2. In the House of the Dead

When Ṭānyūs al-Murr died, the departed man’s house remained a destination for mourners night and day for an entire week. There was reason to fear that the family’s affliction from the multitude of consolers would exceed the affliction of losing the deceased himself. But in such circumstances Syrian custom takes its course and tradition runs in its channel, though hearts be torn, livers crumble, and the vessel of patience shatter.

The bereaved hear condolences from the mouths of their visitors as though they were lessons the speakers had learned among the prayers recited every day. I, the writer of this tale, feel with all my emotions for those who have suffered loss—not because of what they have lost, but because of their fortitude in listening to the philosophy of consolation.

One blessing of the Lord is that convention makes a condolence call very brief. The mourner keeps his hat in his hand and, in winter, leaves his overcoat on. The reason for this brevity is not a desire to lighten the family’s burden, but the number of people arriving. The room becomes too small to hold them, and one troop must leave to make space for the next.

The bereaved, meanwhile, sit without moving: ears without tongues, eyes lowered to their laps, lips murmuring two words to every arrival and departure. “May your head be spared,” they answer the conventional condolence spoken on entering and leaving: “May God compensate us by sparing your heads.”[16]

I had known the late Ṭānyūs al-Murr only slightly and had never visited him at home while he lived. But my friend Buṭrus Karawānī practically dragged me along to pay our respects to the family. Condolence, he said, was owed by every acquaintance, whether relative, friend, or no more than someone they knew.

And so we went. My friend was far more accomplished in speech than I. I entered the house of mourning like an unborn child entering the world of tradition. I was about to give the greeting I used on every occasion when Buṭrus raised his palm and clapped it over my mouth, forcing me to swallow “Good day to you.” Then he whispered in my ear that I should say, “May God compensate us by preserving you.”

I said it and sat down as I have described the family sitting—except that I did no murmuring, since the matter did not concern me, and stared at the specters on every side. My lap was filled by my folded overcoat with my hat on top of it, and my face reddened with embarrassment because I alone had removed my coat.

After five minutes of silence, Buṭrus opened his mouth.

“Before Alexander the Great died, he knew that his end was near and that his mother would grieve for him deeply. He summoned her before his death and said, ‘Mother, my last request is that after I die you give a banquet and invite all the people. When they sit at the table, say to them: Let anyone who has never tasted grief for a loved one reach out his hand and eat.’

“And so it happened. After his death she gave a banquet and invited everyone. When they sat at the table, she repeated what her son Alexander had instructed her to say. No one stretched out a hand to the food. Then she understood that the cup of death passes among all people, and so she found consolation in her great loss.”[17]

When I heard this sermon, its speaker grew great in my eyes. I said to myself: What a waste, all I learned in school! By God, Buṭrus has surpassed me in the art of condolence and delivered the finest homily imaginable in just the right place. Forgetting that I was inside a temple of silence, I said to my companion, “By God, you have done well with this consolation. It is revealed wisdom.”

The people present were not numerous, since our visit came after a week and the traffic of mourners had begun to diminish. They heard the beautiful sermon as though they had heard nothing at all. I marveled at them and thought: Perhaps they are people of Ṭamṭam and did not understand what was said before them.[18]

Buṭrus had scarcely finished his pearly words when a troop of three men arrived. Since the room was large and there were few visitors, we remained in our places—or rather, Buṭrus remained seated, and I had no choice but to stay, since he was the mainspring of our visit.

When the newcomers had sat down, one of them opened his mouth to speak. As he prepared to do so, I felt sorry for myself. O God, how ignorant I am! I understand nothing of customs and conventions, and I have never trained myself in the words required on every occasion.

The speaker began: “Such is the way of the world. Death is decreed for everyone, and none can escape it. Alexander the Great conquered the whole world when he was thirty years old . . .”

As he told us about Alexander, I thought: Here comes a second sermon. I resolved that after this visit I would go to the public library and read the life of that great man, whose entire history consisted of lessons necessary to humankind, especially in times of calamity. I turned my full attention to the speaker so that I would miss none of this second lesson. How great was my disappointment when I heard the very same homily Buṭrus had told! I was thoroughly displeased.

My companion made ready to rise, for he saw another troop—this one of two men—approaching the door. I pressed his knee and whispered that I wanted to remain so that we could all leave together. Buṭrus was forced to humor me. The newcomers entered, recited the two customary formulas of condolence, and sat down.

A moment later, the elder opened his mouth.

“The deceased’s death has weighed heavily upon us, but God’s command cannot be turned back. Thus it was decreed and thus it came to pass. Glory be to Him who alone endures! It is told that Alexander the Two-Horned felt his end drawing near . . .”[19]

I cleared my throat and stole a glance at Buṭrus. A smile was being traced across his face. At once I turned away toward the speaker to hear his tale of Alexander the Two-Horned. After two sentences, a broad smile began to trace itself across my own face. Afraid it might end in laughter while we sat in this temple of grief and reverence, I rose, and my companion rose with me.

“With your permission, and without interrupting the gentleman’s story—good day to you all.”

I left and Buṭrus followed. Outside the house, my friend seized me and brought me to a halt, poison dripping from his face.

“What good are you and your learning if you do not understand that in a house of mourning one does not say ‘Good day to you’? When we entered, I made it clear that you must not utter those words, and you swallowed them. Why did you forget when we left?”

“Spare me your reproaches, Buṭrus, and tell me where you read the story you told in the house.”

He said he had heard his grandfather tell it at the funeral of the village shaykh.

“And where did your grandfather read it?”

“He must have heard it from his grandfather.”

“Then next time, get the history right. Say: ‘My grandfather reported to me from his grandfather, from his grandfather,’ until you reach someone who lived in the time of Alexander the Great.”

Buṭrus laughed and forgave me. As he shook my hand before taking a road different from mine, he said, “Laugh to yourself. We did not complete an hour in the dead man’s house. Otherwise we would have heard the story of Alexander the Great at least twenty times.”

I answered—and perhaps I spoke the truth—“Had I been in the family’s place, I would have told the people: ‘The deceased has found rest from this world and from your sermons.’”

I bade Buṭrus farewell and went on my way. I encountered a group in which I recognized one man. When he saw me, he came over, greeted me, and said he was going to pay his respects to the Murr family.

“I have just come from offering condolences. God help them,” I said.

“God help them,” he repeated, then added, “and give them strength.”

I told him how I had entered the house without uttering any words of condolence to comfort the poor people, because I did not understand the conventions. He laughed at me.

“Is it a matter of philosophy? Tell a story with a moral and console them with that.”

“And what will you tell?”

He began the story of Alexander the Two-Horned. I cut him off, saying that I knew it, and waved him on to catch his companions so that they could console the family, and so that God might help them, strengthen them, and have mercy on them.

NOTES

[16] The exchange is conventional and deliberately difficult to naturalize: the visitor says ʿawwaḍanā Allāh bi-salāmat ruʾūsikum (“May God compensate us by the safety of your heads”), and the family replies wa-rāsak sālim (“and may your head be safe”). The “head” stands for the person whose life is spared.
[17] An apocryphal consolation tale widely told with Alexander or another famous ruler. Its logic resembles the Buddhist story of Kisā Gotamī and the mustard seed: grief is universal, so no household is untouched by death.
[18] Haddad calls them ṭamṭamāniyyūn, a comic nonce-word suggesting speakers of incomprehensible mumbling or a people from an imaginary “Ṭamṭam.”
[19] Dhu al-Qarnayn (“the Two-Horned”) is a ruler in Qurʾan 18:83–98, traditionally identified by many commentators with Alexander the Great. The shift of name does not produce a new story, which is the narrator’s joke.
