J is away for a few nights and as I sit, trying to do something constructive in this quiet apartment, warmed by the presence of small, sleeping boys, I remember Grandma saying that when Grandpa was away she used to eat her food off newspaper to save on the washing up. I know what she means, but I managed to eek out the energy to pull a plate from a cupboard and give it a quick rinse before arriving here at my 'cucumber' (as the Lozenge used to call my computer).
This week my mainstay in communication has been the beloved Jordanian Duke, or 'Joke' as the Lozenge refers to him. We've seen quite a bit of him since we arrived here in Amman, and without this octogenarian piece of class, kindness and wisdom, this city would not mean half of what it does to us. We've spoken at least once a day over the last few days, because last week, he lost Ali, one of his dearest friends, who was only 55. The Duke rang me up to ask if I could give him a hand writing his obituary for the Jordan Times. It's not something I've ever done before - but I was pleased to be able to do something to help Mamdouh (the duke), for a change, since being a foreigner in a new place, it's so often the other way.
I drove up to his house last Wednesday and walked through the door - which normally seems to be wide open, through the hall lined with sculptures and ancient pieces of rock, and out onto the terrace from his drawing room, which looks across to the Citadel, with the best view of the Temple of Hercules. A light breeze wafted through the curtains with some sombre choral music coming from hidden speakers. Mamdouh appeared looking sad but well groomed as always, and we sat on the terrace talking about his friend, for an hour or so. Then his Sudanese cook appeared with some fried eggs from Mamdouh's farm, cooked with spicy tomato and onion, followed by bread, cheese, plum jam and the thyme and sesame 'za'atar' spice. His mind is still sharp as a nail, and conversation drifted from his friend, to Arab culture, the Syrian crisis, the world's lack of true statesmen, Palestinian history, and back to his friend again. I could have listened all week, and I realised - sitting opposite this elderly man, who spends most of his time creating, preserving culture, thinking of others, and always, always giving - that my most favourite new friends in this city are in their 80s.
Mamdouh talked about Ali for a couple of hours and I scribbled everything down as he spoke, to try and create something from it afterwards. We were in full obituary mode, when we heard a French voice calling, 'Bonjour, Mamdouh!' and in walked a French soldier with 'son Colonel' who was working in the French hospital at Za'atari refugee camp. Conversation quickly morphed into French (Mamdouh's is immaculate) and a second round of fried eggs appeared for the French military, who were very surprised and interested that I'd spent so much time in their ex-colonies of Chad and Niger; described their passion for 'le monde arabe' and explained excitedly that for the first time, the French army had been fighting alongside Algerians (rather than against) as they battled Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. We managed to finish the work after the French had gone, and at around 3pm I scurried home in the Chevy to try and sculpt everything Mamdouh had told me into a fitting obituary for his friend, who was by all accounts, one of Amman's greatest personalities.
Little did Mamdouh know how the meditation morphed into mayhem as I skated around the kitchen trying to whip up some tea from an empty fridge for the hungry dwarves at 5pm, having just finished a first draft of the obituary. But that is the joy of visiting someone else's temple, and the security of a 45 year age gap.
As I reminisced to J about my surprising and inspiring day, we concluded that the moral of the story was to try to keep enough slack in your life to drop everything and spend the day writing an obituary of a dear friend's friend.
Lovely post xx
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