Znoud el-Sett (Story of the Issue)

... The fat vendor turned about on himself, among the trays of maamoul and qatayef and baklava, and his "drooping cheeks" quivered as he made a show of briskness — straightening a chair here, wiping a table there, or shaking out a napkin — and asked in a loud voice:

— Half a dozen of what, sonny?

With the movement of a well-mannered schoolboy I stepped back a pace, raised my eyes to the sign above the entrance of the shop, and read what was written on it in fiery red: "Znoud el-Sett every morning" — and I answered the man:

— Half a dozen "znoud el-sett," please!

— All gone today, sonny... all gone.

Truth to tell, I had not expected that answer. It struck at a longing in me for something that never stopped calling out inside me. And after a while I found myself dragging my feet slowly along, lulling my disappointment with logic: no doubt I had come too late... Then I board the tram to school.

★

I sometimes lack the moral courage to speak out about things dear to my heart, and at times the names that stand close together in my affections get tangled on my tongue.. Had I not glanced at the sign, I could not have been sure that other names would not rush to my mouth, jostling one another: knafeh with cheese, for instance, knafeh with kashta, ballouriyeh, osmalliyeh, halawa with cheese, and... knafeh upon knafeh and kashta upon kashta... and I don't know what else!. All of them rich, luscious, luscious words that make the mouth water!

As a child of three, ten years ago, I was in Tripoli, the place of my birth. And among the sweetest memories of that dewy time — memories that often come back to me now in my sleep — were our strolls on "the Tell" on Sunday afternoons, my father and I. Now I would walk pressed close against him, holding his finger; more often he would carry me on his arm, and I never left off wearing him out with question after question in the lisp of a chattering child, until, weary of my pestering and my prying, he would turn aside with me into one of the shops in that neighborhood, crowded with marble tables around which were ranged chairs all alike in color and shape.

My eyes would at once alight on a roomy side corner filled with brass trays with pierced rims, laden with everything fine and delicious. And no sooner had I settled on his knee, beaming and gleeful, than a knight in a white jacket would stand before us and pour us two glasses of cold water... Here my father would ask me, with a nod of his head and a wink of his eye: what did I want? And in the flood of my perplexity among the longed-for dainties

I would decide at last: — "Thnoud el-thett!"

And the two men would laugh long, and my father would put the question to me a second and a third time, insisting that I answer him in a louder voice and a firmer tone: — "Thnoud el-thett!"

And the knight of the white jacket would disappear, with my father's voice in my ear:

— "You rascal! Your taste is just like your father's.. there is nothing tastier than the znoud of the ladies!!"

I do not know how my stomach found room for the whole contents of the plate... I would devour piece after piece, and my father would scold me, half reproaching, half teasing: Why, you rogue, don't you eat with this appetite the potatoes and meat and vegetables and apples that Mama sets before you?

★

... Here the tram's arrival at the station roused me; I jumped down lightly and crossed the street, making for the school. As usual my gaze caught on the English and Arabic magazines ranged along the sidewalk, loud of color and loud of picture — the kind that draws the older students. As for me, I still prefer reading "Dunya al-Ahdath" and "Sindbad" when the postman brings them to me; it is noontime and we are at table, and I hurry through my lunch so as to leaf through them and learn what has become of my friends "Zarzour" and "Zouzou" — and were the choice left to me, I would not hesitate to leave the table and hug them to me eagerly...

And yet, for all my passion for reading, I do not find myself sad and crestfallen when the two magazines are late for some passing reason, the way I saw myself yesterday, when the round-headed, short-necked vendor announced that the "znoud el-sett" had run out... Tomorrow I will go to him early, before the customers, and buy my portion first. Who knows — there may be big ones and little ones among them; is it fair that others should take the plump znoud oozing syrup, and leave me the sucked-dry, skinny ones? Those must be scant in their kashta filling, or perhaps have none at all!.. Tomorrow I will not lie late in bed. I will insist that my mother wake me a whole hour before time!

★

In fancies like these I passed the whole day, standing up and sitting down, eating and sleeping, studying and playing. And in composition period I do not know how the thoughts flew out of my head, and I sat staring at the subject written in elegant Persian script on the blackboard: "Your first wish in life." If only some noble thought would flash into my head — but here was one idea, and no other, entrenched and impregnable: at this hour I wished for nothing but some znoud el-sett!. What would the teacher say, I wonder, if I told him so frankly? Is there any shame in being frank?

And I pictured the teacher commenting on our compositions after correcting them, as is his habit, and how the class would roar and rock with laughter the moment he read mine out! No... there must be another, seemlier wish... a scouting trip... a certain moving picture... a book......??!

I turned my face toward the window that opened westward, and there was the sea as far as the eye could reach, in the stretch of its clear, rippling blue, a mighty giant without violence or clamor; and to my mind's eye appeared a little boat cleaving the face of the water gently, carrying me off to where the catch is plentiful! And with a deep sigh that held some relief in it I bent over my copybook, racing the remaining minutes: "My wish is a fishing trip on the sea." And it warmed my heart to have found so novel a subject, and I forgot my trouble for a while. Am I not, in truth, a lover of the hunt in both its kinds, of sea and of land?!

★

The bell rang and the students poured into the playground, ring after ring, and I found myself before the strolling vendors... Until that very moment I had forgotten that I was still without my breakfast. My failure in my morning errand had sent me, without my knowing it, straight on to school. And my eyes wandered among the well-stocked trays: sesame kaak, brioche, ghraybeh, bananas, Coca-Cola... I paid the vendor ten piasters, and for all my hunger I found the brioche drier than usual, and I could not keep from comparing it in my heart with "znoud el-sett" — oh, the deliciousness of them! — rolled tight around the kashta and the syrup... like those to whose conquest the customers had beaten me... And I thought, perhaps for the tenth time, as I wiped the grains of sugar from my mouth: "Tomorrow no one shall get there before me! I'll show them all what early rising means!"

★

It was not my mother's voice that woke me, at dawn; it was the voice of a bulbul in the tree behind my window. God! Who taught the bulbul that tender song? Perhaps it is the first time it has ever visited our quarter!.. In five minutes I was making to leave the house!. What a surprise for my mother, when she heard me fumbling the door open at that early hour!

On the way I felt taller and bigger than I had been yesterday! And I walked with my chest high, hurrying toward the new shop, the shrine of my hope.. From afar the sign showed, written in fiery red, and I came up to the vendor with a ringing good-morning, though something of trepidation stirred in me, like what came over me just before I fired at the sparrow, in my first days of hunting. And it was as if my arrival caused the vendor some confusion: he stammered in returning my greeting, and set about tidying up his shop with visible nervousness... I let my gaze travel around the place, and everything was just as I had left it yesterday: a few maamoul, a little qatayef and baklava... I turned to the vendor, questioning, seeking light, and before I could open my lips to speak he forestalled me, his palms propped on his belly, his eyes cast down:

"You want znoud el-sett?.. All gone, sonny.. all gone!"

In a single instant the grievous truth broke upon me. I wanted to scream in the vendor's face, to slap his ugly cheek! How could he mock people — even the little ones among people! What a fool I had been! His shop in our quarter is still in its founding stage! Perhaps he means to make znoud el-sett in the future, but I don't think he has begun yet... Why was he too cowardly to tell the truth yesterday... and today? Did he make light of my thirteen years, and take me for a mere passerby, and not one who cared? How had they all collapsed, the sweet hopes that kept me company by day and that I pillowed my head on at night? How did that wretch dare make sport of me?!

My mother will be pleased with me when I tell her how I held myself in and let fall no unworthy word! And how I walked away steady-nerved, and "like a man," as she always wants me to be. But a fierce, silent struggle was wailing inside me.. What a crushing disappointment had hold of me — I wanted to cry... to burst out sobbing — at last the arrival of the tram rescued me from a moment of weakness that I would, no doubt, have regretted afterward..

I looked at my watch: half past six. So I boarded the tram, and a diabolical idea had flashed in my head, descending on me like an inspiration! Around "the Burj" there are many shops with every kind of sweets, and beyond all doubt they have "znoud el-sett!.." And before lessons began I had a full hour — sixty minutes, enough and to spare... And once more I felt that I was a "man" who handles his problems himself and overcomes the difficulties of life! I took care to count my money well before entering the shop, lest some boyish gesture escape me in front of the customers who throng such shops, most of them businessmen, of my father's age and older!! And at the memory of my father my heart tightened on the instant! Had he — God rest his soul — still been alive, he would have spared me this agitation and anxiety... I heaved a deep sigh and with it drove the gloom away at once — this was no time for it! And I took comfort in three liras and a few piasters, enough to satisfy my craving.., and my mother's and my sister's too?

I am now on my way home.. thoughts upon thoughts contend within me, some very near at hand, some sunk deep in time... In my hands is my mother's and my sister's share of "znoud el-sett," its warmth seeping into my fingertips and its fragrance tickling my nose... As for me — praise God — I have had my complete fill of them.. I feel my whole being watered and content, but for a sweet, tender memory that comes back to me every now and again, pinching my delicate feelings to the point of pain — a memory I lived in Tripoli ten years ago, when we were at the very summit of happiness: as if I were, on a certain spring afternoon, on my father's knee, in the pride of my innocent childhood, devouring, heedless, "znoud el-sett" from his hand, one after another, while he teased me with words I did not then understand: —

"You rascal... your taste is just like your father's... there is nothing tastier than the znoud of the ladies!!!"