Men have their songs, too. We know some of them from their girlfriends and wives, and I know the rest from the little window at the coffeehouse.
***
I used to spy on men at their famous sanctuary—the coffee house.
There were three coffee houses in the village. A relatively large number for the population, but the men were addicted to them, between those out of work, the lazy ones and those addicted to “shaddeh” —playing cards.
The coffee houses had upper rooms and high windows for air circulation. Music from the radio and television, and smoke from cheap cigarettes emanated from them.
I was small and skinny. I moved about the alleys and lanes of the village like a rat. But that was not what gave me the courage to sneak in through the small gaping hole meant to alleviate the humidity o
