Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

The seven friends came every day. Over the years their visits became one of the thousand customs of our neighborhood. No one, not a single person, paid them any mind as they made their way to old Salim's. Their comings and goings were as much a part of our daily life as the children's shouts and the chatter of the swallows that filled the sky above our street each evening. All of this changed abruptly when Salim the coachman lost his voice. Yes, Salim, the man whose magical words transformed his room into an ocean, a desert, or a jungle, was suddenly struck dumb.

Overnight the mute coachman became the only subject of conversation in the neighborhood. People now followed the movements of the old men with a curious interest — a stranger might even say, with reverence. Knowing my own street as well as I do, though, I seriously doubt whether its inhabitants have ever felt real reverence for anyone. But the fact remains: people were curious. To tell the truth, the whole neighborhood was completely intrigued by Salim's strange silence. I myself was worried sick.

From then on I went to visit him every day and there was no one who could make me leave.

People in Damascus refer to the last month of summer as "flaming August." By day the city swelters in a state of permanent fire alarm, as the temperature climbs to over a hundred and four degrees in the shade. What's a measly fan supposed to do with heat like that except swirl the hot air, hopelessly, around and around and around? In other months things cool off once the sun has set, much to everyone's relief, but not in August. The earth stays hot even at night, and the mercury seems stuck at eighty-six degrees, so that people can barely sleep. And only an hour after sunrise the temperature again begins to soar.

One night in August 1959, Salim suddenly awoke, bathed in sweat. Sitting up in his bed, he sensed that someone else was in the room. "Who's there?" he asked.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," a woman's voice answered, somewhat relieved. It was dark as pitch, but the coachman could feel the woman's delicate hand touching his face. She smelled of orange blossoms. "I have come, my dearest friend, to say goodbye."

"What do you mean, goodbye! Who are you?" asked Salim, since he had never heard the voice before.

"I am your good fairy, the one who has breathed life into your dusty, wooden words and made them grow into a magical tree of tales. Do you really think you could have told stories as long as you have if I hadn't been standing steadfast by your side for over sixty years? How many times have I had to pick up wherever and whenever you lost the thread? You are beyond all doubt the best storyteller in Damascus, but now and then you've gone a little too far, and boxed yourself in so badly with all your subplots and digressions, you forgot which story you were telling. Especially when you rescued the Mexican fisherman. Even though you've told that story three hundred times, you're always so taken by your own victory over the octopus that you forget you were really on your way to Cuba to fetch the black pearls you needed to save the princess. And while you were relaxing and smoking your waterpipe, I was so nervous I was shaking — until you finally found your thread again and told your listeners how you discovered the black pearls and finally managed to rescue the princess, and then returned with her to Damascus, where the story began. It was often exhausting, but it made me happy to bring your heart a smile of relief. Those were hard years of labor with you, my friend!" The woman paused a moment. "Now, just like you, I have grown old and gray and am ready to retire. But when I do, you will lose your voice. I've always loved you, Salim. Your voice and your hands have always tickled my heart like a little feather. Which is why I have asked the fairy king for a special favor, which he has granted. He listened to what I had to say and laughed: 'Yes, yes, I know you've always been in love with that funny coachman of yours, haven't you? Well, go and tell him our one condition.' "

"Condition? what condition?" The coachman's throat was dry.

"After that question you have only twenty-one words left. Then you will become mute. However. . if you receive seven unique gifts within three months, then a young fairy will take my place and stand by your side. She will release your tongue from silence and you will go on telling stories until your dying day. You will be able to box yourself in as much as you want — she's very young and can easily keep up with you.

"Don't squander your words, Salim, my beloved. Words are responsibility. Ask me nothing more. You'll have to discover the gifts for yourself; the fairy king didn't even tell me what they might be. Consider carefully whatever you want to say, you have only twenty-one words left!"

Salim the coachman, molded as he was by the ancient customs of Damascus, never in his life considered any offer final nor any price written in stone. "Only twenty-one words?" he whispered in a voice that would have softened the hardest seller's heart.

"Now it's only eighteen," the fairy reprimanded him; and opening the door, she disappeared in the darkness. Salim sprang out of his bed and hurried after her. Just then a neighbor came hurrying out of his room, heading for the toilet. "Good God, it's hot! You can't sleep either, Uncle?" he asked the bewildered coachman.

"No," Salim replied and cursed himself for having wasted another word. The whole night he paced up and down his little room, constantly looking out his window until morning broke. He made himself some tea, thoughtfully chewed a piece of bread, and when the clock of the nearby church tower struck eight, he left his room with tired steps. The neighbors wondered at his bad mood; the coachman didn't even return their greetings: "May your day be happy and blessed!"

Salim paused outside the door of his house. Two street sweepers were passing by; one was sprinkling water out of a great leather bag he carried on his back, to keep as much dust as possible from swirling up, but the little droplets simply rolled like tiny dust-covered marbles into the many troughs and gorges of the narrow street. The second man was following the water-sprinkler with a gigantic broom. Step by step, he worked his way forward through the dust. Salim waited until the air behind the two street sweepers had cleared and slowly trudged off to his friend Ali. The locksmith lived a few houses down the street.

Salim knocked on the door and waited. After a short while, a little girl cracked the door slightly and stole a peep at the old coachman. "Uncle Salim!" she shouted into the house as she opened the door and ran inside. Fatma, the locksmith's plump wife, hurried to the door, apologizing for her granddaughters shy behavior and inviting their friend inside. To her amazement, however, he simply stood there, waving his hands and resisting her insistent invitation. "But Salim, what's wrong with you? Ali's still in bed — our little Nabil has a fever, though even when he's healthy he likes to crawl into bed with his grandfather every morning."

Salim signaled that he would wait at the door until his friend came. It was difficult for him to explain to the woman that he mustn't talk and carelessly waste what few words remained. It was even more difficult for the woman to understand the old man, whose thrashing about made him seem odder than ever. Finally both heard the clatter of the locksmith's wooden shoes, and down the length of the hallway the big man's voice bellowed, "What's this? My Salim's as shy as a young bride today?" He laughed when his wife whispered to him on her way inside that something was wrong with Salim. "Go and put the coffee on the fire. He's just waiting for me to invite him in. And that's the way it should be, too!" Ali looked at his friend with a broad smile and was even more puzzled than his wife had been when Salim declined his invitation. Without saying a word, Salim desperately tried to explain that the locksmith absolutely had to come to his place that evening.