Basil, Not the Spice
Carcasses of goats or sheep hung from wooden stalls covered with jute sacking. I walked through the marketplace. There was a mix of smelly fish, fruits, vegetables, flatbreads, woven seat-covered chairs, antiques, trinkets, jewellery, clothes and electronics. Shouting vendors drew in customers. The entire place was loud— people bartering and laughing or chatting over a cup of coffee. The smell of sizzling meat and garlic drifted above the crowds. I passed stall after stall. A little boy sat on a curb and called out, “Marhaba Miss, you wanna buy some nuts or candy?”
“How much do you want?” I asked in Arabic.
He thought for a second.
“Whatever you can give.”
I tossed some coins into his tin can. He handed me a red gumdrop and I popped it in my mouth.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” the boy repeated.
“You have a different accent. You’re not from Beirut, are you?”
He shook his head and stated, “I’m from Damascus. You have an accent too. Where you from?”
“Canada.”
I had been in Beirut for over a year, teaching English at an ESL college. My life in Ottawa had turned into shower, breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, mark papers, plan lessons, sleep, shower, breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, mark papers, plan lessons, sleep, repeat. I needed a major change, so I applied for a teaching job abroad and got one in Lebanon.
Feigning shivers, he said in English, “It’s cold there, no?”
I smiled. “Your English is good.”
All of a sudden, the boy wailed at a crowd of passersby. I stepped aside. Some people hurried along while others bought the nuts and candy. When the crowd disappeared, I sat next to the boy. He stretched out his skinny legs. He wore shorts that were too long for him and I could tell they were made for men.
“I’m Katrina. What’s your name?”
“Basil, not the spice.”
I laughed at his cleverness.
“You know Basil means ‘brave’?”
“Really? I’m strong!” He shouted and flexed his arms.
“Where did you learn English?”
“At school in Syria. But no school anymore. Nothing but this.” He shook his can. The coins rattled.
“How old are you, Basil?”
He lifted his sun-browned forehead and said.
“Ten.”
“Can you read?”
“Some Arabic, but no English.”
“Would you like to learn?”
I had taught elementary school for eight years in Canada and lately had been missing teaching youngsters.
“Do you want me to teach you some words?”
He brought his knees up, huddled them close to his chest and nodded vigorously.
“But I can’t pay.”
A wall of silence fell between us. When I finally spoke, my voice shook.
“You don’t have to pay me. I used to read to my brother. Pierre loved reading with me.”
“Is he in Canada?”
I took a deep breath.
“No, he’s gone.”
“Where?”
“It’s a long story.”
Changing the topic, I said. “I’ll teach you how to read stories in English. Would you like that?”
He looked at me.
“Yes!” A brilliance overtook his momentarily grave face.
“Okay, it’s settled then.” We shook on it. “See you tomorrow!”
Jumping up now, he waved goodbye. Then he ran to a man who looked to be in his late thirties. He had a mop of curly grey hair and his coffee cups clicked together with every step he took. “Babba!” Basil shouted, embracing the man. They walked hand-in-hand. Basil turned and waved at me again.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, I rose from the curb and followed Basil and his father. Swallows swept through the orange-purplish sky. I walked down a winding alley. They walked at a quick pace so I hurried my own, circling around more maze-like alleys until I reached the planks of a bay. Luxury yachts lined the glitzy seafront. Basil and his father went through an open wooden gate and entered a shanty town. I stopped, found a bench and rested on the dock. From this distance, I could see Basil swinging his arms and could still hear the click-clack of his father’s coffee cups. A crowd of men were swimming in the sea. Basil and his father joined them. Later on, they disappeared somewhere under the tin roofs of the makeshift homes. After a while, I got up and left, but my thoughts were with Basil, wondering what he would eat tonight, if anything. I used to wonder what Pierre ate too.
The next day, I found him.
“Katrina, you came!”
“We made a deal.”
I pulled out Curious George Goes to the Beach. Basil laughed at the little monkey.
“I want to be like George – adventurous, brave!”
“Well, your name means ‘brave’, remember?” I said gently.
We mostly read picture books. When he learned all the words in those books, we tackled more difficult stories. After my workdays, Basil waited for me. Within months, his speech flourished and when he was calling out to customers, I sometimes watched him from across the street.
“Spectacular sea salted caramel candy! Scrumptious hazelnuts and pine nuts! They are out of this world! Sheikhs, princes and princesses would enjoy these with delightful cups of tea! Try for yourself and see!” he said to passersby, who were mostly women. Some stopped and asked him his name.
“Basil, not the spice.”
One woman in the crowd said, “Are you as sweet and pleasant as basil, Basil?”
He flashed his dazzling, but stained, smile and said, “I’m sweeter and more pleasant and, of course, if you buy my nuts and candy, I’ll be even sweeter and even more pleasant!”
The women clapped, their gold rings tapping together, as if they were young schoolgirls. I smiled from across the road. Once the customers left, I went and sat next to him on the curb.
“You’re quite the salesman!”
“I wouldn’t know the words without you, Katrina.” He smiled. “It’s reading time!”
I opened a book and we read it together as the sunset painted the jute sacking. Memories of reading to Pierre flooded my mind. I missed him. After a few minutes, my colleague and friend Jim interrupted us.
“Hello there!”
I introduced him to Basil.
“So you’re the guy Katrina is seeing? Are you her boyfriend?” asked Basil.
Jim winked at me.
“We’re only friends, Basil,” I said, smiling.
“Good! When I grow up, I’m going to marry you, Miss Katrina!”
He planted a quick kiss on my cheek. Then rushed off to meet his father before turning and waving goodbye.
“He reminds me so much of Pierre.”
Jim hugged me.
“There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think about him,” I said softly.
“I know.” Jim brought me closer, then let me go. “There’s a great shawarma place around the corner.” I hooked my arm in his. We followed the scent of sizzling meat.
