Damascus Nights

11 How one man had to hear after death what he had been deaf to while alive

Faris, the former minister, came from an old landed Damascus family. His father had received the honorary title Pasha from the sultan in Istanbul as a reward for his loyalty to the Ottoman Empire — which invented strange titles by the dozen. But this pasha was a sly old fox. He sensed that the days of the Ottoman Empire were numbered, and so he began to put out feelers toward France. The French consul was a more and more frequent guest, and eventually the pasha became the first confidant of the French representatives who soon replaced the Ottoman regime in Syria. But the seasoned pasha knew that the French, too, would not stay in Syria forever. While continuing to receive the French governor, he secretly funded several nationalist groups, whose clamors for independence were growing louder and louder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was beautifully said," whispered Mehdi the teacher.

Musa the barber voiced his reaction as well: "A few weeks with a girl like that would make me younger by a few years."

"And what would you do with your false teeth?" jabbed Isam.

"In any case," the minister went on, "the king wanted a son. But his wife gave birth to a daughter. And even though she surpassed her mother in beauty, the king looked on his child and broke into a rage. With tears in his eyes, he gave the order to have them both taken to a distant island. Throughout his kingdom, however, he had it proclaimed that the queen had died in childbirth'

"God should have crippled the tongue of this heartless man for such a lie!" shouted Junis the cafe owner.

"Cowardly dog," Musa vented his own anger. "What does he have against a daughter? I have five of them, and I wouldn't trade their tiniest toenail for a son."

"Just a minute, now. I have six sons, and each one is a lion—" the locksmith objected.

"And that's exactly what the king wanted," said the minister, returning to his story, "but his second wife also bore him a daughter. She, too, was removed, to an even more distant island. The third," the minister laughed, "the fourth, the fifth, the sixth…" He was laughing so hard he choked and had to clear his throat.

"This king's beginning to get a little boring," said Tuma, as if he wanted to ask the minister what he was finding so funny.

"All right, now it gets really funny," said the minister. "With every passing year, the king grew angrier and angrier. He listened less and less to his ministers and least of all to his jester. In the seventh year of his reign, he married a woman known for her shrewdness. She, too, became pregnant, but in her eighth month — it was already summer — she told her husband she wanted to move to the summer palace, since it was too hot in the capital for her to rest. No sooner said than done, and off she drove into the refreshing climate of the mountains, accompanied only by her loyal handmaid.

"As soon as the queen began her labor, messengers from the king arrived, ready to race back to the palace with good news or bad. For three days and three nights they waited outside the queen's chamber, to become either the doves of good tidings or the hyenas of bad."

"Well said, may God bless your mouth!" said Mehdi.

"And yours," the minister replied and continued: "Late in the afternoon on the third day the messengers heard the newborn cry and the handmaid give a joyful shout. After a short while she came outside, her eyes flooded with tears. Tell our most beloved lord to cast off all his worries'—she was sobbing with joy —'for Heaven has granted his wish and given us all a strong and sturdy prince!'

"The king was ecstatic to hear that his heart's desire had been fulfilled, and he received the queen with great pomp and circumstance. Thousands of his subjects thronged to greet her. From his balcony the ruler held up his successor — whom he named Ahmad — for all to see. The whole land went giddy with joy A few people climbed the minaret and leaped to their death, just like that, out of sheer joy. People went crazy on that day, it's hard to imagine the stupidities some subjects are capable of committing.

"The next day the king gave the command to tear down an entire neighborhood and build a palace with a garden and fountain for his son. The people who lived in the small cottages wept and begged for mercy, but the soldiers whipped anyone who had not left his cottage by sunset. Hundreds of weeping people who had lost their homes made their way to the palace to plead for help, but the guards only pushed them back. That's the funny thing about happiness: it can turn to unhappiness quicker than the flicker of an eyelash."

"Nicely put!" raved Mehdi and Musa.

"But there was one person who wasn't crying, and that was the witch Mira. Known throughout the land for her kindness, she was also feared for her vindictiveness. She, too, was required to give up her cottage to make way for the prince's palace. When the guards saw Mira, they were afraid and hurried to tell the king that the witch wanted to submit her complaint. The king just roared with laughter: 'Complaint? What is there to complain about? A prince has been born! From now on my entire realm has no more worries! I will not hear any complaints!'

"When Mira the witch heard the king's words, she looked upon the crying people, then turned to heaven and uttered several unintelligible phrases. The blue skies suddenly thundered, the people became frightened and fled. 'O vile king screamed the witch, 'for as long as you shall live, you shall never hear another word!' With these words, Mira the witch vanished into thin air, never to return.

"The king was in the midst of an audience with scholars and traders who had come to offer their congratulations when his face suddenly became twisted with pain. He grabbed his head and screamed out loud, 'My ears! My ears!' Then he spun around three times and fell to the ground unconscious. From that day on, the king was unable to hear. But even that hardly worried him, so happy was he to have a son.

"The king continued to rule with a strong hand. He sent hundreds of spies throughout his kingdom to be his ears. They would repeat their reports over and over until the king was able to read the most important details from their lips.

"The stars stood in the young kings favor. Year after year, the heavens provided the farmers with rain for their fields and warmth for their fruits, and the kingdom thrived. But instead of enjoying the peace, the king built up his army and moved to annex a small neighboring realm — it didn't take much to fan the flames of his greed. And no matter how often the soothsayers and scholars warned against such actions, he read less and less from their lips, and he refused to follow their advice. He did exactly as he wanted.

"And in fact, he managed to achieve a great victory in his first war — because he was a brilliant tactician. His army consisted of fifty thousand soldiers armed with lances and swords, twenty thousand archers, ten thousand knights, and over fifty catapults. The king hid the majority of his troops in the forest and marched on to meet the enemy. When he saw the great army assembled in the plain, he positioned his archers behind the hill, as if he were preparing to attack the enemy's left flank. Then he rode into the middle of the field, wheeled around and fled without even engaging in combat. His opponents saw him fleeing with a tiny army, and scrambled after in pursuit, abandoning all caution. Their best knights chased after the king in great disarray. The king and his retinue soon made it back to safety, and then the skies were darkened with the arrows of his archers. Many horses and many men fell to these arrows…" The minister went on at great length about this battle, omitting not a single stroke of the sword, stab of the lance, or blow of the club — just as if he were in court.

"So what happened with the kingdom?" Tuma interrupted.

"After seven years of good fortune, a terrible drought befell the kingdom and caused great suffering. The kings viziers brought him the news, but he refused to read their lips. His subjects began to curse him whenever he appeared on the balcony. But he mistook their angry fists for friendly waves and replied with his own friendly greetings.

"The drought raged for three long years, bringing misery and tears to the kingdom. But the king was impervious to all such cares, so happy was he about his son, Ahmad. The boy was a wonderful poet and played the lute like an angel. At the age of twelve he could outride all the king's knights and outshoot all his archers. Braver than a panther, the young prince wrestled with the lions the king kept in his palace— no on dared to imitate him. Only water seemed to frighten him. Whenever the sons of the ministers played in the lake, Prince Ahmad sat on the shore and watched the romping boys."

"I know what's going to happen. I know!" laughed Isam.

"Whether you know or not, keep it to yourself. I don't like it when someone kills a story right in the middle," the barber scolded, and Isam hushed him down with a wave of his hands.

"Musa's right. Besides, the story gets even funnier," Faris promised.

Junis wanted to say he didn't find the story funny at all, but he still had hopes it might turn out to be a good one.

"Well, when the granaries were almost empty, the king decided to invade a second neighboring country. This time he had all the slaves in his kingdom armed with light weapons and sent them to wear down the enemy, after which his real army. ."

Once again the minister recounted the rulers war in great detail. Although he appeared to be critical of the king, Faris certainly enjoyed his wars. He described each phase of every battle exactly, how the heads rolled just like that and how the warriors shouted with all their might to strengthen their courage. The minister went on and on, embellishing every action and every movement of the king in such detail that even his close friend Musa joined Ali, who had long since been snoring, and likewise drifted off.

"And what happened to the prince?" Tuma tried to help the minister resume the thread of his story.

"Although he had already turned thirty, the prince seemed disinclined to marry. Meanwhile, the king's lust for plunder led him to launch the famous Five Years War…" And here the minister again launched into a battle. By now Tuma was no longer listening — despite the minister's constant assurances that the story would get even funnier. Salim yawned and wished the minister would soon finish. Isam and Junis glared at Faris; they were ready to kill him. Only the teacher interrupted from time to time to exclaim, "What a beautiful turn of phrase."

"And what became of the drought?" asked the barber, when he woke up a little before ten-thirty.

"The drought? It raged for three long years, bringing misery and tears to the kingdom, but the king's wars had brought him much booty. ." And the minister proceeded to describe every gem and diadem as carefully as a jeweler taking inventory of his stock. Mehdi continued to praise Faris' beautiful formulations until about half past eleven, when he, too, finally dozed off. Only Salim held his ground, all the time regretting his obligations as a host.

The minister paused, looked at the sleeping guests, and all of a sudden shouted: "And now for the end!" Just as if the cock had crowed, the old men all woke up, sat straight in their chairs, and paid great attention in the hope they would soon be able to go home.

"As I told you, the king reigned for forty years and never listened to anybody. He rarely left his palace, and when he did, his bodyguards beat anyone who dared to come near him.

"One day the king was celebrating his victory over another sultan. This war had been—"

"Enough wars, where's the end of the story? What happened while this goddamned butcher was celebrating?" Junis interrupted angrily.

"Well, he was celebrating his victory. But his subjects had gathered in front of his palace to heap their curses on the king and his ancestors, and to mourn the loss of their sons. After the king had had a bit to drink, he ordered his servants to bring a tray laden with silver coins. He staggered out onto the balcony, grabbed a handful of coins, and flung them into the crowd. But his hand shook so, that most of the coins landed on the balcony by his feet. As he attempted a second throw, his bodyguards bent down to pick up the coins that had fallen, and for the first time in forty years the king stood before his subjects unprotected. An arrow came flying quicker than the flicker of an eyelash and pierced the royal heart."

"That was nicely said, may God bless your tongue," the teacher commented.

"And yours," replied the minister. "As I said, the bodyguards had only stooped down for a second, to pick up the coins, but by the time they stood back up, the king lay dead on the ground.

" 'The king is dead!' cried the ministers: 'Long live the king!' The subjects shouted with joy. Well, the witch had cursed the king for as long as he should live, and so his ears had gone unused for over forty years. Now, you know, inside the mother's womb, the ears are the first to open a window to the world, and they are the last to close their shutters. Long after eyes, lungs, heart, and brain have passed away, the ears go on hearing, and if someone hasn't strained his brain with too much use while still alive, then when he's dead, not only can his ears hear but his brain can even understand what's being said. Now, the king had more than enough brain left, and his ears were just like new. So he could hear his subjects rejoice and was horribly enraged.

" 'Just look at him lying there, the idiot,' the king heard his jester say. Oh, how he wanted to box the impudent man's ears, but his hand was long dead. The fool made fun of his master's stupidity, and the ministers all laughed. The king wanted to kick each one of them in the rear, but his legs, too, were long dead.

"Suddenly everything around him grew quiet. The king listened full of curiosity. In the distance he could hear footsteps. 'Quiet!' whispered the fool, 'the queen and the prince are coming.' The jester almost choked trying to contain his laughter.

" 'How did it happen?' the queen sobbed, 'I had only stepped out for an hour, I was sitting with the prince in the garden, and now. .'

" 'We always told his majesty he should never show himself, but as you know, O queen, he never listened to us. We always told him to keep his bodyguards well fed, so they wouldn't turn around or bend over for anything. But as you know, O queen, he never listened to us, and besides, he paid them so little. The bodyguards bent over to grab the coins— Who wouldn't have? And right at that moment he was hit by an arrow. If my heart had been in my hand, I would have held it in front of his.'

"The king recognized the voice of his minister for internal affairs, who just a moment ago had been laughing himself crooked along with the others. 'Hypocrite,' thought the king — that much thinking he could still do.

" 'And what about me?' Prince Ahmad said. 'How often have I wished to speak with him.' The king noticed a certain peculiarity in the voice of his beloved son, and it wasn't just the sound of intense grief — which, if truth be told, the king was sincerely happy to hear. No, there was an unusual gentleness, a tenderness that made the king a little uneasy. The prince sobbed. 'He loved me for what I wasn't. There have been so many times when I tried to tell him the truth. There have been so many times when I tried to tell him that I am a woman. A woman!' The king listened closely to the voice of his prince, and he heard the cry of a wounded soul. 'A woman!' the king again heard the prince cry out. The king wanted to shut his ears, but he couldn't. 'All of you hated him, but I loved him. For thirty years I lived just for him. And for thirty years I wanted to tell him that I went into the lions' cages only out of love for him, to entice a smile from his tired face. Again and again I invented the ugliest lies to turn away good women who were presented to me so I might choose a wife. Again and again I hoped, out of love for him, that he would die before he discovered the lie of his life, but this morning I resolved to let him live with my truth. I hated always wishing his death. And now, just when I was coming to tell him the truth, he's dead. He cannot hear me,' Ahmad sobbed.

"But the king heard Ahmad very well, and he felt a pain he had never felt while he was still alive. It wasn't worry about the throne, and it wasn't shock at his daughter's revelation. No, it was because he wanted so much to tell his daughter that he did hear her, and that he understood, but his mouth was long since dead. So great was his pain, however, that two huge tears escaped from his dead eyes and slowly rolled across his cheeks. That is my story and I wish you all a long life."

"May God keep your health," the barber answered, looking very pale, while Ali quickly buried his face in his hands.

"What a poor wretch this king was, after all!" sobbed the locksmith.

Salim walked over to his friend, held him by the shoulders, and slowly rocked the big man back and forth, to free him from the story and fetch him back to the little room on Abara Street.

After a while, Ali recovered his composure. "I'm fine now, thank you," he whispered to Salim. The minister stroked Ali's knee and looked at him sadly. "I'm also scared of dying," he said in a voice that could barely be heard.

"Shall I lay out a card for you?" Isam joked with the silent locksmith. But Ali didn't answer.

Faris was the first to get up. He shook Ali's hand for an unusually long time. "You are the ace and the master of the last night," he encouraged the old locksmith. "We'll see about that," Ali grumbled as he went out.