The Tobacco Keeper (11 page)

I ought to provide some information about this man. He was a Kurdish communist, and was conspicuously short and stocky. The oversized suit that he wore for our meeting, although fairly elegant, made him look almost comical. His hair was milky white and dishevelled and his large eyes darted about. It was clear that he rarely shaved.

Many people had a high opinion of him despite his incessant babble and tactless remarks. His passion for talking led him to dominate conversations. His Kurdish accent gave his Arabic a cetain beauty and eloquence. With his flamboyant style, his undulating voice, his intonation and local accent, he was often very amusing in telling Yousef Sami Saleh’s story. His narrative made the character of this brilliant but childlike musician fascinating. Kakeh Hameh kept me listening for hours, like a leech stuck to a plant.

Kakeh Hameh was Kamal Medhat’s friend, who had known all three of his personalities. He turned out to be one of the strangest characters I’d ever come across; strange in almost every respect. Because he knew a great deal about Yousef Sami Saleh and had been his companion for a long time, I sat with him until late at
night. What had driven me to contact him was one of the comments Farida had written in the margin of a letter dated August 1956, that is, during Yousef’s residence in Tehran. It was this letter that made me start looking for Kakeh Hameh in the first place. I thought it would be appropriate for me to meet him before travelling to Tehran.

I had no idea why Kakeh was so happy as he told the story of Yousef Sami Saleh. He was profoundly content, like an insect warming itself in the sun. As he spoke, he waved his short arms left and right. Behind him was a photograph showing him in an elegant outfit, while beside him stood a beautiful woman wearing a colourful Kurdish dress. From time to time, as I listened to him evoking the past, I looked at the picture behind him. His conversation had the smell of old cupboards and drawers, of cold wooden chairs. I noted down in my small notebook various names, cities and major airports in the north and south of the country.

Kakeh Hameh was being very friendly. It gave him great satisfaction to recount the remarkable chain of events. He seemed to be following the same sequence as the letters in Boris’s envelope, which I’d arranged in date order. It was as if he’d sat me down on a stool in front of a peep box and was showing me scenes from a life that had gone forever. I tried hard to note down all the details without missing anything. There were new names, dates, cities, transformations and endless travels. It was a real journey for me, a journey that turned names into destinies and transformed our world into an incredible fantasy.

Was he talking about Alberto Caeiro, the keeper of flocks, the first of the characters that Pessoa had assumed for himself in
Tobacco Shop
? For Yousef Sami Saleh was as innocent as Caeiro; he
contemplated things with his eyes and not with his mind. Wasn’t Caeiro just the same? Furthermore, Yousef didn’t come up with any great ideas when he gazed at the objects around him. His view of things was profound but neutral. He captured things with his feelings but never questioned anything. This great musician, like the poet Pessoa, accepted the world quietly and serenely, accepted it for what it was, far from any metaphysical complexity. His life had no hidden agenda, he was a wide-eyed child among the infinite formations of nature. There was little doubt that Yousef Saleh’s character stood in stark contrast to his two subsequent personae: Haidar Salman and Kamal Medhat. While the second character was connected with symbolic forms (like Ricardo Reis in
Tobacco Shop
) and the third was attached to the sensual (like Álvaro de Campos), the character of Yousef Saleh believed in nothing. Such was the first persona of the musician, the one that carried the name of Yousef Sami Saleh and whose death certificate was signed in 1955, the year Haidar Salman’s persona was born. It was strange that the character of Alberto Caeiro, who was born in Lisbon in 1889 and died of tuberculosis in 1915 after publishing his collection of poems
The Keeper of Flocks,
should have his biography written by Álvaro de Campos, the third assumed personality of Pessoa. When I later investigated the life of the Iraqi composer Yousef Sami Saleh, I discovered that his biography had been written by none other than Kamal Medhat.

So what was this character like?

Yousef was born in the Al-Torah quarter of Baghdad on 3 November 1926. His father, Sami bin Saleh, who came from the Qujman family, worked as an assistant at the Juri pharmacy in Al-Karradah. His mother was Huri bint Rahamin Dalal. Her
father had been fairly wealthy in his early years, when he worked at the Spice Market and later at the Grocers’ Market in Baghdad. But in the aftermath of World War I, he’d fallen on hard times. His slightly tattered childhood photograph portrayed him as a small boy with delicate features and black hair falling on his forehead. He wore shorts and a large white shirt over his skinny body.

Yousef’s grandfather, Saleh, sold sesame paste at a shop on the left-hand side of Al-Rashid Street near Al-Murjaneya School. In that area, known as Al-Shurja market, were several oilseed presses owned by Jews. He then worked for a time pruning palm trees at the Mamou date grove. In the interwar period, he started brokering the date trade between merchants from Basra and Baghdad. Saleh’s brother, Rabbi Shmuel Qujman, was the author of
Judaism and Life
, which was printed at the Shuhait Press and which later appeared in Hebrew in the thirties. Yousef never forgot his grandfather’s house. In fact, for many years, he continued to remember the warmth of his grandfather’s hand, which he’d held so tightly for fear of losing him in the crowd as they walked along Al-Rashid Street. He remembered the pungent smell of mothballs from the cupboard in which his grandfather hung his suits and the black caps that Baghdadis traditionally wore. His grandmother’s carefully painted face and her sad, black clothes instilled fear in his heart. In her high-ceilinged room, she would maintain her silence. Her debilitating illness imposed a silence on the whole family. In his letters to Farida, Yousef never forgot her wrinkled, white face. In a letter dated 1954 he wrote that he would go into her room in the company of his mother. While his mother cleaned the room with a feather duster, his grandmother would keep her eyes shut as if she were dead.

Despite their poverty, his was an educated Baghdadi family, which had been hit by the post-World War II slump. All the members of the family used to read books, newspapers and magazines. Their small house was full of manuscripts and huge tomes. In one of his letters, Yousef said that books were everywhere: between drawers, on walls, beneath the stone banisters and even in the large rooms with their decorated ceilings. This was a source of humour and laughter among the Jewish families that had made their fortunes from business after the establishment of the Iraqi state in the twenties and thirties. However, this family grew ever poorer and had to sell the house. Nothing remained of their old wealth except Kashani rugs and Persian cutlery.

Throughout her life, his mother, Huri bint Rahamin Dalal, was plagued by a vague but deep anxiety. At the turn of the twentieth century she had studied at the school for girls run by Madame Danon. As a seamstress in the workshop at the Laura Khedouri Club she had acquired a reputation for embroidering pillows using gold and silver thread. In the thirties King Faisal I had paid tribute to her when he visited the club. Her family was proud of the fact that long ago the famous Turkish traveller Olia Djalabi had once stayed at their house on a visit to Baghdad. Not only had he enjoyed their hospitality for a long period, but he had also eaten from their
tebit
meal, which Jews customarily made on the Sabbath.

In a letter dating from his first trip to Iran in the fifties, Yousef gave a vivid portrait of his mother. She was like a frail chrysalis, always seeking solitude, for she had lost any joy in her work. Her naive smile, her quiet, pleading movements and her general weakness made her a complex mixture of the superficial and the tragic. On the large sofa
in the small living room that was filled with colourful rugs she would sit quietly and peacefully, holding her needles and embroidering a satin pillow. The colourful woollen yarns rolled beneath her feet where little Yousef sat, overwhelmed by her silence and grief. He would try out some tunes on his violin, especially after taking lessons with Aram Garabian, the famous Armenian violinist in Baghdad. And as soon as the melody rang out in the living room of that little house, his mother would listen, as calmly and as silently as a statue.

The single photograph of Yousef’s mother, which was included by Farida in the envelope handed to me by Boris Naumkin at the agency, showed the woman’s personality clearly.

She was of average beauty, with fine features and very thin. Her beautiful eyes were covered by a film of translucent sorrow. She was in her thirties and wore small, round glasses. She was modestly dressed and stood beside her husband, Sami. He was a thin, tall man who towered above her in his old-fashioned check suit. His white shirt was ironed and his tie was as narrow as a piece of string. He had a long nose and a high forehead.

On the back of the photograph was written: ‘Sami Saleh and wife, 1942. Photograph by Hajj Amri Salim at Ibrahim Twaiq’s home.’

This photograph, as well as the letters written by Yousef to Farida and the testimony of Yousef’s friends such as Kakeh Hameh, gave me a vivid picture of what Yousef would become in the future. I was able to refer not only to this important picture, which I kept with me for such a long time that I knew its details by heart; there were also the other pictures that interested me before I started on my journey. If I were to mention just one of them, it would be the only photograph I know of that depicts a
group of Baghdad communists in the forties. It was a very rare photo with tattered edges and dated 3 August 1946 on the back. It showed Victor Menasha Yousef sipping a cup of coffee, Saida Sassoon looking cheerful, Zanoun Ayoub in short sleeves revealing his famous muscles and Sami Saleh, Yousef’s father, standing tall and very thin, and staring with deep eyes into the unknown. They were all gathered in the living room of Victor Menasha’s house and in the background one could see the arches of the house and its internal columns. There were also two pinewood columns by the wall.

The photograph showed very clearly the father in his youth. As a young man, Sami looked very much like his son was to become. His posture and self-confidence revealed his firmness and his ability to gather his strength before forging ahead. The picture also communicated to me his profound faith and how much he’d struggled to free his soul of all the harmful weeds that had threatened to choke it. His was a heart that tilled and sowed the void, in total ignorance of its destiny. Yousef referred to this in one of the important letters he’d written from Tehran, where he’d talked with great enthusiasm about his father, describing him as a role model who had held fast to his belief in human justice. Yousef even stated clearly that throughout his life he’d never met a man as principled as his father. So what was the father like?

Yousef was woken by his father’s quiet, hoarse voice. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, blinked a few times to clear his vision, and saw his father standing by the window, his hair a little dishevelled, his collar turned upwards and his gaze unwavering. After a short silence, Yousef’s father put on his hat, picked up his cane and went quietly out of the door. Yousef felt certain that everybody knew
who Sami Saleh was: teachers in their old pressed clothes, rubbish collectors, painters, builders, waiters in cafés, prostitutes, drummers at the local café, the mayor, the policeman and the greengrocers.

Almost every afternoon, according to everyone we met, Sami Saleh would head home from his work at the Juri pharmacy and start his long walk through the streets of the Al-Torah quarter, around Hanoun Market or through Mamou grove. He would walk beneath the colonnades of Al-Rashid Street, a tall man with a dark face and a pointed chin. He had clear, penetrating, dark eyes that he’d probably inherited from his grandfather, the great rabbi, who’d left his mark on the whole family, who were still living in the old quarters of Baghdad.

Sami Saleh was lost in thought as he walked in front of the clothes shops. He passed quietly in front of the spice merchants in Al-Shurja market and in front of the shops that sold round boxes of sweets. He was constantly assailed by mysterious doubts. He would sniff the smell of the soil in the gardens, or pick up a piece of plaster and crush it between his fingers. He would always walk with his head held high, contemplating passers-by from above, his narrow eyes examining them as though they were little worms in a bright yellow field. He walked alone in his long, black coat, his large shoes, his wide creased hat and his glasses that were missing a lens.

The people in his neighbourhood called him ‘Comrade’ because of his great attachment to the communist movement and his support for the left. His leftist sympathies were not restricted to Iraqis, but included all people of the world. This internationalist Jew felt himself united with workers everywhere, whether labourers with hands as rough as crocodile skin or porters working in the blazing sun. He was detained and jailed more than once, but never
abandoned his convictions. He was saturated with politics like a sponge with water. When walking along the pavement with his thin bamboo cane he never met anyone without talking to him about political issues. At first he would look at his interlocutor with his cloudy, dreamy eyes and would then address him. He saw in every item of news a political angle. He interpreted every bit of news in the light of the state’s economic policies, parliamentary affairs, the constitution, or the difference between socialism and capitalism. His jacket pockets were always bulging with newspapers and magazines. Sami firmly believed that he was entrusted with one duty only, that of enlightening people about their rights.

So there was Sami Saleh, alert but silent and dreaming, lost in his habitual daily walk. In the spring he would inhale the pollen dust and sneeze; in summer, he would caress the wood carvings on doors and the plants as though saying goodbye to them; in winter, he would carry his dripping umbrella and head to Salman café in Ras al-Aqd. His feet would be wet and his body shivering with the cold; he would sneeze and wipe his nose with his hand because he had no handkerchief. Once, he saw a huge black dog standing in the rain, looking at him with sad eyes, its body soaked. He dragged it home behind him through the side streets, the wet, trembling, black dog walking dejectedly behind him. The residents of Al-Torah neighbourhood knew that Sami bin Saleh and his family kept no dogs. The children stood on the rooftops or on the muddy ground in front of the shops, houses and cafés, and screamed out, ‘Comrade Sami, what’s that dog doing running after you?’