Rigid, bent, scarcely managing to drag either of his two feet, he went forward uncertainly, with two light baskets, shallow but wide, hooked onto his elbows, sometimes replaced by a small bag.

He faced life with firmness, strong will and courage. Biologically and physically everything was against him, for he was almost completely paralyzed. His nervous system no longer reacted after the many lesions and their consequences from which he had suffered and which continued to mark him. He spoke with difficulty, stammering while a whole mimicry contorted his face. His neck was scrawny, long and stiff. His bones could be counted and he was always more or less unwashed, with scruffy hair. He was often dribbling. His forehead was wide and revealed much. The only organs apparently untouched by his tragic fate were his eyes.

All the fire of his spirit, of his whole being, revealed itself in his eyes, for despite his misfortune he had a soul, a fine soul. His eyes gleamed with intelligence and a profound and human regard through which great beauty transpired. Paralyzed he certainly was, with a loss of movement due to lesions in the nerves affecting all his actions, reflexes, gestures and walk. He had difficulties of balance and in his faculties too, in his speech, hearing, and sight, and his movements lacked coordination.

He had said goodbye to school, and was now without companions, games or occupation. He remained fixed, clamped in a corner at the mercy of others. Little Caesar was in a prison, Caesar who smiled at life, at the eastern sun, who had been studious and at the top of his class, but considered a foreigner, coming from a land in the New World, in Latin America.

Caesar made the rounds of his locality, every day of the week in some corner, alley or neighborhood, announcing his arrival and his wares to sell. All that he had in his basket weighed no more than two or three pounds, little objects exclusively for the womenfolk, needles, thread, pins and buttons, small quantities of general haberdashery; if one of the ladies wished something in particular, he would bring it on his next round. He was a modest peddler in a very small way.

During the nineteen-fifties there used to be many such peddlers going around on foot. The big stores and supermarkets were as yet unknown. There were only small shops where one found a little of everything. As there were still no reliable and regular means of transport, housewives found these salesmen very useful as they went from door to door on donkey-back or in carts or in cars. The seller would stop at each door and one could get what one wanted without any delay. Merchants of household utensils and fishermen with fresh fish, all were eagerly awaited. I remember that when I was small nobody ever went to the market to buy fish; the fishermen came round with their catch, generally on Friday, when they would empty all they had.

Much the same was true of those selling fruit, vegetables, dairy produce such as cheese, curdled milk and lebneh, or oil, soap, carpets, sheets, cloth, and clothes. Even today one meets such people, but up-to-date with their motor vehicles, “pick-ups”. As children we used to eagerly await the sellers of ice cream, candies or toys and gadgets. They had a trade which was one way of making an honest living.

What may we say about out brave Kaïssar with his simple wares? There was in the district quite close to the houses a certain open space close to the road with some kiosks put up with wood or corrugated iron, shacks called in Arabic taksheebi, meaning wooden huts made up of planks and boards and not needing a building permit. This place served as a meeting ground for the local women, who could exchange their gossip and gather around the traveling salesmen on their donkeys or standing by their barrows. They might exchange news about their children or their daily family matters in a way that brought them socially together and allowed these contacts to be followed often by visits to each other’s homes.

Kaïssar didn’t really walk but rather dragged himself along under his burden, his four or five pounds’ weight of haberdashery. Who provided him with fresh stock and kept his accounts for him? I learnt later that it was a very rich local merchant who had a large store specializing in haberdashery. This man gave our poor friend almost everything out of the kindness of his heart, with love and true charity. It was enough for him that Kaïssar should say, “God help you and take care of your children!”

Most Lebanese have a kind heart and for them helping others is a duty, not only a religious one but a patriotic one also. Kaïssar was the best known and the most popular person around. Everybody knew him. Where did he come from and where did he hold out? Some said Sarba, though not with much certainty. Others said Zouq, rather higher up than Sarba. I was later to learn that he had a tiny retreat up at Aintoura, the Spring of the Tower.

The whole sector where Kaïssar went on his rounds on six or seven days of the week extended no more than a couple of miles. Did he stay at home on the Sunday, the Lord’s Day? Did he remain there resting himself, meditating and regaining strength? I do not really know. One thing I do know is that I saw him on the same day of practically every week passing by the school and our house.

I mentioned just now that his wares were all destined for the fair sex, but that is of no importance, for he never raised his voice to announce them. He simply announced the arrival of Caesar – Kaïssar. From time to time he would shout in his disjointed way, “Kaïssar!” and that was enough to proclaim the Master, the Emperor. Was not the presence of the Caesars once heralded aloud to impose awe? What did the heralds do of old if it was not to proclaim in a baritone voice, “The Emperor!”

Deep in his heart, Kaïssar was sure that the good ladies did not come to him simply for a thimble, a needle or a reel of cotton, but above all for Caesar! What greatness!

Yes, greatness of soul in his poor condition, clad one might say in rags, but Kaïssar was loved and cherished by young and old. He was almost the only handicapped individual to be seen in the district, whereas now every roundabout, every crossing, every public square swarms with beggars aged between four and ninety, who, may I say, assault the vehicles and the people passing by. Their only occupation is to beg; a man making money out of them brings them in a truck in the morning and takes them away in the evening. So far, neither the authorities nor the social organizations have been able to do anything about this invasion. It is like a drug, for to make a living by simply stretching out one’s hand is easy. But such was not the case of Caesar; should any one give him anything, he simply said, “God reward you!”

Kaïssar kept his dignity despite his misfortune. He tried in every way to be of use, to serve, to be part of society among the people he loved. My mother knew the day he would pass. In the morning as she prepared our “tartines” she knew that we could do without our meal if it was to make Caesar happy.

The “tartine” has its own story to tell. It is neither a meal, nor a lunch, nor a dinner, but simply a French invention, a long crisp French loaf, split lengthwise and filled with butter (beurre) or cheese. France is the only country where one can go up to the counter of a bar or sit at the table of a “brasserie” and ask for a simple “tartine beurrée”. One can even choose its length. Unlike the sandwich, the “tartine” has no age, or rather one may say it is as old as bread itself. The former is worth only what it is made up of, but the latter touches the heart with a familiar refrain from one’s childhood… “Il était une dame tartine dans son palais de beurre frais…”

Apart from the regular three meals of the day, there was a fourth one coming between midday lunch and evening dinner or supper, breaking a period of six or seven hours. At four o’clock in the school of the Marist Brothers we were handed out bread, so each pupil could pull out of his locker whatever he had, cheese, olives, jam or whatever. Like this, each one could prepare his “tartine” according to his taste.

When the housewives were baking the thin local bread, they also baked a kind of oval piece of dough, flat but fairly thick, called mishtah, the “elongated” or “stretched”, to be eaten still warm with olive oil and thyme enhanced by various spices, something as eagerly sought after as the famous “tartine”.

When I offered anything to Caesar, his smile accentuated the deformity of his face. Then he would thank me and if he was hungry would devour the “tartine”, otherwise putting it away in his bag. Who knows? Perhaps it would be kept for his supper or for his breakfast next day or even offered to somebody still worse off than he was. For many children he was a strange creature, something to be looked on with wonder. Was he human? Did he have a soul? Would he go to heaven? He was a sight for the eyes when he passed, a performance not to be missed, but one which spoke to our hearts and evoked feelings of affection. Kaïssar set a red line; he was respected and loved.

Was he not, like us children, from the hand of the Creator? Perhaps his soul was nobler than ours were. Perhaps his head was full of ideas that he was unable to give form to. Perhaps he had never known what sin was. Did he dream as we did? Did he believe there were angels? Had he heard those tales so familiar to children? Did he know about Robinson Crusoe? Had he learned to read and write?

For sure he had presence and personality. He was certainly not a head civil servant or president of a board of directors or rector of a college; he was simply Caesar, one like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, dear to every heart.

We children wondered how Kaïssar spent the night and where he slept. What did he do in his little cubby-hole? We had no idea. All that we knew was that Kaïssar existed and that every week he passed through our quarter of the town. It was not for us to be inquisitive or to ask for more information. There was a barrier to his private life which everybody respected. Did he have friends and social contact with his neighbors of both sexes? Was he ever in love? After all, he had a right to be in love, even if his love were only virtual.

What were his sentiments, his sensations, his human feeling? His faith? His convictions? Did he emerge from some mythology, from some fairy tale or the Thousand and One Nights? Had he known Icarus, Poseidon, Eolus, Eros, Aphrodite, and Apollo? Was he alone to have risen out of mysterious depths? There was the Society of St. Vincent de Paul that used to help the poverty-stricken, and there have always been generous benefactors. It used to be said of somebody who was generous that “…the morsel in his mouth was not for him but for another.” There were many kind helping hands. Did Kaïssar have a father or a mother or brothers and sisters? No, he stood out alone, an Augustus, a Julius Caesar, a Hadrian!

He sometimes dropped a few sentences in Spanish. Did his Castilian come from Central or South America, where there are Lebanese without number? Some individuals had a vague idea that he lived with his mother somewhere near and that she cared for him until she passed away. As my studies with the Marist Brothers came to an end, as my life changed and there was the University and also my work, I saw Caesar less and less often until he completely disappeared from my ken. But I could not get him out of my mind or my imagination, for he was somebody who had faced the challenges of life with courage and heroism and who had gained people’s affection.

Kaïssar made no great discovery in the realm of science and as far as the fine arts were concerned he was neither poet, nor painter, nor musician, nor artist of the stage. As far as holiness was concerned, he defied the Providence which seemed to want to crush him, so there was none of that. But he was a forerunner in spite of being almost totally handicapped. He proved that impossibility, inaccessibility, inertia, despair, all such things, had no meaning for him. He was an example for every handicapped person. The fire of life and faith in God burned within him. In the history of mankind there have been others like Kaïssar who are all forgotten, and it is in order for these qualities to go down to posterity that I have done this research.

In due course I asked my friends who were doctors to diagnose his condition, at a time when Kaïssar had surely passed away, with its nervous symptoms: loss of movement difficulty in walking and dragging of feet, vacillation, loss of speech, facial contortions and hunching of the shoulders, all certainly due to lesions in the brain and nervous system.

Whenever I put on an exhibition of my paintings, there were always drawings and sketches on which was inscribed “Caesar-Kaïssar”, and a note-book with outlines done from memory and showing the fellow carrying his baskets or sitting by the roadside or grimacing with contorted features. During the course of six exhibitions this note-book was steadily enriched by additional sketches.

To my great surprise, one day a lady from Aintoura was most eagerly turning the pages of the note-book and I wondered if I was going to be favored by fortune. The lady went off without saying anything but came back the next day accompanied by another lady. Both went straight to the table where several notebooks were laid out, this particular one among them.

This exhibition was dedicated to Saint Rafca (Rebecca). A friend who had written the story of the life of the saint had asked me for some illustrations for the book and so I had decided on this exhibition of pictures I had done to satisfy my friend’s demand. Some forty compositions showed the saint under varying aspects, her life, her youth, her suffering and her convictions. The two ladies remained absolutely stunned in front of the particular note-book and I thought, “Now or never!” I went up to them and asked them some questions about whether they like the drawings and about whether they had any works of art at home. They replied that they had a portrait by Srour and a watercolor by Omar Onsi, but added that it was not so much the pictures as works of art that interested them but rather the particular subject.

In answer to my question about whether they had known the one in question, they answered that he had been a neighbor. He had lived with his mother near their house. He had been eight or nine years old when they returned from Mexico. Some local gossips said that the husband had abandoned mother and child and run off with another woman. Others said that the mother had been left alone after her husband died and so she had made up her mind to return to Lebanon to try to assure some sort of a future for her son. To make ends meet she had done housework and cooking and sewing. She was very popular in the village. As for Caesar, he was taken into the nearby school of the Lazarist Fathers. There had been a large fig tree in front of the ladies’ house, they had played there with the children from the houses around and Caesar had been found charming with his Lebanese-Mexican accent. This was certainly true, as rich people generally had a fig tree to adorn the front of their dwellings.

Yes, the fig, what a succulent fruit, with the taste of honey! The first crop ripens in May and picking can go on until December. There are many varieties, white, black, reddish, the Iranian, figs as large as a tennis ball and some only an inch long, and this is a fruit that can treated on an industrial scale for long stocking, as jam or dried or sugared.

Christ is said to have placed a curse on a fig tree that did not bare the fruit expected of it. This might seem strange as it was only the month of March and not yet the season, but by this the Lord meant the Hebrew nation, which should have proved itself more worthy but had instead betrayed its God Incarnate. As a tree the fig needs no particular care, yielding generously.
Now the good lady carried on to say, “Those were the good old days despite the Second World War.” One lady had been born in 1934 and the other in 1937, they were two cousins about the same age as myself. Now they wished to speak to their hearts’ content, and it was up to me to hold my tongue and just listen.

“Caesar was eight years old when he came back from the Americas. He was very happy in his simple new life in Aintoura, in the little house with trees and flowers all around. His mother was an active women, ready to help and very fond of Caesar. There was understanding, love and a good relation between them. We saw the boy morning and evening at the school, at home, in the garden or in his seat near the fig tree.

“One day when Caesar wished to pluck us some nice figs a branch broke under his foot. He lost his balance and made a fall which was nearly fatal. We were shocked, outside of ourselves with fear, for Caesar lay stretched out on the ground in another world, the world of coma. All the neighbors rushed up wanting to help and be of use. In the whole region there was not a single hospital, so Caesar was taken to Beirut. There he was treated but it was several months before he came round and even after that the poor boy suffered the after-effects. He who had been so lively, awake and willing was now without movement and stiff as a board.

“He was brought home, where his unhappy mother looked after him so long as she was alive. We went in from time to time to say Hello! to him but found him completely paralyzed. Sometimes his mother would put him down on a sofa in the courtyard in front of the house. But as we grew up we went each of us a different way and Caesar became more and more alone. By sheer will power and determination to do exercise, Caesar finally managed to stand up and to take a few shaky steps, taking an hour to cross the alley near the house. I occasionally met him and looked into his eyes so full of expression. Something up to ten years passed by. Some of us got married, others went abroad, and the quarter had no more of our generation.
“I sensed Caesar crying in the depths of his soul, ‘I adore you and for years I shall still struggle!’ Wasn’t it his right to love, to please and to dream? I married and moved to Beirut, where my children grew up. I avoided seeing Caesar for I suffered deeply at the mere thought of the liveliness, energy and love that he could no longer enjoy. Time separated us, and Caesar became Kaïssar, in a new environment where he made his living…”

This had been a lengthy testimony, one which satisfied my desire to know about our friend. The lady added, “We all felt responsible for the fall of Caesar, who had wished to give us pleasure.” She wanted to put the note-book back in its place but I asked her to keep it for herself. I no longer felt any need for it. I just wanted to clear up some questions which had puzzled me, for I had known Kaïssar only by chance along the ways of my own town. I went with the ladies to Aintoura, where they showed me their home and pointed out the little tile-covered room where Kaïssar had lived and also the place where he had played.

I could only think, “Before the accident Caesar had five or six friends but then Kaïssar had thousands.” Everyone who had known him or simply met him fell under his charm. He captivated all who came in contact with him. He had his Empire in people’s hearts, an empire without frontiers or aggression, where he was Emperor. His universe was vast, unlimited, scattered with roses and jasmine, and beyond it stood the doors of Paradise, where his dear mother awaited him and protected him.

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K.J.Mortimer