He had small hands, dry, pitch-black fingers. The hands and fingers were covered with interlocking black splotches, like pieces of skin stuck on top of one another. Little Gandhi wasn’t bothered by the colors of his hands, he knew this was part of his trade, and that when he took up the shoe-shine box he’d chosen the world of shoe polish that colors shoes and hands and sidewalks. It was a plain wooden box, with a raised tongue for customers to put their shoes on, special compartments for the shoe polish containers, a shaving brush he used to wash the shoes with soap, a toothbrush for getting the sides of the shoes, two brushes for shining, and a thick black pad. Gandhi didn’t choose this trade, it came to him as if it were waiting for him. After he left the restaurant, buying the box was all he could do. He went to a carpenter in Nabaa who specialized in making coffins and asked him to make him a box. He picked up the box and walked from Nabaa to Hamra Street. He sat in front of Jarjoura’s Restaurant, then later changed to Faysal’s. No one asked him why he was sitting there. The newspaper dealer Naeem Nassar welcomed him as if he’d been waiting for him. Naeem Nassar had been selling newspapers for twenty years, in that very spot. He’d lay out the papers and magazines on the sidewalk, paying close attention to the color scheme, sit down on a small chair in front of his stall, and smoke incessantly. He knew everything that went on, for he’d been selling newspapers since childhood, and so would his son after him. He’d read everything and advise the customers what to buy. Naeem Nassar welcomed Gandhi. At that time his name hadn’t become Gandhi yet, he was Abd al-Karim. Abd al-Karim would sit behind his box as if he were stuck to it. He never lifted his head, even when he got paid for shining the shoes. As though he were an old man, Little Gandhi’s soft beard looked like black splotches on his dark face, and he wore a dark suit summer and winter. He sat like a child or an old man, for this profession is suited only to children and old men. Gandhi didn’t change the rules of the profession, for he was always leaning over the shoes like an old man, and when he carried his box to go back to his room in Nabaa, he ran like a child.
The Reverend Amin was the first to draw his attention to how dirty his hands were and suggested he wash them with kerosene. Gandhi didn’t use kerosene. He let the shoe polish build up on his hands, to the point that when he polished, his hands looked like part of the shoe.
The shoes were endless. Gandhi could tell a man’s personality from his shoes: worn-out shoes were a sign of carelessness, shoes that were always like new were a sign of fearfulness, shoes that weren’t laced properly were a sign of sexual potency, shoes with the backs folded down like slippers were a sign of craziness. He’d go on about this with the American, Dr. John Davis, who was impressed with Gandhi’s ability to polish shoes and sit for long hours bent over his hands without getting tired.
What really preoccupied Gandhi’s mind was mirrors; he wanted to turn each shoe into a mirror. He especially loved black shoes, for brown shoes, no matter how much they shined, never became like mirrors. A black one, on the other hand, could really be polished and became like one solid piece. After the black shoe polish was poured on, it became one, as though it were cast in black, and with the first rub of the brush the shine would start and brighten it, the black color would be opened to the world, and Gandhi would see the parts of his face on the shoe’s upper. The whole world enters shoes, and the man standing there, most often holding a newspaper, reading, doesn’t understand the importance of what is taking place atop his shoes. Only Gandhi knew, he knew that everything, the buildings and the faces, and the underground water pipes, and the sidewalk, everything enters into shoes, transforming them into a new world being born.
Gandhi hated the two-toned shoes that came into style in the late fifties, white on the sides with blotches of brown in the middle. Dying white shoes was bothersome, because he didn’t use the kind of polish that coated the leather; instead he had to use a water-soluble dye he got out of a long bottle, using some cottony material — a square white cloth upon which the white liquid was poured. Gandhi would put it on the shoe as if he were performing surgery. That was only for covering the shoe with the color; dying it was another thing altogether. Dying it would bring back the value of the shoe, not just cover it. White was for covering. Women’s shoes with the sharp pointed toes were impossible, because the pointy tip made it difficult to round out the color, so the shoe would remain only covered with the color, even if it was black. The true work was in the black shoe, when you could actually smell the leather, the “chevreux” style, or the “box” style. Gandhi preferred the box even though the chevreux was softer. The box could truly be transformed into a mirror, and the city transformed into a shoe.
When Gandhi would finish with the shoes that were sent to him, he’d stand them up against the wall and use them to watch the reflection of people’s feet as they walked by. When the customer would come to get his shoes, Gandhi would ask him to look carefully and see his face in them.
Once the Reverend Amin got upset. That was at the beginning of their long relationship. Gandhi asked him to look at the reflection of his face in his shoes, so the Reverend thought this short shoe shiner was making fun of him. He gave him a belittling look and left without paying.
He told Gandhi the next day he forgot to pay because he was so upset with him.
Gandhi refused to take any money and said he’d forget about the whole thing, that he wanted to prove to the Reverend that everything could be turned into a mirror. From that day on the Reverend Amin became Gandhi’s friend, and was convinced that everything could be turned into a mirror.
He said to Madame Lillian that her eyes were the mirror of the world, and didn’t ask her to fly. But she was a crazy woman, what can you ask of a crazy woman?
The Reverend Amin didn’t know how he asked her to fly. He saw his voice coming out of him, thick and melodious, as if it weren’t his voice.
“Fly. Fly.”
And he started waving his hands like a fan.
He was engulfed with a strong desire to see her jump. When he stood her in front of the window after turning out the light, he stood behind her and started flapping like a fan. He opened the window and tried to push her, to make her fly. The woman got scared and threw herself onto the floor and started crying.
“Everything is a mirror,” Amin said to Gandhi, watching him bent over his shoes, as if he wanted to swallow the world.
“And God is a mirror, God is a mirror but man refuses to see his face. God is his face, but man is afraid.”
Madame Lillian got scared and started to cry. Gandhi told Fawziyya when he married her that he didn’t like this profession. He liked to see shoes shimmering in the light, but he didn’t like the profession, he’d rather leave it. When the dog came into the picture, he did leave it and opened his own restaurant.
Fawziyya wouldn’t say anything, she’d agree without saying anything. She’d give birth to the babies and the babies would die. Husn came, and lived, and after him Suad, and then Fawziyya went back to death; the baby would be born dead or die shortly after birth.
Gandhi was dizzy with sadness. He took her to see every doctor at the American University, the ones he knew and the ones he didn’t know. They gave her medicine and vitamins. He spent all his money on medicine. During his last visit to Dr. Naseeb Suleiman, the doctor advised Gandhi to stop the pregnancies. Fawziyya was sitting there with her head down while the doctor talked to Gandhi, telling him it wasn’t good, that the woman could die. You have to stop the pregnancies.