Sonia Saikaley

Jasmine Season on Hamra Street

(Novel excerpt)

Wadi Abu Jamil. The Jewish quarter. I had heard that name before and all the tales over coffee in the village were indeed true. Here I was standing in this very place. I remembered seeing Jewish men with fiddler’s caps on Hamra Street when I used to visit Beirut with my parents, but I didn’t actually think there was a place where they lived here in the city. I thought they were perhaps living in the mountains or something. Remembering why I had wandered to this area, I glanced around and hoped to spot the bookstore but I only saw a piazza filled with food stalls, a grocery store and bakery, the smell of oven-baked bread seeping out of the open door.

Some people passed me. “Do you know how I get back to Beirut?” I naïvely asked the older woman and young man walking side-by-side. The man had high-cheekbones and a slender but somewhat muscular build and if I hadn’t been looking closely, I would have mistaken him for a girl because he wore a flower-printed shirt and pants that ballooned out, making it appear like a dress. He seemed to be in his late twenties. The way he stood with his posture straight conveyed an air of confidence, a quiet, gentle confidence. His wavy, light brown hair was past his chin. He seemed unaware of how handsome he was with his large hazel eyes that met mine in a quick glance before he looked away. But then he took me in again, first looking at my baggy trousers then staring at my wild curly hair that had become tangled and wet in the rain. I could see the stubble on his chin and the masculine features of his Adam’s apple and chapped lips which opened wide – a startlingly deep and strong voice came out.

“We are in Beirut,” he answered.

Flustered, I said quietly, “Oh, I know, I’m sorry. I meant to say…”

“Wadi Abu Jamil is a part of Beirut.” His eyes looked accusingly at me.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

But then his facial expression softened and he said gently, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know how I can get back to the beach? I’m trying to find the Corniche again.”

“Which Corniche? There are many boardwalks and beaches around here.”

I stopped and rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know. I’m not originally from Beirut.”

Instructing the older woman to go ahead of him, the young man now said kindly, “Come with me.” I was hesitant at first but then he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t bite you.”

We walked past backgammon players, who nodded at him.  He gave them a friendly nod too, even though his serious eyes looked angry.

“You don’t have to walk me there. Just point me in the right direction,” I mumbled when we walked further away from his neighbourhood.

We past two food vendors. “Hello, Raz,” said the old man to my companion. “When are you going to cut your hair? You’re looking more like a girl every day. You even have pretty legs like a woman,” he said, winking.

His wife slapped his arm and said, “Stop it, you old fool! What are you? Strange?”

“Of course, I shouldn’t be on the lookout for pretty legs when I have your old ones to touch and gaze at!” he laughed and his wife slapped him again. The young man laughed too, a rich sound floating out of his full lips.

We kept walking and when I insisted again that he should just point me in the right direction and I’d be all right, he said in an annoyed voice, the tenderness he had shown seconds ago completely gone, “You’re lost. You’ll just lose your way even more. I can’t have that. If I were in your situation, wouldn’t you help me?”

I wasn’t so sure if I would. I would probably just give directions and when Raz saw a puzzled look on my face, he smiled to himself and shook his head a little. Once we reached the beach, I thought he’d leave but he didn’t. On the sand, still wet from the rain, we stood there in silence. I glanced down when Raz stared intently at me.

“If you’re not from Beirut, then where are you from?”

Clearing my throat and finally looking into his hazel eyes again, I said, “I’m from a village in the mountains.”

“Which one?”

“Anzjabal.”

Raz shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

I smiled and said, “No one knows about it. It’s very small and doesn’t have much but goats, olive, and fig trees.”

“Well, that’s something. It’s probably more beautiful than Beirut.”

“It doesn’t have the sea though.”

“The sea! Everyone is always mesmerized by the sea! What about those mountains around your village or the goats. I’ve always liked goats. They seem smarter than people half the time.”

I didn’t know what to say. Suddenly here was this man, an interesting creature himself, I thought, proclaiming the astuteness of goats.

Before I could answer him, he asked, “Are you a goatherdess?”

“No, no,” I said. “Well, sometimes I help out.”

“You do?”

“I sometimes sing to them but that’s all.”

“Really?” he said, his dimples deepening as he grinned. “What do you sing to them? Lullabies?”

“They’re not babies. I sing to them songs that I like, mostly songs by Sabah. Do you know Sabah?”

He laughed. “Ah yes. I believe I’m familiar.”

We stood in silence again and I wasn’t sure if I should thank him now and say farewell. But my feet seemed to be rooted on the sand and time seemed to have stopped while we talked. I didn’t want to go and as if reading my thoughts, Raz said, “Do you have somewhere you have to be? Would you like to get something to eat? There’s a nice bakery up the street. They have all sorts of flatbread. Do you like flatbread?”

I nodded.

Raz stretched his arm out and touched my shoulder, the sensation at first made me jump but Raz didn’t pull away, only smiled and said, “Let’s go.” We returned back to the cobblestone alley, leaving the soggy beach behind us.

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