The Bicycle

“Just ten Lira my boy. But I only have this one left. I won’t have any more until next season.”

The boy stared at the bicycle as if it were a ruby laying in the sand, just within hands reach, and ready to be plucked by someone who could make full use of its value.

“Can you hold it for me Ibn-Ali?” He asked the merchant. “Please. I have to ask my father but he’s working at the moment. I won’t be able to get the money until much later. Please don’t sell it to anyone else. I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

“I can’t do that. I’ll be heading back to the ruins of Palmyra before the sun goes down. On my way there I’ll be loading this empty caravan with as many trinkets as I can find so that I can sell them to the tourists at a premium; convince them that I hold precious relics. You should come with me; a young boy always adds a certain character and charm to these business exchanges — makes it easier for foreigners to part with their money. You might learn a thing or two about being a traveling merchant.”

“I can’t… I have school and my father needs my help.”

“School? What is that? Learning things that will be of no use to a poor little tramp from the streets of Damascus, isn’t that right, walad?”

“I don’t know about all that. What I do know is that Saud has the only bicycle in our neighborhood and for that, he thinks he’s special. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us, he’s not better than me!”

“Well then I’m going to need those ten Lira ya walad, by this afternoon, or you’ll continue to curse Saud as he flies by you on two wheels, laughing at your misfortune. I leave tonight. Do what you must, but do it quickly.”

With the words echoing in his ears the boy took off, running through narrow streets paved with sand and dirt; through the corridors of the old city, its beige walls of clay forming a maze of tunnels and passageways. He ran past the teashop where the old men played shesh-besh and smoked their hookas. He huffed and puffed his way around the square, running along the edge of the fountain with such reckless abandon that he nearly fell into the water.

He was almost at his destination when he bumped into old Nasser in front of the bathhouse, around the corner from his father’s shop. The street merchant sold nuts and dates out of a wheel barrel and announced his presence with billowing shouts of “fresh dates, nuts, and fruit” with a voice that could rival Bilal’s call to prayer during the times of the prophet himself.

“Lak slow down ya walad. Where are you going in such a hurry?” “I have to see my father at the store.”

“If you’d have hit me any harder we would both be on our way to see him. You with a swollen face and me with an explanation of how you earned a slap for knocking down my barrel and wasting an entire day’s worth of inventory.”

“I’m sorry amo. Please don’t tell on me. I need to see him before the sun goes down.”

“Yalah, go; but slowly, for your own sake walad. The next person you bump into may not be as forgiving.”

“I will amo. Shoukran.”

“You’re welcome Majnoon.”

The boy chuckled. I must be crazy to be going to all this effort.

He finally arrived at his father’s bakery, hidden in some remote corner of old Damascus, sandwiched between a butcher shop and a produce stand.

The store itself was bare: a display counter with middle-eastern desserts; an old cash register next to the counter; two tables with four chairs each; and a small cocktail table in the corner with two more seats. The floor was a haphazard mix of unmatched tile, set carefully and meticulously, but with no particular attention given to order or style.

Behind the counter was a small serving station with access to the display case, a gas stove with teakettles on the burners, a cash register, and an oversized ledger book; used to keep track of accounts, inventory, and daily receipts. There was another room in the back, behind the customer service area, that was separated by a hanging curtain. This was where all the baking was done. It had a large wood coal oven and several prep tables.

The child rushed inside, past three seated customers and his sister at the counter. He headed to the back room, where his father was baking the rest of the delivery orders for the day and another round of pita bread for the neighborhood families, all of which had accounts with the shop.

“Baba, Baba…”

“Ah. You’re here early. Do you want to get a head start on the deliveries?” “Ummm, yes… I guess. But I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

The old man wiped the sweat off his brow and stepped away from the burning oven. He leaned against one of the tables and crossed his hands impatiently.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No baba, nothing like that. It involves a favor I need to ask of you.” “We have a lot of work to do before noon. Make this quick.”

“Ibn Ali is in town. He’s almost cleared out his caravan and he plans on going to Palmyra tonight. He only has one bicycle left and he’s offering it to me at a special price.”

“I see. So you want money to buy yourself a toy?”

“It’s not just for me baba. Think about how much faster I can do the deliveries if I had a bike. It would surely be worth it for all of us.”

“Worth it? That depends on how much value it brings when compared to how much it costs… which by the way, you have yet to mention anything about price.”

“It’s only ten Lira! Isn’t that cheap?”

The old man sighed and gave his son a disappointed look. He had hoped that his twelve-year-old boy would have already developed an appreciation for money and, more importantly, had some realization of what his father’s position was in the world.

“I thought that by now you’d understand how hard we have to work for things. The word cheap, the one bandied about by all your friends outside the neighborhood — the rich kids of the elite whom you have a chance to rub elbows with at school only because your mother’s sister had the good fortune of being married to the headmaster — that word is not one that has ever crossed your father’s lips. Nor is it a word that you can afford to use, my son. I’m sorry, but that is the way of our life.”

The boy hung his head and fought back the tears. Even at such a young age he possessed enough pride to be embarrassed by any overt display of emotion, which he thought of as a sign of weakness.

He took a step forward, straightened out his posture, and raised his head so that his misty eyes met those of his father.

“I’ll be outside, waiting for the deliveries. Just let my sister know when they’re ready and she’ll come get me.”

The boy turned and walked away. The father resumed his duties, upset that his son failed to grasp the full nature of what he was asking. A few minutes later the man abandoned his post and followed the boy’s path to the front of the store, where he

caught the child sitting on a piece of stone with his feet dangling off the edge, kicking at the dirt.

“I want you to come inside, I have something to show you.”

They both walked back into the store and went behind the counter. The old man told his daughter to tend to the customers as he led the boy by the hand and placed him in front of the cash register.

“Open it.”

Yussef hit one of the spring-loaded keys and the register box rang as the drawer opened.

“Count it — all of it.”

The boy thumbed through the various bills and shuffled the change around until he had an accurate tally.

“47 and a half Lira baba.”
“More than enough to pay for your bicycle right?” The boy began to smile. “Yes baba.”
“Take what you need.”
“You mean it? Really?”

“Yes, but first I want you to consider a few things. Your mother needs money for groceries. Your sisters need money for clothes. We have to pay the rent on the house we live in and on this store. I need to buy supplies in order to bake what we need for our customers tomorrow morning. Your brother’s shoes have holes in them so at some point within the next week or two, we’ll have to replace them. All of that comes from the same place.

“We all live and die by what is in this box. Some days are better than others. Today was a good day: no one got sick; no one lost anything; and nothing we use here is broken and in need of replacement. Your family is safe and there is enough food on the table.

“We’ve all seen the bad days though, haven’t we? You remember those don’t you?”

Yussef nodded as his father turned towards the register drawer — a box that seemed so large and brimming with value a few moments before had now shrunk in stature with the weight of his father’s words.

The old man paused before letting out a subtle sigh and turning once more to the boy, gently placing his hand on his son’s shoulder and his other hand underneath his chin; guiding the boy’s face upward so that he could look him in the eye:

“You are old enough now to make your own choices. I will not tell you what you can and can’t have.”

He forced a half-hearted smile from his lips before walking away from the boy and back into the kitchen.

Yussef stared at the register for a moment and then looked up to see his sister approaching him. As she got closer it was hard not to see the scars on her face; souvenirs of the sickness that took hold of her just a few months earlier — the one that kept his father working day and night to support his mother’s efforts to care for the girl and to ensure that the doctors would come back when she needed them.

He closed the register and smiled at his sister.

“I’ll be waiting outside. Let me know when the deliveries are ready.”