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tales of orontes river
the birthmark
Y
ou ’re even more
heads t rong than
Salamu the hammam-
worker, you are! Your dad’s
told you a thousand times
not to touch your face when
you’re helping him gr i l l
meat. Look at you – even
af ter washing your face, it ’s
still all sooty!
–But Mum, who is this
Sa l amu the hammam-
worker, anyway?
–Who’s this and who’s that
– can’t you think of anything
to amuse yoursel f wi th
apart from hassling me with
your constant questions?
–But for God’s sake, you’re
cons tant l y shaming me
about being l ike him, so
who is he?
–Oh alright, alright – so we
had a neighbour called Om
Salah, in your grandad’s
old neighbourhood: her
husband Salamu worked at
the hammam in the main
market . Ever y morning
he’d go of f to work in
the hammam, and he
wouldn’t get home t i l
late at night. As far back
as I can remember, right
in my earl iest memories,
absolutely everyone in the
neighbourhood used to call
him Abu Daughters. Yep,
poor old Salamu, living in
absolute poverty, and with
f ive daughters. But what
beautiful girls they were,
you should’ve seen them –
every one of them was a
proper ‘piece of the moon,’