‘You should run for parliament,’ people would tell him.
Grandpa Faris would laugh and raise his hand in self-deprecation, which inevitably made his admirer insist.
‘You should. I would vote for you!’
Grandpa Faris would resist making any sarcastic response about the so-called voting procedure, the kind of comment he sometimes made when they were alone, just the two of them.
‘When you’re older, you’ll see how it’s done. They give you a ballot with two boxes, yes or no, to the sitting president Hafez al-Assad. Because our leader is a generous man who listens to the will of the people, they are given a completely free choice…yes or no…’
Sometimes Sami accompanied Grandpa Faris in the evenings, at the hour when the moon rose through the sky. The walk took them to the famous souk, the old market in the city centre, where the winding alleys opened into food stands and small shops that sold everything between heaven and earth. That was when Grandpa Faris would tell him about the French company he had worked for in the 1940s, when Syria was under French rule. Granted, the French had been no angels, and a lot of people had been killed back then, but they were respectful, according to Grandpa Faris. Like if the French soldiers were chasing a suspected rebel and he ran into a church or a mosque, well, they wouldn’t run after him and shoot him in there. Some things had been sacred, even to the French occupiers.
‘Besides, it’s thanks to the French we eat croissants,’ he said. ‘And some of the words you use are from the French, like canapé and chauffage.’
Now they were standing side by side in front of the mirror, each applying oil to a dark swirl of hair. Grandpa Faris tilted Sami’s chin up, adjusted an out-of-place strand and asked if there was something special happening that day. It couldn’t be helped; Sami’s cheeks flushed.
‘It’s just a theatre play at school.’
‘Then maybe you’d like to try a bit of perfume?’
Sami studied the result in the mirror. Newly ironed khaki shirt, oil-combed hair and a cloud of oud around him. Then he passed the kitchen, where Malik had moved on to throwing olives on the floor, and hurried out the door.
* * *
—
His best friend Muhammed was already waiting at the corner, his freckly face hidden beneath a bird’s nest of curly hair. Sami was jealous because his friend was taller than him, but he was also proud because everyone believed that Muhammed was in high school already, which made Sami feel mature by association.
‘Wow, what’s that smell?’ Muhammed asked, sniffing the air.
His friend had recently started wearing spectacles and the thick glass made his eyes look bigger, like he was in constant surprise.
‘Nothing,’ Sami said. ‘Come on. Let’s see who gets to Nassim first.’
The street had flooded after the night’s spring rain and they zigzagged between pools that looked like drops of the sky had fallen on the asphalt. There was the rattling sound of metal shutters being pulled up, the chirping from small birds, the cries of mothers who shouted at their children to hurry up for school. Muhammed seemed to win the race but slowed down at the end to give Sami a chance to catch up.
‘It’s not fair,’ Sami panted. ‘Your legs are too long.’
‘Too long! Your legs are too short.’
They walked into Nassim’s store, which was similar to many of the small shops on the street. All owned by old men who spent their days listening to the radio channel Monte Carlo, talking to customers and filling the shelves with goods from floor to ceiling.
‘You are lucky, boys, the bread car just came.’
Sami bought them a croissant each, and Muhammed promised to pay him the next day, which he rarely did, but it didn’t matter. Muhammed had lived with just his mother and three siblings since their father was imprisoned when Muhammed was little. It wasn’t something they talked about. Like Sami never mentioned that Muhammed’s school uniform was slightly outgrown, the colours faded and the sleeves frayed. Sami’s mum usually put an extra apple or banana in his backpack to give to his friend at lunchtime.
‘Bye, Abu Nassim, see you tomorrow.’
‘Bye, boys, be good and study well.’
On the street they greeted a teacher, and when they passed an allgirls school, they slowed down and peeked silently through the fence. Their school was mixed, with boys and girls, but there was something special about that place. At least, up until recently, when Sami had found a new interest in his own school.
* * *
—
Their school was built out of basalt – Homs was known as the city of black stones – and surrounded by high walls and fences. Songs with zealous choruses echoed across the schoolyard from speakers. A lot of them were about the invisible enemy just down the road: Israel, waiting for a chance to destroy them. Back then, he didn’t connect the songs with a real country with real inhabitants. It was just part of the school day, like maths, art and military studies.
Sami lined up with his classmates and waited for the morning lecture, delivered by their headmistress, an older woman with candyfloss hair gathered in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. First the Syrian flag was raised, then the flag of the Baath Party.
‘Repeat after me,’ the headmistress said as feedback surged through the speakers. ‘With our soul, with our blood, we submit to al-Assad.’
‘With our soul, with our blood, we submit to al-Assad!’
‘And what do we fight for? Unity, freedom and socialism.’
‘Unity, freedom and socialism!’
She inspected the rows of khaki school uniforms over her rimless glasses. The morning assembly continued with her scolding the students, one by one or in groups, while thwacking the ground with a switch. Sami had never seen her use the switch on anyone but even so it was a relief when, after repeating her phrases about the almighty father of their country, the eternal and wonderful, they were allowed to march into their classrooms. Especially since this term he had been sitting behind a girl he had only recently noticed.
Yasmin never raised her hand if she could help it, but if she was asked a question she always knew the answer. Sami studied the back of her neck during English class until she turned around and he looked down at his notebook. He wondered how it would be to run his hand through her dark hair, gathered in a ponytail, and feel the gentle curve of her head under his fingertips.
A few months earlier, while he was lost in thought at his desk, a crumpled-up note had hit his cheek. Sami saw Muhammed’s crooked grin on the opposite side of the classroom. His best friend had a way of butting into situations that were none of his business. Sometimes in an attempt to come to the rescue, like by taking the blame if Sami forgot his homework, or, like this time, by throwing a note to set things in motion. 1 + 1 = 69. He wasn’t sure what it meant but he sensed it referred to something adults did in secret.