From Souk to Souk by Robin Ratchford Page B

cakes. ‘It’s also by a local artist. Would you like to look at it?’ He lifted to one side a portrait of a woman sketched in a style that had echoes of Picasso and moved a table with a collection of reclining grey figurines. Walking over to the bust, which was almost a metre high, he bent down, and, with a bit of a struggle, managed to lift it and carry it over to where I was standing. Setting it down carefully in front of me, he dusted off his hands with a cloth that was lying on a table and then wiped his brow. I crouched down and ran my fingers gently over the cool marble, in parts smooth like the floor of the Great Mosque, elsewhere rough as the day it was hewn. The motionless head was impervious to my caresses. Its exaggerated length and stylised features embodied it with a strange elegance. Here, before me, was something even more ancient than this city: the stone was literally as old as the hills. But I was curious as to something much more recent: the thoughts of the sculptor. What, I wondered, had inspired him to take a chunk of our planet and fashion from it this piece of art to create an intriguing take on antiquity?
    â€˜Perhaps you would like some tea?’
    I looked up to see the rather portly gallery owner peering down at me through his spectacles and holding a round tray with two little glasses on it.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said, rising to my feet. The tulip-shaped glass was hot to the touch, steam rising from the copper-coloured brew. I took a sip; it was strong and very sweet.
    â€˜You like it here in Syria?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I nodded. ‘The people are very friendly.’
    â€˜Then I am sure you would like to take something back to your country with you,’ he smiled.
    â€˜It’s interesting,’ I said, pondering the statue, ‘but I couldn’t possibly carry it on the plane back to Belgium.’
    â€˜But,
monsieur
, it is not a problem: we can ship it for you!’
    ***
    When Mr al-Abboud said he would ‘ship’ the statue, I took his word literally and envisaged it on board a boat sailing across the Mediterranean and through the Straits of Gibraltar before picturesquely ploughing its way up the Spanish and French coasts until it reached Antwerp. Not for a moment did I imagine he would post a 45-kilo stone bust by airmail.
    I look at the statue staring blindly up at me with the two slit eyes, sightless lines carved into mottled cream marble. I feel a wave of excitement that this most unusual of holiday mementos has arrived after its long journey. Pulling back more of the straw, I inspect it to make sure that it is not damaged. Everything is fine. Anton and I lift the bust out of its crate and carefully carry it up the main staircase where an empty niche is waiting for the new arrival. The statue is a perfect fit and silently takes up its place. The angular features and the long beard are unmistakably modern, yet allude to a Syria of many, many centuries ago. The country from which I have just returned is very different from how I imagined. I have no illusions about the regime, but the people themselves showed me nothing but friendliness. The impression so often conveyed of widespread hostility to the West was not borne out by my experience and I returned from Syria with a changed view of the country. In a way, I have had my own little Damascene conversion. I look at the bust and know that every time I go up and down stairs and see it I will think of that trip, of the city where history and belief are inextricably intertwined, of the welcoming people of Damascus. I decide to call the bust Saul.

What Lies Beneath
    The letter Q must always be followed by a U. At least that is what I had always thought. Qatar was the first exception to the rule that I encountered as a young child. As in the case of another country on the Arabian Peninsula, I first became aware of the tiny state through my stamp collection. Qatar’s philatelic output made a