A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XXI يوم شتوي في دمشق

After a couple of hours in the musty warmth of Riwaq, the brisk, wintry air wakens them as they step into the dark courtyard and head toward Ahmad’s car, which he had left a few steps from the front. It’s an older model VW van — a dark grey and not a little dented up here and there — but nonetheless a status sign of sorts. Even the oldest vehicles cost a small fortune when one takes into consideration the considerable taxes that often triple the usual price. Ahmad had purchased the car years ago when he’d sold some of his family’s lands along the coast. While far from wealthy, he came from a rural family with significant holdings, and land was as good as cash in this economy, a sure source of income or something that could be easily exchanged for a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, or perhaps a decent used car. The VW was rather expensive when he’d bought it, but he already had an apartment inherited from an uncle, so why not? He had always been generous with it and over the years not only most of his friends but a fair number of future ministers and statesmen had piled into it. They approach the car and Basma lets out a sigh.

“Do you think this heap of trash can get us up the hill? Maybe we should take taxis, or just go home.”

Ahmad responds by opening the sliding door and gallantly offering his hands to the women so they can take their seats.

“Tafaddalou! Ahmad’s Car at your service!”

David hesitates but Samir has already grabbed the front seat as Ahmad swings around to the driver’s side.

“I’ll ride up front, Daoud. You sit in the back.”

“OK.”

He steps into the van and sees that it only has one rear bench — the rear one having been removed to make room for several box loads of magazines and various books and papers — and Basma has taken the window seat, leaving Nidal to sit between them.
“Yallah Daoud!” says Basma. “Get in and close the door. It’s cold!”

He steps in gingerly, sits, then turns to slide the door closed with a bang.

“Hey Superman. Watch it with the door! You’ll break it off!” shouts Ahmad from the front as he starts the engine. Or rather tries to start it. The engine groans as the starter turns and turns.

Nothing happens.

“Great! Now we’re not only freezing in here, the thing won’t start!” moans Basma.

“Tawwal balik, Basma,” says Samir, a bit agitated and rubbing his hands. “Relax. It will start. Leave Ahmad alone.”

David is aware that his left hip is is brushing ever so slightly into Nidal’s right hip. He squirms a little in his seat to make a little space, as does Nidal, and then end up where they were before, if not imperceptively closer. He can feel the orange in his pocket pressing into her side and he leans slightly away, embarrassed. Why did he put the orange in his pocket?

The engine roars to life and Ahmad pounds the dashboard. “There we go! She never fails me! Yallah!“

Nidal turns toward David and says, “Ahmad’s car is so old that he needs a permit from the Ministry of Antiquities to drive it, or they’ll put it in the museum!”

David laughs and Basma snorts a little.

“That’s right!” says Ahmad. “I have the permit in the glove box! Yallah, let’s go!” He lets out the clutch and eases the van away from the curb. He has to make a U-turn and does so after a few yards, pulling the van over to one side of the road, then backing toward the other. The van stalls and a taxi coming up the hill honks in annoyance. Ahmad turns the key in the ignition and after a moment the VW comes to life again. He reverses a little more than yanking the wheel around pulls up and away. The transmission strains slightly as they ascent Nazem Pasha but eventually they are on their way heading across the lower parts of Muhajireen. The heater has started to make a dent in the cold. Samir turns on the radio and Fairouz warbles from an aging cassette.

“Ouf! Not her again! Don’t you have any good music Abu Mazin?”

“Ma fi ahla min Fairouz! Nothing’s better than her, but take a look in that box on the floor. There are some more in there.”

Samir rummages through the box of cassettes, tossing most of them back in but keeping a few on his lap.

“Isn’t this where you live, Daoud?” asks Basma.

“Yeah. Back a little ways, up the hill, over there.” He points with his finger.

“Over by Nizar Qabani’s house, right?!” says Nidal in a sarcastic tone. “They guy lived everywhere!”

“Well, that’s what I was told, at least. Shu biy’arfni ana? What do I know?”

“He did live in Muhajireen, Daoud. Don’t worry about it. Do you like your apartment?” Basma leans over Nidal to ask him.

“It’s not bad. I mean, it’s small but it’s just for me, so I don’t mind. And it has a nice view over the city. I can see almost everything, even the Umayyad Mosque. And it’s only for now. I might find another place eventually.”

“Eventually…?” asks Basma, but Nidal interrupts her with a quick elbow to her side. “Shu!? I’m just asking! You don’t mind, Daoud, do you?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Aha, this is good” says Samir as he shoves a cassette into the radio. Miles Davis’s “Someday My Prince will Come” blows smoothly over the passengers.

They speed down the avenue, past the various falafel and video shops, past the Spanish Cultural Center and a small squat mosque, and then out into the large square that leads down to the city, and up over the hills to the neighborhoods of Doumar and beyond. The mountain looms above them, the apartment lights forming a girdle of illumination along its upper waist.

The VW grinds its way up to the top of the square, where they are stopped by a road block.
A police officer saunters over to the van and Ahmad rolls down the window to speak to him.

“Fi chi m’allem? Is something going on?”

“No, brother. Where are going?”

“To the mountain for some tea.”

“Isn’t it too cold?”

“For tea? No. That’s why we are going for tea, because it’s cold out.”

“Hmm. Give me your papers. Yallah, hurry up.”

Ahmad reaches into the glove box and retrieves his papers, pulls out his driver’s license from his wallet, and hands them to the officer. David notes a small bill sticking out slyly from behind the license. The officer grabs them in one hand then shines his flashlight on them with the other.

“Hmm. And who are they?” he indicates the passengers with the flashlight. For a moment the light rests on David’s face, then over to the women, where it lingers. Too long.

“Just fiends. We won’t be long. I have to get to work tomorrow morning. We’re just going for some tea and then home. Mashi al-hal? Ok?”

The officer hands Ahmad his papers back — minus the bill, David seems to think — and walks away.

“Yallah, open it up for them. Sir! Go!”

Ahmad guns the motor, perhaps too energetically as it whines and races, and then rolls the VW through the checkpoint and up the long drive to the road that leads to the mountain.

David leans forward and asks Samir, “What was that about?”

“‘Aadeh, normal. It’s the end of the month. Ya’ni. Just a little check. Wa la himmak.“

Everyone sits back in awkward silence for a few moments.

After a minute the crest a short hill and stop to take in the view. Off to the left sits the Presidential Palace, illuminated with faint streaks of yellow and green. David thinks of Darth Vader’s Death Star and half expects a space ship to land on it. Ahead and slightly to the right is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a vast arch surrounding a helmet-like concrete dome with a band of gold and green inscriptions at its base.

“On your left, a memorial to power, and on your right, a memorial to death,” Ahmad intones in a mock tour-guide voice.

“They are both memorials to death, Abu Mazin … past death and future death. Have you been up here before Daoud?” says Samir.

“No. But it’s interesting, I guess.”

“Interesting,” says Nidal sharply. “Interesting? Whatever. Let’s get some tea, I’m cold.”

Basma grabs her elbow lightly and whispers something in her ear.

“Yallah,” says Ahmad as he lets out the clutch and turns to head up to the mountain. It’s a long and steep climb with a zig and a zag to the left then right. The venerable Volkswagon strains on the grade as Miles Davis blows on “Teo,” with its vaguely Arabian air. The night seems a shade more sinister than it had just moments earlier.

After a few minutes they pull over after a row of brightly light kiosks set no the verge at the side of the road. A few cars are scattered here and there in the distance, but it is not at all crowded due to the cold.

‘This guy makes the best tea and coffee up here. Let’s go!” says Ahmad as he turns off the VW and hops out of the van. Samir gets out as well as David slides open the door and holds it while Nidal and Basma unfold themselves from the back seat. He shuts the door then turns to take in the view. The road cuts across the mountain about two-thirds of the way up. Above a series of transmission towers and a weather station survey the city. A largish sign spells out ‘Eid Sa’eed in Arabic, meaning Merry Christmas, in multicolored lights. David had seen it announce everything from International AIDS awareness day to the October War celebrations. The mountain face is barren rock. Beyond the line of kiosks the eternal city unfolds in swath after swath of light, broad avenues radiate off into the distance, meeting at traffic circles then branching off toward the horizon. The green lights of mosques illuminate the cartography like jewels on a tapestry. The vast Umayyad osque sits in the midst of the Old City, just beyond the still busy downtown area. An airplane rises in the distance.

David walks over by Samir, who shivers a bit, then says, “Here’s our city, al-Sham. A Paradise on earth. There is a story of the Prophet Muhammad coming here when he worked as a merchant. Do you know it?”

“I may have heard something,” says David.

“Well, his caravan stopped up here on the mountain, and when they started to head down, he refused, saying, ‘I will only enter Paradise once, and I choose the eternal Paradise, not the earthly one.’ And so he didn’t go down. That’s because Damascus was considered to be a Paradise, with its springs and rivers and gardens, you know. And beautiful women!” he nudges David. “That’s all gone now, except maybe the women.”

“Are you proselytizing Ya Abu Samra?” asks Ahmad? “Let’s get some coffee before we freeze to death.”

Basma and Nidal have already staked out a small plastic table with four white plastic chairs in one of the enclosed kiosks. There is a clear tarp that offers a view over the city while protecting from the cold wind. The owner has set up a gas heater and it’s cosy enough.

“Shu bidkun tishrabou? What will you have?” asks the owner as Ahmad, David, and Samir join them.

Basma and Nidal order zuhourat then David, Samir get coffees, and Ahmad orders a regular tea. David sits across from Nidal on the side nearest the edge, Samir sits across from Basma. Ahmad grabs a chair from a nearby table, then sits and says, “Anyone want a nargileh?“

Samir turns to David and says, “Shu ray’ik? Want to try one?”

“Nah. Well, maybe, why not?”

“They are better at Bayt Sabri. We aren’t staying long anyway, right Ahmad? I have to get to bed.” Nidal seems a little annoyed, or is perhaps just a little tired and cold.

The drinks come and they all hover over them, warming their faces from the evening chill. Pop music crackles over the small boom box set on a plastic stool, sonic decor for the kiosk.

“OK, no nargileh. But show us where your new place is, Nidal.”

“You’ll see soon enough since you’re dropping me off, right Ahmad?”

“Ma’loum!”

But it’s in Adweh, kind of over there to the left. You can see the Thawra Bridge, and then the Dar al-Shifa’ Hospital. It’s there. You know, by the Arabic Cultural Center.”

“Hilu!” says Ahmad. “I know it well.”

“How about you, Samir.”

“Umm, well, it’s in Qassaa’, by Bab Touma. So that would be over there.” He points vaguely with his hand to the left of the Umayyad Mosque. But it’s hard to see.

“Daoud? Can you see your place from here?”

David leans over a bit to look out through the tarp but cannot see much through the reflected lights.”

“It’s down there somewhere. Off to the left a little, I guess before you see the American Embassy over there by the Rawdeh mosque.”

“‘Azeem, so you can just run down the hill and I won’t have to drive you!”

“It would be a little steep but I guess I could just roll down, or slide on a blanket!”

They laugh. It would be a difficult slide, and then all the apartments in the way. David wonders if there is a way to walk up the mountain, a path maybe.

“‘Am bamzah ma’ak. Of course I’ll drive you! I was just joking!”

Basma fumbles in her pocketbook for a cigarette, and says, “You can just drop me off by Samir’s since my place isn’t far from his.” Samir and Ahmad adjust their chairs, which sit awkwardly at the edge of the mountain pass.

David smiles then looks over at Nidal. She seems distracted and stares off into the distance.

“Shu, Nidal? Fi shi? What is it?” he asks her gently.

“Wa la shi, it’s nothing.” She had been starting at the Presidential Palace, then the lights of Mashrua’ Doumar, and the dark hills beyond which lay Beirut, where here father was last seen over twenty years ago. He’d probably taken the Beirut Road, which ran parallel to the one they’d take to get up here. And not come back.

“I was just thinking of traveling, that’s all. Being up here gives you a sense of freedom, of possibility, like you could fly away like a bird and be at the Mediterranean in the morning. But then I remember all the things that keep us here, all these memorials” — she sweeps her hands toward the Presidential Palace and where the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier would be — “and it’s a little sad. But I’m use to it.”

He wants to reach out an touch her hands, which encircle the small tea glass, but he hesitates, and she looks away.

“Yallah, are we ready? I’m getting cold again and it’s late!” says Ahmad as he stands up.

“OK,” they all say, and begin to get up from the table.

Samir pays the owner for the teas and coffees, then they head back to the van.

David stops short and touches Nidal by the elbow. She turns to face him, a quizzical look in her eyes.

“I’ve had a great evening with everyone. I mean, with you. Umm, maybe if you have time we could meet for coffee or go see a gallery? Or a jog?”

NIdal looks down briefly, then up to his face, catching his eyes. With a faint laugh she nods her head and says, “With great pleasure, David” — she never calls him Daoud. “Give me a call.” She reaches into her jacket pocket puts a small card in his hand. He puts it surreptitiously into his pocket, along with the orange.

“OK!”

They file back into the van, which Ahmad conjures back to life. Miles Davis’s “I Thought About You” comes on, slow and sultry.

The van pulls away from the curb, advances a few yards, then does a u-turn, to head back down the mountain.
They pass the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the Presidential Palace, slow down through the check point so Ahmad can salute the guard, who gives a half-hearted salute in return, then turn onto Nazem Pasha. After a few minutes of relative silence, they approach the Cuban Embassy and David tells Ahmad he can get off here.

“My place is just up the street about two minutes from here.”

“I can take you to your door, if you want. It’s cold out.”

“Nah. It’s complicated. The streets are all one way and it’s hard to get around. I’ll just walk. Thanks. Yallah, bye everyone!

He turns to Basma to wave goodbye, reaches up to shake Ahmad’s hand, then turns to Nidal.

“Minshufik, Nidal. See you later.”

“Yes, minshuuf ba’na al-ba’d. See you soon.”

he gets out, and Samir rolls down the window.
“Hey, aza’r. what about me?!”

David laughs and walks over to the door.

“Thanks for a great day. I had a good time. And thank Miriam for the lunch.”

“Ouf, that seems a hundred years ago! Take care, and be good!” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

David just laughs then waves back at the van as it heads off. He thinks he sees Nidal turning toward him and offers a small wave, just for her.

He turns let and starts heading up the hill to his street. The orange in his pocket bumps into his side as he walks, while Nidal’s card burns a hole. He feels faintly as if he’d had a few glasses of ‘araq and not a small Turkish coffee.

He turns the corner and passes Abu ‘Ali’s shop. A light burns from within even though the shutters are closed.

“They guy never seems to sleep,” he thinks as he walks up the steps to his buildings front door. As he passes the kolaba the guard peeks out and asks, “Qaddaysh as-saa’a? What time is it?” It’s he first time he’s ever spoken to David. He looks at his wrist watch then says, somewhat gruffly, “About 12:30.”

With no other word he advances to the heavy door, pushes it open, and fumbles for the light switch then presses it. He walks the three flights to his apartment, making the last several steps in darkness, the faint moonlight through the stairwell window guiding him to his door. He puts in the key, turns the knob, and walks in.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XX يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

Damascus, Fahd Ballan, politics, romance, Song, Syria

Bassam clears his throat, then making sure that he has everyone’s attention, places his right hand next to his ear, closes his eyes, and begins to sing:

Ouf! Ouf! Ouf!

Everyone at the table cracks up. It’s the traditional start of rural songs, and Bassam hams it up.

“Aywah ya muhajir! Ghanni!” Samir shouts, as he lights a another cigarette. “Sing, Immigrant!” using his nickname for Bassam.

Ouf! Ouf! Ouf!

Ah yaa Daoud!
Ouf! Ouf!

Laysh inteh jeet, wa ma jibt al-’oud.
Inteh jassous, ma ‘indak baroud.
Ouf! Ouf!

Laysh inteh jeet, wa ma jibt al-’oud.
Inteh jassous, ma ‘indak baroud.
Ouf! Ouf!

Ahh wayn bitrouh, inteh mawjoud.
Tadiqq ‘al-abwab, manak marfoud.
Ouf! Ouf!

Ahh wayn bitrouh, inteh mawjoud.
Tadiqq ‘al-abwab, manak marfoud.
Ouf! Ouf!

Yaa Daoud!
Ouf! Ouf!
Yaa Daoud!
Ouf! Ouf!

[Oh David,
Why did you come and not bring the oud?
You are spy but don't have a gun.
We love you here, don't go back home.
Wherever you go, there you are.
You knock on doors, and aren't refused.]

He finishes with a melismatic phrase and a dramatic flourish of his hands. Basma and Ahmad laugh while Nidal claps her hands and smiles at David. He doesn’t really get it and is embarrassed by the attention. The waiter has turned off the radio — Bassam beats out Umm Kulthum if only for the novelty of his singing — and a few patrons shout out, “Aywah ya ustaaz! Allah! Allah!”

Samir is less impressed, but laughs anyway. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and says, “Shu had, khay? That’s ridiculous! You just made that up! That’s not a song!”

“Ma’loum!” Bassam replies. “Of course I made it up! Daoud deserves his own song! What do you think, Daoud?”

“Hilweh!” he offers, gamely, though he didn’t really understand much. Secretly he is pleased that he is the object of attention, of a song. In New York no one sings songs to him, for him. In Damascus he has become special.

“But he doesn’t even play the ‘oud and what’s this about a gun, and being a spy! ‘He knocks on doors and isn’t refused?!’ What’s that about?” Samir spreads his hands out wide and raises his eyebrows in mock offense.

“But what else rhymes with Daoud? khuloud? mazout? No, not that. Umm … quloub, maybe? ‘aboud? ma’roub? ma’khoud? ma tuzbut. Those words don’t work.”

“Whatever. Sing us something else, ya’ni, a real song! He has a good voice!” he says to everyone and no one in particular. Bassam was known for his strong voice in his days at the university, when he would sing songs at parties and sometimes at political rallies. Now he mostly keeps to himself and only sings when prompted from time to time.

Basma adds her voice to the appeal. “Go on, Bassam! Sing us something from the Gulf, or from Suwayda! Yallah, for God’s sake. Give us a song!”

Bassam had spent his mandatory military service in the Houran region of southern Syria. Two years of penance in the dry foothills, but he had grown to love it there.

“Ok, Ok. Just a moment … OK, Here’s one I like. It’s also for David.”

He clears his throat again, then stops to take another sip of ‘araq.

“How’s it go again?” He looks off to the side, mouthing some words and moving his hand in synchrony with his lips, then with a little nod of the head says, “OK, I remember it now. Yallah.” He clears his throat again and takes a deep breath. All eyes are on Bassam, though Nidal steals a glance at David from the corner of her eye.

Yaa Yaa Yaa
Yabaa Yabaa Yabaa…

His arms wave about, a drop of sweat forms rolls down his brow, and the room explodes in “Ohs” and “Ahs.” Samir leans back in his chair and drags on his cigarette, looking self-satisfied. That’s his friend singing. He and Basma share a quick look, and Samir raises his eyebrows a bit while tilting his head slightly in the direction of David and Nidal, who sit silently next to one another — trying to hear Bassam over the noise of their heart beats.

Yaa Yaa Yaa
Yabaa Yabaa Yabaa…

Galbi ana biyhibbaha, wa ya ma ta’ib bi-hubbaha.
Galbi ana biyhibbaha, wa ya ma ta’ib bi-hubbaha.

Ma bahibb ghayrha, bil-bashar wa biyiltift ila lahaa.
Ma bahibb ghayrha, bil-bashar wa biyiltift ila lahaa.

la lahaa la lahaa.
la lahaa la lahaa.

la lahaahaa la lahaa.
la lahaahaa la lahaa.

[O my heart, I love her. And no matter how I tire, I love her.
I don't love anyone else on earth, and no one else turns my head.
None but her, none but her.
None but her, none but her.]

He finishes the last phrase with a flourish then waves his hands around as he sings the words “la lahaa.” When he finishes several people in the restaurant applaud and a few shout encouragement.

Samir jumps up and slaps him on the back. “Aywah, ya rouhi! ‘Azeem! That’s more like it! That’s a great song!” Then he looks over at David and grins. “Shu, Daoud? Ma hilweh? Isn’t it great? Did you understand it?”

It’s a well-known song by the late Fahd Ballan, but David doesn’t know it or really follow anything but the words “hubb” and “galbi,” “love” and “my heart.” Bassam affects a “jabali” or mountain style of singing, with its distinctive consonants and vowels.

Sitting across from Bassam, Nidal had blushed when she realized the song was about her, but she doesn’t seem to mind and claps loudly. David claps too but is confused. He looks at Nidal and shrugs. What was the song about? Why is Basma practically leering at him?

Samir looks at Ahmad. “Not bad for a muhajir, huh?! Who composed that song anyway?” Ahmad laughs and at the same time gives Samir the Syrian high-five hand slap.

“Wallah, I don’t know,” says Ahmad. “Probably ‘Abd al-Fattah Sukkar. He did most of Ballan’s songs. A great composer. It’s a good song. And Bassam has a great voice. I had forgotten! You should come more often and sing for us, Basoumeh!”

“I don’t have time, ya Abu Mazin,” he says, using Ahmad’s nickname “Unlike you, I have a job and can’t spend all day at this dive!” He slaps him on the shoulder as Ahmad laughs. It is well-known that if you want to find Ahmad, he holds regular hours at Riwaq most nights from 8:00 until closing. Tonight is no exception.

“Anyway, that was for you, Daoud! I’ll give you a cassette of it tomorrow. Now it’s time for me to go, ya jamaa’ . My beautiful wife is waiting for me to sing to her. She will get jealous if I only sing to Daoud!”

Everyone at the table laughs, and a waiter comes over to remove the remains of the meat platter while another sets down a bowl of fruit.

“Anyone want coffee or tea to go along with the singing tonight?”

David is about to order a coffee to wake him up a bit but Ahmad interrupts his thoughts with a proposal.

“Hey, I have an idea. We’ll eat some fruit, and then I’ll drive us up to the mountain and we can get tea at one of those little stands up there. What do you guys think?”

“Sounds good, and then you can drive me home!” says Samir. “It’s impossible to find a taxi here at night, especially when it’s cold out.”

“OK, I can drive you all home, no problem!”

“That’s if your car will even start!” Basma starts the digs again, as arms reach for fresh fruit from the platter.

“Wa la himmik! You can always push us if it doesn’t, Basma!”

Samir tosses a banana to Bassam. “Khud, az’ar. Here’s a banana. Take it home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Text me when you are ready and I’ll come over.”

The two friends always seem to have some sort of business going on.

“OK, yallah, bye everyone! “

Bassam takes his leave, but not before stopping to shake David’s hand. Leaning over closely, he says, “Don’t forget Ayman”

“I won’t. ‘ala ra’si! I swear!”

“‘Azeem!” says Bassam. He looks up at Nidal, winks, then turns and strides across the floor toward the door, stopping to shake a few hands along the way.

Nidal selects a large orange, then hands it to David with a smile on her face.

“Eat one! They help you digest the meat.”

He takes it in his hands with a shy “shukran.” Nidal doesn’t know why she offered him the fruit but it felt right to do so. She thinks of ‘Amti Fatimah and her oranges. Home in the palm of your hand.

When she turns to Basma to say something David slips the orange into his coat pocket. Samir has already piled two bananas and an apple on a napkin in front of him and hands him a knife.

“Yallah, Daoud. Kull. Eat so we can get out of here.”

“OK.” David grabs the knife and begins to peel the skin of an apple, one long stroke at a time.

It’s been a curious few hours. He is at once unsettled and joyous. Time seems to stop in Damascus, and then before you know it a thousand years pass in the blink of an eye.

***

Nidal carefully peels an orange. She knows that Basma has had hand in setting up the evening – she had hinted as much at Bayt Sabri when David and Samir had appeared at a nearby table. It wasn’t a coincidence that they had run into each other there tonight, and that they should all end up here at Riwaq – Basma and Samir had arranged it all via text. It wouldn’t be the first time they had conspired to set her up with someone. A few months ago it was Samir’s colleague from the paper, a political correspondent with bad teeth and worse breath. Basma thought that he was “nice” and came from a good family and had an apartment in the center of town. Nidal had been angry with her. Like she was going to be with someone so lacking in charm. And he wasn’t even very interesting to talk to. Basma had even once proposed her cousin ‘Arif, but Nidal couldn’t see past his ties to the government. ‘Arif had been at university with the young president’s cousin, and hence had certain connections that he was proud of flaunting. Easy access to various ministries. A certain stake in a mobile phone company. Invitations to exclusive parties. Not Nidal’s sort of scene, not what she envisioned for her life.

Aren’t there any normal men in Damascus, ones not already married (of married ones there were plenty of offers)? Who aren’t caught up in the messy business of politics? It doesn’t seem so to her, and especially after the fiasco with Khalid she wasn’t holding her breath. Better off alone, she always says to herself. And she has her aunt to watch over. And watch over her.

David is another matter altogether, and she still doesn’t know what to make of him, of the situation. She decided tonight to let her feelings guide her for a change. As a result she is having a good time, even if she feels a little pressured, and not a little bit in the spotlight. He also seems a little ill at ease but in a charming way. Cute, even. And why did he put that orange in his pocket?

***

Basma cannot figure out her friend. She has set her up with a dozen men, all worthy, but it never works out. She is too darn picky. Snobbish, is what everyone else says. “It’s her Palestinian pride,” Layla had said. “They think they’re too good for Syrian men, or even Lebanese.” Basma had defended her friend, but wondered if perhaps there was something to that. Nidal never seemed happy with anyone. With David she was always aggressively dismissive. An American. Only here for a year. Has a girlfriend… Some girlfriend if he is willing to leave her for a year and hang out in this place. Samir thinks he likes her, but who knows with these foreigners? Tonight she seems a little more at ease with him, and they finally got to talking though it was like pulling teeth. Some people are so dense! Then Bassam almost ruined it with his song, but they seemed to like it and now are talking again. So mineeh. All is good.

***

Ahmad knows he’ll have to give a report to the mukhabarat after tonight’s get together — part of his agreement with the authorities for allowing him to publish his magazine. He thinks he’ll leave out David and focus on Bassam singing a little drunk. Why get the American involved? He seems nice enough, and Basma says that Nidal likes him. Yet Bassam had called him a spy, so maybe they know something he doesn’t. And that whisper as he left. What did Bassam mean, ‘Don’t forget Ayman’?

He’ll have to think about this. But time to get out.

“Yallah. let’s get out of here! Jahizeen? You all ready?”

He calls the waiter over and tells him to put the bill on his tab. Samir protests and they argue briefly, but Ahmad insists, placing an arm on Samir’s shoulder. “It’s David’s night! Let’s just go. You can get it another time.”

Samir shrugs. “What am I going to do with this guy? You are too generous Abu Mazin.”
“Wa lau! It’s nothing. Let’s go!”

They all push out from the table and get their jackets on before heading out the door. David feels the orange in his pocket and smiles.

It’s been a nice evening. Very nice!

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XIX يوم شتوي في دمشق

Go with the flow. David thinks of himself as someone who likes to go with the flow, but deep inside he is afraid of letting his fate go to chance. Serendipity for him is an ice-cream parlor in New York, not a philosophy of life or anything to count on. One can only go with the flow with proper planning, otherwise things get out of hand. At least they might. Even his coming to Damascus, though it struck his friends as a sudden change — “random” is how his buddy Dave had called the idea — was the product of careful research online, in books, and through talking with people (though not his father). David doesn’t like to leave anything to chance. It took a Syrian summer to cure him of the habit of stashing a small retractable umbrella in his backpack just in case it might rain.

Careful in life, careful in love, as they say. Although he has cultivated the appearance of being a romantic, falling in love dramatically — desperately, even — and with Hallmark consistency, David is unwilling to let himself go completely and give himself completely to another. Or to accept love completely. Marina has gotten closer than anyone to him, but even after three years she remains a stranger to his deepest thoughts and desires. His fears. Perhaps he is a stranger to them as well. She had suggested as much when he announced his plans to leave New York and head to Damascus. Having little interest in self-analysis, and even less in psychotherapy, David eschews thinking too deeply about his motivations, so as a result tends to find himself in situations of his own making, but at the same time is taken aback by them as if they were unforeseen, “random” events happening to him. Like he was cast in a soap-opera not of his own design or acting a role ill-suited to his temperament.

It doesn’t occur to him that sitting next to the beautiful Nidal on this winter evening, so far from home, far from his routine, is the culmination of weeks of subconscious planning and preparation, and not a little assistance by willing friends who can read his heart better than he. And serendipity. An inner voice tells him what he has known all along, that Samir and Basma have set up this evening’s encounter. But he has become expert at ignoring this voice, covering it with book learning, ideas, writing, and the flow work.

Go with the flow.

He grabs a few chunks of kebab with some bread and places them on his plate. Nidal sets a plate of olives between them and pushes a few onto his plate. He responds with a cursory “shukran.” She shrugs then stabs a fat green olive with a toothpick, plops it in her mouth, then demurely picks at her salad, saying nothing. Samir and Bassam talk on their side of the table, laughing over some private matter, while Basma and Ahmad continue their heated discussion of art and literature. One table, three corners.

David feels the weight of the silence between himself and Nidal, and after swallowing down a mouthful of meat, he sips some ‘araq then holds the glass thoughtfully before his face.

“I like this stuff,” he says, to no one in particular, though only Nidal can hear him. “They don’t really have it in New York, you know.” He looks over at Nidal, who is staring at him with that arch look in her eyes.

“You mean the ‘araq, or the kebab,” she finally says, somewhat flummoxed by his effort to open a conversational space. Of all things to talk about! In the company of others they have spoken of art, literature, even politics — tonight they are more or less alone, for the moment, at least, and all he talks about is food and drink. At least it’s not the weather.

“It’s odd how it started snowing this morning, but now it’s clear. But cold. Is it always this way in Damascus?” he asks his glass.

Nidal cannot contain herself any longer and bursts out laughing. It’s like a bad musalsal, with the characters talking past each other, about everything and nothing at all.

“What?” he asks, in mock surprise, a slight note of hurt in his voice.

“I mean, yes, the weather is like this in winter in Damascus. Changeable. You never know. And yes, ‘araq can be good, and how interesting to know that they don’t have it in America!” She laughs again.

“You’re an idiot!” he says to himself. “Here I am next to this woman I’ve been thinking about nonstop for weeks, and all I have to say is stupidities about ‘araq and the weather. Shit. It’s just like in New York.”

David is as much embarrassed at his lack of social skills as he is about sitting next to Nidal, for whom he feels a magnetic attraction.

“Hey, Daoud. Have some more ‘araq! Give me your glass.” Samir leans over with the pitcher. “Nidal, give him some ice, if you will. The bowl is over there.”

David hold up his glass while Nidal fills it with three small cubes, then Samir pours the ‘araq and some water, creating the milky white elixir. “Maybe this will loosen that ajdab’s tongue!” Samir thinks.

“That’s better!” David says to himself.
“I hope this gets better!” Nidal thinks.

Samir and Basma exchange glances across the table, then continue their conversations.

“Have you seen any good exhibitions recently?” David finally asks an interesting question. An opening.

Nidal turns in her chair and leans toward David. “Not a lot” she replies, “aside from Basma’s, which I guess Samir didn’t care for, and which you didn’t see either.”

“No, I did see it … sort of. You can see the paintings through the windows. But yeah, I didn’t have time to go. I’ll go back to Bayt Sabri and check it out, maybe tomorrow.”

“F-il mishmish,” she thinks. “Well, you should go, since it’s worth the visit. And not only because Basma is my friend. She studied with some good teachers, like Fateh Moudarres. Do you know his work?”

“No. I mean, I’ve heard the name, but don’t really know what his work is like. What’s it like? Do you know him?”

“He was great … he died a few years ago, the miskeen. But his paintings are excellent. He did a lot of rural scenes, you know, from the countryside. Peasants. And mostly Kurds. He was Kurdish, or at least his mother was, you know. Some of the paintings are very vivid, with old faces staring out, almost like Mesopotamian icons or statues. Have you seen those carvings at the museum?”

“No, but I saw some old animal statues in Aleppo, the ones made of black stone with white eyes kind of bugging out. Those?”

“No! Humans, not animals. More like the faces of the gods and goddesses depicted in ancient temples, but for peasants. You have to see them to know what I’m talking about.”

“OK. Where can I see them?”

“You can go to the museum or some of the galleries have some. I have a book with some of them that I can show you. His old studio also has a few of his works, sort of like a gallery. Have you been there?”

“No.” David is feeling like a rube now, while Nidal is opening up. He drinks the ‘araq and her tongue loosens. It’s a curious drink.

“Well he had this basement studio near Sahat an-Najma, ya’ni, in the center of town, not far from Sha’laan. Anyway, it was in the basement and had little light. He had stuff all over the place – books stacked on shelves, paint supplies in cans on the floor and on tables, and of course paintings and drawings lying around or on easels. It was a total mess! Fateh would hold court in his studio most mornings. You could go visit with him and talk, and smoke. I think there were more ashtrays than chairs! Even than paintings!”

David laughs. “Sounds interesting.”

“He was a real character, Fateh. Really smart. He studied in Europe and spoke lots of languages and knew all these famous people, like Sartre. He had a picture of Sartre in his studio.”

“When did he know him? Did he live in Paris?”

“I think he was there in the 60s, maybe earlier. I don’t know. But he liked to quote philosophy, literature, poetry, play the piano. He also had these pieces of paper hanging all over the studio with sayings on them, like obscure thoughts. I remember a coupe because I wrote them in my notebook one day. ‘That outlaw can draw the mountains with his voice,’ and ‘With one painting a man is able to found an entire nation.’ That sort of thing. No one understood any of it. We used to laugh that he was probably drunk when he wrote them, but I think he was above that. Drunk like the Sufis, you know, Daoud. You study that too, right? Sufism?”

“Yeah, I mean, sort of. I like to read Ibn al-’Arabi and I used to go to dhikr in New York, but it’s not the same there. I mean, here, you have Ibn al-’Arabi’s tomb and all the mosques, and the whole situation is different. It’s more normal. Everyone thought I was weird in New York.” By everyone David principally means Marina.

“I wouldn’t say it’s exactly ‘normal’ here either. Everything is so political that you have to be careful. Even praying can get you in trouble.” At least that has been her excuse for not praying or going to the mosque. “Everything is political here, Daoud. Even your ‘araq!”

“Here’s to politics!” he says as he raises his glass to hers. She smiles and raises hers as well. As she sips she can see Basma beaming at her from over the rim of the glass. She blushes a little too, annoyed at being the object of these designs, but pleased as well.

“Yallah, Daoud, you aren’t eating! Kull!” Samir piles some kebab on his plate and adds some bread.

“Ok, OK! That’s enough! I’m not that hungry!”

“But this is good meat. It’s not like what you get in Europe, you know, the mad cow meat. Or in America. I would starve there! Shi bikhawwif! It’s scary!”

“You could become a vegetarian, Samir!” Nidal cannot resist poking fun at him. “It might do you good.” She pats her stomach in jest.

“Hey! I’ve worked years on this kirsh!” says Samir as he rubs his somewhat rotund belly. “I’m proud of it. It’s a living sculpture!”

“Better than the ones you make in stone and clay!” Basma cannot resist a jab either.

Samir laughs good heartedly as Bassam stands up.

“Shu, ya Bassam? You’re not going, are you?” says Ahmad in protest. “Lissa bakeer! It’s still early!”

“Wallahi, I have to go home to my wife, but first I want to sing a song to my friend Daoud.” Everyone looks at David, who blushes from embarrassment.

“Why me?”

“Why not? You come all the way to Damascus from America to spy on us. You teach us English. You drink our ‘araq and eat our meat. You sit with our women! Ya’ni, you are one of us. Li’uyounak ya Daouad. Here’s to you!” He raises his glass, as do the others, and they drink to David’s health.

Nidal looks over at David, who seeing her looking at him blushes even more. They both laugh. it seems so crazy. Samir is all smiles. Ahmad leans back in his chair with a sly grin on his face, while Basma stares incredulously at Bassam. He’s majnoun, but in a good way.

Bassam sets down his glass and stands for a moment, clears his throat, takes a long breath, then begins.

Going with the flow. Indeed.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XVIII يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

arts, Damascus, food, politics, romance

Bassam tosses David his jacket then settles down next to Ahmad and across the table from Nidal. Samir sits next to David, who after putting his coat on the back of his chair slides over a little closer to Nidal. She doesn’t move but sits somewhat awkwardly in her chair. Basma smiles at her, nods at Samir, then, glancing briefly at David, says, “Shu jaybak la huun, Samir? What brings you here?”

“Daoud is always hungry!” says Samir. “We couldn’t keep him out all night without feeding him! You see how tall he his. He has to eat!”

They all laugh, though David is a bit embarrassed at finding himself the center of attention.

“Why didn’t you just eat at Bayt Sabri? The food there is good, it’s clean. You were already there, mkayyifeen, having a good time. It would have been easier to stay.”

“Well, yes, but we had to meet a friend somewhere, Ayman, you know him,” he says in a somewhat serious tone. “Plus, there’s no place like Riwaq. And I had to check my mail. Get a load of this brochure.” He hands her the invitation to the opening of her show opening at Bay Sabri.

“So, I see that you actually get these invitations, even if you don’t always come! Mal’aon! By the way, did you go to Marmar?”

“Yeah, I popped in with Daoud but had to keep him out of Roula’s clutches.”

Basma laughs and says, “Oh God, Roula! I’m glad you escaped, Daoud! But what did you guys think of the exposition?”

“Ya’ni, it was ok. I told Daoud there’s nothing to write home about. You know, the usual stuff. Like yours!”

“Hey, be nice for a change!”

Basma and Samir enjoy a gentle rivalry — less that of a cat and a mouse, and more that of two cats fighting over the same territory. They went to school together, from elementary through high school, and share too much history to let anything slide. Even if she doesn’t always agree with him, Basma respects Samir’s opinion. Samir, for his part, likes Basma well enough — their parents were from the same village — but thinks her paintings are superficial. Her main art teacher at the university had said this to him in an interview, though Samir has never actually told her this. That would be mean. Still, he has a habit of provoking her, and doesn’t mince his words. As they banter, both lean slightly across the table. Nidal and David, a bit crowded out, draw back in their chairs, look over at each other, then smile and laugh nervously.

“I though you were going to order some food!” Ahmad interrupts them all. “Look, I have an idea. My car is parked around the corner. I know a place in al-Midan that has really clean meats. It’s kind of a working class grill, but it’s really good. And cheap. I could drive us all there. How many are we? 1, 2, 4, 6!” He counts aloud. “We can fit. It’ll be tight, but we can make it. It’s only 15 minutes away anyway. Then we could go to this haqeer dive bar I know near Bab Touma. Shu raykun? What do you think?”

“You actually think we’d all fit in your old junker?” asks Bassam. “That VW wouldn’t make it down the hill, let alone to al-Midan!”

“No, it’s totally fine!” protests Ahmad. “I just had it repaired. And if it doesn’t start we can just roll it all the way down the hill to al-Midan anyway! Yeah, it’s small but we could fit. Who wants to go?”

Samir says that David can’t wait to eat and nudges his friend with his elbow, but David says he’s more or less full, having eaten most of the hummus and bread by himself.

“Come on, don’t you want a little meat? You look hungry to me!” Samir gives him a funny look, as if to say, “What’s the matter with you?”

“Me, I’m too tired to go,” Nidal interjects. “Plus I’m trying to become a vegetarian. It’s supposed to be better for you than all these meats. I have to leave soon anyway. I need to get home and go to bed.”

“I used to be a vegetarian in New York,” David says, “but here’s it’s hard. Everyone eats meat all the time, and its hard to refuse. People get angry!”
David doesn’t like to offend anyone and tends to go with the flow. “But they taste good, better than in New York!”

“What do mean you were a vegetarian?” says Samir. “You ate the kebabs that Miriam made today, and we’ve had kebabs here before. And shawarma! Give it up, Daoud. You like meat!”

“Well, I used to be a vegetarian. It’s easier there, in New York. There are restaurants and lots of people are vegetarians, so it’s kind of normal. A lot of my friends are vegetarians.”

David is thinking primarily of Marina, but doesn’t want to mention her in the current context.

“But here no one really understands it, like why I wouldn’t want to eat meat in the first place. But yes, Miriam’s kebabs were really delicious.” He turns toward Nidal for no reason and says, “She’s a great cook, really. She made kebabs with cherries, and also some cheese with pomegranate seeds!”

“Like in Aleppo. They do that in Aleppo.”

“She’s never even been to Aleppo,” says Samir with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s just her imagination. Or her neighbor who she steals recipes from. Maybe she’s from Aleppo. She seems kind of ghaleeza.”

“Stop, Samir!” says Basma. “You’re the crude one! Plus you’ll give Daoud all sorts of ideas about us.”

“Oh, I already know about that sort of competition between the cities, ya’ni, which one is the oldest, and who has the best food, whose women are the prettiest. I don’t really get it. They both seem like nice places to me.”

“So, which city has the prettiest women?” Bassam chimes in. “Tell us, Daoud. You’re the m’allem. You’ve been to both cities!”

He shrugs and says, “Shu ba’rifni? What do I know? You’re the m’allem, Bassam!”
Samir laughs and gives him the Syrian high-five shake, and Bassam sits back in his chair and laughs.

“Don’t pay any attention to them.” Nidal addresses him. “They always joke like this, don’t you know by now? But I agree. All that nonsensical haki fadi about Aleppo and Syria is tiresome! I mean, people talk like it’s 2000 BC or something! But they do have special foods in Aleppo. You should try them, like karabeej halab.” David has never had the distinctive walnut-filled cookie from Aleppo.

“Hey, all this talk about food is making me hungry!” says Bassam. “Let’s just order here and then we can go somewhere for a drink later.”

Everyone agrees so he calls over a waiter and places an orders for some grilled meats — sha’af, kefta kebab, and sheesh tawouq. Nidal orders an olive and za’tar salad as well. They ask for another large carafe of ‘araq for the table.

The waiters leaves and Ahmad turns to Basma and talks to her about the show at Marmar. Samir and Bassam hunch over a cell phone, texting and discussing something seemingly important. David and Nidal sit more or less alone at the table.

After an awkward moment during which David stares at the half-full glass of ‘araq in front of him and Nidal twirls her hair absentmindedly, they turn toward one another almost at once, and each begins to ask the other,
“Keefak?”
“Keefik?”

They laugh nervously at the false start, then David breaks the ice by asking her how her new apartment is turning out.

“Oh, it’s ok, mashi al-hal,” she says. “Small but nice. It’s the first time I’ve lived alone, so it takes some getting used to. But I like it.”

“Where is your family? What do they think about your living alone?”

Nidal shyly mentions that she was orphaned when she was nine and raised by her aunt and uncle, and that they support her move. She had been living with girlfriends in the last few years but wanted some privacy.

“In terms of my family, I only really have ‘Amti Fatimah. Some people think my father might still be alive in Lebanon, but I guess it’s too late for that. It’s been over twenty years. So only my aunt is left. In fact I just came from visiting her in the Old City. That’s where I went after seeing you guys at Bayt Sabri. My aunt is all alone this week since my uncle went to visit my cousins, his sons, ya’ni, in Hama. They have a business. So she was happy to have some company tonight.”

She sips from her glass then stares at the table.

“Where in the Old City does she live?”

“It’s a hara called Mazenet al-Shahm. Not far from Bayt Sabri, about a ten minute walk down Medhat Pasha past the Buzuriyya, sort of in the direction of al-Shaghour.” She puts the drink down and looks at David, meeting his eyes for the first time this evening. He has a gentle look about him, she thinks. Nice.

“I don’t know that area at all,” he says. I’ve been in the Buzuriyya a lot, and there’s that old hammam there, whatever it’s called. ‘Nouri Pasha’ I think? I went there once!”

“You and all the tourists! I hear it’s nice though I never went inside. I think mostly men go. But Mazenet al-Shahm is pretty traditional. Everyone knows everyone. It’s where I grew up. Nizar Qabbani lived there when he was a child.”

“I thought he lived in Muhajireen. That’s what I was told.” David seems genuinely puzzled, as if the location of the poet’s home gives meaning to everything else about his life in Damascus.

Nidal laughs. “Well, maybe later on he did, but he spent his childhood in Mazenet al-Shahm. He wrote poems about it, about his house, his school, about Damascus and its gardens and jasmine. Do you know them?”

David shakes his head.

“He couldn’t have written that about Muhajireen! No offense, Daoud, but it’s not the same!”

David laughs then describes his apartment in Muhajireen — the three little rooms, the sobia, its proximity to where Abu ‘Ali claims Nizar Qabbani also lived at some point, just across the street.

“It’s not bad up there. It’s quiet and I like looking at the mountain and down over the city at night from the windows.”

“Bas ba’eeda! It’s far! She raises her eyebrows in a mocking way. The atmosphere between them, once fraught with tensions, has lightened considerably. They both seem more comfortable, and the others at the table let them be. Samir steals furtive looks from the other side, and Bassam smiles over at Basma, who winks back. A conspiracy of confederates is afoot.

“My apartment’s not far from here. I walk by Riwaq all the time when I go downtown. I tried to get a place in the Old City but all I could find were tiny single rooms in Bab Touma, or a room in a house with a big family. I mean, I like family and all. I grew up with my parents and my grandmother in the house! But I didn’t want to come here and experience New Jersey all over again!”

Nidal laughs then asks about his grandmother, if he had known her. “She was from Damascus, right?”

“Yes, but she went to America when she was young, I think ten or twelve, and never came back to Syria. She talked about it all the time and was always telling stories and cooking for us. My grandfather died a few years before I was born, so I didn’t know him at all. My sittee died when I was a kid, about 14. I think she was about 70 or 75. So she had an ok life, but she missed Syria.”

“What was she like? Do you remember much?”

“Oh yes, I spent a lot of time with her. We were very close. She was kind of short and skinny, with really long black hair. She had intense eyes and she liked to laugh a lot. She had a great sense of humor.” He pauses to sip on his ‘araq, then continues. “She more than my father taught me Arabic. She used to cook a lot, you know, mostly Syrian dishes, meats too! So that’s what I learned most. Food. And some music too. She used to sing songs. I liked it but my friends always thought it was weird. Even my mom did. She’s a ‘normal’ American.”

“Were your friends Americans or Arabs?”

“They were mostly regular Americans like my mom. I mean, English, German, Irish, Italian, you know. The usual people. I think there was one Albanian kid, or maybe he was Armenian. Everyone else was white. There were maybe some Arabs but not many. Not like today! New Jersey is like Little Arabia now.”

The arrival of the meat tray interrupts their conversation. David sits back and leans a bit toward Nidal so the waiter has room to place the enormous platter on the table. His cheek brushes against her long hair as their heads approach. A tingle of excitement shoots up his spine, but he quickly sits back straight in his chair.

“Now there’s a plate to scare the vegetarians!” says Ahmad, and they all laugh. Samir mixes the carafe of ‘araq with attention, and Bassam sends another quick text then rubs his hands together in anticipation of his meal.

“I’m crazy about meat!” he shouts. “Go on, be a vegetarian, Daoud. You too, Nidal. But look what you’re be missing!” He waves his hands at the platter of meats, covered with warmed pieces of pita bread and sprinkled with sumac and parsley. “Ya salam!”

There are no plates or cutlery, just the large platter, 2 baskets of bread already cut into quarters and wrapped in plastic, and a box of tissues. The waiter returns with a tray of lettuce, mint, and raw onions, as well as Nidal’s salad.

Samir puts out his cigarette and digs in. “Tafaddal ya jamaa’ Dig in!”

“Sahtayn!” says Ahmad as he raises his glass. David’s eyes are on Nidal as he lifts his
mostly empty glass. She waves at the platter of meats and says, “Go ahead! The meat’s good here. Or have some of my salads if you want.”

David is already reaching for a chunk of meat with a corner of bread while Samir refills his glass. Go with the flow.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XVII يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

artists, Damascus, food, Homeland Security, travel

Nidal walks into the courtyard, a large patio surrounded by trees with a small fountain in one corner, now dormant, and a string of colored electric bulbs stretched over the open space that cast red, blue, and white shadows across the stone floor. Some tables and chairs are scattered here and there, and despite the chill in the air a few die-hards sit outdoors, their glowing cigarettes and loud conversation defying the elements. On one side are some mailboxes for members of the Artists Syndicate, on the other the arched entrance to the bar and restaurant within. She strides across to patio, opens the glass door, and heads in. Whereas the patio is mostly deserted, the bar is packed. Tables crowd the space and a din of voices, clinking glasses and plates, and music coming from a television greet her ears as she stops to get her bearings. A few friends recognize her and wave her over to their tables, but spotting Basma sitting with some friends at a table near one corner, under an archway, she heads over to say hi.

“Marhaba! Hi everyone.”

“Marhabtayn, Ya Nidal! I thought I might see you here! Tafaddali! Have a seat! We were just talking about the show at Marmar.“

Basma slides over a bit and Nidal plops down into a chair. Basma is sharing a plate of falafel with two friends, Ahmad and Luay. Ahmad is a well-known writer and editor of a literary magazine in which Nidal had once published a short story. Luay paints and has exhibited throughout Syria and Lebanon, as well as once in Paris and Geneva. A cloud of cigarette smoke hangs over their heads, framing conversations made more fluent with the flow of ‘araq.

“Shu fi ma fi, Ahmad? What’s up?” asks Nidal. “Hi Luay.”

“Not much. Just working. And waiting for another story from you. That last one was good.”

“Good … but not great!” adds Luay, with a touch of malice. He had pursued Nidal in the days when she had been involved with Khalid al-’Azm, and while he’d moved on — married now and with a young daughter — he remained bitter, not really even knowing why. But Nidal seems an easy target, so he lets his tongue loose when he has the opportunity.

“It’s only because Ahmad likes you that he published it in the first place.”

“La! Not at all! Nidal’s a very good writer. And at any rate her stories are better than your lousy canvases!” Ahmad interjects, mock punching Luay in the arm. Luay lets out a breath of air, sounding like a frustrated bull.

“Are you working on anything new?” Ahmad asks.

“Nah. I’ve been busy moving in to my new place and, you know, work. And I was just in Beirut.”

“Did you see the Hassan Jouni show?” Basma asks. “I think it’s at Gallerie Alwan.“

“No, I didn’t have any time. I only stayed one night and had to submit some stories, and then mostly went to bookstores. Maybe next time.”

“Bah, his work is just folklore anyway. Haki fadi, ya’ni,” sneers Luay. “It’s not serious art. Saad Yagan is a hundred
times better.”

“‘Ala ra’si, Saad’s great. But what do you mean Jouni’s not serious?” protests Basma. “He knows how to paint! He studied in Spain, you know, in San Lorenzo. And I like his work. Just because it’s not all dark and violent like yours doesn’t mean it isn’t good or serious.”

“You only say that because you stole from him and copy his style! And who cares about Spain?!” Luay had studied in Aleppo and Damascus, and aside from the few shows abroad had not traveled much. “Studying in Spain is no condition for being great. Mu shart.”

“Khalas, ya jamaa’. Cut it out, you guys! Stop!” says Ahmad, his hands making a time-out gesture like a referee. Then turning to Luay, he whispers loudly, so all can hear, “Shu bak? What’s the matter with you? Relax a bit!”

“Ma’lish,” Nidal adds, “I didn’t see it anyway… So what’s new in the world of poetry, Ahmad?”

“What do I know!” he laughs. “I’m too busy editing the magazine to read anything! But there are some good pieces coming out. Some young poets. Not bad. You should send me something else. I’ll work with you on it.” Ahmad has published five volumes of short stories, one that had been turned into a television mini-series, and he is widely respected as an author and editor.

“Minshuf, we’ll see,” she says as she pours herself a glass or ‘araq, then plops in two ice cubes. It’s the wrong order but at this point she’s more interested in the result, not the process. She sits back in her chair and takes a swig of the cool elixir.

Meanwhile Samir, Bassam, and David cross the mostly empty courtyard, shouting a perfunctory ‘Marhaba’ to the shadowy figures seated outdoors, then head into the bar. Samir stops at the door then excuses himself to go back to check his mailbox, where he receives some private mail and anything having to do with sculpture, expositions, and the like. So Bassam and David head inside and scout out a table in a far corner near the kitchen and under the large television monitor showing music videos. Kind of par for the course, David thinks as some Arab bimbo gyrates on the screen. You can’t escape Rotana these days. It’s a bit cacophonous in the corner, the music mixing with kitchen sounds and all the voices. He slides out of his winter jacket and settles in with his back to the room. Bassam follows suit and drags a chair over for Samir, who has just joined them at the table, carrying a fistful of letters and brochures in his hand. They order a carafe of ‘araq and some plates of mezzeh — hummus, falafel, mtabbel, and fried potatoes. David is famished and cannot wait to eat.

“Shu? Lots of mail?” Bassam asks.

“Mostly junk. A couple of love letters and some art supply catalogs. You know, the usual.”

Bassam laughs, knowing that Samir is joking about the love letters, but turning to David says, “Samir’s mal’aun. That devil has four lovers and he’s not even a Muslim!”

David doesn’t know if this is a joke but laughs anyway.

“I only have three — Miriam, my wife, and my mother-in-law’s oldest daughter! That’s enough for me!”

Bassam guffaws and it takes David a few seconds to figure out the joke, but his mind is mostly on the food. The smell from the kitchen has opened up his appetite.

The waiter brings the tray of ‘araq and Samir begins the alchemy.

“It’s crowded here tonight. I guess because it’s cold out. Bas, those guys outside are majaneen. You’d have to be nuts to sit out there on this cold night.” Bassam accepts a glass of ‘araq from Samir, who has mixed one for David as well.

“Yallah, sahtayn! To your health!” Samir raises his glass and they toast.

“To love!” says Bassam, with gusto.

“To food!” offers David, and they laugh at his crack.

“It’s coming. Don’t worry. You won’t starve! Hey, check out this brochure. It’s for the opening of Basma’s show at Bayt Sabri. They should have sent it to my newspaper office, since I only come here about once a month. I should probably go back and see it.”

“Let’s go tomorrow night. We’ll bring Daoud so he can see it too.”

“No, I have to stay home with Miriam,” says Samir. “Her sister is visiting and then they want to go see George’s house. Maybe in a few days.”

The food arrives and David, not waiting for his friends, digs in. Grabbing a piece of pita bread, he tears off a corner and grabs a falafel ball with it, dips it in the hummus, and scarfs it down. Samir and Bassam pick at the potatoes but seem less interested in the plates than in the glasses before them, which they raise with a certain frequency.

After a few moments, Samir leans toward David and says, “You know, you don’t have to get involved with that business with Ayman. The software and so on. You can let it drop.”

“This is not the place to talk about that, Samir,” interjects Bassam, holding a warning hand in the air. “But just think about it, Daoud. It could help us a lot. Wallahi, it could.”

David has food in his mouth, but grunts a little and nods his head while sipping from his glass. He puts down the glass and says “I’ll write to my father about it tomorrow. Tikram ‘uyunkum!” They laugh at his use of the familiar expression then let it drop. It’s not the best place to talk about this sort of thing. It’s surprising what sensitive ears can hear even over the most boisterous of noise.

“Shu had?” Samir cries, pointing at the television screen. “What is this nonsense?”

David and Bassam look up to see some guy in a fancy suit crooning while a young woman in a black evening gown walks up some grand staircase into what looks to be a palace. She looks over her shoulder with a hint of regret on her face, then joins some young stud waiting at the top. They lock arms then enter the palace together. The singer moans his broken heart on the pavement below while the tabla drum announces a shift toward a more folkloric rhythm and the scene cuts to a group of girls in flowing robes dancing the dabkeh.

“That makes no sense at all! These songs are getting worse all the time. I’d rather listen to Fairouz than this garbage!”

Bassam shakes his head. “They used to play Umm Kulthum here at night. I’ll see if I can get the waiter to change it.” He raises his hand and gestures to one of the servers, who comes quickly to the table. “Can’t you put on some nice music? We have a guest from New York here, and he wants to hear something good. Like Umm Kulthum or Sabah Fakhri.”

“Tikram, ustaaz. You’re right. I’ll ask the manager.” The waiter heads off.

After a minute the television goes silent and the speakers hanging in the corners come to life with Umm Kulthum’s al-Atlal.

A number of people clap their hands as they hear the familiar opening strains. Umm Kulthum remains the preferred soundtrack to their evening machinations.

“Ah! That’s much better! ‘Azeem!” Samir sits back and puts his arms behind his head, a smile on his face.

David cleans off the plate of mtabbel with a last fold of bread, and grin spreads on his face.

“Thanks!” he offers to no one in particular.

“For what?” says Samir. “The music?”

“Well, for that, but also for bringing me out tonight. It’s been a nice evening. I’d probably be at home reading if I hadn’t joined you tonight.”

“Basita. No problem. And it’s still early! You’re not going yet. Ibn al-’Arabi can wait!”

David looks at his watch. It’s only about 9:30. “No, but I am going to the toilet. I’ll be back.”

He pushes away from the table and stands up to look around. The toilets are off in one corner, under an archway. He walks over, navigating among the tables and the gesticulating hands that dart out here and there. The yellowish walls are hung with little framed reproductions of works by Syrian artists as well as posters of past gallery shows. There is an exhibition space adjacent to the bar, though he has never been inside. He wonders if anyone ever goes there since he’s only sat in the bar or patio when he’s come.

He finds the cramped toilet and takes care of his business. Coming out he looks to the other side of the archway and sees Nidal seated with her friends. Her back is to him but he recognizes her nonetheless. Without thinking he stops and stares nervously. She doesn’t see him but Basma notices him standing there and, pulling an empty chair between herself and Nidal, asks David to join them.

“Tafaddal!”

He hesitates a moment — his friends are waiting for him across the room — but throws caution to the wind and joins them. Nidal turns as he arrives at the table and blushes, the glass of ‘araq poised at her lips.

“Marhaba!” he says eagerly as he takes a seat.

“Ahlayn, Daoud!” says Ahmad, who’d met David before.

“Ahlan! I’m Basma, and this is Luay, an artist. And you know Nidal. David’s an American but lives here now.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” David says to Luay, then turning to Nidal says “Keefik?”

“Mineeha, I’m fine. Keefak intah?”

“Mashi al-hal. Ok,” offers David shyly.

“Ahlan,” says Luay. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, I came with some friends. We’re sitting over there.” He indicates Samir and Bassam with his head.

“No, I mean what brings you to Syria? What’s an American doing here? Are you with the CIA?”

David had heard this joke before, though it wasn’t always exactly a joke. But he had become accustomed to it.

“Yes, and he’s writing a report on bad artists!” jokes Basma.

“Then you’ll be at the top of his list!” retorts Luay.

“David’s from New York,” explains Ahmad. “He teaches at the American school here.”

“Ah, a jassous like the rest of them! We don’t need anymore spies here!” Luay says, leaning in aggressively. A shadow crawls across his face like a nebulous spider.

“Stop, Luay! David’s not a jassous! Leave him alone!” Basma says, but David interrupts her.

“No, I am. Really. But I’m a nice one!” says David, running with the joke that isn’t a joke. “I spy on your food, your ‘araq, and your music,” he says, sweeping his hands at the table. “So far so good, now that they put on Umm Kulthum. I’ll send in a report next week.”

Nidal laughs quickly, bringing her hand to her mouth, and Ahmad sniggers.

“Hilu, Daoud. We need more spies like you here!”

“I hate America.” Luay, still leaning into the table, looks balefully at David. He’s had a little too much to drink.

“How can you hate a place you don’t even know!” Basma cries.

“I know it. I was there three years ago, in Los Angeles. It was horrible. Fazee’ah.”

“Why?” asks David. “Most people like LA.”

“It was horrible. I left here and took a plane to Paris, then another one to California. I was in the air Eleven hours. Eleven! I started to cry when I thought how far away I was from my home. It’s far! Then I arrive at the Los Angeles airport. My sister lives there, so she had me come. I didn’t even want to go. So we land and it was like twenty hours after leaving Damascus. Imagine! Traveling for twenty hours and everything is different. The food is bad, shitty, ya’ni. No one speaks Arabic or Kurdish or anything but American.”

“You mean English, ustaaz Luay!” Nidal kids him. “They speak English in America.”

“No they don’t! No one can understand them. The British don’t! Wallah! They eat their words.” He makes a mock eating motion with his hands and gargles with his throat. “No one can understand them! Then I am going to get my suitcase and I go through this big door. How am I supposed to know it was an emergency exit? A bunch of alarms go off, lights and everything, and these three brutes come up and grab me. I started to shake. They took me into this room and interrogated me for a couple of hours – you know, they hate Muslims and Syrians. I tried to tell them it was just a mistake, but they wouldn’t listen to me. So I told them to just put me on the plane and send me back home. I didn’t even want to be there. But they were able to contact my sister, who came and got me. I spent two weeks and most of the time just sat in her house. I hate America! I’ll never go back.”

“Not after that! What kind of idiot walks through the emergency doors!?” Basma laughs, and this enrages Luay even more.

David is silent. He figures it’s best to let it go. He’s never had a problem with anyone in Syria just for his being American.

“Daoud is from New York, not LA, and plus his grandmother is from Damascus!” Nidal surprises herself by speaking in his defense. David too.

“Was,” offers David. “She died a long time ago. I didn’t really know her.”

“That doesn’t matter. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. It’s all the same. You are all gangsters to me.”

David decides not to take up the “Chicago Gangster” thing that people still seem to believe, almost a hundred years after Al Capone.

“How’s your job?” asks Ahmad, hoping to change the subject.

“We have a little break this week, so I’m not working … just spying!”

Basma and Nidal laugh.

“What have you been doing on your break?” asks Basma.

Before David can answer, Samir is at his side and says “We’ve kidnapped him and are taking him to a secret location where he won’t be able to go back to America!”

“Hey, Samir,” says Ahmad. They are old friends from university. “Have a seat!”

“No, we have a table over there.” He indicates Bassam, who waves. “We were about to order some more food, Daoud, if you want to come back. Some grilled meats. But we can wait.”

“Why don’t you sit here?” Ahmad slides over and makes some room.

“I’m leaving anyway,” says Luay. “I have to get back to my studio.”

“And work on ‘serious art’?” Basma chides. Nidal laughs again. Luay glares at them both, then standing says “Yallah. Bye. Nice meeting you Daoud. Be careful with your spying,” and grabs his coat and heads out the bar.

David looks at Samir, then Nidal and Basma, and they all laugh.

“Majnun!” says Basma while Ahmad shakes his head.

“Wa la himmak, Daoud. He is just angry at the world. Let’s have some more ‘araq, and order your meats here.”

Samir waves to Bassam, who grabs his coat and David’s and brings them over to the table.

“Marhaba ya jamaa’ ” Bassam says as he grabs a chair and settles in next to Ahmad. Samir takes Luay’s seat across from Nidal.

Davis sits back in his chair. It’s an interesting start to the evening.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XVI يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

Damascus, mosques, Old City, romance, Syria, taxis

Nidal hugs and kisses her aunt, then steps out the door into the dark street. She makes her way over to Medhat Pasha, winding through the old neighborhood, then comes to Bab al-Jabiya at the intersection with the main avenue circling the Old City. The elegant Sinan Pasha mosque stands to one side — its delicate green enameled-brick minaret a stark contrast to the ugly architect cropping up in and around the city, mosques included. And not only in Damascus. She was shocked on her last trip to Beirut to see the plans for the Grand Mosque – a parody of Ottoman styles that looked to her more like an enormous toad squatting in Martyr’s Square, rather than an elegant testament to faith.

She stops to observe the mosque. The minaret is lightly illuminated from the moon and passing cars, but unlike so many mosques today no green lights dangle from its gallery, sparing it this garish headdress. She can make out the large dome rising above the striped stone walls. Her father had taken her there when she was just a child, not so much to pray, though he was moderately faithful, especially for a man of science, but to enjoy the tranquility within. Although she hasn’t been to a mosque in years and only says her prayers in passing, she remembers fondly the moments she spent in its inner courtyard, so much like the old palaces she’d visited as a schoolgirl — expansive, cloistered from the outside hustle and bustle — and yet embodying a different sort of energy. Perhaps that’s what the faithful call the “spiritual,” though she’d left her devotions behind with her childhood home. But the traces of that education remain, and the memories.

She looks at her watch: 8:45. She’s tired and should probably go home and sleep, but the idea of stopping for a quick drink at Riwaq has a greater hold on her imagination at the moment. She feels a slight twinge of guilt for even considering this while standing before the centuries-old mosque, then dismisses it with a quick shake of her head and looks down the street for a taxi. At this hour there are few, since the drivers, having finished their long days, will be at home eating and watching television, or sleeping. A few cars and a couple of those little Suzuki delivery trucks zoom into Medhat Pasha on their way toward Bab Sharqi, but there are surprisingly few people on the street tonight. Perhaps it’s the cold, or the nearly full moon, but she feels a preternatural urge to wrap herself up in a blanket and just float up to Riwaq, like a witch.

After a few moments of waiting a taxi stops and she opens the rear door, hops in, and closes it gently behind her.

***

David slams the taxi door shut and the driver protests, “Hey, tawwal balak, ustaaz! You’ll break my car!” David apologizes meekly then fumbles for his seatbelt. The driver laughs.

“Wa la himmak, ustaaz. I’m a good driver. I’ve never had an accident. Plus there is no seatbelt!”

It’s a modern Chinese taxi, cramped and noisy, but already customized à la Syrienne. A red and white kufiyah covers the small dash, topped by a wobbly-head dog figurine. Colored lights illuminate the doorjambs and headliner, as well as the glove box and radio. Various air fresheners hang from the rearview mirror, creating an olfactory symphony of pine, cinnamon, lemon, and Allahu ‘alam, along with a rosary and mini-Qur’an dangling on a green string. To top it all off, the stereo blasts some folksy music at near-deafening volume.

“Can you turn that down, please?” yells Samir from the back. I can’t hear myself think.”

“Tikram, ustaaz,” the driver says as he lowers the volume. “But who needs to think?” Turning to David, he asks, “Where to, m’alem?” and speeds off into the night.

David tries to tell the driver where, but says “‘Afaf” instead of “‘Afif,” and they all have a little laugh at his expense.

“Shu, m’alem. Wayn hay ‘Afaf? I’ve been driving the streets of Damascus for 25 years and I only know ‘Afif!”

David stammers, “I mean ‘Afif, of course, ya’ni, up by the French Embassy.”

“Ah!” the driver responds. “‘Afeeef. Not ‘Afaaaaf! ‘Azeem! Shu, do you live up there? Fransi, inteh? Do you work at the Embassy?”

“Leave him alone! He’s not from here!” says Samir, then he returns to chatting with Bassam chat in low voices in the rear.

The driver, looking over at David, says, “Tayyib, min wayn hadratak? Where are you from, then?”

“I’m from New York, but my grandparents were from Damascus. I live here now.”

“Amerka! Wow! New York! What’s your work? Do you work here or are you just visiting?” The driver stops at a light.

“I’m a writer and sometimes teach. I work at the new American school here, out in al-Mezzeh.”

“Mineeh. So, tell me. How much does one need to live in Amerka. Ya’ni, how much each month?” The light turns green and they continue, passing over the river and up a short hill toward downtown Damascus.

David has heard this question a million times, and answers, “New York’s expensive. You need about $2000 for rent and another $2000 to live on. That’s just to get by.”

“Ma’ul? Really? $4000 a month in New York? Basita. I make that here,” he says, adding “No problem!” in English.

“Ya’ni, It’s expensive. Kiteer ghaliyya.“

“But you have a good life here, no? Shu bidna bi-New York! They must pay teachers a lot at your school.”

“Not really, but it’s ok,” says David. “It’s enough for me.”

“Muslim wa la Masihy? Muslim or Christian?” asks the driver, somewhat cheekily.

“Khalas! Leave him alone!” shouts Bassam from the back. “Shu dakhlak? What’s it your business?”

“I’m just talking,” says the driver. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll still take you to your “‘Afaf” no matter what your religion! I have nothing against Christians.”

They drive in silence for a few minutes, then the driver continues.

“It’s a disaster in Iraq, ustaaz. Why did your president send all those soldiers to kill us for? They don’t have those weapons of mass destruction. Saddam is an ajdab, an idiot. He can’t have those weapons, no way. Bas, that Bush, now he’s a real nimra. That zalimeh has a ‘tongue of mass destruction.’ All he has to say is ‘aha’ and he destroys us!”

“Shu biya’rfni?” says David. “What do I know? I’m against war at any rate. I’m with you. It’s a disaster. We should’t have gone.”

At this the driver attempts one of those high-five hand slaps, but has to grab the steering wheel to avoid missing the turn from Yousef al-’Azmeh toward the Jasmine Hotel. They make the turn then speed along the street, mostly empty at this hour.

“‘Azeem! Bas, laysh tahkri ‘arabi inte? Why do you speak Arabic?”

It was the familiar routine: where he’s from, why he speaks Arabic, sometimes if he’s a Muslim, and then the questions about his personal life, and the inevitable four wives scenario he’s heard 1,001 times. To avoid this, David tells the driver, his voice a firm monotone, “I’m from New Jersey. I learned Arabic from my father, and also at the university. I have one girlfriend but I don’t want four. One’s enough. Khalas.“

The driver looks over at him like he’s a little crazy. “Mashi, ustaaz. Khaleena nrouh. Let’s go. So, ‘Afif, near the French Embassy.” The driver turns up the music slightly and they continue their route in silence.

“It worked after all!” David thinks.

***

Marina sits in front of the desk, her iPhone ringing in her hand. After a few seconds she sets it down and frowns. The travel agent asks, “So? Any news? Have you decided? I can get you the Damascus flight now but there aren’t many seats left at this fare. There isn’t much time.”

“He’s not answering so I don’t know if it’s a good time to go. I’ll have to try later.”

David hardly ever picks up the phone, even when he’s there. She can’t understand why he refuses to get a cell phone. It doesn’t cost anything there to receive a call from the States, and she wants to make this reservation. He hasn’t answered her last letter and they didn’t talk about it the last time they spoke, about 10 days ago. She’s tried all morning and now it’s almost 3:00 and she has the seminar Uptown at 4:00. She can’t sit there forever. Where the heck is he anyway?

She sighs, brushes her hair back over her ears, and looks around the room. Her eyes stop on a flyer hanging in the window announcing seasonal fares to Mexico City.

“How much to the D.F?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” says the agent.

“How much to Mexico City? The same dates.”

“I thought you wanted to go to Syria? Now it’s Mexico?!”

“Yeah. My family is there. I’m from there too. I haven’t been back in over a year.”

Maybe it’s best to go visit her family, sin David. She needs a break from the City anyway, and has 3 weeks off in January from school. And David has been so weird. She understands that he needed to make the trip, to take some time for himself, even if the “getting to know his Syrian roots” thing was a little sophomoric. But now he’s got a job there and talks about staying … that is, when she can talk to him. He’s so hard to pin down. It’s not like she had pressured him to get married or even to move in together. That wasn’t her thing. He was the one who brought it up anyway. But in the months before he left they had grown apart and argued more than ever before. He hated his job, and the ‘goofy-Sufi’ charade irritated her, and now he’s doing some Ibn al-’Arabi “project.” What project? Sometimes he is too much. Mexico seems like a good place to get away to. She needs a break.

“OK, let me check.” The agent fiddles with her computer for a moment then announces, “For those dates it would be $525 roundtrip or $400 oneway. There are still seats left. Do you want to book it?”

Marina looks at her watch again, tells the agent to hold on a second, then picks up her phone and dials her mother. Perhaps this is best.

***

Nidal slides into the seat and tells the driver, “‘Afif, please, just up from the French Embassy.”

“Tikrami,” says the driver, an older man dressed in a traditional robe, with a checkered kufiyah around his neck. Nidal sits in her own thoughts while the driver puts the car in gear and turns off into al-Qanawat. The older model Fiat is sparsely decorated, and only a simple rosary hangs from the rearview mirror. David Bowie sings somewhat incongruously from the stereo.

“Ma’lish, binti, if I listen to this? My son gave me this cassette. He bought it in Europe. Does it bother you?” he asks. While Nidal doesn’t much care to listen to “Modern Love” at this particular moment, she assents.

“No, ‘Amo. It’s fine. Thanks.”

“Yallah,” he says, as they come to the intersection with Khalid Ibn al-Waleed Street. He looks over this shoulder then heads toward the Hijaz train station, now covered in scaffolding but illuminated by the growing moon. Nidal had never taken the ld train up to the mountains, and now it was too late.

Nidal’s thoughts turn to David. “It’s crazy,” she tells herself. “I don’t even know this guy.” And yet she finds herself thinking about him more and more. Why? He’s handsome, alright, and always very nice. He seems smart and has interesting things to say, on the rare occasion when he opens his mouth since he’s so khajoul, so shy. She smiles faintly as she recalls how he had stammered and blushed earlier in the evening when they had met at Bayt Sabri. Cute, in a way. There’s a certain chemistry between them. That’s undeniable.

“But it’s impossible!” she tells herself with that same quick shake of the head. “Mustaheel! He’s an American, even if his grandmother was from here. He’ll eventually go back home. And he’s Christian too.”

Not that she really cares about religion, but how could she face her family? And at any rate a Muslim woman can’t marry a non-Muslim man in Syria unless he converts. Even if David seems more than a little bit interested in Sufism and Islam, it seems far fetched to her. Plus he’s an “Amerki!” What would her father think? ‘Amti? And why is she even thinking about these things? Marriage? Who is she kidding? She barely knows him.

And what does David see in her anyway? She’s just a Palestinian journalist. Samir mentioned once that he has some fancy girlfriend in New York, so God knows what he’d wants with her.

“Khalas, Nidal. Insaah. Forget about him,” she tells herself. But she can’t bring herself to forget. Fi shi. There’s something there. She just doesn’t know what. What to say. What to do. She’s had her heart broken already. The pain of Khalid’s rejection still stings, even years later. Someday her situation will improve.

Someday. That’s what ‘Amti always said. But when? Like the long-promised ‘awdeh to Palestine, it seems far off. “Someday” may never come.

They pass Damascus University and she almost tells the driver to stop and take her home instead, but decides against it. It will be nice to get out. She could use a drink. So as “Suffragette City” plays on the stereo the driver crosses Jisr al-Rayees and continues up toward al-Rawda.

***

David glances at his watch. It is nearing 9:00. Marina said she’d call today, but instead of her he’s thinking of Nidal and how tongue-tied he got when he saw her at Bayt Sabri. “What are you getting yourself into?” he asks himself. “You don’t even know her. Yeah, she’s pretty — beautiful, even — and seems interesting, nice. But your being stupid again, David. It’s impossible. You can’t even go out on a date here without getting married first. So that’s crazy. And she’s a Muslim too … Whatever. Probably only George would make a deal out of it. What’s his problem anyway?” David’s mind wanders.

“Hey, do you guys want to stop at Firdaws first, or go straight to Riwaq?” asks Samir as the taxi passes the Jasmine Hotel. “We might meet someone there, or we could go to Lanterna instead.”

“No, I’m hungry,” replies Bassam. “We can go to Firdaws another night. Let’s just go to Riwaq. Jayy ‘ala bali ashuf al-fananin. I feel like seeing some artists.”

“Yeah right!” rejoins Samir. “How about you, Daoud? You said you were hungry.”

“Aiy, let’s go to Riwaq,” David chimes in. “I’m hungry too and want to eat something.” He has food and Nidal on the brain now.

“Mashi,” Samir says, “it was just an idea.” So he sits back and they continue on their trajectory up al-Hamra Street.

***

At al-Rawda Square the taxi shoots up al-Ma’ari Street, navigates a few sides streets, then emerges onto Nazem Pasha Street.

“It’s just over here on the right, ‘Amo,” says Nidal. The driver pulls over and as Nidal pays the fare he says, “Intibihi ‘ala halik, ya binti. Take care of yourself, my daughter.” Nidal smiles warmly at him,says ‘Shukran,’ then opens the door and steps into the street. The night air is cold but refreshing. She braces herself and walks into the courtyard. You never know who will turn up at Riwaq.

***

At al-Jisr al-Abyad Square they zoom past the French Embassy.

“Lak wayn, ustaaz? Where to now?” asks the driver.

David hesitates but Samir announces, “Just up ahead on the left, where that other taxi has stopped.”

The driver pulls over.

“Yallah, ya jama’, have fun. Bas mu kiteer, just not too much!”

Bassam and Samir argue over who will pay, but David slips the driver some bills and opens the door.

“Shu, Daoud. Ma biseer! You can’t do that! Don’t take his money!” But David steps out into the cool evening air and stretches his arms up. Too late.

“It’s a beautiful city, even if everyone is a little nuts,” he thinks. “I guess me too!”

Samir and Bassam walk around the front of the taxi and join him on the sidewalk.

“I’m za’lan with you!” Bassam says. “You didn’t have to pay! You’re our guest here!”

“Basita!” says David. “It’s nothing.”

“Yallah,” says Samir, “but I’m getting the first drink!” and they walk quickly into the courtyard.

You never know who will show up at Riwaq.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XV يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

Damascus, Hijaz railway, mukhabarat, politics, printing press, Syria

They amble up Fakhri al-Baroudi Street toward the old Hijaz train station. The quaint building was built at the end of the Ottoman era and linked Damascus with Medina, passing through Jordan with a branch to the Palestinian cities of Haifa and ‘Akka. Lawrence of Arabia famously sabotaged its tracks during World War I, so it never reached Mecca, as planned. Until recently the station was the starting point for the old narrow gauge steam trains that plied the route between Damascus and the mountain resorts of Zabadani and Bludan — the so-called “Zabadani Flyer.” David had gone on one of the last of its excursions in the Fall with his students and the Director. The three hour ride in the old wooden carriages was fun and he’d spent the time talking with many of the students about their families and lives, eating peanuts and sipping plastic cups of Lipton tea. The Director mostly kept to himself and talked on his mobile phone, though he took David aside when they stopped briefly at ‘Ayn Fijeh so the conductor could refill the water tanks of the old locomotive. The engine seemed a piece out of a museum — antediluvian with its tubes, gears and oddly shaped levers. It dated from 1896 and was among the older live steam engines still in active use in the world. The conductor looked European, not Syrian, wearing soiled overalls and a small cap over his greying hair. Pointing to the locomotive, the Director talked about the importance of tradition and how even the steam engine was proof of how Syria never let go of its past, even as it marched into the future. It didn’t make sense to David at the time — a march forward on a century old European steam locomotive — but he merely nodded his head and said “Hilu.”

Once in Zabadani they disembarked and spent the afternoon wandering around the small town perched along the flanks of the the snow-capped Anti-Lebanon mountains. Afterwards they picnicked in a shady grove in a park not far from the center of town. David had brought some mana’ish but they had gotten cold and soggy during the ride, so he and another student ran to get falafel sandwiches at a small stand near the park. On the other side a group of Boy Scouts marched around engaged in some sort of drill. David hadn’t expected to see Scouts in Syria, though the Director came over to him and told him about the long history of Scouts in the Arab lands. Another sign of their modernity. “Mitil Amerka!” He’d exclaimed with pride.

Today the train station is covered in scaffolding as it awaits its transformation into a planned shopping mall and hotel complex. The Flyer no longer runs, though tourist groups can charter it for a shorter excursion from the main train station a few kilometers to the south. Samir leads them past the small plaza in front of the statin and around the corner toward the cafe on the other side.

With a nod of his head he says “Another Saudi deal that probably will never get finished!” “Khisara, since they stopped running the old trains. A real shame. Ever take it, Daoud?”

David tells him of his trip last Fall with the school, and that it was long but fun.

“Did you see the conductor? Was he the old guy?”

“Yes, I think so, ” replies David, recalling the weathered face and the grey hair.

“Well, they say he was a former Nazi soldier who came here when the French controlled Syria. Ya’ni, during the Vichy era, and then stayed after Hitler was defeated. People called him al-Swisri, “The Swiss,” but he is about as Swiss as you are! He’s a Nazi!”

“That’s just haki fadi,” retorts Bassam. “Don’t believe everything you hear, and definitely don’t believe everything this joker tells you!” He slaps Samir on the back and they laugh.

“Bas, ‘an jadd! I’m serious! That’s what I heard, and from one of the train employees too!”

They arrive at the café, which has a large enclosed terrace, though on this cold evening the clientele are stuffed into the small interior sitting room on the far side away from the street. Samir sends a text while Bassam buys a newspaper and leafs through it. They have an appointment with a friend who operates a print shop across the way. David stands awkwardly, shuddering slightly against the cold wind that has picked up. He begins to wonder why he has come along at all, then tells them that he’ll be going on his way since it’s late and he wants to go eat, but Samir asks him to stay.

“I want you to meet Ayman and see his shop. I think you’ll find it interesting. He’s nice and it won’t take long, then we’ll go get something to eat together. Can you wait a little?”

David has been practically starving since the close encounter with Bakdash’s – the pistachio nougat didn’t really fill him up and it’s been several hours since lunch. But he can wait.

“Yeah, I can wait a little, ya’ni, shwayya.“

“‘Azeem!” says Samir. “And here’s Ayman.”

Samir introduces him to David and they shake hands.

“Ahlayn, Daoud! I’ve heard about you from Samir,” says Ayman. “Welcome in Syria!” he adds, in English. David laughs. He’s used to this by now.

They decide not to head in for coffee – it’s too chilly to sit outside and the indoor space is too smoky, even for Samir. Plus Ayman seems a bit rushed, so they head across the street to the press, taking a pedestrian bridge over the main road. A young man on the bridge hawks bootleg CDs of the latest pop recordings: Nancy ‘Ajram, Wael Kfoury, ‘Ali Hajjar, Diana, George Wassouf. The superstars sell for only 50 lira a piece. Cheap merchandise.

They descend to the sidewalk then head into a dark alley along the side of a row of low but long buildings lining the broad street, one of which houses Ayman’s press. He has already closed the shop, and they enter through the back door off the alley.
Sensing something surreptitious in their movements, David feels a little nervous. He has never been one to break rules or get in trouble, and he doesn’t want to start now. The “other” David, as he had learned, had done so somehow and had been deported for it. He doesn’t want to make the same mistake.

“Don’t worry,” Samir whispers to him as they enter the back of the shop. “It’s just easier this way so no one sees us all going into the shop from the front. We aren’t doing anything wrong. Relax.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he thinks, but heads inside anyway.

Ayman closes the door behind them then flips on some lights. The back of the shop is a storeroom stacked with boxes of paper, cartons of toner and ink, some old file cabinets, and a stack of folding chairs. A partial wall separates it from the back office area with its desks, fancy new PowerMac computers and various printers. A faded poster depicting various English fonts hangs from one wall, while another has a workflow chart in colored inks. It’s a busy shop and they do a lot of printing and copying for private industry, and of course the government, whether they like it or not. The front of the shop has several self-service copy machines and two large Epson poster printers and a Xerox printer used for architectural drawings and prints. The walls are decorated with a number of framed floral prints, a French circus poster — Le Nouveau Cirque de Paris — and the obligatory photo of the President staring out somewhat cross-eyed into the distance. David picks up a small invitation to an event at the French Cultural Center featuring a modern dancer specializing in “aerial arts.” He scratches his head, then puts it down and starts toward the front of the shop but Ayman calls them over to a side room. There they find a stairwell heading down to the basement, where most of the heavy printing takes place.

They follow Ayman down the stairs and find themselves in a large, cavernous space, perhaps 50 feet by 30 feet, laden with devices of all sorts: modern copy machines, enormous printing presses, banks of computers, scanners, and other tools for digital imaging. Large ventilation ducts traverse the high ceiling and fans on the wall keep the air circulating. David is a little surprised at how advanced it all looks. Toward the back and on a small mezzanine level a few feet above the main floor are a number of vintage printing presses, some dating from the late 19th C. Ayman collects these old machines — like the steam locomotive of the Zabadani Flyer, elegant testaments to human ingenuity, as well as, in this case, the dedication to disseminate knowledge, or at least opinion. David heads over to take a look, since they remind him of his fascination (near obsession?) with the “Mujahideen” typewriter.

Seeing David admiring his collection, Ayman says, “This is my little printing museum. All I’m missing is Gutenberg’s press! And maybe one of those American steam presses. Have you seen one? I have a copy of a Stanhope press in that corner, but it doesn’t work. I need to replace some parts. We used the mechanical screw presses in the olden days and I have two over in that other corner. But the old electric presses are my focus.”

David pauses before the machines, complex devices with the simple task of printing and reproducing words. Turning to Ayman, he asks, “Do they still work?”

Ayman glances over at Samir and hesitates. “Ya’ni, some of them can be made to work. But it’s not easy. They break down a lot and it’s hard to get parts for them. I have to order them from Germany, France, and America, but that’s getting harder to do, so I sometimes have the parts made here. I studied Engineering, and can usually figure out what needs to be done to get them to work. But not all of them. I mostly just collect them. That’s more my interest at this point.”

In fact, Ayman had used one of these very relics to print the leaflet which landed Samir and his friends in hot water a few years ago. What had started as a gag — reviving an old press that had been used to print leaflets against the French occupation in order to demand more freedoms today — had turned into a witch hunt as the mukhabarat had scoured every press in the country looking for the combination of paper, ink, font and page layout found in the leaflet. They had come directly to Ayman, knowing of his old collection. He’d just had time to clean off the ink from the old machine, remove some gears, and even douse it in some dust he’d swept off the floor so that when they came it looked as it usually did — standing like the others unused and unusable in a corner.

“Everyone is moving toward digital imaging anyway, so what we need more are new computers and software. I have some Macs and those printers upstairs, but they cost a lot and there’s no service here any more. I paid $20,000 for that big Xerox machine, but it doesn’t even work and they won’t send anyone from Beirut to repair it for another month. Bas, al-Hamdu li-llah. I thank God for my family and this little shop which lets us eat.”
While Ayman and David talk, Bassam and Samir sit at a desk to one side and go over some papers, speaking in hushed tones.

“My father is an engineer too, and he worked in digital imaging research for a few years. Now he’s with Ariadne Communications and does telecom support.”

“Wallah!” says Ayman in mock surprise. “You didn’t want to study Engineering too?”

“Me? Engineering? Bnoab!” laughs David. “No way! I mean, it seems interesting, but my dad works all the time and it’s hard. He’s never at home.”

“It’s good to work!” replies Ayman. “Here it is 8:30 and I’m still here. A man has to work to support his family.”

David thinks of his mother, whose job in PR earns her a salary almost twice his father’s. They both work all the time. He’d chosen a different path.
“I like literature and writing, and teaching. It’s not so bad.”

“But you can’t feed a family on words, Ya Daoud! But if you are happy, mashi al-hal, that’s fine. You aren’t married, are you?”

“No, but he’s in love!” shouts Samir from the desk. He’s overheard their conversation.

“Wow!” says Ayman enthusiastically. “‘Arabiyyeh? Suriyyeh? Amerkiyyeh?”

“Filistiniyyeh! wa khateera jiddan!” says Bassam. “A dangerous Palestinian!” meaning very pretty. “You’d die for her!”

“No! No!” David protests. “I have a girlfriend in New York … sort of. She might come for a visit.”

“Wow! says Samir. “Two girlfriends in the same place! Sounds like an Egyptian soap opera!”

“Hey,” says Ayman, raising his eyebrows, “there’s nothing wrong with that. You could have four….”

David cuts him off before he can go into the “four wives” thing, by saying, “If you need some software or something, my dad could probably get it for you. You know, for the computers or printers. He still does consulting in that field.”

Ayman suddenly looks serious, glances at Samir and Bassam, then says, “‘An jadd? Really? I don’t want to bother him. But do you think he could?”

“Maybe. I can ask him. It depends on what you need.”

“It’s some software that I can’t get here. And I can’t order it from abroad.”

“What software do you need? There’s a shop in Sha’lan that sells software for cheap. I got a lot of stuff there for like 250 lira.”

Ayman laughs. “I know the shop. It’s my cousin’s. But even he can’t get the software I need. It’s special.”

“What is it?” asks David naively.

Ayman hesitates then looks again at Samir.

Samir looks a little nervous, shy, but gets up from the table and comes over to David.

“Shuf, Daoud. You know I like you. We’re friends, right?” He places his arm on his shoulder. “There’s nothing between us. I trust you, and I hope you trust me.”

“Yes,” David says, not sure what is happening.

“Ayman here has done us a lot of favors in the past, you know, printing things for us, helping the cause. Ya’ni, he’s with us, but it’s getting difficult.”

The silence of the room is only interrupted by Bassam’s adjusting his chair. David stares at Samir.

“We have a hard time here, and a lot of people want to change the government, this dictatorship, but are afraid to do anything. We aren’t rich and we aren’t powerful, so what can we do? Shuf, Bassam and I are just journalists. Writers. We deal everyday with these politicians telling us what to say, where to say it, and when. If you don’t do what they ask, then they bother you – sometimes it’s small. You know, your paycheck doesn’t come on time or maybe you don’t get asked to a dinner or function, or someone else gets assigned to a good story. Sometimes it’s more open, like family members getting hurt. Ya’ni, you know what I mean. You’ve been here and you’ve seen a lot. Like what you heard at al-Mezzah, but every day, all the time. This is what we live with. This is our life.”

David looks uncomfortable, so Samir pulls him over to the desk and they all sit down, except Ayman, who remains standing, his arm resting on an old press.

“Imagine, I almost went to jail just for signing the Damascus Manifesto a few years ago. They all talked about how the new president was more open, how we had this Damascus Spring and everyone was hopeful. But it turn out to be just another winter! They let people out of jail and then told them they could run their political salons and so on, only to spy on them and figure out who was working with whom. Then they cracked down on us. People went back to jail, salons were closed. It was over. If it weren’t for George and his wasita I’d probably be in jail. Bassam too … and Ayman, if they knew he was the one printing our materials on his old machines. It would have been worse for him. It was just this one page newsletter that we’d distribute to people. We called it “Sawt al-Huriyya” — “The Voice of Freedom” — and it wasn’t even really radical. Bassam wanted it to be more radical but I thought we had to call for small changes first then gradually remake the society.”

Bassam interjects, “You’re right. Sahh. The newsletter called for little changes, cosmetic changes — ya’ni, new freedoms for journalists, new laws for public gatherings, that sort of thing. We thought it was simple, but the regime found it threatening, and it got us all in trouble. All we did was call for new laws to guarantee freedom of speech and public gathering. We didn’t even call for the end of the laws we’d like to see taken away, like the Emergency Law. But that was enough for the regime, and they went after us. We should have gone farther!”

“I got caught with a copy of the last Sawt al-Hurriyya,” continues Samir. “I lied and told them that I had found it on the street and hadn’t even read it, but they searched my apartment, and even brought Miriam in for interrogation — they didn’t touch her, thank God — but she was scared and I got in trouble with her for that. That’s worse than getting in trouble with the regime!” They all laugh nervously.

“I had gotten rid of all my copies except the one I had in my bag. They couldn’t figure out who had printed it since we used one of these antique presses with old ink and paper, and very old looking type. That was Ayman’s idea. But they almost got him too.”

“I’m too smart for them,” says Ayman. But he looks worried. “Of course they knew it was me — no one else really has this kind of equipment, except one guy in Aleppo and some shops in Beirut — but they couldn’t prove it because I made the machines look like they don’t work. So they went after all the other shops to try to find out who was the ring-leader. They didn’t know that it was us, or weren’t able to prove it. But they are watching us. Always watching.”
David is a but taken aback. He’d heard of these things — the Damascus Spring, its hopes and then frustrations. He’d also heard ad nauseum from Marina about political oppression in Latin America and the US, and how the CIA was behind all sorts of atrocities. But he had never been so close to it before. It made him feel a little sick.

“Wow” is all he can say. “But if they know it’s you, then how can you do anything else? You’ll get in trouble.”

“Not if we go digital,” says Bassam.

“We have to outsmart the regime with technology,” adds Ayman, “but not only the old stuff, which they are now on to, but the newer stuff. With mobile phones and computers, it’s easier to send things on the Internet or by email or SMS. But the government can track everything online and all the communications companies are run by his cousin. You know that guy. He has his hands in everything. So we need ways of encrypting the messages, new ways that they don’t have. This is the software we need, and you can’t get it here. I tried in Europe but it’s too hard.”

“What exactly do you need?” asks David. “Maybe my dad can get it. I’m not sure, but I can ask him.”

“Don’t ask him on the phone!” they all chime in at once. “Your phone is bugged. You have to do it another way,” adds Samir.

“I dunno. He could send it to me through the Embassy mail, which I think is safe. I don’t think they touch that. Or he could bring it over if he comes for a visit. He might in the Spring, if I am still here.”

“What do you mean ‘If I am still here’?” asks Samir. “You are going to stay! You can’t leave Nidal, can you?” he grins mischievously.

“Look, Daoud. I don’t want to get you involved, so you can just say no. But it would be great if you could help us a little. It’s just some software, but we can’t get it here. The regime doesn’t have it either, so if we had it we could make all of our communications coded and they wouldn’t know what we were saying and even who sent it. You know, like anonymizing software. I can give you the names. But it’s expensive and only specialists can get it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” offers David tentatively. He’s unaccustomed to sticking his neck out for anything, or anyone. But it seems harmless. Kind of. Ayman scribbles a name on a piece of paper, then some numbers on another, and hands them to David.

“Keep them separate. One is the model, the other the version. Your father will probably recognize it. But don’t talk about it on the phone. Send him a letter through your Embassy mail. That will be safer.”

David agrees, and the atmosphere, while still tense, lightens a bit.

“Yalah, let’s go eat!” says Samir, rising from the desk. “All this talk has made me hungry.”

“Me too!” says Bassam, pushing his chair away. David’s stomach has been growling for over an hour, and he gets up too.”

“You guys go ahead. I have to go home to my family,” says Ayman. “‘Ala kulli hal, Let’s keep in touch, Daoud. Let me know what your father says and how much it will cost. Shukran.”

Ayman leads them up the stairs then out the back. He looks into the alleyway before letting his friends out, shutting the lights and locking the heavy door behind them. He waves his hands in the air as he continues in silence down the back alley, while Samir, Bassam, and David circle back to the main drag.

“Shu ra’ykum, shall we go grab a bite to eat at Riwaq? It will be a nice way to forget about all this stuff.”

Bassam and David agree and they flag down a taxi. Samir opens the front door for him while Bassam hops in the back.

“You have longer legs and need the room. Tafaddal!“

He pulls the door shut and off they go.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XIV يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

Damascus, dreams, food, humor, Old City, politics, religion, Syria

The three friends head out the door into the chilly evening. The moonlight casts long shadows across the alleyways as they make their way down Sawwaf Street toward Maktab ‘Anbar, a restored bayt ‘arabi now serving as a cultural center. David had gone there once to see an exhibit on old photographs of Syria curated by a young photographer named Nouri Salameh. He recalls the aging Daguerreotypes and sepia prints of castles, mosques, ruins, and portraits of everyday life, like women baking bread or – a cliché, no doubt – a donkey in a market. He’d even bought a few of these in the form of postcards and stereoscopic viewer cards, which he’d framed and hung on the wall of his bedroom. Looking on them he recalls his grandmother, the fading memories of her cast in sepia tones. Blue and purple lights from television screens shimmer in window panes casting multicolored moon shadows on the walls. The faint sound of cutlery clicking against plates and serving bowls and the low murmur of conversations announces the onset of the evening meal. Somehow they missed the evening ‘adhan – the call had come while they were in Bayt Sabri enjoying the nargileh-s and backgammon.
They pursue a small alley that zig zags around the back side of the ‘Azm Palace – another Damascene treasure that David has visited often – then leads into the Souq al-Buzuriyya. David has always found this market fascinating, the aromas of ground cardamom, cumin, and various herbs mixing and mingling in his nostrils. He’d had a similar experience as a child in the storeroom of the Italian food shop that his best friend Johnny’s father owned, and where they would sometimes go after school to find the small stash of candy that Johnny kept hidden there from the prying fingers of his younger sister Theresa. The small shops of the Buzuriyya are starting to close up for the day and he stops to take a deep breath through his nose. Bassam pops into a shop and returns after a minute with some pistachio and nougat sweets, which he offers to David and Samir.
“You’ll never find anything like this in New York, Daoud! Enjoy! Sahha!“
David wants to tell him about the sweets at Sahadi’s or Shami Bakery in Brooklyn, but Bassam’s right – there is no comparison to eating the crunchy-chewy mixture in an ancient market, surrounded by a swirl of aromas, sounds, and people. Damascus is unique in this way; inimitable. Atlantic Avenue leaves much to be desired …
Samir heads across the way and grabs a bag of roasted seeds and offers some to David and Bassam. David has never been able to figure out how to eat them – there is an art to crushing them between the teeth, extracting the seeds, and spitting out the shells. He invariable crushes and eats the shells as well, which is a messy as well as distasteful practice. Plus, how would it mix with the nougat? So he declines as Bassam grabs a handful.
“Suit yourself,” Samir says with raised eyebrows, then tosses another few into his mouth and deftly spits out the shells. “Kiteer tayyibeen! They are delicious!”
They walk through the market toward the Great Mosque, passing first through the Goldsmith’s Market, which is mostly closed up at this hour.

“Lahza, there’s Mousa,” Bassam says, and he crosses the street to greet an older man pulling shut his shop’s metal grate with a clatter. They exchange some pleasantries, then Bassam rejoins Samir and David as they continue toward the mosque.

“That’s Mousa, an old friend of my father’s.” Turning to David he adds, “He’s one of the last Jews left in Damascus. His family all left for America a long time ago but he decided to stay. Ya’ni, I guess he’s happy here. He has a little house not far from Gallerie Marmar.”

“I know him,” Samir says. “I got my wedding band from his shop. Miriam bought some her bracelets from him too. He’s very adami, a nice guy.” David is too busy looking up at the minarets to pay much attention.
They arrive at the southern wall of the Great Mosque. The back entrance to the sanctuary is off a little ways to the left, topped by its curious octagonal minaret. The elegant “Jesus Minaret” (tradition says that the Second Coming will begin here) is off to the right, in the direction of al-Nawfara café. But instead of going to hear the hakawati they head to the left. As they pass David peeks through the large portal into the prayer hall.
“Ruh, Daoud. Go in if you want. We’ll wait for you,” says Samir who, unlike George, is sincere.  David feigns indifference, even though he almost always visits the mosque when he comes to the Old City. He usually goes on weekends and sits at al-Nawfara to hear the hakawati telling stories, then goes and wanders in the marbled courtyard and cool prayer halls of the mosque. On a hot day it is a pleasant retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city. All it takes is a “as-salamu ‘alaykum” and the guys at the portal don’t give him any trouble. Tourists are supposed to enter at the northern portal and pay a small fee, but David just brandishes the wooden rosary that he keeps in his pocket and makes a move to remove his shoes, and he’s never had a problem. In the end no one cares if he is Christian or Muslim, though he has cultivated the ability to pass as either, depending on the occasion. Except with George, of course.
They walk around to the western entrance, where they all stop and have a look around. It really is a remarkable building, over 1300 years old and sitting on a site that has housed a religious temple of one variety or another for millennia. The government has opened a large plaza in front of the mosque and widened the access streets around it — some say the better to park tanks there and control the area in case of an uprising — and the illuminations of the ancient walls and minarets form a background to children playing, adults eating small sacks of steamed chickpeas, and shoppers running last minute errands in the souq before heading home for dinner. Despite the evening chill it is a pleasant space for a stroll.
Samir and Bassam have other business in mind, so they do not linger but instead walk under the Roman arches at the entrance to the Souq al-Hamidiyya. David’s stomach growls a little as they enter the old covered market as he senses the gradual crescendo of the pounding from Bakdash’s – the pistachio ice-cream and mahalabiya shop he absolutely adores. He often goes there for their special folded ice cream, even in winter. Why not? Like the pistachio nougat, it’s impossible to get this same experience in New York, even in Brooklyn. He goes whenever he gets the opportunity. Despite himself a smile creeps to his face in anticipation of a little visit.
Just last week he’d dreamt that he was sitting at Bakdash’s savoring a small bowl of ice cream, the sound of the large wooden mallets echoing through his head as the young men pounded them into the large caldrons, their muscular arms tearing out of their white and red uniforms. As they pounded and pounded, the sound got louder and louder … until David woke up and realized that someone was knocking on his door. It was Abu ‘Ali from across the street, notifying him of a reported gas leak in his building and asking him if he smelled anything. In the end it has been a false alarm, but as ever Abu ‘Ali had his eye on the neighborhood. Though he was sleepy, after closing the door on Abu ‘Ali David had the distinct taste of pistachio in his mouth and wondered what was the dream, what the reality?

He’d had many odd dreams after moving to Damascus. At first it was a matter of language – Arabic mixing with his broken Spanish as he gained fluency in the local dialect. He’d once dreamt of Ibn al’Arabi after struggling with the Futuhat Makiyya, and Jalal thought this was a sign when David recounted the dream, but neither of them could make heads or tails of it.

“That’s how it goes with the Shaykh,” Jalal had offered. “He comes and goes and it is up to us to make sense of it. But he always comes for a reason.” David could never make sense of it.

The linguistic and religious dreams then gave way to more political ones. After his interview with the Liwa’ at Internal Security, he’d dreamt of Hafez al-Asad. The late president stood near a fighter jet and asked him to fly a mission with him. David found himself holding a pilot’s helmet and dressed in fatigues, but was speechless and unable to answer the president. The dictator approached closer and closer, his eyes getting larger and larger, until David awoke from the dream-nightmare, his pillow under his arm and sweat on his brow. He did not recount this dream to anyone, not even Marina.

“Dir balak, Ya Daoud! Watch out!” yells Samir as he pushes David to the side while a large group of Iranian pilgrims dressed all in black shove past on their way to the shrine of Sayyida Ruqayya. Once the pilgrims pass they enter the main souq just after the Souq al-Misk with its the stalls of religious texts and CDs. Bassam stops before a display of belts and socks that a street vendor has piled in the middle of the street and checks out the merchandise. A man never has enough socks. It is dark but many of the shops are still open and doing a good business. Pop songs play from many kiosks and stores.  There is a festive air about the market. An elegant woman and young girl walk past arm-in-arm. They look Syrian but are speaking in English. “I want some buza mama!” says the girl. “Can we get some? Pleease?” and the mother, kissing her on the head, says “Tikrami, habibti, we’ll stop for a little, but we can’t stay for long. We have to get home. Yalah.” David looks over at them. Kindred spirits.

While Bassam buys some socks and Samir sends a text, David has a look around. Three larger than life portraits of the president, his late father, and his “martyred” older brother — his “martyrdom” consisting in crashing his car at high speed on the airport road — hang from the market roof. The president stares sternly into the distance, the father smiles whimsically, and the brother sits astride a horse. David has become accustomed to these portraits so scarcely notices them anymore — aside from the Warholesque silk-screens — but Bassam, having made his purchase, looks over and with a quick nod of his head jokes, “He looks like he needs new glasses since he’s squinting, and the horse looks tired from all the jumping.” Samir laughs.
“Hey,” says Bassam, “Want to hear a Homsi joke about a horse? I just heard this one.”

“OK, go ahead,” says Samir, a little suspiciously. There aren’t too many good ones after all.

David ignores them, as his mind and stomach are focusing on a quick stop at Bakdash’s.

“So, a Lebanese guy and a Homsi are walking along the Corniche when they happen upon a beautiful girl riding on a horse. The Homsi says to her, ‘If only God had made me a horse, then you could ride on my back!’ The Lebanese tells him, ‘The era of miracles is over!’ and turning to the girl, winks and says ‘Would you consider riding on a donkey instead?’” He slaps David on the back and cries “Isn’t that funny?!”
David smiles meekly while Samir snorts in disgust. “That’s the worst one I’ve heard in a long time! But here’s one. A Homsi gets a new mobile phone and goes to his friend’s house to show it off. You know, one of those iPhone things. He places it on the coffee table and sits back while his friend admires it. Suddenly his wife calls him and he answers it, shouting ‘How did you know I was here? Leave me alone!’ then hangs up. Hah!”
Bassam laughs a little but says “That’s even worse than mine!” Samir laughs and linking his in David’s they begin to walk together. David wonders, “What’s up with the Homsi jokes?” He can never get a straight answer from anyone. They always seem kind of dumb to him.

As they approach Bakdash’s the sound of pounding gets louder, but Samir and Bassam take a left into a side street, past the Khan Jumruk, and into the shoe and lingerie market.

“Let’s take this short cut. The souq is too crowded tonight,” Samir says as he pulls David along.  

David hesitates but goes along, disappointed as the sound of the pounding mallets fades away. He’ll come back another time soon. Tomorrow, in fact.
They pass the dangling shoes and some lingerie stalls — David cannot believe his eyes and ears at the wares on sale there — then pass a falafel and juice stand festooned with body-building photos.

“Tafaddal ustaaz!” shouts the vendor as he presses an orange juice. ”Want to try again?”

“Not tonight, I’m in a hurry. Maybe tomorrow!” says David, and they move on.  Samir asks him how he knows the juice vendor and David tells him that he has sometimes gotten a quick meal there, or a juice, and the young man always challenges him to arm-wrestling. It has become a sort of ritual every time he passes the small stall. “‘Ajeeb!” offers Bassam.

“Does he beat you?”

“Of course!” says David. “Did you get a look at his arms? I think all he does is press juices and arm-wrestle all day. He’s like superman!”
They all laugh, then follow a course down a darker back street through al-Hariqah, the neighborhood named after the French bombardment that let much of it in ruins. Reaching the end of the street, they continue out of the Old City, crossing the busy street and dodging taxis and cars. Samir looks at his watch and quickens his step, yelling a crisp “Yalah, we’re late! Let’s go!” They pass the Darwish Pasha mosque, head over in the direction of al-Qanawat, then up Fakhri Baroudi St toward the Hijaz train station. David is beginning to wonder why he is with them in the first place.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XIII يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

clothing, Damascus, food, gender, Palestine, sports, Syria

The door opens and there stands ‘Amti Fatima, arms open, a grin on her face. “Ahlayn ya habeebti Nidal! Waynik ya amira? Ishtaqtilik kiteer! I’m za’lana with you, I haven’t seen you in so long! Come in. Tafaddali!” It had been just over a week since Nidal last visited her aunt, but as Fatima always said, “When you love someone, a week is an eternity.” “Ahlayn wa sahlayn. Come in! Come in! You should come more often! I miss you!” As much as Nidal expects this show of love and mock anger, it always brings a shy girlish smile to her lips. ‘Amti Fatima is like a mother to her, and the last link she has to her absent father. She loves her perhaps more than anyone in the world. ‘Amti Fatima is her world.

Nidal embraces her aunt and kisses her on the checks, and then they walk through the passageway to the courtyard. “It’s too cold to sit out here tonight, habeebti, so let’s go inside where it’s warm.” They walk up a couple of step into the small sitting room off the kitchen. Nidal kicks off her shoes and steps into a pair of pink fuzzy slippers that are always waiting for her at the threshold. She hands the bag of oranges to her aunt, then collapses onto the sofa while Fatima goes to the kitchen to rinse the fruit, place them in a bowl, and get her familiar paring knife. She returns, places the oranges on the small coffee stable, then glancing at the door, asks, “Are you still wearing those sports shoes? Why don’t you wear nice shoes? They can’t be warm enough in this weather.”

Nidal smiles. No one understands her running shoes. They have become in a way her trademark.

“I got them in Beirut, ‘Amti. They were very expensive, so I like to wear them to get my money’s worth!” Fatima laughs and shakes her head in disbelief. “Expensive? Why? there’s nothing to them – no leather, no buckles, no heels. Bafhamsh, habeebti. I don’t understand.”

She’d purchased the blue and red Nike Air Pegasus on her last trip to Beirut, about 3 weeks ago. Impulse Shoes had a sale – “only 90,000 Lebanese Lira,” as the chic young salesclerk had announced. $60 may have been a good price, but it was an extravagance for Nidal. 3,000 Syrian Lira was half her rent. But she bought them anyway. On an impulse. Plus they were much better than the shoes she could get in Damascus, even if they were three times as expensive. They were worth it.

Nidal likes to jog, even though there are few places in the city – or anywhere in Syria, for that matter – where a woman can jog and expect to be left alone. She used to go to al-Jahiz Park near the national library, where others often jog, though it was usually men she encountered there. In the last three years she’d only seen about half a dozen women jogging in the park (or, more usually, walking and talking) and while most times no one said anything, she had been hit on enough times by sweaty and overweight men huffing and puffing around the small lanes as they tried to get into shape that she decided to find a new place. Tishreen Park was much more expansive and would be an ideal place to jog – lots of paths, and interesting statues placed here and there – were it not for the guards and creeps hanging around by the trees, not to mention the Presidential Palace looming above. So that wasn’t an option. She didn’t feel safe.

One late afternoon a few years ago she had decided on a whim to jog through Abu Rummaneh then up ‘Afif to Riwaq, then back home – at the time she was living with her friend Mona in a small flat on a side street in al-Malki. It was only a short jog to the river, and since it was a pleasant stroll on the sidewalk alongside it, why not a little jog? The whole loop would take maybe 30 minutes, 45 max, and the route was a little hilly too. Not a bad workout.

Putting on her loose jogging pants – she didn’t dare jog in shorts, having learned that lesson already – and a cotton top, Nidal laced up her shoes and did a few perfunctory stretches. She was eager to get going – the heat of the summer day had abated, and one of those magical Damascene nights was beginning to unfold, the cloudless sky turning a slight lavender shade and the doves beginning their curious early evening peregrinations above the rooftops. Putting her long hair up with a scrunchie, she headed out the door. By the time she reached Sahat al-Malki she was beginning to break a sweat. Turning right she navigated the plaza then crossed to the river-side of the street and began making her way along the riverbank toward Rawda. After only about five minutes, however, she was stopped by a police officer, who ran across the street and blocked her way on the sidewalk. Nidal, not understanding what he was after, veered into the street, but the policeman lunged and grabbed her by the arm, yelling “Stop!”

“What are you doing here, Sister? What are you running from?” he said as she struggled to free herself from his firm grip. Only when she stopped squirming did he relent a little and let go.

“Nothing. I’m just jogging. Fi shi?“

“Show me your ID,” he asked brusquely. When she said that she’d left it at home, he offered to walk her there so she could retrieve it. Sensing that he was less interested in her ID and more in an adventure, she claimed that the apartment was far, past the Sheraton Hotel toward al-Mazzeh, which was easily 25 minutes away by foot.

“Then I’ll have to take you down to the precinct and give you a summons,” he claimed, “… unless you agree to meet me here tomorrow and we can go have a coffee together. Tomorrow at this time, here over by the bridge. Mashi? You’ll come, right?” Nidal was stunned. Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to spend any time in a police precinct, she agreed, so he let her go. “Bas, stop running so much. Girls don’t run.” She walked away warily, then when she saw that he had continued on his way, slowly began to jog, and then when she had turned a corner ran home, sprinting the last few hundred meters. By the time she reached the door she was in tears.

“Shu sar?!? Shu baki?!?” asked Mona when she came through the front door. “Are you OK, Nidal?” All Nidal could do was go to her room and slam the door behind her.

And keep running.

Nidal always seemed to be on the run. When her mother died her aunt Fatima had watched over her. She was not quite two years old, with no mother to care for her and a father who worked two jobs. ‘Amti loved her like she were her own child, but there were other children to care for, Ahmed and Adeeb, then a few years later Hanan. So it wasn’t ever the same. The old house was large enough that there was room for everyone – “A narrow house will welcome a thousand friends,” as her father had often said. Her mother’s death had left a hole in her heart, but Nidal quickly took to her aunt, and her father, Rashid, did his best when he was home.

When he disappeared, Nidal was nine, a bright schoolgirl attending a local Syrian school – a privilege for a Palestinian refugee. As a result her life was thrown into turmoil. She stopped eating and for months afterward was a brooding and dark presence in the house, confining herself mostly to the small room she shared with her cousin Hanan when she was not at school. ‘Amti Fatima did her best to coax her back to life, preparing her favorite sweets – kanafeh nabulsiyya and muhalabiyya – but also feeding and encouraging her day-dreams with stories about a different life, an eventual return to their true home in Palestine. Nidal also dreamt of a reunion her father, who she, like so many in their community, felt was only lost or held captive in Lebanon. He’d come back one day. Nidal was certain of it.

The years passed and Rashid did not reappear, neither did they return to Palestine. Dreams die hard, and Nidal felt alone, abandoned and at times bitter. As an orphan and a Palestinian, she had little protection in the city – no wasta, no connections – so she had learned to survive on her own, developing a fierce independent streak as well as a reputation for being aloof. She found salvation in her books and her studies. Like her mother, she excelled in every subject, but chose literature as her specialty, with the aim of becoming a journalist and a writer to raise awareness of her people’s cause. After she left home Nidal remained close to ‘Amti Fatima, her cousins when they came to Damascus, a few friends from university, and several of the artists she had written about, such as Basma al-Hilu. Otherwise she was reserved, kept to herself, and tried to stay under the radar. Safe. Always ready to run if necessary.

Nidal slides over to make room for her aunt on the small sofa. Fatima plops down with an “Ouf!” then reaches for an orange and begins to peel it.

“You always remember to bring me oranges, habeebti! So thoughtful. They bring me home, even if it looks like I will never go back…”

‘Amti Fatima was only 5 when the family was forced to flee Safed, but she still remembers the old home, the neighborhood children, and the school she had just started to attend when they had abruptly left. She tries to retain ties to Safed, but it has gotten harder over the years as the few childhood friends she has kept in touch with – most had settled in Damascus, some in Hama, and even a few in Jordan – had died or moved to America. Food and music are her last and perhaps most vivid connections to the land she scarcely recalls. She often sits on the sofa listening to Radio al-Quds, or playing old cassettes of Mustafa al-Kurd, al-’Ashiqeen, and Sabreen. In her closet she still has the embroidered robe she wore for her wedding day celebrations, the intricate patterns and colors – red, saffron, blue – identifying her region. And of course the food, not only the desserts that Nidal still loves, but traditional plates of musakhkhan, manaqeesh, and kibbeh nayeh – azka akel bi-dunya, the tastiest food in the world. The aromas and flavors took her home again, time after time after time.

Mahmoud doesn’t really understand her perpetual longing for a home she hasn’t seen in over fifty years. A few weeks ago, he’d caught her crying silently while listening to “Mawtini” on Radio al-Quds and fingering her masbaha.

“Khalas, Umm Ahmad. We aren’t going back. There’s nothing to go back to anyway – they took it all and destroyed the rest. This is our home now. Let’s make the best of it, ‘Azeezti.”

“Perhaps he’s right,” she thinks, “but it’s so hard to forget, to let go.”

The framed house deed and door key hang from a nail on the wall above the television. Photos of her parents and Rashid hang nearby in a simple black frame. It is hard to forget.

When Nidal visits her, ‘Amti is often sad and angry at the news from Palestine, but unlike many Palestinians she harbors little anger for Jews per se. She had even known a few as a child, before all the problems began. But she hates Israel and its continuing oppression of her people. “Mu tabee’i,” she’d say as she watched yet another news report on a bombing raid in Gaza, the occupation of a home in East Jerusalem, or the razing of an olive grove in Jenin. “Laysh hayk? It’s not natural that a people that was oppressed would come and oppress us! What did we ever to do deserve this? And they cut down the olive trees. And that poor American girl who was killed by the bulldozer. Why? Haram, wallah! Mu tabee’i abidan.“

Nidal had heard the family saga a thousand times from her father, from ‘Amti and ‘Amo Mahmoud, and of course from all her classmates at the UNRWA school, and later at the university when she got involved in the Palestinian Students Union. But she feels little attachment to the land other than through her aunt. She was born in Damascus and feels – and speaks – Syrian, not Palestinian. But Palestine, even if remains an unreachable paradise for some, is not something so easily run from, in her case because it is inscribed on her ID card. And because until recently she had been denied the right to a passport and had been unable to travel outside Syria. For this reason she resorted to borrowing her friend Mona’s ID when she traveled to Beirut – they were the same age and looked like they could be sisters – and even though the travel restrictions had been lifted, she still borrows Mona’s ID, partly out of habit, partly out of fear of getting hassled for being a Palestinian, and partly to keep some connection to Khalid.

“How about you, my love? Keefik? How is your health? And are you still working for that newspaper?”

Nidal tells her about her new apartment, her recent article on an exhibition of sculpture, and her own fiction writings – stories about Palestinian refugees in Syria.

“Well, we certainly have a lot of stories. You aren’t going to tell mine, are you? Don’t scandalize us!”

They laugh, knowing that there’s nary a scandal in the family, so careful have they all been to be decent people both in their public as in their private lives. You can’t be too careful, and some of the neighbors have “long tongues,” as Fatima liked to say.

“No, ‘Amti. Don’t worry! It’s mostly stories about the people in the camps here and in Lebanon. You know, the sad stuff, the problems. Not us!”

“You are just like your father, always trying to do something for our people. May God protect him.”

Nidal looks down, unable to tell her aunt that she writes for herself, not as a political mission, though perhaps there’s some of that too. But any mention of her father she finds troubling, even after all these years.

“So, al-muhim, when are you going to get married and start a family?” It is always the same. They’ll sit and reminisce about the house, her departed father and his generosity with everyone – opening the home to her and Mahmoud and the children, feeding the poor, teaching at the university – her fading memories of Palestine, all the while peeling oranges and maybe listening to the radio. Then ‘Amti will ask “the Question.”

“Whatever happened to that nice man who used to come around asking for you? Shu sar ma’uh?“

Nidal feels a sharp pain in her chest and has to catch her breath before answering.

What can she say about Khalid?

They’d met at the university. Mona’s older brother, Khalid was studying engineering and also involved in the Arab Students Union. His father hailed from the prominent al-’Azm family – his grandfather was the cousin of the former Prime Minister, after whom he was named – and his mother was a Palestinian from Haifa, her parents having settled in Damascus in late 1948 and gradually built up a small textile empire. Thus Khalid was raised both comfortably and with the expectation that he’d make something of his life. He and Nidal had mutual acquaintances at the university and would meet from time to time at social gatherings, but Nidal was “terminally shy,” according to Mona, and never had any luck with men. But Khalid had noticed her and over the course of a few weeks had fallen in love, asking his sister about her nearly all the time, and even having her arrange a meeting at a cafe, though Nidal was hesitant and didn’t know how to proceed. Khalid was nice enough, polite and handsome, and no doubt he had a bright future before him, but she didn’t know what he saw in her and she scarcely knew how to proceed. She was afraid of her growing feelings for him, and this made her withdraw even more. Nonetheless they saw more and more of each other, especially after graduation when Nidal moved in with Mona in her flat in al-Malki, where Khalid would come visit his sister … more frequently than he had ever done in the past!

It seemed destined to work out: he was from a good family, had Palestinian roots, his family loved her like a daughter, and he had a promising future as the top graduate in engineering from Damascus University, having landed a position as an apprentice engineer with a foreign telecommunications firm that had opened an office in the capital. Then a year later Khalid had been accepted into a graduate program in electrical engineering at the University of Edinburgh. He stayed in Damascus through the summer, then left, leaving Nidal behind but with promises that he’d write and call often, and come visit when he could. At first all went according to plan: Khalid emailed almost daily, and when he came home for visits he called on Nidal, and they’d go for walks in Tishreen Park or stroll in the Old City. After awhile she felt a gulf open up between them. Nidal knew that she would never be able to travel with him, not only because she didn’t possess a passport, but because she was so close to ‘Amti Fatima that it was impossible for her to imagine living anywhere else. Who did she know in Scotland, anyway? What did they eat? Damascus was her home, and she intended to stay there, even if she liked her clandestine trips to Beirut and sometimes dreamt of visiting Paris, or Cairo. Edinburgh seemed far away. She had looked it up online.

Mona of course wanted her to wait for Khalid, telling her to be patient, that he’d come back for her soon. She passed along messages from abroad and relished the role of matchmaker between her brother and best friend. But after the second year away Khalid had gradually stopped writing and didn’t come by to visit on the few occasions when he did return home to see his family. Mona had more or less stopped talking about him too, and Nidal took this as a sign that something had changed, either for Khalid or for their family. As it turned out, Khalid had accepted a position with a multinational telecommunications company based in Los Angeles once he graduated, and a few months later had become engaged to then married a Syrian-American neurologist who operated a private clinic. His parents had set them up on a visit to London. And so khalas, end of story. Until it was all over Nidal hadn’t realized the extent to which she had been secretly wrapping her dreams in the fabric of a life shared with Khalid. She felt abandoned again and soon began looking for another place to live. That was going on five years ago, but the pain lingered. And lingers still.

She sighs, and her aunt puts her arm on her shoulder. “Tabkeesh, habeebti. Wa la himmik. You’ll meet someone. Someone good for you. Maybe a nice Palestinian boy.” Nidal laughs at the use of the word “boy” – she’s thirty and hardly thinks of the men who hassle her as “boys,” but she allows her aunt this innocence.

“Allahu ‘alam, Who knows? I’m too busy anyway, ‘Amti. Who has time for ‘boys’? I’m still trying to do my work, my writing, meet deadlines, take care of myself. And I just moved to another apartment over in al-Adweh. The “boy” can wait.”

“Don’t wait forever, ya hilweh! I’m not getting any younger. I want to be able to dance at your wedding and teach your children the dabkeh!” Fatima wiggles a little on the sofa and they both laugh at the image of ‘Amti in her Palestinian dress kicking and shuffling her feet. She gives her aunt a big hug, nestling into her side like she’d done as a young child, then after a few moments rises to her feet.

She looks down at her watch. It is now about 8:30 and Nidal has something else in mind – a quick taxi ride to Riwaq for a drink. It’s been one of those days.

“I have to go, ‘Amti.”

“You can’t go now,” protests Fatima. “It’s still early, and you didn’t eat anything. All you had was some orange slices. Bikafeesh. Let me fix something for you to eat. At least stay for some tea.”

“I’m tired and want to go home and rest. But I’ll come again soon and we can talk some more.”

Fatima relents but makes Nidal promise to come back soon … and as she sees her putting her running shoes back on, to promise to get some “proper” shoes.

Nidal laughs lightly.

“Allah yiwaffik, ya binti. Take care, my daughter.”

She hugs and kisses her aunt, then steps out the door into the dark street.

A Wintry Day in Damascus Pt. XII يوم شتوي في دمشق

Tags

Damascus, marriage, politics, romance, secret police, storytelling

Bassam appears at the table, offers a hearty “Marhaba shabab!” and takes a seat. It’s been a few weeks since David last saw Bassam. Maybe it was a gathering at Samir’s, or possibly at Riwaq. They had grown friendly in recent weeks, and when Samir did manage to get out for an evening, it was almost always in the company of Bassam, so he often sees the two together.

“Sorry I’m late. I ran into some friends on the way at al-Nawfara.” The old cafe by the Great Mosque is a popular hangout for tourists, but many Damascenes go as well to have a tea or coffee, and of course to hear the hakawati. David had gone many times to hear the stories of ‘Antar wa ‘Abla, though he found the whole scene a little contrived, even if he still enjoyed it. Where else can you sit next to a 1000 year old fountain, sip an anise tea, listen to animated stories, and hear the adhan resound from the seventh century minarets?

“Wa la himmak! We were just talking with Nidal and Basma about her show. Have you seen it? And what do you want to drink?” Samir gets the attention of a waiter, who comes to the table. Bassam orders a coffee, ziyadeh, with lots of sugar.

“No, I haven’t seen it yet but we can go have a look. Is it good?

“Ya’ni,” says Samir, equivocating. “It’s not bad. Fi shi hilu …” and he catches himself with a smile as David laughs. It’s hard to talk about an artist named “Hilu,” sweet, without using her name all the time.

“And Daoud is in love!” Samir announces.

“No! Khalas, Samir. That’s enough!” David is embarrassed.

“Shu?” says Bassam. “What’s the story?”

“There’s no story at all, bnoab!” exclaims David, but he isn’t even convincing himself and begins to blush slightly.

“Ha! Fi shi akeed! There’s definitely something going on. Hey, she’s really great, Nidal. Bas, be careful.” Bassam arches his eyebrows. “Filisteeniyya, ya’ni.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘Palestinian’?” asks Samir, in a light but insistent tone. “She’s more Syrian than you, ya muhajir! You weren’t even born here, but she was!”

Bassam is a “muhajir,” as Samir likes to call him, an “immigrant,” since he was born in Kuwait, where his father had been working as an Arabic teacher in the 1970s before returning to Damascus in the mid-1980s.

“I’m only kidding. She’s nice, but maybe a little hard to connect with. You know, aloof. Bas hilweh!”

Bassam offers David his open palm and they do that sort of combination high-five slap/hand shake thing that Syrian men like to do when they tell jokes. They both laugh because they know it’s true. David has had a hard time understanding Nidal. And she is beautiful. Hilweh kiteer.

“Khalas! Daoud already has one woman back home in New York, and one here! Pretty soon he’ll have a full hareem!”

Samir is clearly in a good mood now, and there isn’t even any ‘araq on the table (not yet, at least, David thinks). Marina would cringe at the very idea of having a harem. He, too, cringes a little, and predicts what comes next — the inevitable “four wives” scenario.

“You could convert to Islam and then you could marry four at a time!” Bassam laughs and tries to do the handshake/slap thing again, but David sits back and puts his hands up in the air, as if in resignation.

“One’s enough for me. Too much, sometimes!” he says. They all laugh.

“You know I’m just kidding. My wife would kill me if I even thought about getting a second wife!” He pantomimes a knife cutting across his throat.

“Mine too!” says Samir, as he fumbles with his nargileh, which doesn’t seem to be burning properly. He turns to call the waiter over to fix it.

“But you’re not a Muslim, so you can’t have four anyway! Plus Miriam is the best – mara wa nusf, a woman and a half! So don’t even think of it or I’ll tell Daoud to marry her!”

Samir snorts as he leans back with his revived nargileh in his mouth.

“Not that anyone I know has a second wife. It would be impossible.” Bassam shakes his head ruefully. “Imagine! What a headache!”

David scratches his head at the ongoing banter.

“Aie, and backwards, too!” says Samir.

“Now you’re sounding like George! How is that ajdab anyway?”

George and Bassam don’t get along very well, in part because of George’s habit of insulting Islam and Muslims at every opportunity, and in part because Bassam cannot keep his mouth shut and refuses to humor George simply because he’s his best-friend’s brother-in-law.

“The “idiot” as you call him, is fine. He’s busy fixing up his new house. It’s coming along well. We’ll go see it sometime.”

“‘Azeem!” says Bassam as he looks around the room. “Can’t we get any ‘araq
around here? Where’s that waiter?”

Bassam writes for one of the regional papers printed in Beirut. He mainly covers politics and economics and travels a fair amount in Syria, occasionally to Beirut, and once in a while to Cairo, Kuwait, or other Arab capitals to cover one story or another. He is currently writing a piece on corruption in the redevelopment of Beirut, which is tricky both because he’s a Syrian and hence an “outsider,” and also because the paper he writes for is financed in large part by the very people in Lebanon directing the redevelopment project. He also writes fiction and has published some poetry, though he discounts it is “haki fadi,” nonsense, since it doesn’t compare to the great Arab poets of yore.

“Take al-Mutanabbi, for example. Now that’s a poet. He was more modern in the tenth century than our so-called ‘modern’ poets today!” Bassam recites a few lines:

Ana al-ladhi nazara al-aʿma ila adabi
Wa asmaʿat kalimati man bihi samamu.

Al-khaylu wa al-laylu wa al-baydaʾu taʿrifuni
Wa as-saifu wa ar-rumhu wa al-qirtasu wa al-qalamu.

I, whose literature the blind perceive,
And whose words by the deaf are heard.

The horse, the night and the desert know me,
And the sword, the spear, the paper and the pen.

“Ya salam! Isn’t that great? Who can write anything like that today?” David doesn’t really understand it, and Samir just sits back and snorts again while the waiter arrives with a tray of ‘araq and begins to arrange the glasses, ice bucket and decanter on the table. Once he leaves, Bassam leans forward and, looking over both shoulders, whispers: “Abu al-Tayyib also once said, “If you see the teeth of the lion, do not think that the lion is smiling at you.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Ya’ni, he didn’t mince his words, and paid for it with his life. No one would dare write that today. They aren’t multazimeen, not committed.”

“Hilu,” says Samir, preoccupied with mixing the ‘araq. “What do you think, Daoud? You’re a literary sort. Don’t we have any good modern poets?” David has little to say about what he so little understands, having devoted himself to the arcane texts of Ibn al-’Arabi, but he offers a few names, platitudes really.

“Ma ba’rif,” he says. “I dunno. Nizar Qabbani? [thinking of his neighbor] Adonis? They are famous. And good, too, right? And Mahmoud Darwish? I have a book of his poetry, and some of his poems were made into songs by Marcel Khalifé. Those aren’t bad, are they?”

“Wallahi, you’re right. Aren’t they like modern Mutanabbis, khayo?” Samir uses the Aleppine term for brother, since Bassam had studied literature at Aleppo University.

“Yeah, they’re all fine and good – if you are a woman, or a student, or some ajdab politician pretending to be interested in the Palestinian cause, or a fake revolutionary singer. But when did any of them ever … what’s that phrase you use in America, Daoud? … Speak truth to power? These so-called poetic heroes of yours are always quiet when it counts, except maybe Darwish. At least he moved back to Ramallah and didn’t just hang out in Paris drinking café au lait and pretending to be a dissident. And don’t get me started with Marcel Khalife! None of these guys would put his life on the line like Abu al-Tayyib did. Or al-Ma’ari, or even Ibn al-Khatib, who was poisoned. Cowards!”

David looks a little lost hanging on a thread of poetry linking the tenth, fifteenth, and twentieth centuries. But as a friend once told him, these older poets still live in the minds of many Arabs. School kids memorize their verses so they remain familiar fare. At least in Syria. He thinks of his news-vendor friend Khalid. He’d know which poets were good, and which wrote “haki fadi.“

“Let’s not confuse Daoud with all this poetry and politics. Yallah, have some ‘araq and relax a bit. Want a nargileh?“

“Nah,” says Bassam. “I’m trying to quite smoking. My wife and I both are stopping. You know, to be healthy and all that haki… Yalah, ka’stak, ya Daoud. You too, Samir.” The three friends clink their glasses then drink, taking a breather from Bassam’s intensity. Samir might be intense too, but Bassam is even more opinionated and edgy to boot. It can be exhausting. Or thrilling.

After a moment of staring around the room, Bassam asks absently, “Hey, did you seen the news today?”

“What news?” asks Samir. David reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and brings out the folded local paper he’d bought earlier in the day. ‘I got a paper today,” he says as he puts it on the table. “Maybe it’s here.”

Both Bassam and Samir laugh.

“What?” asks David.

“Not that news! Real news! You know, from al-Jazeera.“

Samir tells him that they’d watched a little news at his house over lunch but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual nonsense.

“This mornings there was a demonstration in Aleppo in front of the Internal Security Directorate demanding the release of political prisoners. They arrested 25 people, mostly women, and beat some kids who started chanting something against the governor.”

“We didn’t hear about that,” Samir says. “And it won’t be in the papers, Daoud. You can bet on that, ” he adds as David scans the headlines.

“Read the back pages and sports, but not the front page … or the arts page!”

Samir punches Bassam on the arm and they both laugh.

“Tell Bassam about what happened to you in al-Mazzeh” says Samir, slightly more seriously. While David is relieved that the two friends are in a good mood, he doesn’t really feel like talking about it, not in the large café. But Bassam wants to hear about it, and Samir encourages him, so he takes a swig of ‘araq and begins.

“You know I teach at that private language school in Abu Rummaneh.”

“How’s that coming along?” Bassam asks, but Samir cuts him off. “Let him finish his story, ustaz!“

David continues.

“Well, in order to get the job, I had to have an interview with the Internal Security Directorate, you know, to get clearance so I could get my iqama. My boss arranged the interview. He said it was routine, ‘aadi, everyone did it, so I went.”

“Who’s your boss?” asks Bassam.

Giving Bassam that “Hold your horses!” gesture, Samir says, “Ma muhim meen al-mudir! It’s not important! Let him finish!” Bassam relents, leaning back in his plastic chair and grabbing his glass. “Tafaddal, Daoud.”

“So I went. It’s out in al-Mazzeh, you know, toward the hills a little.”

“We know it,” Samir says without enthusiasm.

“I had an appointment at 11:00 in the morning, so I took a taxi and arrived at about 10:30, 10:45, just to be early. I told the guard at the kolaba by the front gate that I had an appointment, and he said “Have a seat. I’ll go check.” There were no chairs or anything, so I asked him, “Where?” And he said “There, on the sidewalk!” So I went over and sat on the curb in the dust, watching the large gate, and waiting. After about an hour and a half the guard came out and said “Qumm! Get up, and come with me.” So I followed him through the gate.

“We went into the large building and up 4 flights of stairs to the top floor. The guard led me into a small room then left, shutting the door behind him. Another man was behind a plain looking desk, talking on the phone. You know, one of those types with the thick eyebrows and mustache.”

Samir and Bassam nod.

“Well, he didn’t tell me to sit in the chair or anything, so I just stood there. I heard him talking on the phone. He kept shaking his head and screaming thing like, “Just hit them! Hit them a thousand times until they talk. Use that new thing. Yalah, I don’t have all day.” He hung up the phone and looked at me for a minute. Then he asked me, “Shu biddak houn?” What do you want here?” I told him about my interview so I could get the job at the language school. He grunted then looked down at some folders on his desk, and grabbing one told me to follow him as he opened the door and went down the hallway. I followed.

“At the end of the hall there was a large wooden door. The guy knocked then entered and waved for me to come inside with him. We were in a large room with a nice carpet, some paintings on the wall, books, tables, and a giant desk. Behind the desk was some guy in a military uniform, a General, I think. They called him al-Liwa’. So this big guy with a huge kirsh came over from behind his desk and shook my hand then told me to take a seat. He seemed pretty nice, actually. The unibrow guy just stood in the back with his folder open while the Liwa’ asked me a bunch of questions, like “Where do you live?” “When did your grandmother leave Syria for America?” “What does your father do for work?” Those kinds of questions, though he already seemed to know a lot. We talked about New York, about Disney Land, since he had gone there with his daughter last year. He said he liked the older one in LA better, not the Epcot Center. He talked about traveling to Russia and China and when I told him I’d never gone, he said that I must. That I’d find a lot of interesting things there to write about.

“It was weird. He didn’t ask me anything about my work, or teaching. Then he looked over at the thuggish guy, who nodded, and that was it. He thanked me for my time, said “Welcome in Syria” in English, and that was it. I was able to go. So I went back out, down the stairs, past the gate, and took a taxi home. I got a call from my boss the next day, and we went and got my iqama papers in only a week. Isn’t that odd?”

“Shuf,” says Bassam. “Look, it’s all part of the show. They do this to scare you, all that talk about beatings and so on. And maybe you’ll go along with it and be scared. But they can’t touch you since you’re an American. Don’t worry. They can beat us, but not you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” David lies, since he was worried, “but it’s like the Liwa’ didn’t care what I did. It was like a little intellectual chat. A formality.”

“Of course not,” interjects Samir. “He doesn’t care. They were just testing you, trying to make sure that you aren’t a spy or a maybe a Jew. You know what happened to the last teacher?”

“No. No one ever told me.”

“He was also called David — imagine that — and had somehow gotten into trouble: I think he visited Israel or something, and was asked to leave Syria. So the mukhabarat were just checking you out, letting you know that they know who you are. Maybe scaring you a little.”

Or a lot, he thinks. David had been so nervous that he’d almost wet his pants. It’s not so much the interview that had frightened him as the thuggish man in the small room ordering his underlings to beat people – “a thousand times!” Maybe it was just all a show, but a message was sent. They were on to him, knew what he was doing, where he was from, that his father was an electrical engineer and worked in digital imaging. They knew everything about him, and he had only been in Syria a few weeks.

This whole situation was later confirmed by his one visit to Aleppo, when the receptionist at the Duchess Hotel told him that they had expected him a day earlier — even though he had not made a reservation but just showed up one afternoon inquiring if they had a room for the night. It was already reserved for him, the man told him. David had mentioned the trip and the possibility of staying at the famous old hotel only to Marina, and probably to Abu ‘Ali too, but the hotel already knew about his arrival and had a room waiting for him. He hadn’t understood why then, but after the incident in al-Mazzeh things began to click in his mind and he felt uncomfortable. He still does when he thinks about it.

“Shu Daoud? Wayn sharid? What are you day-dreaming about?” Samir asks as he leans across the table to touch his arm. “Ma’lish. Everything’s ok. Touta touta wa khilsat al-anbouba! The story’s over,” he adds. David smiles at the reference to the hakawati. Yes, it’s all behind him now. Or not. But what can he do about it anyway. Hayk id-dunya. That’s life.

The embers on the nargilehs are dying out, the ‘araq decanter sits empty, the ice cubes half melted. The clientele is switching from the early evening tea, coffee, and backgammon crowd, to diner guests, more family oriented. The waiter comes and asks if they need anything else, while others spread white cloths and place settings on the available tables.

“Yalah, let’s go!” says Samir, who has been alternately texting, sipping ‘araq, and puffing on his nargileh the whole time. He and Bassam have an appointment with a friend near the old Hijaz train station after 8:00. It’s now just past 7:30 and they have some time to kill, so he suggests they take a short walk across the city then up the main avenue. There is no question that David will join them. He must since Samir wants to show him something. And Bassam has a favor to ask.

So they settle their bill, Bassam insisting on paying and arguing so much with Samir it seems like they are fighting. The waiter smiles and takes the money, David puts on his jacket, and the three friends head out the door.