The Pillars of Hercules

“They call us donkeys,” Akkad said. “Because of the donkeys wandering around the bazaar. We don’t care. Donkeys are good animals. And we wander too.”

“What do you call Turkish people?”

“‘Mustache,’ ” Mohammed said. And to his friends, “Yes?”

Akkad explained, “Because they all have mustaches.”

“What about Egyptians?”

“We call them ‘Take-Your-Watch,’ because they are thieves.”

“Jordanians?”

“‘They-Only-See-Themselves,’ ” Moustafa said. “They are selfish, they think about themselves all the time.”

“What about Israelis?” I asked.

“Worse than Jordanians,” Akkad said.

“‘The sun shines out of their arseholes,’ we say. It is an Arabic expression for snobbish,” Moustafa said. “They think it, you see. So we call them ‘arseholes’ for short.”

“I don’t like to say this word,” Akkad muttered. “But it’s true they are very snobbish. They think they are better than everyone.”

“Are you married?” Moustafa asked me.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“I am married and so is he,” Akkad said, indicating Moustafa. He pointed to Lateef, who apparently did not speak English—he smiled but said nothing. “He is a horse’s hoof.”

“Not a donkey?” I said.

“And I am a ginger beer,” Akkad said. “Although I am married.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It is slang,” Akkad said, and took out a book. He wagged it at me and said, “This Yank does not understand!”

The book was titled Australian Slang, and it was inscribed to Akkad from Ray, an Australian, in big affectionate blue loopy handwriting.

“My old boyfriend,” Akkad said. He batted his eyelashes at me. “He was a traveler like you.”

I leafed through the book of slang. Horse’s hoof—poof. Ginger beer—queer. Over a year paddling in the Happy Isles and I get a lesson in Aussie slang from a Syrian in Aleppo?

“I get it,” I said. “But didn’t you say you were married?”

“Yes. I just found out I am a homosexual one month ago, after five years of married life.”

“Isn’t that a little inconvenient?” I asked.

“Only for my wife,” Akkad said.

“But I like women,” Moustafa said.

“I like men,” Akkad said. “So does he. And he. And you see this man there”—another young man had paused in the lane of the bazaar to mutter to Lateef—“he was my boyfriend once. You see how he is ignoring me?”

“I agree with Moustafa,” I said. “I prefer women.”

“Women smell like omelets,” Akkad said.

“Do you like omelets?”

“No,” he said. “I like men. They smell like watermelons.”

“‘A woman for duty. A boy for pleasure. A melon for ecstasy.’ Isn’t that an Arab proverb?” I said.

“I have never heard it,” Akkad said. “I don’t understand.”

Moustafa cupped his hands at his chest to suggest breasts and said, “I like these melons on a woman!”

“I don’t like them,” Akkad said. “How old are you?”

I told him.

“No,” he said. “But if you are that old you must be happy. Very happy.”

“Yes, he is happy,” Moustafa said.

“I am happy,” I said. And thought: Yes, drinking tea in this bazaar on a chilly evening in Aleppo, in the farthest corner of the Mediterranean, listening to their silly talk, sensing a welcome in it, the hospitality of casual conversation, feeling I could ask them almost anything and get an answer; I am happy.

“Why did you come here?” Akkad said.

“To buy a scarf,” I said.

“I will not sell you a scarf now. Moustafa and Ahmed will not sell you a scarf. You know why? Because we want you to come back here tomorrow to talk with us.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Later I went to a restaurant and had hot bread and hummus, baba ghanouj and eggplant, salad and spicy fish chunks. I was joined by a student, Ahmed Haj’Abdo, who was studying medicine at the Aleppo medical college. He said he wanted to get high marks, so that he could study abroad and specialize. I introduced the topic of Assad, hoping to get more colorful information about the cult of Basil. Mr. Haj’Abdo got flustered and searched the restaurant desperately with his agitated eyes.

“Sorry,” I said.

He just smiled and then we talked about the weather.

The next day, my last in Aleppo, I went back to Akkad and bought a head scarf and asked him the best way to Latakia. There were so many ways—buses, “pullman,” minivans, taxis, shared cars, the train.

Akkad said, “The best way. You mean quickest? Safest? Most comfortable? Cheapest? What?”

“What does ‘safest’ mean?”

“The road is dangerous. It winds around the mountains. Sometimes the cars and buses go off the road and into the valleys. People die.”

“Train is safest and best,” Moustafa said.

“That’s what I always say.”

My first-class ticket to Latakia on the early train the next morning was two dollars.