“Ever since I left your mountain sides, my greatest desire has been to return and live among you...” Alphonse de Lamartine once wrote.
In the mountains of Lebanon, in the little village known as Bsharri, perched above the clouds, a man was walking through the rising mist. Surrounded by cedars, Bsharri was not like most places. In the morning, the villagers met for coffee. Coffee was sacred to them, and the time they set aside for it was precious to every one of them. The man was in his sixties and walked with a cane. He kept moving through the fog, his routine unchanging even in retirement.
He entered the café, where young folks in search of a future were gathered around the hookah. Everyone knew Mounssef. He would always pay for a coffee for some of the young lads who sat with him as he smoked his pipe. Some said he chose them at random, others through intuition. The truth was that he did not like to smoke alone. Refusing a coffee from Mounssef was a grave offence; a gesture of kindness not lightly rebuffed. The owner invited him to sit at his usual spot. Mounssef set down his cane. His date-scented tobacco was already heating on the coals. Soon they would bring him the nargile.
When you smoked the nargile you took on an air of pride, establishing yourself in the room. Mounssef pulled on the pipe, observing the three young men who had joined him.
“There was once a time when the motorcar did not exist. The only way to get from Beirut to Jounieh was by donkey. It took more than five days to get to Bsharri, in the holy valley. I’ll never forget those times, when Lebanon was under French control and had not yet gained her independence. Lebanon was a country estate of the French colonial empire. Many French people came here to holiday, take the air and restore their health. And those French were mad about the cedars. Lamartine even had his own cedar tree, the Lamartine Cedar. When he left us, Lamartine did so with a heavy heart. His daughter had tuberculosis, and the eastern climate was good for her health. Lamartine had fallen in love with Lebanon before he continued his journey towards Jerusalem.”
“I know the Lamartine Cedar, it’s the one at the foot of the mountain that everyone’s always looking at.”
“That’s the one! The Lamartine Cedar. The poet would sometimes go there to think, writing verses under that very tree,” answered the old man, blowing smoke rings as he spoke.
“He wrote there?” one of the young men gasped.
“It was his inspiration. He loved the mountains more than the sea, they say.”
The three young men had finished their coffees. Mounssef continued his ritual with the nargile. He took pleasure in watching the dates evaporate, the water bubbling in the vase, and listening to the sound of the water rising in the pipe. For Mounssef, the nargile was more important a ritual than coffee. To rise in the morning and not smoke would be sacrilege. It was better to stay sleeping and forget the world, as if it were a dream. He took up his hat and cane and prepared to leave.
The fog was still there, blanketing the village of Bsharri. Hanging between sky and sea, Bsharri was a place where dreamers, poets and artists came to reflect. Here, they lived by the rhythm of the seasons, and the storms. It was a peaceful village, where you felt the sun might go down at any moment. Nestled in the mountains, Bsharri was awakening. The residents filed into the little streets, and the market traders settled into the impasses to sell their peaches. At this time of year, they were flushed and ripe. Mounssef loved their local peaches. He passed by a seller crying “peaches, apricots, figs!” His basket was full. He sent a basket along a rope to send his fruit to the houses perched high up, as was tradition. Mounssef bought a peach; he would eat it after his nap. For now, he returned home to read. Nothing like a bit of reading — especially if it was Lamartine.
Alan Alfredo Geday