Damascus Nights

12 Why Salim was sad after giving birth to a beautiful story

It was past midnight by the time the guests went home. But Salim was wide awake. Inside the small stove, the wood was quietly crackling. Faris' story had begun sadly and ended sadly — what torment the king must have suffered during his last hour on earth! — but as far as Salim was concerned, the minister had spoiled its heart. He had told it so badly that Salim couldn't remember exactly what the middle of the story looked like — despite the fact that he had the memory of a camel. Salim wondered: "Did I nod off like Musa and Ali?" He didn't know for sure.

It's true that Faris had chosen a very difficult story. You can't tell a story about someone who doesn't want to listen and make it sound funny. Salim thought and thought: How should such a story be told?

He kept getting up and feeding wood to the stove, in order to drive the icy cold from his room. His thoughts wandered into the depth of time and the faraway of exotic lands he had always told about. A howling wind swept over the rooftops. All of a sudden he heard two stray cats snarling in the dark. They were fighting. A tin washbowl fell crashing to the ground and the cats ran away in fright. The clatter echoed a few times in the large courtyard. Then the quiet returned. And as if it no longer wanted to disturb the sleeping, the wind abated into a gentle breeze.

Salim's eyes grew wide. Suddenly the story was there, one he had thought up over fifty years ago. He had never told it, and so it had slumbered in his heart all these years. It had first come to him in Great Horn Gorge, when he had cracked his whip and heard it echo off the canyon walls. And now it came back.

Once upon a time — Salim listened to the voice of his memory — there lived a king who didn't know how to listen. Whenever his subjects came to him, he would interrupt them after the first sentence and shout, "Enough! I believe you! Guard, give this man a thousand gold liras!" Or: "Enough, I don't believe you. Guard, give him eighty lashes and take him away!" What he said depended on his mood. He did not want to listen, and because he didn't listen, he was also unjust in dispensing mercy. One day the court jester came to him. The king was in a good mood and asked his fool to tell a story.

The jester sat down at the king's feet and spoke: "I was told, O mighty king, that in earlier times, long before man walked on the earth, in the country of demons, may God protect us from their wrath, there lived a demon and his wife who roamed from canyon to canyon, dwelling in the caves and hollows. Other demons considered him a very poor listener. But his wife suffered more than anyone, because not only did her husband refuse to listen to her, he contradicted everything she said and called it stupid. His ears were completely closed to what her heart was urgently trying to tell him.

"One day she quarreled with him, and when she stood up for herself, he began to beat her. But the worst was that he then insisted on explaining to her, gently and kindly, why the beating was for her own good. His words dripped with honey, but his wife's limbs throbbed with pain. 'You ought to have two mouths instead of one,' she cursed her husband with all her heart, 'and one ear instead of two.' It so happened that at that moment the god of the demons came floating through the canyon. He heard her curse and felt sorry for her. And since he had heard so many bad reports about this demon, he decided to make the wife's words come true. The hard-hearted demon fell into a deep sleep, and when he awoke he discovered that he had two mouths — one above the other — and one tiny ear on top of his forehead, no larger than a chickpea. His old ears lay on his pillow like two shriveled autumn leaves.

"At first the demon was overjoyed and got down on his knees to thank his god for this blessing. Now he could speak faster and louder. From then on he never ceased talking, for even when he ate or drank with one mouth he could still speak with the other.

"The other demons didn't understand the punishment, for now this demon was able to interrupt them even more often, and ask a second question at the same time he was answering the first. And the poor wife, for whom his first mouth had been one mouth too many, was near despair, since now his snoring came rattling out of two.

"More and more the demon heeded only his own two voices, so that his words became an invisible wall that separated him from friend and foe alike. The other demons avoided him like the plague. No one paid any attention to what he was saying. Not even his wife could bear to hear his words. Words, O king, are delicate, magical flowers that blossom only in a listener's ear. This demon's words, however, found no ears at all and wilted the moment they left his lips.

"Soon the demon felt miserable with his dead words. In his loneliness he finally recognized his stupidity, and from then on he practiced penance. He kept both mouths shut and listened better with his one tiny ear than he had with his two large ones. With all his heart he begged the god of the demons to give him a second ear, so that he could hear better. He begged and begged for years. Even his wife felt sorry for him, and his neighbors who dwelt in the nearby hollows, springs, and volcanoes also forgot their anger and begged their creator to pardon the poor soul. But the god of the demons nursed his wrath for years and barred all supplicants in this matter from his palace. Not until the thousand and first year did he grant the unhappy demon an audience. 'Do you regret your evil deeds?' he asked with angry indignation.

"The demon nodded.

" 'And will you do anything and everything to regain your two ears and one mouth?'

"The demon was willing to make every sacrifice.

" 'Then as of this day, in place of your second mouth you will receive a second ear. But only upon the condition that, until the end of time, you repeat every call and every sentence, whether spoken by demons, animals, or humans. Woe unto you if you should ignore the chirping of even a single cicada.'

" 'Your wish is my command, master of my soul. May the sun and moon be my witnesses: I shall fulfill this condition to the end of time. Please bless me with the second ear,' said the demon, much moved. He began his oath with two mouths and finished it with one.

"To this day the demon roams from canyon to canyon, dwelling in the caves and hollows. And ever since that time he repeats every call and every sentence spoken by demons, animals, or humans. No noise escapes his ears, not even the sound of a rolling pebble."

The jester finished his story, deep in thought.

"And what was the name of this poor demon?" the king wanted to know.

"Echo," answered the fool.

Morning was breaking by the time Salim finished remembering his story. Earlier he had always felt relieved after telling a story, but this time he felt heavy of heart. Why was he so sad? At first he thought it was because the story was too naked and unadorned, stored as it was inside his memory. But no, that wasn't the reason, because that was how he stored all his stories. It was in telling them that he developed his thoughts and clad his bare stories with the appropriate dress and scent and gait. Only bad storytellers retain a story along with all the details. No, what was really burning inside his breast was that there was no one he could tell the story to. In his head, of course, Salim had always known that a story needs at least two people in order to live, but only now did he feel this in his heart.

He placed some wood in the oven and sat down in front of it on the large chair. The flames danced gaily around the wood. They clung softly to its gnarled skin, as if they wanted to caress it. For a moment the wood stayed hard-hearted and cold. It ignored the flames' seduction, but the fire kept sweetly licking its body and tickling its soul with warm poetry. A few splinters and sharp edges, ignoring the warnings of the trunk, dropped their stubborn opposition and finally caught fire. The wood crackled its displeasure, but soon gave up all resistance and started dancing and singing loudly in one great flame. A short while later both wood and flame melted into a quiet whispering glow at rest on a soft pillow of ashes.

When Salim awoke, it was already noon. He jumped up and lifted the blanket from the birdcage. The goldfinch hopped about and rejoiced in the light, drank from its water glass, and let out a loud trill.

Salim was surprised to realize he had spent the entire night on the chair in front of the stove. And he couldn't remember whether he had

actually recalled his story, or

simply dreamt

it.