27. May God Bless Him—and Keep Him Away

No one could understand the origin of the quarrel between Ibrāhīm al-Ṣāliḥ and his brother Farīd. It began during the younger brother’s first week in this country. Ibrāhīm had been preparing to rent a private apartment and buy handsome furniture so that he and Farīd could live as a small family. Instead he remained in his furnished room and drove his brother away. The poor boy, not yet seventeen, was forced to rent a wretched little room and work as a clerk in a commercial establishment in order to live independently.

Young Farīd told me about the quarrel. He did not know why his brother hated him. He had committed no offense against Ibrāhīm and had never failed to show respect for his elder brother and benefactor. Yet for a perfectly simple reason Ibrāhīm had decided that they should separate and each live for himself. They were now prevented from meeting except when alone. At such times Ibrāhīm exercised authority over his brother: he gave him an order and flicked his jacket with his fingers as a sign that this was how he wished him to act. If Farīd refused, Ibrāhīm was not responsible for him.

A quarrel between brothers of this kind is exceedingly strange. Neither had committed an offense against the other, and nothing ineradicable stood between them. Both, moreover, were successful at their work. Ibrāhīm was thirty-five and had labored in America for nearly twenty years. When Farīd completed primary school, Ibrāhīm sent for him in the hope that they might open a commercial establishment in which he would be proprietor and his brother manager. Yet affairs ended in estrangement during Farīd’s first week in America.

Farīd was an intelligent young man with some learning and a passion for reading. He spoke little, but was sober and said only what was necessary and useful. His elder brother was his opposite: full of talk and pretension, intervening in every subject and inserting himself into every problem. He too had a passion for reading newspapers and books, but only on the surface.

He memorized the names of great politicians, scholars, philosophers, and poets. When he spoke in a gathering, he cited these names in profusion. People regarded him as a learned man whose breast held treasures of knowledge and understanding. If the discussion concerned politics, he quickly mentioned Bismarck and Gladstone and said, “So-and-so said such and such.” Who among them had read what Bismarck or Gladstone wrote or said and could call him a liar? If the conversation turned to poetry, he immediately mentioned al-Mutanabbī and Abū al-ʿAlāʾ, together with several verses by each that he recited in mangled pronunciation. Then he plunged into the history of poetry by naming Homer and proceeded through a ladder of names to Hugo and Musset, and—, and—, until those present fell silent and surrendered the floor. Among them he always found admiration for the breadth of his acquaintance and abundance of his learning. He became their authority on every question and the proverbial master of every branch of knowledge.[93]

This continued until Farīd reached New York and began attending gatherings with his brother. He saw Ibrāhīm riding the vessel of excess in most of his talk. At first he remained silent out of deference. Once he grew comfortable, however, he began objecting to his brother’s errors and correcting them. Ibrāhīm burned with rage and cursed the hour his brother had arrived to strip him of his station as a scholar among the people.

Once the two brothers attended a crowded evening party. The phonograph delighted the ears of those present and cups passed among them. The last record they heard, which carried them away by its enchantment, was a performance of “O Night of the Lover.” Some replayed it again and again, helped sing it, and cited the beautiful meanings of its verses. They stopped at the line:

The night companions slept, while it kept him wakeful.[94]

Someone asked the group, “Who is this summār?”

One man answered, “I suppose the summār is the fellow who hammers in nails.”

Everyone laughed at him. A second said, “I think the summār is the tomcat—the sinnamār, rather.”

A third said, “No, it is the starling that drives locusts away.”

The company disagreed over the word’s meaning. Ibrāhīm al-Ṣāliḥ cleared his throat and withdrew from those present in thought so that he might bring them the word’s meaning and make his speech the final judgment. His younger brother Farīd, meanwhile, found the scene a theater. He never stopped laughing with all the reach of his jaw and all the force in his lungs.

At last someone cried, “We have Ibrāhīm al-Ṣāliḥ among us and dare interpret the word! Let us hear him solve the problem.”

Those present fell silent. The phonograph stopped. They became listening ears ready to hear, while all eyes aimed at a single point: Ibrāhīm al-Ṣāliḥ’s face.

Ibrāhīm no longer had any escape. It would shame him not to solve such a small problem when he had never accustomed them to such a failure. First he opened his mouth with perfect slowness, his eyes staring and his face growing long. From the corner of his eye he glared at his brother Farīd. This made him stammer. Once God had shown mercy upon the company’s patience, the word “I suppose” emerged from his mouth five times, with an interval of two minutes between each.

At last he overflowed with the solution, casting aside his manufactured hesitation. “The summār is the Samaritan, the Jewish censor. It appears the author of the verses was a Jew. Thus the line means that the enemy slept while the lover did not, for pain kept him awake.”

It seems Farīd forgot that the speaker was his elder brother. He summoned every power of laughter he possessed while everyone else sat silent, solemnity visible upon their faces, awaiting the final pronouncement of their lord of knowledge. Ibrāhīm flew into a rage at his brother and cursed him. But for the respect owed to the company, he would have struck him.

Farīd came to himself. He followed his long laughter with a sudden scowl, asked his brother’s pardon, acknowledged that he was wrong, and said that he had forgotten himself because the company’s interpretations of summār were so far from the truth.

His brother said, “Farīd, you are like every boy who comes from Syria, stuffed with pretension. You do not respect other people’s knowledge. You think what you were fed at school is the whole of learning, although you lack a great deal of refinement. And now—what shame!—you have made us blush before people. Get up. Come with me.”

Those present urged Ibrāhīm to abandon the idea of leaving and calm himself a little. His brother would learn later, improve his conduct, and discover how to sit among people.

One of those who had interpreted the word was deeply displeased by Farīd’s statement that the company’s explanations made him laugh. Full of disgust, he addressed him: “Do you have a better interpretation? Yes, we did not study in schools like you, but I do not think our words oblige people to laugh—unless you laugh without cause, and laughter without cause shows a lack of manners.”

Young Farīd’s bearing changed. In a gentle voice, bewilderment possessing him, he said, “Forgive me, brothers, for what came from me. My laughter was not intended to diminish the honor of those who interpreted the word summār. Their interpretations made me laugh because we are in a gathering of pleasure, where anyone is allowed to laugh.”

Ibrāhīm remained standing, tugging his brother’s arm to leave before anything still more distressing occurred. An elderly man, however, admired Farīd’s reasoning. Smiling, he rose and gently approached Ibrāhīm, asking him to return to his place and efface the quarrel’s effect for fear of hurting the young newcomer from home. He himself had felt Farīd’s spirit break. Ibrāhīm was forced to sit.

The elderly man turned to Farīd. “Farīd, do not be upset, my son. No harm is done. It is a small matter; do not be ashamed. Everyone present is a brother. Come, son, sit and tell us how you interpret summār, so we can laugh at you as you laughed at us.”

The company laughed at Farīd in advance, except for Ibrāhīm, in whose heart poison boiled. He did not dare object. When Farīd saw that the company’s spirits had been relieved, he smiled and said, “The word summār is the plural of samīr. A samīr is one who stays awake at night. The poet means that the wakeful companions slept, but he did not: a tormenting pain deprived him of sleep.”[95]

The elderly man gave a great laugh. “Yes, by God! Now we have taken our revenge on you.” The company laughed with him, except for Ibrāhīm, who rose at once and wished to leave with his brother because the evening had grown late.

That night Farīd did not sleep at his brother’s. From that night onward no gathering brought the brothers together. When Ibrāhīm is asked about his brother’s conduct, he shakes his head, sighs, and says, “No one ever bought himself a calamity as I did. I had no cares, so I brought my brother to increase my happiness. Instead he deprived me of rest. But America is wide: may God bless him—and keep him far away.”

NOTES

[93] The catalog deliberately mixes German and British statesmen, classical Arabic poets, Homer, and the French writers Victor Hugo and Alfred de Musset. Ibrāhīm’s knowledge extends little beyond their names.
[94] The song is the celebrated qaṣīda beginning Yā layla al-ṣabbi matā ghaduhu (‘O night of the lover, when is its morrow?’), generally attributed to the eleventh-century poet al-Ḥuṣrī al-Qayrawānī. The quoted line is raqada al-summāru wa-arraqahu.
[95] Summār is the plural of samīr, a night companion or one who passes the night in conversation. The guests’ false definitions depend on sound associations with mismār, ‘nail’; sinnammār, treated here as a cat’s name; and sumarmur, ‘starling.’ Ibrāhīm’s ‘Samaritan’ is another false resemblance.
