Syria, 3rd page
<<< Previous

I think the invitation of the representative of a Hungarian foreign trading company for the management to attend a lunch at his residence preceded the above described ones and was not a bit less interesting. The house was dazzling: rich Garden of Eden, marble and wood, brass, spacious rooms, sliding doors to the garden. We had been offered alcoholic (!) drinks in a kind of waiting room by the elegantly dressed host. He proudly explained us, when asked, that his HiFi equipment was the best possible, absolutely up-to-date: producing music from 18 Hz to 25 000 Hz, the output of the loud-speakers was enormous. The feeling was as if we were sitting in a concert-hall. Then the double-hung door of the dining room was thrown open by an Arab servant: "The table is ready" - was announced. I was the chief guest, went ahead. Entering the room I stopped at the door: the table was 5-6 m long, in the middle a piglet with cuscus on a huge silver plate, apple in the mouth, surrounded with other dishes, fruits, sweets, but there were no chairs around the table. You will laugh at me: I had never seen such magic before. The moment was saved in a second, because I noticed the columns of plates and understood, that self-service is expected from the guests. The host must have noticed the second of hesitation and came also to the rescue, with suggestions, explanations about the dishes. I only then realised that two wonderful young ladies stand on the sides of the table. Both were tall and slim, their long hair shining black, as their eyes, that were invitingly smiling. We were introduced to each-other, these wonderful creatures proved to be daughters of the host, one of them 26, the other one 28 years of age. The lunch was delicious, but the best followed at a side-table, to which I was invited by the two wonders and - to my great surprise - I was the subject of polite, still courtship of  the young Syrian beauties. I was offered a slice of the tart of the day with the main decoration of the tart on it. The hour I spent with them is unforgettable, warm, nice, polite, intelligent. I learnt there and then that the family considered themselves to be of ancient Syrian descent. Syrians were among the firsts to embrace the Christian religion, thus the ancient monastery, thus the open behaviour of the ladies. The whole afternoon I spent with this nice family is reserved forever in my heart. A new ethnic group, very small one, preserving the culture of once a great nation. 

I cannot recall the reason why, but we were also taken by Hussein via Homs to Latakia, the main port of Syria. The heat - though the Fair was open at the beginning of the cool season - was burning, around 40 deg C. Hussein's big car had air-conditioning, but when we stopped for some 15 minutes because of a horrifying accident and I touched the upholstered top of the car from inside, it was hot like an iron. The car could take four passengers, one of them was certainly Allahzrir. We stopped just for a few minutes in Homs, had a glance at the main mosque of the town, even so we arrived to Latakia late in the evening. The sea looked like a mirror, the water was cool and silky, it was so inviting, I (and only I) decided to have a swim. Swimming out of the bay I suddenly noticed that sparkling beads were coming off the tops of my fingers. Astonishingly beautiful ones, almost like spark-throwers on a Xmas tree, locked in very small bubbles. I thought they were a kind of lighting sea insects. Nobody understood what I was talking about when I swam ashore. After having a pleasant dinner we went to sleep in a not very elegant hotel. Just a few minutes after midnight I woke up trembling from high fever. I also had awful diarrhoea. My group could not understand the reason, why: we did everything together. Hussein was the only one to suggest a possible cause: my body was cooled down too quickly in the sea. The decision was also his: we have to return to Damascus immediately, to be on the safe side. The back way I spent with my had in Allahzrir's lap. This pleasure was offered by her, who would resist such an offer? It proved to be an excellent compensation for the fever and the rest.

One more trip should be described here, but I decided to separate it, since this was a trip to Beirut. One of the exhibits was late and I could not get proper information from Hungary and the communication with Lebanon was awfully bad. I was advised by the Trade Office (or whatever the name of it was) to take a taxi (!) and check in person with the forwarding agent, that had their head-office in Beirut. I did so. The trip was boring, but the changes after having crossed the border were simply unbelievable: the desert changed for a garden, the strict monetary rules of Syria into boys of the age of 12-13 years running to us with huge bundles of currencies in their hands, including Hungarian forints. I requested one of the boys to tell me the exchange rate of  forint and he quoted without blinking the so called "commercial rate", the result of a very complicated system of calculations, prevailing in the rigid state monetary system of Hungary. Shocking experience, isn't it?

Dealing with my trips I completely forgot about Damascus itself. One of the reasons of my absent-minded approach probably is, that the city - at least as I am trying to collect my memories now - did not impress me much. Besides the terrible refugee camps I recall only three places or sights. One of them - interestingly enough - is the coffee-vendor one could meet at almost every corner, especially around the Suk (Souk). They carry brass container (I cannot recall was it coffee-machine at the same time? Probably yes, it was.) on their back with a tube coming to the front and with a basket for the small cups. They were shouting, offering coffee, running to and fro like sprinters and the coffee they served was damned strong. I also recall the Suk, the first one of my life and probably the biggest of all I have seen. You can get everything on the Earth there, but the most interesting shops for me were the ones selling antique goods. Entering a huge one, not less than 4 m high, absolute disorder prevailing on the tables and the few shelves they had, iron and steel, brass and copper, wood and textile, ceramics and china, nice things and worthless rubbish in sky-high heaps. I was immediately stormed by the owner or the number one of the shop asking about my intentions, my nationality. When I was not careful enough and told that I was from Hungary, the chap exclaimed: Good friends, very good friends, 12 and a half percent discount. I think it was impossible to leave the place without purchasing something absolutely needless and useless. I was also taken to the centre of workshops, I believe, just behind the Suk, where Arabs and Jews worked in peace next to each-other. 

After the closing of the Fair I started settling the invoices of the local entrepreneurs. Comes the joiner, I study his papers and look up with surprise: the name of the person is Sabo. Sabo, written Szabó and pronounced exactly the same way is an old Hungarian name, meaning tailor. I explain him why am I surprised, asking him if he was Hungarian. He is also surprised: No, no, I am Armenian, he says. It is my turn again to be surprised, I knew well that all Armenian names end with ...jan. (The splendid American writer Sarojan was also a second generation Armenian.) He denies, saying that ...jan is the general rule, but there are some exceptions, very rare ones and Sabo is one of them. We start discussing, how they parents escaped from the Soviet Union and settled in Syria, how many Armenians I knew in Moscow and suddenly he starts crying, crocodile tears running down on his cheeks. I am shaken, since he is second generation Armenian, he was borne in Syria and spent his life there! What an unbelievable force homesickness is! 

The day came when I had to say good-bye to Syria, Damascus, Fair, Hussein. I was requested by the Trade Office to take courier post (confidential diplomatic parcel) with me, which would be handed over at the airport. At the airport they realised that the parcel had been forgotten and requested Hussein to go back and try to take the parcel in time. I said good-bye to Hussein for the case he does not succeed. Hussein was indeed late, I checked in and walked towards the plane when one of the officers of the Trade Office was running to me with the parcel. I was halfway to the plane when heard someone shouting my name. I turned back and saw Hussein at the fence, clinging to it. I left the line and ran back to him. He was trying to shake hands, but we could just touch each-other's fingers. He started crying, tears were running down on his face, whimpered... Oh, my good god, an adult Arab, having served to me! If I had the opportunity to have a meeting before I die with those who were close to me during my hectic life, he would be one of those invited.

One of my mistakes in Syria was that I did not visit Palmyra, the remnants of a kingdom, which was ruled by a woman. The place must be wonderful, have a look at the site, selected by me to give a glance of Palmyra.