Josef was no better, but that very fact was a challenge to him. He paid a lira to hire a bike for two hours.
“And if I can’t ride the wretched thing after that, you can throw me into the sewers,” he growled with determination.
Farid laughed. “Or call an ambulance.”
“No way! You wait and see, I’ll come riding it back shouting, ‘Look, no hands!’”
But their plans fell through. The man at the hire shop took the lira and didn’t ask if Josef could ride a bicycle, just pointed to a red one and mumbled morosely, “You better be back by five, or I’ll charge for another hour.” And he added, as he did with all children, “I know your father.”
It was quarter to three now, so he’d given them an extra fifteen minutes. Josef beamed and pushed the bicycle towards Saitun Alley, rigid with excitement.
“It’ll be easier in your street, it’s better paved,” he claimed. He wanted to avoid the mockery of the boys and girls in Abbara Alley.
Saitun Alley was quieter than a graveyard at this time of day. There wasn’t a human soul in sight as Josef and Farid turned into it. But suddenly a man appeared.
“Hello,” he said, “what a nice bike! You two look like beginners — has anyone tested the brakes for you? I have a friend who put his brakes on too hard. He flew over the handlebars and landed on his head. He’s spoken nothing but English since. A medical phenomenon. Let’s see how those brakes are working.” And before Josef had fully grasped the situation, the man had gently removed his hands from the handlebars, jumped on the saddle, and rode off towards the Catholic church. There he turned and raced back towards them. Josef stood in the middle of the street waving to the man to stop, but the man called, “The brakes don’t work!” shot past him like an arrow and turned right into Straight Street. Josef and Farid ran after him, but the man had almost reached the eastern gate already. And then he was out of sight.
“I’m an idiot. I ought to have kicked him in the balls. He was a thief, and now the bike’s gone,” said Josef gloomily.
They stood there, silent and lost in thought, watching the street sweepers who sprinkled the road surface with water in the afternoons in summer, and swept up the worst of the refuse.
“Come on, let’s go to my place,” said Farid at last, but Josef just stood there. He was wondering how to break the news of the loss gently to the man in the hire shop without having him seize him by the throat or demand large sums of money from his mother.
“I’ll help you,” Farid went on. “I’ve saved over fifteen lira, and I bet Grandfather Nagib will come up with fifty. I’m sure I can get another ten out of Claire, so that comes to seventy-five. That’s almost the price of a bicycle.”
Josef’s face brightened, and a smile showed, although a smile clad in grief and gratitude. He put a hand on Farid’s shoulder, saying in a shaky voice, “Thanks. You really are my friend.”
“Of course I’m your friend. And when we’ve paid for the bicycle we’ll go and find that bastard and smash his balls to scrambled egg,” proclaimed Farid grandly, to make it even more impressive.
They couldn’t say later how long they had been standing there like that, but suddenly Josef froze with surprise, for the man appeared again. Shouting cheerfully, he rode past them to the Catholic church.
“He’s not getting away from me this time. I’m going after him,” growled Josef. Farid planned to grab the bicycle from behind as soon as the man rode past him. But it never came to that. The man rode around in an elegant curve in front of the church porch, dismounted, leaned the bike against the wall, and adjusted his shirt and trousers. Then he went into the church. For some reason its doors were standing wide open.
“What’s he planning to do?” asked Farid.
“He’s trying to lure us in.”
“You run and fetch the bike and I’ll wait here. If he gets in your way, shout for help,” said Josef, picking up a large stone lying by the wall.
Farid’s heart was thudding, but he ran. The sun, suddenly hotter than ever, was blazing down on his head. He was sweating, and so scared that the air flickered before his eyes, but he could feel Josef’s eyes on his back, so there was no way he could change his mind now. When he reached the bike he swiftly seized the handlebars, started pushing it, and for once, oddly enough, it obeyed him and went along beside him like a faithful dog. Josef put the stone down and came over to his friend. Relieved, he took the bike.
“It’s five,” he said.
The man in the hire shop just looked up briefly from his work, pointed to the wall where he wanted Josef to lean the bike, and took no more notice of the boys.
Josef and Farid quickly went back to the church to find the man, but the church was empty, and the old sexton Abdullah hadn’t seen anyone come in or go out.
On the way home, Josef swore that he would never touch a bicycle again in his life. And sure enough, he never did.
111. Maaruf Directing Traffic
Maaruf lived with his wife Samira and their four children in two rooms of the big apartment building next to Farid’s house. Samira was a tall woman with white skin and black hair. She wasn’t beautiful, but her white skin had men turning to look at her.
Her husband was tall and massive. Farid had never seen him looking as if he had just washed; he was sweaty even early in the morning. Most traffic cops in Damascus were extremely elegant in appearance, but not Maaruf. He looked like a jailbird on the run who had just stolen a traffic cop’s uniform.
He earned very little. It might have been enough for him on his own, but with a wife who in his opinion couldn’t keep house, and four children whose appetites were never satisfied, even two salaries wouldn’t have been enough. And he had his old parents to support as well.
Claire had never liked Samira and Maaruf, and since the incident with her brother Marcel she wouldn’t even pass the time of day with them. Maaruf had stopped Marcel close to Bab Tuma. Marcel gave the policeman a friendly greeting and said, casually, that he knew him and his delightful wife, since Maaruf was his sister Claire’s neighbour in Saitun Alley.
“I don’t know any Claire,” claimed Maaruf, and he also denied living in Saitun Alley. “You hooted, that costs ten lira, you have vapour coming out of your exhaust, that costs twenty lira, and you’re driving without lights, that costs thirty lira. Pick your fine. I don’t want to be unjust.”
Marcel was trapped. He decided for the cheapest fine on offer, but he could find only a twenty-lira note in his wallet. He gave that to the policeman, saying, “I’ll have the hooting.”
The policeman grinned and said, “Very sensible of you.” And turned away.
“But I want my ten lira change,” protested Marcel.
Maaruf put the twenty lira in his shirt pocket and said generously, “For the second ten lira, you can hoot your horn again.”
112. Raining Sugar-Coated Fennel Seeds
One summer morning in the year 1952 the inhabitants of the Christian quarter found that a miracle had happened. By now coups and miracles were everyday occurrences for the Damascenes, although so far miracles had befallen only individuals, not whole parts of the city.
Almost all the inner courtyards, balconies and rooftops were sprinkled with little coloured things that looked like grain. People cautiously tasted them, and were delighted to find that it had been raining fennel seeds. In Damascus, fennel seeds are coated in coloured sugar and used to decorate sweet dishes, or simply put in the mouth to be chewed after a spicy dish. Fennel is good for the digestion and perfumes your breath.