Samih was an only child. They left him the bakery and the house which consisted mainly of two rooms. That was everything they owned. The house was connected to the bakery, most likely because Samih’s father or grandfather had decided to section off a portion of the house to turn into a bakery. The heat from the oven penetrated the wall separating the bakery from Samih’s parents’ bedroom. He painted it twice a year but eventually it would start peeling again from the intense heat. Samih had been born in that room and his parents died there in that bedroom propped up against the oven. His parents hadn’t been blessed with any other children. They had a daughter who died of measles while still an infant. Her mother let out a single cry over her and then was silent, and she did the same thing when her husband died. One loud shriek and that was all.
After their deaths, Samih left his parents’ bedroom as it was — a modest closet, two formica beds, and, hanging on the wall, a picture half-eaten by the heat that crept in from the opposite side, of a man with obscure features. His father used to say that the man was his grandfather and that he had travelled to the United States at the turn of the twentieth century, leaving behind his young grandmother and his infant father. And he never came back. He went to Tripoli to buy some leather for making shoes, and never came back. No doubt something happened to him — an accident or a fight — that prevented him from returning to his town and compelled him to climb aboard a ship at the city’s seaport.
Samih didn’t touch a thing in the bedroom, not even the bedcovers, until someone told him he should open the window and door and let the sun and air come in from time to time, otherwise the mould and mildew would creep in. The other room and the kitchen were enough for him, along with the small area at the entrance. When he was finished working at the bakery he liked to take a chair and sit out in that area after changing his clothes. People said that from there he would peer into the house of the girl he was in love with, though she had no idea how madly in love with her he was. He would say he was in love with her but all he ever did was sit there on the wicker chair, holding three marbles in his left hand that were bigger than the ones children play with. He’d sit for two or three hours, depending on the length or shortness of the day. He rolled the marbles between his fingers tirelessly, continuously casting glances towards her balcony in case she came out to hang laundry or to glimpse her shadow behind the window pane. It was even said that he stayed there in the Semaani family neighbourhood for her sake…
He revered the words of his father and mother. Women were more wicked than men, his mother told him. They sat inside the bakery in hand-me-down house clothes facing each other in two rows before the low, smooth, stone table. They sat with their legs stretched out in front of them, in attack position, while their hands worked without stopping. Their hands and their tongues, too. A hand would scoop out a lump of dough for kneading. She’d roll it between her hand and the surface of the stone table forming it into a ball, and then she’d dust it with flour and start flattening it out. With the right hand at first, as long as the dough was round and ball-like, then with both hands once it started to flatten into a circle. Finally, the rolling pin would finish and widen what the hands had started. The woman would roll it from the right and from the left and in all directions. She’d make the loaf circular, thin it out a little more and then hand toss it. She’d give it one last look before handing it over to Samih. The women followed his every move. Samih went to the city once and went into a bakery, just out of curiosity. There the bread was made by men only. He didn’t see any trace of a woman. He felt jealous.
Before Samih took on the job of standing in front of the hot oven, he used to socialise with the women, too. His father tried to get him away from the bakery and away from the heat especially. He let him work beside him for a while, but it wasn’t long before his heart went out to him and he suggested Samih try accompanying his uncle. His uncle refurbished mattresses and served his customers in their homes, the exact opposite of a baker. Samih would carry the tools as they went from house to house. The woman of the house would leave the mattress outside the front door or in an open space where he could work on it comfortably. They worked at people’s houses while the men were out working. Samih would open up the mattress or the comforter and his uncle would start pounding the dead cotton, fluffing it up for Samih to stuff back inside and then sew back up again. It was a simple trade, easy to do, and didn’t require anything more than an iron rod, a needle and some thread… and an ability to please women, too.
But Samih went back to the bakery and picked up his father’s bread paddle anew after his death. He only closed the bakery for three days in order to mourn for his father, in loud intermittent sobs, after bearing his coffin, all by himself at the front end while four men carried from behind. He returned the toolbox to his uncle and bid him goodbye saying he was his father’s only child and he didn’t want the bakery to close down. His uncle gave him a look of real pity and said simply, ‘Be careful of your eyes, nephew.’
The bakery was his whole life and he seemed content with it. He was there seven days a week, Sundays the busiest of all. People brought trays of kibbeh to be baked in the oven, bulgur wheat and meat. They brought him trays of kibbeh by the hundreds. It was a long day but very profitable; Samih wouldn’t finish until two o’clock in the afternoon, after which he would relax and enjoy his free time. He’d change his clothes, take a bath (once a week), comb his hair and go out to the main street. He’d head straight for the public water fountain which was about two hundred metres from his house and the bakery. He walked there with his head held high: a new Samih looking at the onlookers as if to lure their glances his way. On this day he was out for a stroll like everyone else, out of the house for no other reason than to be like all the other people. Sometimes it happened that the neighbours or people out walking, heading for that same location, would see him on the road during the middle of the week, going to the store near the spring to buy eggs or yogurt. On those days he’d be dressed in his work clothes, walking in a hurry, looking straight ahead, intent only on getting what he needed and going back home. A quick trip that was nothing more than an extension of his work at the bakery.
But how would he get a feeling for Sunday if he didn’t put on his clean shirt and walk slowly, nearly all the way to the water source, and stop there alone? He didn’t have time to enjoy the company of friends. He stood up straight, in the middle of the sidewalk, not leaning against any wall or tree, trying to occupy an empty space all to himself and not share it with anyone. If some women passed by him, they smiled. There was Samih in his Sunday clothes. They smiled at seeing him out of the bakery, as if he wasn’t qualified to do anything except stand in front of the hot oven making bread. He scrutinised everything that passed along the road, watching every passing thing like an event. There were the American cars or German Mercedes, which had recently grown in number — he followed them with his eyes until they disappeared around the bend; there were the young girls strolling up and down the main road arm in arm whispering and giggling whenever the young men looked their way or made comments; or there was a wedding procession or a bicycle race. He would smile when the leading racer appeared, leaning with all his effort over the handlebars of his bicycle. Samih would come a little closer to the public water fountain where the cyclists in their colourful clothing slowed down to grab bottles of water or sandwiches from the crowd waiting there for them, helping them stay the long course of the race. He knew they would climb the high mountains on those little bicycles of theirs. He waited for the last of the cyclists in the Homenetmen Club race and clapped for him with lots of enthusiasm. He clapped all by himself where no one else was waiting, which made the bystanders laugh as he concluded in a loud voice on his way towards the crowd gathered on the pavement who were also watching the scene: