Rafik Schami - Damascus Nights

After a while Ali understood his friend's gesticulations. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure out why Salim was bothering to stress the obvious, and above all why he wasn't speaking.

It was even harder for Salim to explain to his other friends that they, too, should not fail — under any circumstances — to come to his house. By the time he had completed his difficult mission, it was nearly noon. He ate a piece of bread and some olives and lay down for an hour to recuperate from the strain of his morning's tour of the old part of town.

Early that afternoon the seven friends had already gathered at Salim's. Full of concern for their friend's sanity, they sat together and stared at the old coachman, who calmly proceeded with the rites of the meeting. First he poured the tea, then, as courtesy demanded, he passed the freshly prepared waterpipe to the oldest in the group, the emigrant.

"So, what's the matter with you, brother Salim?" The former statesman broke the silence.

Salim spoke very slowly. In seventeen words he recounted what the fairy had said. He wanted to add that he didn't believe it himself, but he couldn't get another word across his lips. Even when the barber tickled him and tweaked him and Salim wanted to laugh and cry he couldn't produce a single sound. His face turned pale and he clutched at his throat.

All of a sudden Ali the locksmith cried out, "I know what the seven gifts are. For years we've been coming here, drinking him out of house and home, smoking up his room, and not one of us fools has ever even thought of having him over. Seven invitations are what will free his tongue! And I can assure you: once he tastes my Fatma's baked eggplant, he's going to sing like a canary. So tomorrow we'll meet at my place," the locksmith said and hurried home.

On his way out, Ali was relieved to see that Salim was smiling. But Faris, the former minister, read Salim's smile more as a peculiar sort of smirk. On the way home he voiced his suspicion to Musa, the barber, and was quite surprised to discover the latter shared his doubt.

"It's not that the old coachman's game is so crude," said the barber, lighting a cigarette. "What's sad is that the others were so easily taken in. All grown-up men, and they turned pale as a sheet. Did you see how Tuma kept crossing himself and crying out, 'Holy Mary, have mercy on us!'? But how can we unmask him? I tweaked him so hard an elephant would have screamed, but he didn't even squeak."

The minister had always had the greatest respect for the clever barber, and it wasn't the first time they shared the same opinion. "No, tweaking's not going to get us anywhere," he agreed.

The two went on walking for hours. They looked for a quiet cafe where they could sit down with a waterpipe and talk as long as they liked. In each of the three cafes they entered, the radio was blaring away at full volume. Since February of 1958, Syria had been united with Nassers Egypt. From its inception, this United Arab Republic seemed to live on the brink of disaster. That particular day, President Nasser was broadcasting a three-hour-long harangue against the regime in Iraq, which had turned overnight from bosom friend to archenemy. The people were sitting glued to the radio, listening to his fiery words.

"The presidents are talking more and more, and the people are saying less and less," said Faris, disgusted, and slammed shut the door of the Glass Palace.

"Just listen to those words!" the barber gushed once they were back on the street, where the president's voice was sounding from the windows of the shops and houses. "What are books compared to that! What is the most beautiful writing compared to the divine sounds of the human voice? Mere shadows of words on paper!"

"Please, don't exaggerate," Faris replied and waved his hand. "Writing is not the voice's shadow but the tracks of its steps. It is only thanks to writing that we can listen to the ancient Greeks and Egyptians even today, that we can hear their voices as full of life as if they had just spoken. My friend, only writing has the power to move a voice through time, and make it as immortal as the gods.

"But you have to admit, Nasser does have a damned good larynx. Whenever I hear him I get goose bumps and my eyes start welling up with tears." Musa stubbornly stuck up for the president.

"You're right about that," answered Faris, "and there is the problem."

The two men walked on slowly, discussing Nasser, whose incessant talk made only the former minister suspicious, and Salim, whose sudden silence had raised the suspicions of both. They wondered how they could unmask the sly old coachman.

The next day the seven friends met at Ali the locksmith's. The eggplants were indeed indescribably delicious. Salim ate with pleasure and thought about his wife, Zaida, who used to cook so well. Ali kept refilling his friend's plate with one slice of eggplant after another. "So do you like it?" he asked. Salim smiled and nodded his head, but didn't say a word.

"Nothing against your wife's culinary accomplishments," said Mehdi, the teacher, "but when Salim tastes my wife's tabbouleh salad, together with some ice-cold arak, then you'll see, he'll outtalk Scheherazade herself. As you know, my wife is Lebanese, and no one makes tabbouleh salad like the Lebanese."

The next day, the silent coachman savored the magnificent salad along with some cool arak. Salim overdid it, as was always the case with things he enjoyed; that night he drank so much he got drunk, and ate so much he suffered from severe flatulence.

For six nights in a row the friends fed their Salim. Every day he grew a little fatter, but still, he didn't say a word.

Early in the morning on the seventh day, Faris, the minister, was beaming. Less out of love for his guest than because he was so sure of himself. When his friends came over, everyone — except Musa the barber, Faris' fellow conspirator — was amazed at the huge roast mutton, and even more at the numerous bottles of beer lying in a large bowl of ice. "In heat as hellish as this, there's nothing better than ice-cold German beer," the minister said enticingly. "It's something completely different from the soapy water we make here that people mistakenly call beer."

"I don't drink alcohol," grumbled Ali.

Tuma the emigrant, a self-proclaimed connoisseur, praised the fine taste of the minister who spared no cost in serving his friends such expensive imported beer. "Even in America," he attested, "people know of German beer."

Junis, Mehdi, and Isam followed Tuma's lead, even though they didn't care much for beer. If being a guest in Damascus means being flattered and treated like a king, it also means subscribing to the sacred, unwritten law that the king must keep silent and gratefully accept anything and everything his generous host may serve. Salim smiled and partook of both roast and beer. And although he had never tasted the bitter drink, he soon grew to like it.

During the course of the evening, even Ali took a few swallows out of sheer curiosity. For his part, Salim emptied one bottle after another, and shortly after midnight he was snoring in his seat.

Ali the locksmith laughed out loud. "He still can't talk, but he sure can snore like a walrus just as he always did!"

Faris, who had only been sipping at his beer, gave a wink to the barber, who yawned audibly — as if he had been waiting for his cue — and said, "Let's go home. It's getting late!"

"And Salim? What about my friend Salim?" Ali roared angrily.

"Don't worry about your friend. He'll be fine spending the night here with me," said the minister.

It was very late when the six old men left their host's spacious, well-kept garden. Salim was snoring loudly in the large guest bed. It sounded as if a sheep were fighting for its life in a deep, foamy sea of beer.