Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

" 'Old?' Leila shouted and laughed. 'Good storytellers are like good wine — the older the better!' And she left, together with her thousands and thousands of stories."

"I've never heard a story like that in all my life!" Salim cried out in his deep voice. Then he stood up and again kissed Fatma on her forehead.

Outside, above the roofs of the old town, it was thundering. But a great silence reigned inside the room until finally the men broke out into a roaring song. They sang so badly and so loudly that even the goldfinch woke up and began to hop inside its cage and squeak at an unusually shrill pitch.

The noise in the room was so loud that the

neighbors who lived in the same building

and in the houses nearby woke up,

quickly threw on their robes,

and hurried to the old

coachman.

It's been thirty years, but to this day I am convinced that back then no one on our street knew whether the old coachman had really lost his voice or whether he had simply duped the whole neighborhood.

Salim was my friend. He told me everything, even the thoughts he had during those three months. That's how I heard the echo story. And I was very proud that I was the only one he told about his unique discovery, that you can taste voices with your ears. But every time I asked him if he had really lost his voice or whether he had only been pretending, he would simply reply with a crafty smile.

I remember one day in 1963. School was closed on account of the coup on the eighth of March and we were idling about in the street. That year spring seemed to be in a rush; its warmth chased us outside, although one of the neighbors, a young woman, had died the day before. Out of respect for her family we were not allowed to run around or play music or do anything that would make noise. At some point the conversation turned to Salim. One of the boys in the neighborhood had the gall to claim that he knew for a fact that the old coachman had made fools of his seven friends and all his neighbors. What's more, Salim had supposedly confided this to him in friendship.

I was boiling with rage. Today I realize that for a while I believed his boasting. I felt betrayed by Salim since he hadn't told his secret to me. Well, then this so-called, friend of Salim's suddenly shouted out loud, for all to hear, "And I'll tell you something else, Salim is a miserable cheat."

The boy was built like a tank. I, on the other hand, was very small, but that never stopped me. "Listen, you jackass," I cried, "it's only out of respect for the soul of our neighbor that I don't knock you down right here, but if you're as brave as your mouth is big, then please be so kind as to meet me on the field."

The colossus was so kind, and the boys were happy about this new distraction. Quietly we left the street.

When we reached the field, I discovered that my rage had dulled a bit, and that my reason, the mother of fear, had grown a little more alert. And there the boy was, right in front of me, standing with his arms crossed and his feet apart — a mountain of flesh with a crooked smile.

"Maybe that sentence of yours just slipped out. It happens to all of us on occasion," I said to the boy, as a way of saving face — and also to avoid a fistfight I was sure to lose.

"Slipped out?" he bellowed. "Not only is Salim a miserable cheat, he's the son of a whore six times over."

I slugged him with all my strength. The colossus staggered backwards. He was dumbfounded. He looked me over for a moment, then came at me like a steamroller and knocked me down without the slightest effort. Even so, I managed to pull myself together, and the boys had to hold us apart. My nose was bleeding but still I kept yelling at the big boy with all the fury I could muster: "And don't you forget it! Any time you insult Salim, I'm going to box your ears." I must have seemed pretty comical, because the colossus was just rolling on the ground with laughter. Then he tried to hug me.

But I went home grumbling and cursing Salim in my heart for having caused such unpleasant swellings on my nose and eyes.

Sometime that afternoon our neighbor Afifa whispered something to the old coachman about the fight. As I've said, her tongue was famous. People often joked that even radio announcers started to stutter if she talked during the news.

Salim came running over to me and wanted to know the reason for the fight.

"The reason?" I yelled at him. "For over three years I've been asking you whether you really did lose your voice. Am I your friend or not?"

He laughed. "You're my best friend, even if you are a little too careless when it comes to tangling with giants."

"I want to know. I couldn't sleep for three months. You have no idea how worried I was for you at the time. Every day I prayed that you would speak. Now, tell me!"

"There you are very mistaken," he replied, "I felt your worry, deep in my heart." Then he laughed with satisfaction, stroked my hair, and said, "But now you don't have to worry anymore. I'm all better!"

Suddenly a child cried out from the courtyard: "Uncle Salim! Uncle Salim! Where are you? A swallow's fallen from its nest! Uncle Salim!"

The old coachman looked down at the courtyard from my room on the third floor. A flock of children was standing around a twelve-year-old boy whom no one knew; they were all looking at Salim with pleading eyes.

"This boy's from Ananias Street," shouted Abdu, Afifa's son — a notorious troublemaker. "We're at war with them, but we allowed him to come to you because he found a swallow on the ground," Abdu added, giving the nervous boy a small poke just for the fun of it.

"That's right, I found it this morning next to the flower pots in the courtyard. It fell out of its nest. But it can't fly anymore and it doesn't want to eat anything. I caught three flies for it, but it didn't even touch them," the boy said in a quiet, sad voice.

"Bring the swallow up here, my boy. And all the rest of you stay in the courtyard and watch," he told the children. Despite Salim's command, Abdu tried to sneak up unnoticed.

"I said all of you!" the old coachman shouted, and the troublemaker stopped short on the landing and watched with envy as the boy climbed up with the swallow.

Salim covered the bird in his large hands and walked onto the balcony. I took the shy boy by the arm and followed the old coachman.

"Heaven! I give this swallow back to you!" the coachman cried out loud and turned slowly in a circle. The children in the courtyard stood on their tiptoes and stretched their necks to follow the ceremony exactly.

"Heaven! I give this swallow back to you!" Salim cried out a second time with an even louder voice and once more turned in a circle. Then he closed his eyes, whispered something to the swallow, kissed it, and paused for a moment. "Heaven! I give this swallow back to you!" Salim launched the swallow into the sky, and up it sailed, uttering a loud call. Then it made a loop around our house as if in parting and raced away.

Salim looked at the boy from Ananias Street. "You're a good lad. Don't be afraid, no one will touch you," he said and turned to Abdu, who was now pacing back and forth in the courtyard like a tiger in a cage.

"Whoever lays a hand on this boy is my enemy. Abdu, you will take him to his street, and if anyone so much as touches a hair on his head, I will never trust you with anything else. Give me your word!"

"I'll guard him like my own eyeball. Cross my heart!" Abdu was exaggerating, but the coachman didn't mind.

"Hurry now, my little one," Salim said to the boy, while Abdu started bullying the other children and boasting that the boy was now under his personal protection.