my share?' he asked, when he saw the shards.

"I was a complete wreck. 'Ismail drugged me and took off with the money,' I answered. My cousin grabbed hold of me and tore off my pants and shirt. The two gold liras came tumbling out of my pocket. Now there was no man on earth who could prove to him that I had fallen into the scoundrel's trap just like he had. As far as he was concerned, those two gold liras were more than enough evidence of my guilt. He pounded away at me without mercy, and if the neighbors hadn't come to my aid I would have been a dead man. But he didn't stop there! He slandered me everywhere he went, so that people avoided me like the plague.

"One Friday I went to the mosque. When I came out he beat me once again, right in front of all the believers, and this time no one bothered to help me. I cursed him and swore I would kill him. For three months we didn't say a word to each other. But then the Feast of Sacrifice was coming up, and my wife said it wasn't right that we should begin the holy days full of hate. So I made my way to his house.

"When I pushed open the door, none of his family came to greet me. I called out for him, but everything was quiet. I called out again. Then I heard someone gasping in the kitchen. I ran there right away, and found my cousin lying on his stomach in a pool of blood. I turned him over, but it was too late. He died in my arms, without saying a word. The knife was lying next to him. I started to run out to the courtyard and call the neighbors for help, but all of a sudden his wife and younger son appeared in the kitchen doorway. The woman stood there, frozen. She looked at my hands and clothes smeared with blood and started screaming. To this day I don't know why, but I picked up the knife and started to stammer: 'With. . the knife. .' That was it. For the judges it was clear as day that I had done the deed."

"And why did the real murderer do it?" asked Faris.

"The devil only knows! My cousin was always getting into tangles with people. He wasn't a very pleasant man. I later found out that he had hired this murderer to beat up a certain highly respected merchant. This thug had come to collect, and my cousin tried to throw him out. He was always setting people like that on his opponents, but he never let them come to his house, to keep everything secret."

"Then what happened?" Ali wanted to know.

"No, let's get on with your story," the teacher interjected.

"Story? — Oh, that's right, I wanted to tell you about one of my fellow prisoners who never wanted to bet."

"Just a minute!" Ali interrupted.

Musa sided with the locksmith. "The night is long," he said, "we'll get to that story, but first I want to know what happened to you next. We've known one another for years, and you've never told us any of this before. In this blessed night you have opened your heart. Finish telling us about yourself. That's more important than some story or other."

Isam looked at Salim. "Aren't you tired of all this dumb stuff I'm telling about myself?"

Salim smiled, pressed his friend's hand and gave a sign as if to say, "Go ahead, there's no rush."

"So, then hell opened its gates for me. For twelve years the prison warden — may God rain curses upon him — kept me locked up in a basement, until I looked exactly like the monster he imagined I was. Not until after his death — and may his soul languish and broil in hell — did the new warden have me taken to a group cell. That's where I spent the second half of my time. It was a lot easier than the hell of solitary confinement. You know, when you don't talk for years, even your dreams become mute. Your words wilt and rot inside your mouth. The only company I had in that hole were the rats. Sometimes I wished they would attack me and put an end to my misery, but they showed me more mercy than the human beings did. You can't imagine how it tormented me that I was the only one who knew I was innocent. It's true, my wife believed I was, and she stood loyally by my side, but I was the only one who really knew."

"And your friends?" asked Faris.

Isam smiled bitterly. "Oh, my friends believed me, all right, at least at first, but later they believed the judges. And after I was sent away, did they even once look in on my wife? No, they just left her in the lurch, with two sons to raise, all by herself. Meanwhile, I was sitting in prison and the thought that she was suffering along with me was more than I could bear. You know, there were times when I even hated the fact she was so loyal.

"And then there were times when I felt this fire in my head — you know, a fire that wants to burst out. It kept burning inside me, and even when I was so exhausted I just keeled over, it continued to smolder. I would suddenly wake up and start to hurl myself against the walls and howl like some wild animal, until the fire went out.

"When I was finally moved to a cell with other people I felt reborn. The fire never burned my soul again. Of course, life there was difficult enough: we were often beaten, you know, back then. Whenever they brought someone back half dead, we gave him cigarettes and tea and sang to him, and then his wounded face would slowly break out in a smile. That's when we knew that we had beaten the guards.

"There was this poet who served five years with us because of a song, and he taught me how to read and write. We became good friends. He had read thousands of books in his life, and I was as thirsty as a sponge. I was able to teach him a few things as well. He spent too much time brooding; the only reason he managed to cope was because the others felt sorry for him. I taught him how to wangle cigarettes, tea, and even arak. He was a good pupil. First he watched me do it, and then he went at it. He wound up winning the respect of the worst thugs; besides, they needed his advice. He knew more than a lawyer, you know, and in prison only one out of a hundred inmates could read. Even years after his release he used to visit me every week, until he was forced to leave the country.