Read Online One Hundred and One Nights (9780316191913) by Benjamin Buchholz - Free Book Online
Authors: Benjamin Buchholz
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thoughts about him. I do not put the young man at his ease. It is good that he should be deferential to me. I must be twenty years his senior, maybe twenty-five.
The guard looks at the kebabs, one in each of my hands. They are oily, cooked to a perfect golden brown and flavored with fenugreek, caraway, cumin.
“Would you like one?” I say.
“Thank you, but no thank you,” he says, the polite thing.
“Please,” I say. “Please. It’s my honor.”
Again the guard refuses, but only after darting a glance at the kebab nearest to him.
“No,” he says. “No.”
I thrust the kebab in his direction, making it hard for him to avoid the gift.
“I insist,” I say.
He takes longer than I expect to reach his hand out for the food. During the pause, the delay, he looks past me, quickly, up over my shoulder across the market toward town. I follow his gaze and see a slim-bodied boy standing beneath the ayatollah’s arch. This boy looks at the guard and then at me. For a second time he looks at the guard before turning and running back through the arch into Safwan. I recognize this boy: one of the waiters or busboys from Bashar’s café. Perhaps he was bringing the guard some food for dinner. No matter. I have food.
“By Allah, yes,” the guard says at last, snapping his eyes back to me, back to the kebab. He is still standing straight, at attention, as if I am his commanding officer or some such thing.
I release the kebab into his grip. At the same time I glance at his teapot and his spare cup. The man has no manners. I glance at the cup again, more pointedly, and almost nod my head in its direction.
He gets the hint at last.
“Please, please,” he says, “please, sir, sit. Do share of my tea if you are in the mood to share with a humble man such as me.”
“I am just a vendor in the market, a humble man myself,” I say. “No need to be so formal. We are like brothers, men who work for a living. Not princes. Not politicians with stuffed-up shirts.”
This at last puts the man somewhat back into balance, though he twitters around me, arranging space for me among his things on the little flat space around his tent, arranging his tea set, his box table, his chair to make more room for us both. Throughout this dance he steals looks whenever possible across the market toward the spot where the boy from Bashar’s café had stood. After a moment he finally manages to pour a cup of tea for me while still holding the kebab I gave him. I look around for a chair to sit on. There isn’t one. The guard offers me his, pulling it away from its spot beside the telephone pole and placing it nearer to his tea set. Before I sit, I introduce myself more completely.
“Abu Saheeh is my name,” I say. “I own a shop below.”
“My name is Mahmoud, sir,” he says.
We try to shake hands but the kebabs baffle us, both in our right hands, both of us unwilling to touch the food or each other with the impure left hand. I wave my kebab in the air to show Mahmoud that the handshake doesn’t matter, not now. I am glad not to have to complete our introduction with the customary clasp and kiss. The man is unshaven like most men, but he has also been a long while without a bath. He likely has vermin in his patchy beard. I sit on his chair. He opens the front flap of his tent and pulls his cot from within. He sits on an edge of the cot as it teeters and adjusts to his weight. We eat the kebabs chunk by chunk, chicken and onion and tomato, sliding the pieces from the skewers into our mouths. I drink a little of his tea, poor thin stuff, bitter.
When I finish eating, I say, “You have a marvelous view.”
“Nearly the whole city.”
“And up the road quite a distance.”
“And that way.” He points. “Down toward Umm Qasr, too.”
“Quite a responsibility!”
“A start, for me. A start,” he says. “I hope to become a member of the Safwan police soon, or even maybe the special police from Basra, when I have the
The guard looks at the kebabs, one in each of my hands. They are oily, cooked to a perfect golden brown and flavored with fenugreek, caraway, cumin.
“Would you like one?” I say.
“Thank you, but no thank you,” he says, the polite thing.
“Please,” I say. “Please. It’s my honor.”
Again the guard refuses, but only after darting a glance at the kebab nearest to him.
“No,” he says. “No.”
I thrust the kebab in his direction, making it hard for him to avoid the gift.
“I insist,” I say.
He takes longer than I expect to reach his hand out for the food. During the pause, the delay, he looks past me, quickly, up over my shoulder across the market toward town. I follow his gaze and see a slim-bodied boy standing beneath the ayatollah’s arch. This boy looks at the guard and then at me. For a second time he looks at the guard before turning and running back through the arch into Safwan. I recognize this boy: one of the waiters or busboys from Bashar’s café. Perhaps he was bringing the guard some food for dinner. No matter. I have food.
“By Allah, yes,” the guard says at last, snapping his eyes back to me, back to the kebab. He is still standing straight, at attention, as if I am his commanding officer or some such thing.
I release the kebab into his grip. At the same time I glance at his teapot and his spare cup. The man has no manners. I glance at the cup again, more pointedly, and almost nod my head in its direction.
He gets the hint at last.
“Please, please,” he says, “please, sir, sit. Do share of my tea if you are in the mood to share with a humble man such as me.”
“I am just a vendor in the market, a humble man myself,” I say. “No need to be so formal. We are like brothers, men who work for a living. Not princes. Not politicians with stuffed-up shirts.”
This at last puts the man somewhat back into balance, though he twitters around me, arranging space for me among his things on the little flat space around his tent, arranging his tea set, his box table, his chair to make more room for us both. Throughout this dance he steals looks whenever possible across the market toward the spot where the boy from Bashar’s café had stood. After a moment he finally manages to pour a cup of tea for me while still holding the kebab I gave him. I look around for a chair to sit on. There isn’t one. The guard offers me his, pulling it away from its spot beside the telephone pole and placing it nearer to his tea set. Before I sit, I introduce myself more completely.
“Abu Saheeh is my name,” I say. “I own a shop below.”
“My name is Mahmoud, sir,” he says.
We try to shake hands but the kebabs baffle us, both in our right hands, both of us unwilling to touch the food or each other with the impure left hand. I wave my kebab in the air to show Mahmoud that the handshake doesn’t matter, not now. I am glad not to have to complete our introduction with the customary clasp and kiss. The man is unshaven like most men, but he has also been a long while without a bath. He likely has vermin in his patchy beard. I sit on his chair. He opens the front flap of his tent and pulls his cot from within. He sits on an edge of the cot as it teeters and adjusts to his weight. We eat the kebabs chunk by chunk, chicken and onion and tomato, sliding the pieces from the skewers into our mouths. I drink a little of his tea, poor thin stuff, bitter.
When I finish eating, I say, “You have a marvelous view.”
“Nearly the whole city.”
“And up the road quite a distance.”
“And that way.” He points. “Down toward Umm Qasr, too.”
“Quite a responsibility!”
“A start, for me. A start,” he says. “I hope to become a member of the Safwan police soon, or even maybe the special police from Basra, when I have the
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