The Nofara

  • KurdishMedia.com - By Massoud Akko
  • 30/10/2009 00:00:00

By the western door of the Umayyad Mosque and the entrance of the Quaymera quarter of the Old City, is an old Damascene café. It has chairs of beech, small tables, and serves argeela in various flavours, as well as tea, coffee, juice, cappuccino and other drinks that I don’t know the name of. There is a storyteller who shares ancient tales in the evenings. All of this you find in The Nofara café.

At night, the storyteller will take you back in time. He stands, sits, walks a little and uses his whole body to tell his story to those sitting around him, while drinking his tea and smoking argeela. He depicts the scenes of the story in fancy words and lavish details, making whomever he wants into a hero who defeats all. At the end of the evening, he closes his book and signals with his head that it’s the end of the story for the day.

"Another light over here…”

“A cup of tea please…”

“Coffee without sugar…”

Words fly around the air of the café; the guests continue to smoke incessantly and games of backgammon and chess stretch on. There are people from all over, both local Syrians and foreigners, and sitting between them are beautiful women of all complexions. I spot some with hair as yellow as the lemon juice that the waiter offers, with that sour taste—just the juice, though, not the women, of course!

In the main room, a soft sound escapes from somewhere in the ceiling. Fairouz sings, "I loved you so much, I forgot to sleep…"

I sit on a chair before a table, and minutes later, one of the waiters turns to me and asks politely, "What would you like to drink, sir?"

I answered, just as politely, "Tea please."

"Sure," he replied, and then turned to head back inside the café.

I reflect about the café as I wait for my tea. It is a beautiful Damascene morning, the air a little hot, but it is nice in the shade. The walls of the adjacent shops are true witnesses to the passing of time, which has been written all over them. There are records of the achievements of leaders and rebels, and all the heroes of the TV show "Bab Al-Hara”, like Colonel Abu Shehab. Even though Bassam Mulla (the director) expelled the original Abu Shehab in part four, he remains loved by all, and someone has written the first letter of he and his beloved’s names on the wall. Between the letters is a heart struck by an arrow, which draws drops of black-inked blood. The shops sell an assortment of leather of goods, silverware, oriental products, real and fake silk, juice, refreshments, etc. There is even another café directly facing Nofara, so why do the people prefer this place? I don’t know and don’t ask.

The young blonde woman sitting in front of me looks like someone straight out of one of those fashion and style magazines. Her whole body seems to radiate - from her chest, underneath the light shirt she is wearing with the top button undone, to her bright blue eyes and glowing skin, to her hair, which falls like a waterfall of golden sunshine. She was smoking argeela, and even though there was no longer any smoke coming out of her mouth, she was content to inhale, as she was, from the pipe. I realize that the coals have already gone out but she has not called out for another light, like we do, or knock the iron tip of her pipe on the top tray under the clay pot. I continue to watch as the beautiful woman makes a cloud of argeela smoke form over her head.

I am interrupted by the waiter returning with my cup of tea, "Your tea, sir."

"Thank you," I say, and then go back to admiring the beautiful scene in front of me. She continues to smoke and drink coffee from a white cup.

I begin to ask myself, "Why don’t I go and talk to her?"

I have learned some English at the British Council in Damascus, why don’t I go and practice my language and conversation skills? Are English words still not glued in my memory? Or have they fallen out of use?"

As I look around, I notice that the café isn’t as crowded in the morning. You can’t quite compare it to the evenings, when it’s often hard just to find a chair. Of course, you can go somewhere else inside the Old City, where the drinks are more expensive or have become "forbidden" (i.e. alcoholic), since they are “evil”. Here at The Nofara, the prices are more sympathetic to our shallower pockets, although it is still expensive compared to other cafes in Damascus.

“Should I go or not?" The question continues to swirl around my head, but I cannot find an answer. I am afraid of her reaction and that she might not want to talk to me. “I came here this morning to clear my head a little,” I tell myself, “I’m not ready to talk."

What’s more, maybe she’ll say, “Shame on you! Have you never seen a woman before?” She might even call for a waiter or the owner of the café to complain about me. If that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll get a slap on my face and maybe the tourist police will even arrest me. Maybe they will accuse me of being a threat to the tourist industry in Syria. The judge will give me a long sentence in prison, since they had to waste the millions of dollars on my case, which should have been a part of the state budget…but I just had to go and bother the blonde tourist. Maybe they will accuse me of being a rebel. Maybe they will accuse me of writing “false” news articles. They could say that I’m trying to divide Syria for other countries to occupy. Nobody knows; anything is possible in this country!

I have been putting together all the words I learned at the Council and reviewing them, from time to time, with my Arabic-English dictionary on my Nokia 73. I try to memorize more vocabulary which I can use to speak with the blonde woman. I remind myself that I must be polite; I don’t want to upset the guests of the country who are injecting foreign currency into our economy and touring the ruins of Syria. I signal, and as the waiter comes toward me, I ask him hurriedly, "Excuse me?”

"Yes sir?"

"Is there a problem if I speak with this lady? I would like to talk in English with her for a bit.”

He looks at me and asks sarcastically, "Why, do you know how to speak their language?"

"Yes, a little."

He replies, "Go on, maybe she’ll like you and you two will get married.” I laugh at that and thank him.

I leave my cup of tea on the table and walk straight towards the blonde woman. My eyes take all of her in as I draw nearer; everything about her is beautiful. She seems perfect, like a picture taken by those cutting edge Japanese digital cameras. I grow more and more keen to speak with her as the distance between us begins to disappear. Suddenly, her cell phone rings and I freeze in my tracks. She speaks in a foreign language I don’t understand. She laughs for a long time and then notices me near her.

She looks at me with a smile, as she continues talking. I don’t know how to describe it, but I think it is kind of a scornful smile. She continues talking on the phone, as I return to my chair and wave for the waiter, "Bill please?"

He says to me mockingly, "What, it didn’t work? She didn’t talk to you?”

"No, that’s not it. It’s just that she doesn’t seem to speak English.”

The waiter laughs and says, "Praise Allah! So, she’s the one who doesn’t speak English?” He put 100S.P of change into my pocket and left.

Once outside the café, I stop and ponder to myself, "I wonder what language she was speaking, German? Or no, it was Dutch, or no, possibly Italian…or Spanish. Fine, ok. Why didn’t I just wait to talk to her? What’s wrong with speaking to a foreign woman? No sir, there’s nothing wrong with it. I was just weak; a coward. You were right dear waiter… Praise Allah!”

  • KurdishMedia.com - By Massoud Akko
  • 30/10/2009 00:00:00