18. A Son Out of His Time

When Abū Riyyā said farewell to his master in the city, he declared that he would never forget the favor of the household in which he had been raised from childhood to middle age. He would not leave its service had he not a mawwāl in his head that he wanted to sing—and that refrain was a journey to America.[67]

His master exhausted every effort to persuade the servant to stay, even offering higher wages. At last he shook Abū Riyyā’s hand sadly.

“Abū Riyyā, you raised me and were like a brother and companion in my youth. Then you raised my children; your arms carried them more often than mine. In the many years you have served our household, from the days of my late father until today, we have seen from you what makes us consider you one of the family. Your departure will pain us.

“But you insist upon leaving our service, so may you prosper. Know that whenever you return, our house is open and your position will be restored. Reassure us with news. Do not forget your master and the children you raised, who are attached to you as though you were their father.”

Abū Riyyā crossed the sea bound for America, the great field of livelihood for anyone against whom the doors of success in Syria had closed. He went, more affected by his farewell to master and children than by parting from his own family. For a time he considered abandoning the plan, but the refrain was overpowering. He let fate run with loose reins, left family and country, and trusted in God, who does not disappoint those who fear Him.

Abū Riyyā spent years in America working on a farm far from New York. He did not leave until he resolved to return home. I never learned the exact nature of his work, but knew that he was a diligent and extremely careful laborer.

I had heard of him because my friend Salīm al-Raqqāsh mentioned him in conversation. He said that in America, somewhere near New York, was an old servant named Abū Riyyā who had spent many years with their family and must have succeeded. My friend did not know where the servant lived and made no effort to obtain his address, though he often said the man had raised him and had been an excellent and faithful servant in his father’s house.

My friend Salīm al-Raqqāsh was a young man of a good family—indeed, one of the families described as belonging to the great. He studied at the best schools in Syria and mastered four living languages. He came to America because his father lost his position and the family’s financial condition declined.

An educated young man raised amid honor and liberality, he considered it degrading to remain among companions who had been accustomed to seeing him spend freely and pass his days amid amusements in cafés, performing no work because sons of the great did not work. He too wished to sing the Syrian refrain sung by his former tutor and father’s servant Abū Riyyā. He came to America seeking a livelihood.

But this young man found no door to a livelihood in America. He entered the foreign world equipped with his morals and learning. He worked when necessity forced him and left the job as soon as he could feed himself and sleep. His condition led him toward the disease of refined people who work little: gambling.

By day he slept folded over a café table. By night he worked, staying awake to turn cards. If he lost, he incurred a debt. If he won, the profit supported him for two or three days. Years passed while he kept to this condition, advancing from bad to worse.

He was nevertheless loved by all his companions for his gentleness, noble character, and pleasant society. He also helped colleagues when they fell into difficulty. His English was excellent, so he interpreted for them in court and accompanied them when they purchased furnishings and other necessities.

I met him by chance through a mutual friend. I was drawn to the knowledge and inward refinement I sensed despite his poor outward condition, devotion to gambling, and slight or nonexistent work. I enjoyed meeting him to discuss many things. He knew a great deal and could enter with a companion into scientific, political, economic, and other subjects.

I could not understand how a young man of his condition and knowledge refused to work and left the field of success to people of less ability and refinement, preferring pain over securing comfort through attainment and reaching the goals of an educated young soul. But because I did not know him well, I lacked the power to ask. I ignored his condition, which was not my concern, and accompanied him in knowledge and character, which connected with my own.

One day Salīm and I were drinking coffee in a café, joined in a session of joking—or “cracking up,” as people say.[68] While we laughed, the proprietor came up the stairs followed by an elderly man in simple clothes closer to rags, without collar or tie. On his feet were heavy shoes like traditional slippers; on his head, a broad-brimmed hat covered in scratches.

Reaching the room, the proprietor pointed out Salīm.

“That is the Salīm you spent two days asking every Syrian to find.”

The man’s face flashed and opened into a broad smile. He hurried toward Salīm and shook his hand, his tongue nearly tied by joy. Then he bent toward Salīm’s hand as if to kiss it.

Salīm did not know who the man was or what he wanted. Thinking him mistaken, he allowed his hand out of courtesy. When he sensed from the slowly descending bow that the man was on a mission to kiss it, he pulled it quickly away, seated the visitor, and asked:

“Who are you, Uncle?”

“Me! Me! Do you not know me, my master? I am Abū Riyyā, the man who raised you, your father’s servant. Have you forgotten Abū Riyyā, my master Salīm?”

After this introduction, Salīm again shook the man’s hand, this time repeatedly. They began to talk, questioning and answering, each emptying his bag of news before the other. A tear gathered in the old man’s eye and almost fell. He wiped it with the edge of his sleeve.

When Salīm introduced me, I shook the visitor’s hand and said I knew something about him because Salīm had often mentioned him.

Salīm returned to the conversation.

“Abū Riyyā, had I known where you were, I would have visited you during these years. How are you now?”

“Fate sent me to America, my master. I worked here and, praise be to God, obtained more success than I deserve. Now I am going to Syria to see the children and family. Only enough oil remains in the lamp of my life for a few days, and I shall spend them among my people.”

“Tell me, how many dollars are you taking home from America?”

“Ah, we praise Him in every condition. He gave us more than we deserve. By His bounty and generosity, there are fifteen thousand dollars in my satchel.”

Salīm answered, “You have fifteen thousand dollars and come to kiss my hand! You should have extended your hand from the doorway as you entered, so that I might come and kiss it.”

Abū Riyyā returned home. Salīm saw him to the ship, and I went along to discover something more of the two men’s condition. We helped the old man find a place among the third-class passengers.[69]

After leaving the ship, we walked four blocks without either speaking. Salīm tore the curtain of silence.

“Do you not see that we were not created for this age?”

“How so?”

“We live in an age that has divided the earth into two worlds: an old and a new. The New World is not for people like us but for those who extract a dinar from the heart of stone and hoard it in the heart of stone. The Old World has become the place for men like these, who return to their countries with dollars, build houses, buy land, and occupy an exalted place in people’s eyes because of the money in their pockets.

“We were not created for this age.”

NOTES

[67] A mawwāl is an improvised or strophic vernacular song. Here the “song in his head” is an insistent ambition or refrain: emigration to America.
[68] The narrator quotes taqrīq, a colloquial noun for joking until the company breaks into laughter.
[69] Steamship class sharply marked status. The prosperous returning laborer still travels third class, while his penniless former master preserves the manners of rank.
