Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

This was how the pasha thought and acted until the day he died, and there were many stories about his shrewdness.

Throughout his long life he was a faithful Muslim, and as such he made the pilgrimage to Mecca many times. There, at Mount Arafat, all pilgrims are supposed to pelt the devil with seven small symbolic stones. The pasha was very meticulous in observing all the other rites, but when it came to the stoning of the Evil One he cast only six pebbles.

"And why don't you throw the seventh stone?" his friends asked him every time.

"I don't want to spoil my relationship with the devil completely," he is said to have answered.

Two days before independence the old man died, but his title lived on in the family for decades, even though the Ottoman Empire had long since collapsed.

Faris was the pasha's youngest, and most sensitive, son. Because he seemed totally unsuited to business as well as farming, his father sent him to study law at the Sorbonne in Paris, so that he could later represent the interests of the family.

The late pasha's wish seemed fulfilled when Faris became a member of the first independent government of Syria. However, instead of administering his office with the benign neglect expected of him, Faris proceeded to nationalize the electric works, the tobacco industry, and other important enterprises. His family was enraged. The working classes hailed the new minister as the "Red Pasha," although all they really gained were higher prices for tobacco, water, electricity, and other products of the newly nationalized industries, which they now ostensibly owned.

Nevertheless, people appreciated Faris' populist gestures. While in office, Faris declined to have bodyguards and chauffeurs like the other ministers. Every morning, he left his house at eight o'clock and walked through the bazaar to his ministry, which he reached at a little after nine. "In the bazaar," he explained, "I can smell how the people are doing."

At the end of March 1949, a certain colonel, equipped with a few antiquated tanks and jeeps, took over the presidential residence. At dawn his followers tore the president from his bed and deposed him. They then moved quickly on to the radio station, where they had to rouse the sleeping doorman. "This is a coup d'etat for freedom and against Zionism," their leader screamed at the doorman, "Syria is on the brink of ruin, and the politicians are to blame!" The poor doorman had no idea what a coup d'etat was, because this was the first, not only in Syria but in all Arabia, and with great concern he turned to the leader and asked: "But what's going to happen to my pension?"

A few minutes after six o'clock the colonel informed the populace, and the whole world, of his honorable intentions; half an hour later he drove to see Faris, whom he knew quite well. The Red Pasha was still asleep, but the impertinent colonel saw to it that he was awakened. Still wearing his pyjamas, Faris entered his large salon, where the colonel was sitting on the sofa with outspread legs. Two younger officers were standing on either side.

"Well, how do you like my coup? Not a single drop of blood spilled. Isn't it a stroke of genius?"

"Excellency, is that your reason for waking me up?" Faris asked sleepily.

"Yes, absolutely — I want to hear what you think."

"If you want to hear what I think, then first send these officers outside. I will not have armed hoodlums breaking into my house," Faris answered sullenly.

The officers protested, but their commander calmed them down and they went out.

"Now, tell me, isn't it magnificent?"

"Of course, Excellency, of course. Except you have opened a door in Syria that you will never again be able to close. What's more, you have dragged me from my bed. And now you had better beware, because the day will come sooner than you think when you will be dragged from yours."

"I'm no civilian," the officer laughed. "I sleep in my uniform, and my pistol never sleeps at all," he said and went outside.

No one in Damascus knows whether or not this conversation actually took place. But two things are certain: Faris was removed from office, and one unbearably hot August night the colonel was arrested by new conspirators, who also wanted nothing less than to save Syria from ruin. The colonel, the brilliant author of the first putsch, ruled for only one hundred thirty-four days. He was dragged from his bed and shot in a suburb of Damascus — in his pyjamas, no less. And the door he had opened in Syria was not shut for many years.

Faris decided never again to join a government. He earned a fortune practicing law and became a respected legal authority. Many judges were supposedly convinced that he would soon be reappointed minister. He never ruled out the possibility, and that only increased his stature in the judges' eyes, so that they were inclined to pay closer attention to his presentations than to those of his opponents.

On this evening, he was the first to arrive, but he looked sleepy. "Do you have any strong coffee?" he asked Salim, who hurried into the kitchen and fixed him a strong mocha. Then the other gentlemen came in, one by one.

"Your stories," said Faris, "have robbed me of my sleep. Last night I was sitting on my terrace, wondering: Why do people tell stories? What is storytelling, anyway? I racked my brains until early in the morning.

"I recalled that when I was minister I knew this old man. He used to bring me my coffee every morning, and every day he told me a little story, just for fun. Unfortunately I never really listened. All I managed to retain were a few bits and pieces, but now when I think of them I find them full of wisdom. It's a pity I didn't know how to listen back in those days. You know, I think all rulers are incapable of listening while they're in power.

"I didn't tell stories, either, in those days. I just had my colleagues, clients, and lackeys tell me what they wanted, as concisely as possible, and then I made my decisions. If I spoke at all, it was only to issue an order. This morning I asked my wife over breakfast when it was that I started telling stories, and she said, 'Ever since you were so rudely ousted from your office, you've been downright talkative.' To me, it's no surprise that rulers who have lost their power suddenly begin to talk and write volumes about their lives.

"Tonight, if you will lend me your patience and your ears, I want to tell you a story about one ruler who never listened, a story that is both extremely funny and very wise."

Just when the minister was about to begin, the goldfinch woke up and started singing loudly. Isam could not restrain a triumphant laugh.

"Once upon a time," Faris began, but the goldfinch twittered more, and even more loudly.

"Cover the cage so the canary will sleep," Musa groaned.

"It's a goldfinch. And look, it wants to tell a story, too," Isam defended his protege, and as if the bird had understood his words, it began blithely warbling away.

"If you don't cover that damned bird, I won't be able to tell you anything," said Faris. Salim, who could taste the seriousness of his words, quickly threw a black kerchief over the cage.

"Once upon a time, or perhaps in never-never-land," Faris began again, "in any case, in days of yore, there lived a king. His kingdom lay farther than the Isle of Wakwak. His face was so round and so bright, it could have said to the full moon on a summer evening: 'Climb down, so I can take your place and charm the people on earth.' Though he was very young when he succeeded his father, the new king was smarter than a snake and slier than a fox, and he assembled only the most cunning ministers, who ruled the kingdom with an iron hand. The year he ascended to the throne he married a princess, whose grace turned the very roses of Damascus pale with envy."