"Francesca and My Taxi Driver"
A short story by Azhar H. Shemdin
“Francesca was my first love”, Abu-Saleem, my taxi driver sighed, as we rode on the Jordanian desert highway to Petra, the ancient city that disappeared from the human psyche for over a thousand years and was rediscovered two hundred years ago by a Swiss traveler.
I was in Amman, Jordan for a few days and none of the people I knew cared to join me for a day’s excursion to Petra. So, I had decided to take a tour of Amman through a touring agency that sent me Abu-Saleem in his taxi. For half a day, he showed me all the places that tourists go to. As the time passed, I found him an educated man with facility in five languages and therefore asked him if he took tourists to Petra. “Well, of course, just two days ago I took Japanese tourists there”. As he was of my age with grey hair, a chubby gait and calm demeanor, I felt safe enough with him to be driven out in the dessert and back. Of course, I kept a healthy and necessary skepticism as I asked for his business card of which he gave me a few, and I made sure that my relatives in Amman knew who was taking me, and that he knew that my relatives had his cards in case other people wanted to be driven to Petra.
So it was, that the next morning he picked me up at 8:00 am from my hotel, and in no time we were heading south with Amman’s skyline disappearing in the rear view mirror.
I had seated myself in the back and rested my handbag and camera beside me. It was a sunny, mild and pleasant February day, and I was comfortably dressed in a light winter coat with a colorful scarf.
After he uttered his first memorable sentence about Francesca, Abu-Saleem, with a far away look, said: “I should have stayed in Italy”. He easily succeeded in grabbing my undivided attention, and proceeded: “I was young then and studying at university. I fell in love with Francesca. She was Italian, living with her parents, and studying pharmacy. I am a Palestinian and my parents came as refugees from Palestine in 1948. We always felt that we would go back to Palestine. Years passed and my father died leaving ten kids. I was the eldest and my mother asked me to abandon my studies and return to Amman to help her with taking care of our family. As you know, us Arabs must take care of our sisters, or people will talk and the family’s honour will be soiled. Family duty comes first. But Francesca did not understand. She wanted me to stay and instead send money to the family.”
“When I first met her, I was in my second year at university. We were in love and her mother and brother liked me too, but, her father looked down at me. He was convinced that I came from the desert and lived in a tent with a camel. It didn’t matter how much effort I took to convince him otherwise, he just did not believe me”.
“One day, a program on Jordan was to be aired on Italian television, and I urged him to watch it and to see for himself how modern the cities of Jordan were. To my utter disappointment, the program concentrated only on the Bedouins! That really crushed me, as there was not a hint of any thing else.”
“In spite of her father’s opposition, we managed to get married. We were so happy that year. However, when my father died, I went back for the funeral. Then, after I returned to Italy, my mother and my uncle struggled to take care of the family.”
“A year later, my mother was at the end of her rope and had a nervous breakdown. Francesca went with me to visit and to see if she wanted to stay in Amman. She did not like to live there and went back to Italy. This left me utterly helpless and I had to make a gut wrenching decision. I had to choose between my love to my wife and my Arab older brother duty towards my family. We ended up with a cordial divorce and I left to Amman without finishing my degree.”
“Once back, I worked in many different trades to make ends meet, and brought up my brothers and sisters. They are all grown up now and have their own families. And where are they when I need them? Each is struggling with his own life.”
“Shortly after I returned from Italy, my mother started enticing me to get married again. I was definitely not interested in the subject. For an entire year, she kept nagging me about getting a bride. Finally, I succumbed, just to buy my peace, and she hastily arranged everything.”
“My new wife was ugly and hairy. On top of it, she was ill mannered. We had a baby girl, but, I could not stay with her any longer, so we divorced. She took her daughter with her and I did not care to see her again.”
“My present wife is the mother of my ten children and we have respect and affection built over twenty years. I could never leave her when we had ten kids between us. We have also, become pilgrims. We went together to the Hajj in Mecca, thanks be to God the merciful”.
“So, what happened to your ugly ex-wife?” I curiously enquired. “Oh, she married an ugly man just like her and they had ten kids too.” He answered gleefully.
After two hours of driving, we arrived at Petra; a small modern town located in a valley, surrounded by high cliffs and not a sight of the ancient fabled city. He drove downhill to the area where people enter the world heritage site, and dropped me there. “I will wait for you at the Sandstone Café, there.” He pointed with his lifted right arm and index finger.
I went to the ticket booth and followed what Abu-Saleem had instructed me to say. “I am a resident in Amman” I said in Arabic. That saved me thirty two dollars and freed me of the requirement to hire a guide.
Petra proved to be a truly wondrous place. I reached it through a narrow incision in the mountain, and after a forty two minute walk, the famous pink building that I have seen in tourist brochures appeared through the Cliff-cut. From there, another walkway led me to an entire valley and a city complete with housing, temples and even a Roman amphitheatre. The entire city was carved into the cliffs on both sides of a river valley. The natural colours of Petra were yellow, beige, orange, pink, brown, to black, in varying shades and different designs and shapes. I was in awe with a perennial gaping mouth.
By mid afternoon, I was getting tired of walking and snapping photos and decided to trek back before darkness. I rented a horse drawn carriage and arrived at the exit in no time.
Abu-Saleem was not at the Sandstone Café, so I phoned him on my cell. In no time, he arrived in his royal blue sedan and we started the journey back to Amman.
After a few notes on Petra’s history, he resumed his confessions. “I met Francesca again, you know.” He said, conspiratorially. “Where did you meet her?” I enquired, quite intrigued. “I went to Italy for a week, last September. We met at a café, and for many hours we talked… we wept… we caught up on a lifetime gone like a dream. She looked faded and old. She had never married, never had a boyfriend, and lived all alone. On the other hand, she owned her own pharmacy and made good money. She invited me to stay with her at home, as her parents had died long time ago. So I did.”
“As I had always considered her my wife, we resumed where we had left off thirty years ago, and became lovers again. You should have seen how she bloomed and radiated health and happiness. I was completely amazed at her transformation! She pleaded with me to stay in Italy and work with her in the pharmacy, but, how could I abandon my wife and my ten children? My heart was with her, but my mind was with my wife and a lifetime of establishing roots in Amman.”
“I wrote to her after coming back and she replied that I either went to stay with her for good, or she wouldn’t have anything to do with me anymore. Still, I sent her a New Year’s greeting card. It is February now, and she has not replied.” Then suddenly, in a whisper, as if talking to himself, he said: “Oh my God, I am a Hajji! I must go back to Mecca to wash away my recent sins.”
Our silence was broken by the approaching city lights, and soon we were in the Sweifieh district of Amman, and at my hotel’s doorstep. I disembarked, thanked him and gave him an extra tip to the agreed price. As I stood there watching his car disappear around the bend, I asked myself: “Should he have stayed in Italy?”
Author: Azhar H. Shemdin
Written on March 11, 2007
Most names and places are fictitious.
This story is published under international Copyright laws, to the author Azhar H. Shemdin who has the sole copyright.
No part of this story is to be reproduced in any manner or published in any place or any manner, without the written and signed permission of the author, Azhar H. Shemdin
