A Hand Full of Stars

The Second Year

January 7 — Some of my schoolmates are ill. This weather is really the pits! Leila and Uncle Salim also have colds.

Today Leila had a fever attack. She sat up in bed and began to sing. Raising her right hand, she swayed back and forth, as if she wanted to dance. I laughed, which my mother found absolutely appalling. She threw me out of the room.

Once Leila had calmed down and fallen asleep, my mother reproached me: “A person can go mad from such a high fever, and there you are, laughing like an idiot!”

P.S.: I went to the publisher, but he wasn’t in. He’ll be back on the tenth of January.

January 10 — Today I went to the publishing house. Was I ever trembling; I scarcely made a sound as I stood before the publisher, but there was no reason to have gotten so worked up. He is a little bald man with rather fat fingers; he smokes like a chimney and coughs nonstop. He was incredibly friendly. My fear that he might consider me too young vanished with his first few remarks.

He treated me like an adult, telling me about his problems and about the wonderful books he had already brought out and the others he still plans to. I was surprised to learn he doesn’t own a printing shop. He gave me a beautiful book of poems, then talked about my poems, which he intends to publish in the summer. He read them aloud and said he liked the one about the flying tree best and that he also plans to place it first in the book. I was so happy I could have hugged him!

I walked all the way home; I wanted to be alone. I looked at the bare trees. It was sunny and cold, and I saw myself, hand in hand with Nadia, reading poems in front of a huge audience.

January 12 — The radio drones on and on about war. My father hates war; he says one person has no right to take another’s life. Lately I’ve been having bad dreams and growing more and more fearful.

January 13 — Our religion class was great fun today.

“Why does Jesus have blond hair and blue eyes in all the pictures?” Josef asked the priest.

The priest jabbered something about Jesus radiating peace.

But cheeky Josef would not buy this explanation. “Was Jesus born in Palestine or wasn’t he? Palestinians and Jews have dark eyes and hair, and they look peaceful, too.”

The priest became all the more enmeshed in his own web of prattle. But Josef had only asked the first question so he could push on to the real issue: “And why haven’t we had a Palestinian pope yet? Eh? Or an African pope?

This threw the priest completely off balance, and he ordered Josef to write out the act of contrition ten times as punishment. What a weak response.

During recess I told Josef how much I want to become a journalist. He laughed at me. “A journalist lives on questions, but here you get acts of contrition for asking. I want to be an officer. An officer never asks; he gives and carries out orders.”

I should have picked some other time to tell him.

P.S.: Leila is well again and just as impudent as ever.

January 15 — Uncle Salim has also recovered. I’m so glad!

It was warm out; he emerged from his room to enjoy the sun in silence. Bundled up in a quilt, he sat quietly and smiled at me as I chased all the children out of the courtyard so he would have some peace.

January 16 — We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When we were coming back from school, Uncle Salim was already waiting for us at the front door. His voice was far from cheerful as he told Mahmud that his radio play had been broadcast at eleven in the morning. Mahmud immediately asked if they had mentioned he was the author. Uncle Salim hesitated — maybe he had missed it. But he could not put Mahmud off with that answer for long. Then he admitted that Ahmad Malas had been named as the author.

I just don’t get it. There must have been a misunderstanding. We’ll see; tomorrow afternoon the broadcast will be repeated. Maybe Uncle Salim didn’t hear right.

January 17 — What a dirty trick! Mahmud has been wailing. The shameless script editor passes himself off as the author of the play and doesn’t say a word about Mahmud. Certainly Mr. Katib also heard it today. We told him when it would be broadcast. It just can’t be true!

And what if the publisher were to steal my poems and pass them off as his own son’s?

January 18 — Mr. Katib is appalled. He wrote a furious letter to the editor, informing him that over fifty students were witness to his outrageous act of theft. He demanded a correction and an apology. Mahmud mailed the letter, but he doubted it would have any effect. Mr. Katib reassured me, however, that he knew the publisher, and that man would never do such a disgraceful thing. All he knew about the editor was that he was always encouraging young authors to send him their plays.

January 20 — I really enjoy writing in my journal. Today my parents and Leila went to visit a sick uncle. I made myself some tea and sat down by the window. Nadia briefly looked out of the door to her house and waved, and I sent her a “flying kiss.”

Distance was the mother of this invention. My lips make a kiss just as if she were there; then I pluck the kiss out of the air like a jasmine blossom. This must be done very slowly. Then I lay the kiss on the palm of my hand and gently blow it in her direction. Momentarily, she catches it and places it wherever she likes — sometimes on her cheek, her lips, or even under her blouse.

Now, after the flying kiss Nadia put to her lips, I write a little and leaf through my journal. There’s already quite a lot inside it, and this spurs me to keep writing. Otherwise I would never know where something happened and who said what to whom.

January 22, afternoon — Yesterday we decided to punish the script editor. Josef got the idea to execute judgment in the name of the Black Hand.

“But we have disbanded!” I said.

“Justice demands it, my little one,” Josef answered in the deep voice of a grandfather.

We laughed, and then we talked about what we would do. We decided on a couple of things. In the middle of the night Josef will write with red paint on the wall opposite the radio station: All script editors have hollow heads! Give them your ideas! The Black Hand.

Mahmud and I will cover Josef. And in a couple of days’ time, he and I will attend to the editor while Josef is on the lookout.

January 24 — First thing this morning we had to take a look at what had become of the writing on the wall. It seemed to amuse a few passersby.

“Of course,” one of them said to his wife. “I noticed that myself long ago; that’s why I don’t listen to the radio anymore.”

A wise guy called out, “Then they should go begging on the street and gather a few fresh ideas!”

Everybody laughed. It wasn’t long before an official from the radio station came with a bucket of paint and rapidly eliminated our message.

Mahmud felt great. He laughed at the bureaucrat.

January 25 — I was going to take care of the editor, during which time Mahmud would see to his car. We sneaked into the radio station’s parking lot and lay in wait. Finally he arrived — he’s a small man who hops nervously when he walks! Mahmud slit all four tires and taped the following message on his windshield: Best regards from the Black Hand. I drew my slingshot and fired a packet of red paint at him. It hit him with such force, he was nearly scared to death. As if deranged, he began to scream, “I’ve been wounded! Blood! I’ve been wounded!” We ran as fast as we could.

P.S.: Josef couldn’t join us because he had to do his chores. Odd, usually he shirks them.

January 27 — Now I’m writing lots of poems, especially about Nadia, whom I love very much.

Tuesday — Shit! Since yesterday I’ve been working full-time in the bakery. This winter many people have returned to their villages to till their fields, or else they’re emigrating to the Gulf states, or God only knows where they’ve fled to. My father couldn’t find any workers. I’ve neglected my math homework. Our math teacher is all right, but he’s very strict, and through Mahmud he let me know that I have at most two weeks in which to make up the work; otherwise I’ll be put on warning. Our Arabic teacher also asked about me today.

Funny. Both yesterday and today my old man gave me three pounds after work. Because I’m entitled, he said.

February 7 — My seventh day in the bakery! Today, at lunchtime, I had to deliver bread to the restaurant near school. The students were just then storming out of the building. A few of the biggest imbeciles in my class gathered around my cart and began to mock me. “Bakery errand boy,” jeered the goldsmith’s son. What a mean thing to say! The others snickered. I would like to have thrashed them all. Then they started to paw the bread, trying to tear chunks off. Mahmud came to my aid, and we succeeded in fending them off for a while. There would have been quite a stink if the restaurant owner had gotten partially eaten bread. But the idiots refused to understand this, and a real brawl ensued. Mahmud and I against the two loudmouths, the dentist’s sons. We showed them what we’re made of; they ran off with their tails between their legs.

My old man cursed me even more because I came back so late and so filthy. I didn’t say a word about the fistfight. I hope he finds a worker soon!

Monday — Damn it! The biology exam has come and gone. I’ve already been put on warning in history and math. My father has declined to answer the principal’s letter. He said the principal could wait a few days; I’d soon be back in school. Every day he gives me three pounds. But I don’t want the stupid money; I want to be back in school!

Nadia says I’ve become very aggressive lately. What does she know? I told her to work in the bakery just one day and see how she feels then.

February 14 — I can’t stand it! Now I have learned the truth. How can he be so mean? My old man doesn’t want me to continue in school. What a cheat! He’s just been putting me off the whole time!

Mr. Katib visited my father today, to try to persuade him that he’d be making a mistake if he took me out of school. My father acted as if the teacher did not exist. But Mr. Katib didn’t give up so easily; he was adamant. He waited politely until my father had taken care of his customers; then he began to press my father again. My father said it was no concern of Mr. Katib’s; after all, I am his son, and he can make of me whatever he chooses to. I was so ashamed I wanted to sink into the ground.

Mr. Katib remained entirely calm and went on talking. My old man got louder and louder. He has no fear of teachers or officials. He said school no longer interested me and asked me in a loud and angry voice whether this wasn’t true. Totally dismayed, I could not utter a word and began to howl. When Mr. Katib spoke of parental duty, my father became really nasty. He reviled the teacher and the school. He knew very well that school was compulsory only through the fifth grade; the teacher shouldn’t think he was stupid just because he was a baker. Mr. Katib tried to explain to my father that he had meant a different duty, but my father was pissed off and pushed him out the door. He so truly enjoyed his victory over the teacher that he flaunted it all afternoon in front of his employees!

I’m not speaking to him any longer. I feel paralyzed. At some point he tried again to explain the difficult situation he was in and that he, too, would have liked to stay in school. But he had simply been stuck in the bakery. He said he understood my anger, but soon I would have far more pocket money than any of my friends. He would even give me four pounds a day, which would come to over a thousand a year.

When he had concluded his litany, I asked him why we were supposed to be bakers and nothing else. Surprised, he looked at me and declared this was our fate.

Not mine! I don’t want it to be! I want to go on in school and become a journalist!

My mother tried to soothe me. Things would soon be better; I shouldn’t take my father’s words so seriously. It’s just one of those bad times.

I don’t want to speak to him ever again.

February 16 — Nadia has changed; she’s become so strange. And that horrid Josef — my so-called friend — has been giving her the eye. I think they’re making fun of me. Mahmud says that a girl should not be ashamed of her boyfriend, even if he is a baker. Mahmud’s mother was disowned because she loved his father. She comes from a very wealthy family and ran off with Mahmud’s father instead of marrying her cousin. To this day she lives with her husband in poverty because she loves him. Mahmud says it’s better to forget Nadia.

But I can’t! I love her!

February 17 — I told Mahmud about the fight with my old man. Laughing, he said that all fathers are the same. He would like to see the day when fathers exchange places with their sons, if only for a few hours. Would they be in for a surprise; he thinks many fathers would freak out if they could read their sons’ minds. I admire Mahmud because he can laugh about everything — himself, his father, our teachers, even though he really doesn’t have much to laugh about.

February 19 — Today I told Uncle Salim my secret. I really can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to run away. He asked if I had considered this carefully. I told him I had saved up nearly two hundred Syrian pounds. I have to get away from here. He looked at me sadly and said he wanted to speak to my father one more time. Maybe, after all, he might be open to discussion. I don’t want to grow old in the bakery and one day say to my son: You are supposed to become what I have been.

February 26, 11 P.M. — Neither Uncle Salim nor my mother can convince my old man I should go to school. We quarrel every day. Today I threatened to run away if he won’t let me go back. He just laughed and asked where I would go. I don’t care where, as long as I don’t have to work in the bakery.

My mother wept for a long time; Nadia blanched when I confided in her and said she felt sick; nonetheless, I want to get away. Tonight, when everyone is asleep, I will bundle up my clothes. I will also take my notebook of poems, the photo of Nadia, and my journal. If I don’t get out of here, it will be the end of me.

I will set out for Aleppo, the biggest city of the north, far from my father’s hand and my mother’s tears. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to laugh and live as I like. Somewhere in Aleppo I’ll find a room I can rent for twenty pounds a month. As soon as I get there, I’ll try to find a newspaper that will have me. I’ll clean the floors, make tea for the journalists, deliver mail. All they need to do is show me how to become a good journalist. And if I can’t earn my living that way, I will get some kind of work during the day, and at night maybe I’ll write about all the things I’ve heard people discussing.

I want to make a clean break. These are the last lines from Damascus. Nothing holds me here any longer.

February 27 — Last night I crept downstairs, intending to flee, and there on the bottom step, in the dark, sat Uncle Salim. Did I ever get a scare!

“Were you going to leave without saying good-bye to your friend?” he whispered and took me into his arms. I started to bawl.

“Let me go, I want to leave,” I begged him. But he insisted on having tea first — then I could go to Alaska or anywhere I liked. I gave in, and we went to his tiny kitchen. He made the tea in silence and carried it into his room; I followed him.

“You will be a good journalist,” he said, giving me some tea. “Yes, and I know you will write about me and my silly stories. I know that in my heart.”

“But the bakery is killing me,” I protested.

“That’s a fact. It is bad. In the past I envied bakers, but since you and I have become friends, I pity them.” He nodded and said nothing for a time. “But what will be different in Aleppo? Can you tell me that? Not that I have any great love for Damascus. Coachmen, like beggars, have no place they call home. No, I don’t like Damascus, but how will Aleppo be different? If you want to run away, emigrate to Saudi Arabia. You can earn a lot more money there. Aleppo? It’s just like here, a pile of manure.”

“But I’m only fifteen, and they won’t let me out of the country!”

“That’s true. What a stupid government!” He poured more tea, stroked my hair. “And have you given any thought to finding me a friend as good as you to take your place before you leave? Eh? I have two children and thirteen grandchildren, none of whom I’m as fond of as you, and what do you do? You go off and leave me alone. I hate bakeries!”

“I will never forget you. I’ll write to you,” I promised and started to wail again, for at this moment I felt both my best friend’s sorrow and my own.

“You’ll write, but I can’t read! I’ll have to go around asking people to read your letters to me. And I couldn’t really ask them to write back, because, after all, that wouldn’t be the same as talking to you.”

“But I’m suffocating here!”

“You’re suffocating because you have given up. Salim never gave up! When I was freezing, starving, and had to live like a dog in the mountains because I did not want to go into the army, I, too, considered ending the shame and doing my military service. But I held out and brooded over how to fight my way through. In the spring a shepherd came along, gave me something to eat, and invited me to work for him. He got me false papers, and so for five years my name was not Salim but Mustafa, and my life as a shepherd wasn’t so bad. Many of my friends, who laughed at me at first, later regretted it, for in 1914 the Great War broke out, and many of them were wounded, missing, or killed. But the shepherds never went hungry. Give some more thought to how you can get out of the bakery without running away. You’ve got brains. You know your way around Damascus. Let yourself get an idea, and perhaps we can cook up some scheme together. Salim is always good for a plan. And you, my friend, will be a good journalist. Of that I’m sure.”

I was quiet a long time, and Uncle Salim went on talking. Of course, I didn’t believe it would work out, but when he said, “Just try it for half a year. Today is February 26. Six months from now, we’ll sit down together again, and if things haven’t improved, I will carry your bag to the bus station, so you can go wherever you like. Is that asking too much? Half a year!”

All right, then, I will try to find a solution here in Damascus. I can always run off after six months have gone by.

“Do you promise?” Uncle Salim asked.

“I promise!” I said and crept back into bed.

March 1 — “Then write me about what’s wrong,” I implored Nadia when she passed our house on her way to get milk.

“Why should I? So you can show it off?” she said coldly. I just don’t understand. She must be crazy.

March 4 — In the early morning my soul throbs at the sight of students, hair just combed, on their way to school. Sometimes my old man notices, strokes my hair, and for a while is very nice to me. Once he even wept and said, “You’re more clever than all those students. I know what kind of son I brought into the world.” Another time he said, “All people are born the same, naked, but after only three breaths they are different.”

Sometimes I really feel compassion for him. I don’t think my father wanted to become a baker either.

March 6 — Today I learned that Uncle Salim slept on the stairs for more than that one night. He was on guard for a whole week. He understood I truly did want to escape. What a fabulous friend!

March 8 — Today I convinced my old man that I can best help him by delivering bread. Well-to-do customers, who can afford to pay a bit more, get fresh bread delivered to their homes. I won’t need to work in the heat and a haze of flour and can win new customers for my father’s business. At first he would not agree to this, but after a week of arguments, he wanted his peace and came around.

It’s hard work. I have to carry a basket containing fifteen kilos of bread and run up and down stairs — some of these people live five floors up. Altogether I deliver sixty kilos per day. There are four rounds; I’m done by noon. Some of the customers are stupid; others are nice and give me a piaster or an apple. What rankles, however, is that now I have to deliver bread to a few of my former classmates, and they laugh at me. Nonetheless, Uncle Salim says I have already taken a giant step forward. I have escaped further instruction at the dough machine or the oven. He thinks it’s only a matter of time before my father can do without me. I’m not so sure; perhaps Uncle Salim is overly optimistic.

March 9 — “Stop telling me about your love,” Nadia snapped at me when I whispered a few terms of endearment to her. Then she simply ran past me into her house. How curious! Whatever does she think of me?

March 20 — I have acquired many new customers. Now, by early afternoon, I’ve delivered one hundred and twenty kilos of bread. My old man is very pleased because his bakery has never had so much business before. I don’t like the work, but most of my time is my own. I read a lot and write poems.

Today I wrote my first article, about a woman I have been delivering bread to for a week. Sometimes she’s as happy as a child, and sometimes she’s so sad that she cries. When I read my work to Uncle Salim, he said, “But a journalist must also know the reason the woman is the way she is.”

March 21 — Today I selected an especially good loaf of bread for the woman. She looked downcast but invited me to have some tea. Her apartment is lovely. After a while, she became talkative, and I got to hear her story.

Her name is Mariam, and she comes from a village in the north. She was very much in love with her childhood sweetheart, but her parents wanted to give her away to a rich old geezer, and so Mariam and her boyfriend fled to Damascus. They married and lived together very happily. Then her husband lost his job, and though he searched long and hard, he could not find work. Finally he learned of a job in Kuwait and accepted it without delay, even though he could not take his wife with him. He was gone for five years, coming back only two weeks each year. Now he has returned for good — a rich man. He has a big business and is very content, but being abroad changed him. He is never any fun; he never caresses her; he bestows all his love on his business. She lacks neither food nor clothing, but she feels very lonesome.

This is the cause of her sadness. Yet, despite all my questions, I don’t know why she is sometimes cheerful. Mariam denied that she ever is. I still want to find out why!

March 23 — Today, once again, I have grave doubts whether my decision to remain here was right. Two of the dumbest kids in my class threw stones at me. The sissies knew I could not leave my basket unattended to pursue them. One stone hit my ear, and it bled.

And Nadia has changed. She avoids me. I haven’t been able to speak to her for days. Josef said she disparagingly called me a baker boy. Somehow or other I have the feeling that Josef enjoyed making a fool of me.

March 27 — “Greetings!” I said, when I saw Nadia with her eldest brother on the street.

“Greetings!” he answered and was about to give me his hand when Nadia looked away and kept walking, as if she didn’t recognize me. I felt a stabbing pain in my heart and completely forgot about her brother.

March 30 — Uncle Salim changed barbers today. He came home with short hair and several facial wounds, but he laughed and swore he wouldn’t go anywhere else. I was amazed he had left the best barber on our street and sought out a butcher who cut him up like a piece of meat.

“For twenty years good old Sami has cut my hair, but from day to day he says less and less. I’ve had enough of his silence. A barber should tell stories better than the radio. Sami regards each story as a loss; it’s as if he counts up every word. And he bores me with his “Yes, yes, you don’t say,” while he doesn’t listen to anything you are telling him. Sami may have a lot of clients, but today I went looking for a new barber and found one at Thomas Gate.

“This barber has an assistant, and since I was new, he left me to the boy while he himself attended to his regular customers. The lad has quite a mouth but was born with bumbling hands. They’re like two big shovels and would be better off on a farmer than a barber. He dragged the shears through my hair as if my head were an overgrown meadow. We both laughed when I told him my haircut looked so ridiculous, the army would be glad to take me. Chattering away, he soaped up my beard, and as he started to shave me, he began to tell the story of the witless king and his cunning wife. Again I laughed because he told the story so well, which resulted in a cut on my cheek. It hurt like hell! He asked a thousand pardons and tried to stem the flow of blood. In the mirror I saw the boss raise an arm to box his assistant’s ears. The sly fox pretended not to notice a thing, but at the last moment he stooped down, and I got the blow! The boss apologized, cursed at him, and went back to his own customer.

“The boy went on talking and cut me again, but it wasn’t so bad. I said I felt like a sheep in his hands; he laughed, and the razor skidded along. It hurt and I cried out loud. This time the boss approached softly, ready to strike, and — because the assistant got out of the way just as craftily as before — his hand landed around my neck. He apologized many times for his clumsiness, and when his assistant wounded my right cheek again, I didn’t cry out. When the assistant was finally done, I wanted to pay, but the embarrassed barber wouldn’t take any money.

” ’A free shave for two blows! I’ll be back!’ I said, and we all laughed.”

Next Saturday I don’t want to go back to my cousin’s. He’s not a good barber; all he ever talks about are his debts.

Saturday — What a crazy shop! The master barber is Armenian; his assistant comes from Persia. But the barber’s grandparents came to Syria a long time ago.

Unlike my cousin’s or Sami’s posh establishments, this barbershop is an incredible mess. In one corner is a grinding wheel; in another, a big, dusty case filled with jars, lavender water, rose water, and jasmine water, as well as two large aquariums full of leeches. These worms look disgusting but are supposed to be very useful. Along one wall is a row of chairs and a splendid heap of magazines.

I sat down, greedily read the illustrated magazines, and laughed at the barber and his assistant. The boy would not stop kidding around, and the master did nothing but moan and wail.

When a woman approached the grinding wheel, the barber simply left his soaped-up client sitting there, took the woman’s old knife, and slowly began to sharpen it. The man complained, but the barber suddenly seemed unable to understand Arabic, answering only in Armenian.

The best thing is that the haircut cost only half what it does at my beloved relative’s. I got an ice cream out of it, too.

April 6 — “Let’s go for a walk in the fields,” I suggested to Nadia, when she smiled at me at the greengrocer’s.

“It’s all very well for you to talk,” she said and ran off, as if I were a skunk. What in heaven’s name is wrong with her? Does she love me or doesn’t she?

April 11 — In all his life Uncle Salim never worked more than three days a week; three days he spent with his family, and on the seventh day he withdrew and reflected. He never became rich, nor did he ever live in dire want. Today he told me a lot about the wisdom of death, which only a few understand. “Every moment, my boy, Death tells us: Live! Live! Live!”

Today my old man had a bad day and was in a rotten mood in the evening. When Uncle Salim joined him for tea, my father made an effort to be more cheerful because he respects Uncle Salim and likes him so much. But nobody can hide anything from our old neighbor. He may be nearsighted, but he can always see straight through you.

“Do as I do,” he recommended to my father. “I sometimes had very bad days, too; nonetheless, I learned how to feel good at home afterward.”

“How do I do that, Uncle?” my old man wanted to know.

“When you get to the house, stand outside the door and say to your troubles: ’Get off my shoulders, Troubles, get off!’ Then go in, and the next morning on your way out, stand on the same spot and say: Troubles, you can get back on my shoulders now!’ But you must not leave them behind on the doorstep, for then they will take their revenge.”

My father laughed, stroked Uncle Salim’s knee, and said, “But what if they come after me through the cracks in the door? What then?”

“Then call upon your friend Salim, and I’ll come with my dagger, and you’ll see, they’ll cringe like dogs and slink away!”

We all laughed, and I seemed to feel the troubles disappearing.

April 15 — A tourist has settled in our neighborhood. He has a permit from the government, and according to Mahmud, he converted to Islam long ago. Unlike Robert, he is not much fun; he always has a look on his face that seems to say he’s expecting an earthquake.

At first his Muslim neighbors admired him, praising his piety. But he is so strictly observant they are now fed up with him. He uses far too much water because he washes himself five times a day and his car once a day. Damascus is so dusty that his car instantly gets dirty again. That alone isn’t so bad, but the vehicle has a magnetic attraction for us and for dogs, and we all piss on the tires. The enraged man wrote on four pieces of paper in red Arabic script, “Pissing forbidden!” and taped them inside the car windows. But children don’t read while they pee. They just laugh!

April 18 — I wanted to see her badly. Mahmud suggested that I kick a soccer ball into the courtyard of her house. And so I shot the ball in a high arc over the wall, knocked on the door, and entered the house. Nadia, her mother, and both her brothers were sitting in the yard.

I asked about the ball. The elder of her brothers sneered, “Nadia! Give him the ball; it’s behind the flowerpots.” But Nadia didn’t move a muscle. The younger of the two stood up, gave me the ball, and whispered, “She’s been acting peculiar lately.”

“Leave Nadia alone,” his mother called to him, having heard him whisper.

Nadia really is acting strange. She didn’t even say good-bye when I left. Mahmud grumbled about her.

April 26 — Two months have gone by; my customers are satisfied with me, and no other baker can take them away. My old man is slowly getting back on his feet. His debts are smaller and his bakery is flourishing. The work is not difficult. I can carry the baskets more easily, and the stairs no longer bother me. But the boredom! I read a lot, but I write little, except in my journal.

Uncle Salim gives me strength every single day. He insists on discussing my work. He gets angry along with me, and at times I even have to reassure him that the bakery is not always hell.

I only feel good at Mariam’s. She never lets me leave before I have had some tea or coffee. I like her a lot and think she likes me too. I still have not found out how she can sometimes be as happy and carefree as a child.

For more than a week Nadia has been in the village where her grandparents live. Why, I don’t know.

April 28 — What a surprise! Mariam gave me a blue shirt today. However could she know that blue is my favorite color?

“It will look great on you with your white slacks,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. Is she in love with me? Uncle Salim says love has nothing to do with age, but that I ought to take care her husband doesn’t catch me.

Is he pulling my leg, or have I spiced up my stories about Mariam too much?

April 29 — Today I brought Mariam a cake. I told her about the profession I dream of. She laughed — I don’t know why — and promised to help me. A neighbor of hers, named Habib, is a fine journalist. She will tell him about me. Tomorrow I am supposed to bring along a delectable sweet bread.

April 30 — Ha! It worked out! Mariam is fantastic! She actually accompanied me to the third floor and rang the bell. After a while, a man of about fifty opened the door, still in his pajamas. Yawning, he smiled and asked us in. “How elegant bakers have become,” he said. I was wearing my white pants, my white tennis shoes, and the blue shirt Mariam gave me. The whole day my father had been griping about how I was dressed.

Habib took the bread and sniffed it. “Delicious! Mariam wasn’t exaggerating!”

We had tea in a completely disorganized room. Mariam was happy as a child. As we were leaving, Habib asked if I could bring him half a kilo of the bread every day. Can I ever!

Friday — I knew Habib was free today. I selected the best bread for him. Extra crusty, the way he likes it. I brought it to him when I had finished one of my rounds and had an hour before starting on my noon round.

He invited me to have some tea; I sat in his living room while he made it. Books and newspapers were everywhere, especially French ones. His pants lay on a chair, and on a crowded little tabletop were a bottle of arrack, a big ashtray, and several glasses. Habib must have had guests the previous day.

A thick book by Kahlil Gibran was also lying around. I love this author dearly, but I only know a few of his works. I was leafing through the book when Habib brought the teapot in.

“Do you like Gibran?” he asked me.

“Naturally I like him. He loves children and understands them better than anyone.”

“Do you know much about his tragic life?”

“Of course,” I declared, although all I knew was that the best poet in Lebanon had to become famous abroad before his own country recognized him. He emigrated to America.

“You’re not just bragging?” Habib asked somewhat suspiciously.

“No! Why should I? Shall I recite something for you?” I asked, sure of myself, because I knew two of his pieces by heart.

“Go ahead, my boy. It’s always good to hear Gibran.” I astonished Habib. “A baker boy treasures Gibran, and the editor in chief asks who he is,” he said softly, as if to himself.

I told him I wanted to be a journalist and asked him to teach me something about his profession.

“Forget about it, my boy! I would rather be a baker; at least a baker knows he’s doing something useful.”

In some way I’m afraid of Habib. He’s different from Uncle Salim. He is often extremely curt. I didn’t dare smoke at his place, though I had cigarettes with me. Unlike Uncle Salim, he is embittered and angry about everything, although his anger can suddenly be transformed into explosive joy. He laughed at my dreams for the future. I was afraid he would not want to see me again, but as I was leaving, he gave me the book by Gibran. “Take it. I want to discuss it with you. But forget about newspapers!”

May 10 — Mahmud has also been taken out of school. His father doesn’t want him there either; he cannot feed nine mouths by himself. “They bring children into the world and then they moan and groan,” Mahmud cursed, for, just like me, he enjoyed going to school. Mahmud’s fondest hope was to become a pilot and see the world. Poverty smothers our dreams even before we have finished dreaming them.

Now Mahmud is working in a café in the New City. Of those in our gang, only Josef is still in school. His mother wants him to be a doctor. She inherited some fields in the vicinity of the city, and each year their value increases; she saves everything for his studies. Josef a doctor! I would sooner let a butcher operate on me. Josef doesn’t even know how to tell a heart from a kidney. He wants to be a military officer, which horrifies both us and his mother.

May 14 — I have grave doubts whether my decision to stay in Damascus was the right one. I tumbled down a flight of stairs this afternoon and scraped my left arm. It hurt like hell. And the people who live in that goddamned high-rise swiped the bread.

Josef said that pearls, hidden in their shells, need the wide sea, pure water, and the sun in order to grow. “Has a shell in the sewers of Damascus ever brought pearls into the world?” he asked sadly. Not meaning to, he grazed an open wound. The bakery is doing me in. What will become of me?

May 16 — I didn’t know Uncle Salim could get so angry. Today he spent a long time preparing his water pipe, then made himself some tea, and sat in the courtyard in front of his door. Children were playing with a tennis ball. Uncle Salim admonished the children to let him smoke his pipe in peace for an hour, but the children of Abdu the truck driver went on playing.

Suddenly the ball hit the water pipe, which fell to the ground, luckily without shattering, but tobacco was strewn all over. Salim cursed the snot-nosed brats who deprived him of his pleasure. The children’s father felt insulted. He offered Uncle Salim a pack of cigarettes and said he shouldn’t make such a big deal over a pipe.

“You really ought to teach your children that I, too, have a right to one square meter in front of my door and to one hour of peace a day,” Uncle Salim cried.

A wild fight ensued. The truck driver called Uncle Salim a conceited pasha. Uncle Salim went mad and cursed the man out. My father heard the argument and asked my mother to hurry and make a big pot of coffee. He rushed down in his pajamas and tried to talk to the truck driver and then to Uncle Salim. Both of them calmed down a little, and when my mother served the coffee, the dispute was forgotten. Abdu’s wife brought Uncle Salim a splendidly decorated water pipe.

May 22 — Nadia is back! At last I have seen her again! And just now she secretly pressed a thick envelope into my hand, containing letters she wrote me during this whole difficult time. Feebleminded imbecile that I am, I doubted her love. I could kick myself! She loves me!!!

I have never read such beautiful, sad letters. Now I also know why she was acting so strangely. Her brother had seen us kissing and had told her father. The barbarian had hit her and locked her in her room, threatening to punish the whole family if she said a word to anyone. Nadia had to eat alone there; her father only unlocked her door in the evening so she could go to the toilet. Later he let her go out, but only with her two brothers following after her like dogs. They gave her such a fright, telling her that she should only know what Mahmud and Josef say about her, since I was always boasting about her to them. (This is not true; I have scarcely told the two of them anything about Nadia!) She doubted me and was so scared she got sick. Then her father sent her to her grandparents in the country, where she had peace and felt her love for me even more strongly. She wants to meet me, but her brothers won’t leave her alone.

I have to be careful that nothing happens to Nadia.

May 23 — Uncle Salim is a very bad cook. He never really learned how, and he is far too proud to ask anyone’s help. My mother and the other neighbor women are always thinking up new ways to see that the proud widower gets something good to eat.

“You understand a lot more about food than my husband. He says this has no taste; please try some of it and tell me your honest opinion.”

“I burned my tongue drinking coffee. Just taste this little dish and tell me if anything’s missing.”

“Today, after fifteen years, I’ve finally succeeded in making this difficult recipe. I would like to hear you praise it.”

“You won’t believe it, but today I saw the Blessed Virgin in a dream, and she said to me, ’Give a plate of beans to the person you love best outside your own family; otherwise you’ll get the measles for the second time.’ Uncle, there’s no one I love more than you, and I don’t want the measles.”

Uncle Salim ate to ward off the measles, to confirm a husband’s opinion that his wife could cook like a dream, to determine whether perhaps a pinch of coriander— which could just as well have been left out — was missing, but every week he got a splendid meal.

May 28 — I always read Nadia’s letters over and over again. In one of them she writes, “Even if they tear my heart out, I will love you with all that remains.”

I told this to Mahmud, who was ashamed of having had such a bad opinion of her. We absolutely must devise a way that I can meet her without her parents catching on.

June 10 — For twelve days I haven’t written a word!

I suspect, although I’m not entirely certain, that Mariam is having an affair with Habib. Today she was at his place. Habib was in a state; he was curt and did not want to let me in, but Mariam said, “He’s a good boy!”

Somehow her remark is eating at me. I’m not a good boy! What does she mean by that? I have to know! Perhaps Habib is the cause of her sudden fits of cheerfulness. What a dope I am to think she loves me! A good boy? What does she know anyway?

June 14 — Mahmud has written his second play. The protagonist, of course, is Ahmad Malas. A gruesome story:

An editor at a radio station has become famous, but he no longer gets any ideas. A colleague gives him a tip. Go to the prison, he tells him; the inmates will gladly tell stories for a pack of cigarettes and sometimes even free of charge. Spiced up a bit, the stories could be quite torrid. And what a sensation it would be if one of the prisoners were to stand at a microphone and talk about all the murders, thefts, and frauds he had committed. Everybody listening would flip. If the editor could get hold of some photos of the prisoners, he could also publish the stories in a newspaper and kill two birds with one stone.

Mahmud describes the editor as someone who kills himself — but no birds — with two stones. The editor goes to the prison, but the inmates will not speak before a microphone for all the money in the world. They have suffered enough over the years and have had enough trouble already because of some statements they’d made. After much hemming and hawing, a few prisoners do agree to tell their life stories, provided that the editor only takes notes and does not name any names. He consents to this and collects a heap of material, most of it pretty boring. Nevertheless, spiced up and condensed into one character, the awful picture of a beast emerges.

A colleague gives the unimaginative editor a second tip. There are many old actors with piles of debts and no jobs who could play the part of the criminal. After a long search, he finds an old actor who agrees to do it, providing that at the end of the series the editor comes clean about everything.

The series begins, and the beastly character describes with pleasure how he strangles grannies and grandpas, mugs passersby, steals food out of the mouths of babes and abuses them. He makes faces and lets himself be photographed with disheveled hair and a stubbly beard; the newspapers sell out.

Now comes the third episode, the last. On the radio and in the newspaper, the editor concludes it without keeping his word, without saying the man is an actor. The man’s neighbors avoid him; many people spit at him. Even merchants won’t sell him anything; his face is better known in the town than the president’s. The poor devil goes back to the radio station again and again, but the editor will not see him. When, after hours of waiting, the actor finally manages to get in, the editor promises that tomorrow or the next day he will publish the truth. After a month, the man is a complete wreck. In the end, the tattered, starved actor lies in wait for the editor and slays him. The newspapers publish a fourth installment, the radio airs a fourth episode, and the neighbors breathe more easily now that the man is finally behind bars.

Mahmud forgets nothing. Whether a theater will ever perform this play is another matter. I have told Habib and Uncle Salim about it, and they are enthusiastic. I didn’t much like the part about the neighbors, but Mahmud says that people will believe anything if they hear it often enough.

June 24 — We have all known sorrow. Last Wednesday, there was a lot going on in the bakery. No sooner had I finished my noon rounds and was about to rest than the axle of the dough machine broke. My father was actually quite calm and replaced it with one he had in reserve. He was just saying, “We have all earned a nice pot of tea,” when a police car pulled up in front of the bakery. Two policemen hurried out, stationed themselves at the door, and barred it with their machine guns. A man in a fine suit slowly got out of the car and gazed at our bakery. Nervously my father dried his hands on the edge of his apron and whispered, “Blessed Mary, protect me! Blessed Mary, stand by me!”

The elegantly dressed man was about thirty. He asked for my father by name, and as my poor father answered him, without moving a muscle in his face the man said, “Come along!”

“What have I done, sir?”

“You needn’t be afraid if you haven’t done anything,” the man answered very softly, and by gesturing — it was no more than a tiny wink of an eye — commanded the policemen to drive the grumbling customers away from the door. At once the two officers pushed people with the butts of their guns. My father looked on, horrified. I had never seen him so pale.

“Where to?” he asked helplessly. “I mean, should I remove my apron and take a jacket along?”

“Yes, that would be better; take your jacket along,” the man said.

“Blessed Mary,” my father whispered. He took his jacket from the hook, threw his apron in the corner, then stroked my hair. “Don’t be afraid, my boy. I’ll be right back,” he murmured and went out.

When one of the policemen handcuffed my father, my paralysis left me. I rushed outside and grabbed my father’s jacket, trying to pull him away as he was being thrust into the car. One of the policemen hit me, but I held on tight and cried for help. Then he struck me in the belly and I reeled backward. Two of the bakery workers caught me. One of them called out loud, “You filthy dogs. He is still just a child!”

The car sped away. The frightened neighbors hurried by, and the florist brought me a glass of water. “Drink this, my boy. It’s good for shock. Only God remains on high. All assholes plummet down!”

That night we could not sleep. My mother wept, and the neighbors came in shifts and sat up with her. Uncle Salim didn’t sleep either. At four in the morning, without saying a word, he accompanied me to the bakery. He took over the cash register, letting the employees advise him what to do. I made deliveries to my customers and shot back to the bakery like an arrow. I no longer felt the least bit tired. I didn’t want to leave my old friend alone any more than necessary; he is over seventy-five and nearsighted. But all day long he made jokes and reassured the customers that my father would soon return.

For four days they worked my father over. Twice they toyed with a pistol at his temples, threatening to shoot if he did not tell the truth. When my father declared over and over that he didn’t even know what they wanted from him, they pulled the trigger. The pistol was not loaded, but my father fainted. There’s something he didn’t do when they beat him up: He did not cry and did not beg for leniency. But he did see other prisoners break down.

“Say who you are,” a policeman demanded of an old farmer. The poor devil uttered his name, and the policeman beat him until he got the desired answer, “I am a dog! I am a traitor!” And when another one called out “For God’s sake,” his torturer laughed, took a second cudgel, and said, “Take this, for God’s sake.” My father wept like a child when he told us this. Uncle Salim kissed his eyes and held his hand.

Four days the scoundrels beat my father, until they discovered they had confused him with a lawyer who had worked against the government and who happened to have the same name.

Uncle Salim doesn’t buy this story. “They hit you to make our knees go weak. They know very well that your father and your mother have different names and that you are a baker,” he said and cursed the government.

I had never been so proud of my father as I was today. Since the beating, I love him as never before. It’s good I didn’t run away. My parents could not have survived that; the first thing my father would have done upon returning was ask for me.

I will never forgive the government. “Whoever forgives injustice, gets more injustice,” Uncle Salim said when I confided to him my hatred.

Father has asked us not to tell anyone about the torture, because the pigs threatened to torment him for months if he said a word about it to anyone. But I told Mahmud, and he thinks as Uncle Salim does. A wave of indiscriminate arrests is rolling over Damascus, bringing many people grief and humiliation.

I almost forgot, but before I finish for today, I must write something about this. When Uncle Salim turned over the receipts from the four days, my father wanted to pay him for his work, but the good man declined to accept even a single piaster. Then I begged my father, for my sake, to invite him to dinner with us every Sunday.

Uncle Salim accepted this invitation with his usual wit. “I would love to, because then I can tell my friend some of my foolish stories; he’ll forget about his food, and I’ll get two portions.”

June 26 — Nadia slipped me a letter. She wrote quite lovingly of how she had just heard about my father last night. Her father said that many suspects had been arrested and interrogated and that once again the government had averted a coup. She says she despises her father, a man who licks the ass of each successive government. Great!

June 29 — I wanted Habib to tell me about the wave of arrests that was going on, but I didn’t want to tell him about my father. Since he lives a little ways from us, he hadn’t witnessed it. I asked, and Habib only grew still; he did not answer. After a while he asked if I had read the Gibran. I shouted that Gibran was of no interest to me just now; I wanted to know about the arrests because a friend of mine had been detained for no reason. He kept silent and looked sorrowfully into my eyes.

“For no reason? Since when does this government need a reason to torture people?” He laughed like a madman, stood up, and banged his fist against the wall. I was scared, because the whole time he was staring at me with wide-open eyes. I would have liked to get out of there. But then he calmed down.

“Ask your father if he needs anyone in the bakery. I would so much like to work for him, to work for a loaf of bread,” he said as we parted.

A strange fellow this Habib!

July 10 — Today I know that Mariam loves Habib! It was my own doing, but now I regret my eagerness. She loves him and not me. My doubts have plagued me these last few days. Though I love Nadia, I still wanted to know Mariam’s feelings for me and for Habib. Yesterday I asked if she loved him. She said she didn’t. She said she thought he was a very nice man but had no further interest in him whatsoever. (My God, how she stressed this!) She said she liked me but that I’m very young. She’s right. But she still loves Habib.

Yesterday I told her how my father was tortured, and I asked her not to repeat this to anyone. She had not known what had happened, though she had wondered why for four days I hadn’t had any time for her. Habib hadn’t even noticed!

July 11 — Today I brought Habib his bread and wanted to get on with my rounds, but he insisted I spend some time with him. He was drunk again, as he so often has been lately. I did not want to disappoint him and so I went in. He made me some tea and suddenly asked why I had not told him my father had been arrested and tortured. Just now I don’t know how I came up with the reply, “Because you work for the official government newspaper.”

Never in my life will I forget how he looked at me! Not only was he filled with surprise, sorrow, and rage, but a kind of shame was mixed in. I looked away because I knew my answer had hurt him deeply. Softly he murmured that he would not be able to work for the paper much longer. It would be the death of him. Many of his friends had been arrested, and he wasn’t permitted to write about it. He spoke of his loneliness; his voice became sadder and sadder, but he did not cry. Without shedding a tear, he described how the previous regime had tortured him and shot his wife, how he had fled the country and returned only when his party had come into power. In the interim his friend had become editor in chief, and an important editorial post had been arranged for Habib. But in less than a year he had a falling out with his friend, who had turned the newspaper — just as the previous governments had — into a scandal sheet. And Habib relinquished his dreams of a lovely house and a company car. Many journalists have fled, but Habib is already fifty years old; he’s tired of running and just wants to go on living.

All at once I felt compassion for him. Within half an hour all the fear I’d had of him in the previous months was gone; I lit a cigarette. Habib didn’t even notice.

“What will you do?” he asked as I left.

“You will soon see,” I answered tersely.

July 22 — I spoke to Mahmud, and we’ve decided on a course of action against three spies who live in our neighborhood. Nadia’s father resides on our street; the second man lives on the same street as the school; the third one, near Habib’s apartment.

Mahmud didn’t want to say anything to Josef, since Josef is becoming more and more zealous about the army. We drafted a brief message and signed it in the name of the Black Hand: Don’t forget this, you spies! We are like camels. We forget nothing, and one day you will be punished.

July 29 — The fox is said to be the cleverest animal on earth. But I think man is foxier than the sliest fox. Mahmud demonstrated this today.

Mahmud’s father always buys two kinds of tea: one that is cheap, for the family, since his nine children drink huge quantities every day, and a fine Ceylon blend for himself. He keeps the latter under lock and key.

Today Mahmud’s mother took eight of her children to visit a friend; Mahmud stayed home. His father returned from work, washed himself, and made his tea. Suddenly he discovered there was no sugar in the house. As he feared for his precious tea, he put it in the cupboard with wire-mesh doors, locked the doors, and hurried to the shop around the corner to buy some sugar.

Mahmud observed him all the while from my window, and when his father was out of the house, Mahmud crept into the kitchen. Adroitly he stuck a straw through the mesh, pushed the teapot lid aside, and slurped and savored the tea. Because the tea was still very hot, he blew between gulps, but this did not prevent Mahmud from emptying the pot. With the straw still in hand, he rushed over to my room. We waited until his father came back wheezing.

Never in my life will I forget his father’s face when he took the pot out of the closet and looked into its empty belly. First he pronounced two well-known charms from the Koran against evil spirits, but then he paused and cried out: “Mahmuuuuuud! Come here at once!” When Mahmud appeared at the door, looking innocent as a lamb, his father stared at him and laughed, “Have you burned your mouth at least?” Mahmud nodded mischievously.

August 3 — Josef was insanely angry. He learned of our action from Nadia’s brother. He’s afraid his dream of becoming an officer will be ended if this comes out. There was much yelling, and he said we had no right to misuse the name of the gang he had founded. If we do it again, he will turn us in!

August 7 — Met Josef on the street, and he greeted me very coolly and hurried away. He didn’t want to be seen with me anymore. Funny!

August 14 — Uncle Salim told me a story he had heard. He did not name the country, but I believe these events could occur at many borders nowadays:

A traveler was laughing at his fellow passengers as they approached the border. The man was strangely dressed; all he wore was a towel tied around his bottom.

“You have chocolate, you a radio, and you a cassette recorder,” he said, laughing. “They will be taken from you at the border. I know this country; you can’t bring anything into it.”

The man was unpleasant to the other people and did not tire of badgering them. “What do you have there? A watch, a shirt. And you there, how do you expect to get through with that coat?”

The closer they came to the border, the more and more nervous the people became. Slowly they grasped why this fellow was practically naked; even the towel he wore was made in that country.

When the coach reached the border, the customs officials were even more severe with each passenger than the near-naked traveler had predicted. He remained seated, chuckling while the customs officers confiscated everything: radios, chocolate, and coat.

When it was his turn, he exulted. “I am naked, and the towel has been manufactured in your country!”

“You know a lot, don’t you?” the customs officer asked, completely deadpan.

“Yes, I read a lot!” the man gloated.

“And what do you read?” the officer inquired.

The man enumerated many books, and the official patiently made a note of each title and politely asked whether he was spelling the names of the authors correctly.

No sooner had the man stopped than the customs official asked, “Is that all?” And the man boasted of a whole new series of books he had read. The official wrote everything down, until the man realized he was being tricked. He fell silent.

“So,” the official said to the know-it-all, “you’re carrying two hundred books in your head and want to sneak them in. And half of these books are forbidden. Oh, these smugglers, always coming up with new methods!” he grumbled, and sent the naked man back where he had come from.

August 16 — At the Abassie Theater, pornographic films are shown once a month, at a secret noon screening. The wily theater owner bribes the police, who close their eyes and ears. The tickets don’t cost the usual one pound; they cost three. The swine makes a fortune through these monthly showings.

The theater is new and gigantic, and the several hundred spectators learn by word of mouth which day the skin-flick will be shown. The day is supposedly kept a secret so the police won’t find out. But how, Mahmud asks me, does it happen the police don’t know when over six hundred people show up for movies in the midday heat? These same police officers know at once when five people meet for tea and warn them they’ve been under surveillance for weeks.

Today I went there with Mahmud for the first time. The troop of people streaming in looked like a protest march. There was no one at the box office and no advance notice, but each person just happened to have a ticket somehow or other.

It was a titillating film, showing nothing but European strip-tease joints. When the lights came on, I looked right into the eyes of my former math teacher. He turned red, and I felt my own ears get hot. He didn’t say hello, nor did I. Each of us gazed off in a different direction. Mahmud didn’t realize what was going on. When I told him once we got outside, he laughed at my inhibitions.

August 20 — “Ah! I’ve been waiting for you!” Habib greeted me today when I came with his bread. I wanted to leave, but he insisted that I have breakfast with him. I still had half an hour before my noon rounds, so I stayed.

“You did that well,” he said, grinning.

“What have I done well?” I asked, somewhat confused.

“The business with the Black Hand, you rogue!”

I must have seemed paralyzed, for he laughed and said, “Swallow that piece of bread so you don’t choke on it!” He pressed my arm. “You needn’t be afraid. I alone know. The idiots at the newspaper learned about it from the secret service. Of course we’re not allowed to write a word about it, but when I heard the name of our street, I was sure. The chief really believes it’s a gang, and is already scared shitless. Congratulations!”

“But you haven’t told Mariam anything,” I said, once I had caught my breath.

“Why do you ask about Mariam?” Habib asked, astonished.

“I know — but that dope of a husband of hers doesn’t,” I replied. We laughed like two conspirators. For the first time I felt a certain closeness to Habib. How long it sometimes takes to penetrate to the core of another human being!

“Do you really want to be a journalist? Actually, you already are one, but if you’d like to learn a few trifles, then. ”

“Yes!” I interrupted him, enthusiastic. “Please teach me!”

“Starting today, come every evening at six for an hour. I’d be very pleased to show you some things, Colleague!” he said. For the first time he embraced me as I left.

August 26 — “Today the six months are up!” Uncle Salim said. “Do you regret your decision?”

I had long since forgotten our agreement, but this friend never just talks off the top of his head. His promise is sacred to him.

“No, I’m glad I stayed,” I answered. In fact, I don’t regret it. Here I will become a journalist!

August 29 — Mr. Katib stopped by my father’s bakery today and gave him two copies of the book in which my poems appear. By the time I got there, he was already gone. My father beamed at me.

“There’s my young poet!” he cried. Two customers, an old woman and the tiler from next door, did not understand who he meant by poet or why my old man was so cheerful. He quickly pressed their loaves of bread into their hands and embraced me. Then he had two cups of tea brought to us.

“How much will you pay for some good news?” he asked, keeping me on tenterhooks.

“The poems. have. come out!” I exclaimed.

“What a miser!” my father replied, enjoying himself. “And I wanted to be the one to tell you! All right, here they are.” He took two copies out of the closet. My heart was beating so hard I could scarcely breathe. Weak-kneed, I sat down on a stool and looked at the books.

The cover bore the title The Flying Tree: Poems by Young People. I could not believe my eyes. The publisher had named the entire volume after my poem! The book is so incredibly beautiful! The title page is a watercolor in which a blue moon gazes toward a flying tree, whose leaves look like swallows and stars. My hand glided over the pages, and I searched for my name both in the table of contents and inside the book.

In his foreword the publisher tells about my meeting with him. He writes of having had financial difficulties with the book, but after talking to me — he even mentions my name — he was convinced that the book should be done, cost what it may. What a day! I took the book with me on my noon rounds. After every two customers, I sat down somewhere and read and read; I couldn’t get enough. The poems of the other young people are also great!

Habib wasn’t home. Mariam wanted the book, but I told her she would have to buy her own copy because one of my copies was for Habib and the other for myself, my parents, and Mahmud.

I practically flew home, and when I reached Nadia’s door, I knocked, without even thinking of the danger or her brothers. Her mother came out smiling and looked at me in astonishment.

“My poems have appeared. I want to show them to Nadia!”

Nadia immediately came running. “We’re in luck; those two aren’t here!” she said breathlessly. “Beautiful! How very beautiful!” she whispered and, with the most loving hand on earth, stroked the moon in the book and then my face. I pushed her into the dark corridor and kissed her lips.

“So that’s why you wanted to write poems,” she teased me, laughing.

I ran home like a maniac. My mother thought I had gone nuts. I sang louder than ever — I know I sing like a rusty watering can; that’s why I normally spare myself and others — but today I sang wildly and in languages I don’t know, and my mother laughed and asked if a snake had bitten me. I told her I had to vent these shrieks because I’d been carrying them around inside me not just all day but for months. Exultant, I grabbed her by her waist and whirled her around.

Once I had calmed down a bit, I told her, “Mr. Katib said he would read my poems aloud in class so the other students will think of me. And he’ll do this every year, so they won’t forget me!”

My mother began to bawl. “Mr. Katib is such a splendid person. We are very poor, but the Blessed Virgin Mary will hear me and guard your life. She always hears the prayers of mothers.”

I begged her to stop going on about the Virgin Mary. We ought to be celebrating, not crying. I went and got twenty pounds and gave them to her. She was to buy two kilos of coffee and one kilo of tea.

“And what about me?” Leila piped up, as if the neighbors alone were going to drink the tea. Fine, I gave her a pound, and in the course of the late afternoon she bought a sundae, nuts, chewing gum, and cotton candy; afterward she felt sick to her stomach. My mother made her some strong anise tea. Leila suspected that things had gone so badly because I did not give her the pound with my whole heart. Can she ever tell tales! p.s.: At six o’clock I went to Habib’s. He wasn’t half surprised about the book I gave him. “You really are a character,” he said and for an hour explained how a newspaper article is put together.

Sunday — Uncle Salim had dinner with us today. It was delightful. My father praised the good tea I had provided.

September 1 — My parents are showing the book to everyone. Habib tirelessly instructs me about newspaper work and shows me how to write an engrossing article. He himself, however, is desperately unhappy about his work. He will help me get out of the bakery. A friend of his has a bookstore in the New City. My father is doing well; we no longer have any debts. The bakery brings in enough to live on.

September 3 — Mahmud told me about yesterday’s boxing match. Syria’s most famous boxer is a third-rate thug who got nowhere abroad. Again and again he beats up frail Syrian opponents, who must then venerate him as undefeated.

For weeks posters were plastered on every wall in Damascus. The boxer had challenged a United States champion; Mr. Black Fire accepted the challenge and came to Damascus. Tickets sold for over twenty pounds on the black market. Many people just wanted to see the bitter defeat of the Syrian braggart; they were siding with the black guest, especially since he had some good words for Arabs and Syrians. He was interviewed by newspapers, magazines, and the radio in his expensive hotel, the Samir Amis. Others, especially the supporters of the Syrian show-off, wanted a definitive confirmation that there was something more than fat beneath the skin of their colossus. The whole town spoke of nothing but this fight. I don’t generally like boxing, but one of the journalists in the café got Mahmud a ticket.

The boxer from America really must have looked terrifying. He stomped around the ring, bellowing in English, repeatedly wanting to attack the spectators in the first few rows who were making fun of him. Then the fight began. The first round drew to a leisurely conclusion. The second fell more to the guest than to the boaster. The spectators spurred the staggering, shattered Syrian fighter on. In the third round, he fought his opponent hard and mercilessly knocked him down. With his last ounce of strength, the American dragged himself into his corner, and the spectators — opponents and supporters both — cheered the Syrian colossus, inciting him to punch wildly in the fourth round. Suddenly he hit the guest forcefully on the nose, causing him to reel backward and begin to scream — in Arabic!

Mr. Black Fire ran in front of the colossus and wailed into the hall that he was not American but Palestinian. “Help, help, he wants to kill me!” he screeched loudly, staggering around the ring on unsteady feet and trying to hide behind the referee. “This was not the agreement!” he cried over and over, letting the referee take the punches. Now the Syrian colossus wanted to silence him with a K.O., but time and again he hit the referee. The crowd began to rampage, demolishing the seats and, after a drawn-out fight with the police, left the hall.

“He was a Palestinian,” the journalists reported, “who for a little money and a few nights of luxury in a hotel participated in this rotten game. The Syrian boxer had promised to hit him gently; only in the fifteenth round was he to fall on cue and simulate a K.O.”

When I told Uncle Salim about it, he laughed for a long time. “You see, my boy, this boxing match is just like Arabian politics.”

September 5 — Habib is pressing me to say something to my father once and for all. His friend has agreed to hire me, being in need of someone who loves books. Uncle Salim says it’s now or never. I have to do it alone, and without too much deliberation. Sometimes I think too much. Tomorrow I’ll take the plunge.

September 6 — Fabulous! When I told my old man that I wanted to leave the bakery in order to work for a bookdealer, all he did was nod.

“Selling books is an honorable profession!” He was quiet a while. “A bookdealer,” he repeated, “that’s good. You were not born for the bakery. I’ve always known that. You love books, so go ahead!”

Habib, my mother, and above all Uncle Salim congratulated me. Now I’m looking for a baker’s apprentice I can train in one week, and then I’m out of here. Only Mariam was unhappy. I calmed her, saying I would be at her friend Habib’s every day. She did not even react to my using the word friend!

September 11 — For three days now I have been going around with the apprentice. A clever young man from a village on the Lebanese border. He is full of plans; he wants to be an actor. He has a beautiful voice, and when he sings in the bakery, even my father listens.

Not only does he have a lovely voice, he can also imitate famous actors incredibly well; best of all is his imitation of Charlie Chaplin. Many passersby grimace and say, “You’ll go crazy fooling around like that.” If he has a friend as good as Uncle Salim, he will become an actor.

September 15 — Today was my first day in the bookstore. Though it’s not very big, five of us work there. All I got to do was the dirty work: fetch cartons of books from the storeroom, open them, repack them, dust the shelves, clean the big window, make tea, and be available. I have neither sold books nor wrapped them for the customers. The others do these things.

My boss said I ought to learn everything from the bottom up; otherwise I’ll never be a good bookdealer. He’s an odd bird. He claims that when he started out, he had to put his master’s house and garden in order. Clearly he’s stretching the truth. But he calls Habib his best friend.

I’m earning only half of what I was in the bakery, but I’m not half so tired as I was there. At noon we have more than an hour off, and today during that time I read a short story — sad and beautiful — by a Russian author.

September 18 — Mahmud had a rotten day. A customer had it in for him. At first the man was friendly and invited Mahmud to have a lemonade. Mahmud, however, declined. Somehow or other the man was unappealing. Suddenly the coffee was no good; Mahmud brought him another cup. No, now he wanted tea. Mahmud gave the coffee to another customer and brought some tea. The man became insolent and screamed at Mahmud for having touched the rim of the cup; he would not drink from it. Mahmud brought him a new cup. The man had his tea and went over to the counter, where he complained that Mahmud had said, “Here, now gulp down your shitty tea!” Mahmud had said no such thing, but his boss believed the guest and pulled Mahmud by the ear. Then Mahmud got furious and punched the loudly laughing guest in the stomach. He was fired!

He doesn’t dare tell his father about it, and he badly needs a new job.

September 25 — A whole week has gone by, and although Mahmud has been searching from morning until night, he can’t find a job. I had to advance him three pounds today so he could give them to his father. He said he would never forget this. I believe him; he’s a good friend. Until he finds a position, I will give him three pounds a week from my reserves. After all, I have saved nearly two hundred and fifty pounds.

October 2 — Now another week has passed, and Mahmud is still out of work. Searching for work is so humiliating, and he hates the customer who destroyed everything for him. Like a beggar, he goes from shop to shop. Perhaps today he’ll have luck with a Jewish tailor at the bazaar. I have also asked the bookdealer, but he doesn’t need anyone.

Every day I learn more and more during my hour at Habib’s. A journalist’s job is extremely complicated.

Nadia’s eldest brother is volunteering for the army. The army’s a good place for that idiot. In a week we’ll be rid of him; he’s going up north to start a course in radar. Her other brother is staying in school; he’s not as bad as the older one.

October 9 — Nadia’s eldest brother is finally in Aleppo. To celebrate this day, Nadia and I met for an hour. With her mother’s knowledge. She asked us to be careful and cautioned Nadia to come back on time (her other brother comes home from school at four; her father returns at five). It was wonderful to feel her small fingers in my hand again.

As an exercise I was supposed to write about a book-dealer’s profession; I was also supposed to interview my boss. And I did. But words spilled from him as from a waterfall, so I couldn’t get very much down. Then I sat working on the article for several days.

Habib read it, thrust it aside, and screamed: “Catastrophe! C-a-t-a-s-t-r-o-p-h-e-e-e-e-e-e!!! Idiot that I am, what have I taught you? Eh? What is this? You just gloss over things, and it’s boring, too!” He pulled himself together and proceeded to point out the parts of the article I had simply made up.

October 10 — Mahmud has a new job! He says his boss is a nice old man; the pay isn’t bad, and his father doesn’t mind that he’s changed jobs. He wanted to pay back the six pounds little by little, but I made them a gift. This did my dear friend Mahmud good.

Nadia’s parents went out visiting, so I sneaked over to see her. Today, for the first time, I kissed her properly— neck, breasts, and belly. She has such beautiful skin! She sighed with contentment, then said, with reproach in her voice, “You seem to have a lot of experience!”

I boasted that I knew still more and that when her parents were gone for a longer time, I would prove it to her. Bragging like that made me feel powerful, but what if Nadia really believes me?

October 11 — Day and night the radio blares that people should work harder. Uncle Salim said he no longer understands the world. “These imbeciles!” he groaned over and over as we sat drinking tea and listening. Then a singer praised working in the fields and in factories, saying he longed to get his hands on a sickle and to hear the beating of a hammer on an anvil. Uncle Salim turned off the radio in disgust. “What a blathering idiot! Clearly he’s never had a sickle in his hand. Gripping it burns your skin, and that’s what this nincompoop longs for. Let him work in the fields in June sometime; then he’ll sing a different tune—’How lovely is the shade!’”

October 12 — A happy coincidence: Uncle Salim wanted to go to the barber and so did I. We ambled along the street to the Thomas Gate. The old Armenian was in a particularly bad mood today, but we had a good laugh nonetheless.

“Do you know Michail?” the barber’s assistant asked Uncle Salim as he walked into the shop.

Just about everyone knows Michail the Colossus, a butcher who breeds pigeons on his roof. Breeders of pigeons are usually at war with one another and with their neighbors: with one another out of envy; with their neighbors because the breeders often throw pebbles and orange peels at the birds, which land on their neighbors’ heads and in their food. The pigeons also frequently shit on their terraces and leave tracks on the laundry and on fruits and vegetables spread out to dry.

“One evening,” the assistant said, “Michail was sitting down to a meal with his wife when suddenly he heard steps on the roof. He grabbed hold of his stick and crept upstairs. A rival was attempting to steal his best pigeon. The fowl, a rare beauty, was said to be worth a hundred pounds. Just as the thief was about to open the cage, Michail grabbed him by the neck, threw him to the ground, and beat him with his stick, all the while shrieking to his wife to go get the police. Which she did. In the meantime, Michail carried the frail, unconscious thief outside and waited for the cops to arrive. With the stick in his left mitt and the poor devil under his arm, he cried out: ’Where is the state that protects its citizens?’

“The neighbors sat down with him, looking forward to an enjoyable scene. After a while an old policeman came along on a bicycle. He fought his way through the crowd and asked what was wrong. The thief was practically himself again, but he waited for the policeman to come closer. Only then did he tear himself free from the butcher’s powerful grip and fall at the feet of the man of law and order, imploring him, ’Help me, please! This man wants to kill me!’

” ’Throw him in jail,’ Michail demanded in a rage.

“The policeman looked at the anxious thief, whose head and face were completely swollen, and said, ’He should be in a hospital, not in prison. Better bring him a lemonade, some bandages, and iodine. Otherwise he’ll die, and I’ll have to arrest you for grave bodily harm!’

“’Lemonade! Why not some arrack too?’ Michail bellowed. Nothing made any sense; he raised his arm and clobbered the policeman over the head. The man fell to the ground unconscious.”

Uncle Salim guffawed, but when the master barber grumbled something in Armenian, the assistant fell silent and quickly finished cutting Uncle Salim’s hair. But he kept laughing and winking at Uncle Salim.

October 13 — Lately I’ve been reading a lot and discussing what I read with Habib. My boss has nothing against my reading or even taking a book home with me, provided I don’t fold the corners of the pages or bring the book back soiled.

Habib read the second draft of my article about the bookdealer. All he said, drily, was “It’s okay.” I need to bring more life into it, so that people who are not book-dealers can really understand it, too.

October 15 — In Damascus it is often not easy to distinguish between legend and truth. Not far from here an innocuous man by the name of Saul was converted to Christianity by a vision and became Paul, a prince of the Church. Uncle Salim says that “the Damascus experience” is one of the city’s specialties. Damascene steel and silk are famous, but I’ve never heard of this specialty before. Uncle Salim also says that time and again Damascus imports a Saul, processes him into a Paul, and then unleashes him upon humanity.

Saul was a persecutor of Christians. One day he came to Damascus from Jerusalem in order to track down the followers of Christ, seize them, and take them back with him to Jerusalem. Just outside Damascus, it is said, Jesus appeared to him as a bright light and rebuked Saul for persecuting him. Saul fell to the ground; when he stood up, he was blind. A man by the name of Ananias healed his eyes and converted him to Christianity. Ananias Lane is a couple of hundred meters away from my street. A small church, also bearing the name of Ananias, is situated there.

Paul, too, was persecuted, once he became a Christian, and he was also considered a traitor. For a long time he hid from the soldiers who pursued him. What would have happened on this earth if Paul — who one night sneaked down my street and who, in the end, was forced to escape by being lowered over the city wall in a basket — had been caught and killed? Without Paul there would be no Christianity today. He built up the entire apparatus of the Church. Am I going on about this too much? Still, it seems that my street, with its clay houses, was responsible for a major world development — all because Paul escaped down it. It is even said that he had to wait in the last hut against the wall for two whole days until the coast was clear. Is this a fairy tale?

The madman is right when he says that life is a rainbow with all its colors. Some people see only one striking color and cry aloud, “How lovely this green rainbow is!” But the rainbow would be tiresome if it were only green. The other colors, delicately remaining in the background, are what make up the rainbow. My street is one of those hidden colors.

Habib told me about the tenth-century state, the Republic of the Qarmatians. No sultan, no rich, and thus no poor existed in this republic. All anybody owned was his clothing and his sword. Women, too, had their say and were allowed to divorce their husbands. There were kindergartens for children. The arduous work of milling grain, which prior to the time of the republic was accomplished solely by the women and which completely wore them out, was taken over by the central mill.

A council of six headed the state and could at any time be removed from office by the state assembly. The members of the council were unpaid and had to earn their living by other means. Children grew up without religion and without bans. The republic explained that all people were equal. It abolished the slavery that had previously been accepted as God-given. It explained the meaning of peace to all peoples.

The republic survived for one hundred and fifty years. First it extended from the region of the Persian Gulf all the way to Iraq and Syria, but then its arch-enemies, the rulers of the surrounding nations, banded together, and the much-hated republic fell under their swords. The enemies of the Qarmatian Republic let no child or woman escape. They were considered to be contaminated — of course with the most dangerous bacillus of all time, freedom.

When Habib begins to talk about the Qarmatian Republic, he simply does not stop. His eyes take on a strange glow. But he doesn’t believe a word of the legend of Paul; he says it’s a dull tale, invented in retrospect, so that Christians would have tangible places and persons. He may not believe it, but our school books are absolutely silent about the Qarmatians and their republic. An epoch of one hundred and fifty years doesn’t rate a single line in our history books! Nonetheless, we are very well informed about what the caliph Hārūn ar-Rashīd did when he once couldn’t sleep, and exactly what the other caliphs said and how they expressed themselves in various circumstances, and when they were bumped off, and how long they ruled.

My mother believes every letter of the story of Paul, but when I told her about the Qarmatian women, she said Habib must have heard this story from his mother. Because she knows that all women in the world tell stories like these, not because they have happened, but because they ought to happen.

How much of this is true or false does not interest me. These stories persist, and we live in their midst.

October 20 — For days one question has preoccupied me. How does one write an article about beggars? I suggested this theme as an exercise, and Habib agreed to it.

The new mayor of Damascus sends his police force out to hunt beggars. When he took office, he promised to rid Damascus of them within half a year. Beggars allegedly make the city look bad to tourists. I spoke to some beggars and to Uncle Salim and came up with three pages; Habib doesn’t like long articles.

I wrote that I found the new mayor genuinely stupid for persecuting the poor and not poverty. If tourists stay away because of them, then a monument to beggars ought to be erected (old Salim gave me this idea). The mayor comes from one of the wealthiest families in the north. His grandparents owned whole villages, including the inhabitants. His father has a bank, and now the son wants to persecute the very people his parents and grandparents put out of work. For many beggars were once craftsmen or farmers who lost everything and came to Damascus in the hope of finding work. The beggars, I wrote, understand more about people and their souls than many schoolteachers. All they need do is look at someone, and instantly they know how to address that person. Does the mayor know how to do this?

October 29 — Today, when I got to Habib’s place, he was rather down. I sat for one whole hour. He didn’t say a word; he just smoked and slowly, very slowly, drank a glass of arrack. At some point I’d had enough and wanted to leave, but all of a sudden he asked if I had written my piece on the beggars of Damascus.

I gave him the article, and he began to read it. From one page to the next his eyes became happier, and at the end he laughed out loud and slapped his thigh.

“My dear boy! This is good! This hits home!” He gave me his hand. “Now you are a colleague! I can’t teach you anything more. Let’s have a toast.”

He poured me a small glass of arrack. I don’t like the stuff. It has a very strong taste, rather like soap. I took a gulp and started to cough. Habib laughed. “And don’t forget every author’s golden rule: Write every day, even if it is only half a page.”

I will never forget this!

P.S.: Habib said the article was so good that the state newspaper would never publish it. That was supposed to be praise. What a stupid paper!

November 3 — A customer came into the shop, asking for advice. He wanted to buy two books for his son: a volume of poems (naturally I recommended the best— ours) and a novel, Maxim Gorki’s Mother. But first he wanted to know more about the Russian author’s book. Not long ago, I had read it over the course of three nights. I thoroughly identified with the hero. It was the best book I’d ever read, and I managed to convince the man of this. My boss was delighted and rubbed his palms.

November 11 — In our bookshop alone one hundred copies of the poetry anthology have been sold. The publisher wrote us an enthusiastic letter, thanking us for our investment and informing us that the book had been well received everywhere. Now my boss is putting The Flying Tree in the window.

November 12 — Habib is different from Uncle Salim. However much he may like me, he never tells me about himself. I find out things about him from Mariam, or not at all. He has been very sad lately and has been drinking and smoking a lot.

A general, alleged to be dangerous, was given a heap of money (all of it in gold and foreign currency) and fled to Latin America, where he purchased a huge farm and now lives like a lord. The government was said to have greased his palm with millions to get him out of the way. Habib wanted to write about it, but his boss, the editor in chief, gave him a talking-to about the article. He cannot possibly publish it. What really bothers Habib is that once, when they had fled abroad, he shared every bit of his bread with this editor in chief. At that time both of them had sworn to write only the truth.

November 16 — Today, through a friend, Habib got a French novel to translate. The author’s name is Balzac. When I went to Habib’s, things were going somewhat better for him; he had already begun the translation. He likes this Balzac a great deal and calls him the best French author of the nineteenth century. Suddenly he laughed demoniacally and said, “Balzac will be my springboard!”

I don’t understand what he means. Does he want to leave the paper?

November 18 — Nadia has been taken out of school. Her father only meant to let her go through the first level of public examinations. She would very much like to become a pediatrician, but her father wants her to be a secretary for a famous lawyer.

November 19 — The madman with the sparrow has disappeared. The barber’s assistant told us that the madman was suspected of being a spy. The sparrow was no ordinary bird; it was supposed to have a tiny camera, with which it flew around photographing secrets.

November 21 — Habib was not in. He seems to have forgotten our date. I didn’t dare inquire at Mariam’s; it was past six, and surely her husband was at home.

November 24 — For two days I have not been able to think of anything but Habib. He’s been arrested! It’s the talk of the town. He wrote an article concerning the plight of journalists who must lie to avoid attracting the attention of the government. By showing the censor a harmless article and getting authorization to publish it, Habib took the censor for a ride. With the official stamp on the article, Habib got it past the typesetters and printers. A few hours later the paper was sold out — perhaps for the first time! — and the entire editorial staff, including the editor in chief, was arrested.

My boss was upset and cursed the government because it did not even acknowledge the arrests in the following issue of the paper. The paper continues to appear as if nothing had happened; only those who read the fine print on the masthead can discern that the editorial staff is completely new.

I asked my boss for the afternoon off and hurried to see Mariam. To my great surprise, she knew all about it beforehand! Habib had told her the evening before his arrest. He had left an attaché case and the key to his apartment with her. She was supposed to give me the key, but no one was allowed to see the case.

Mariam wept for a long time and said that without Habib she could not go on. She must feel relieved though that her husband is doing well and is very sweet to her.

I took the key and hurried to Habib’s apartment. What a strange feeling; it was so sad without him. For some reason or other, I began to tidy up the place. After a while Mariam joined me. When she went home toward six o’clock, I wanted to straighten up his clothes closet, and there I saw a picture of his wife. He had pasted it up inside the door and written with a felt-tip pen: “As long as I live I will avenge you.”

I can’t read or write except in my journal. Habib really is a brave man.

Thursday — Six days have gone by now, and Habib is still in prison. Uncle Salim is furious with the government. He, too, learned of the arrest without my telling him; every afternoon he listens to Radio London and Radio Israel. They mentioned Habib and read his article aloud. I haven’t said a word about it to my father, but it’s impossible to hide anything from my mother. First she asked about Nadia, and when she learned that things were all right between us, she said, “Then something must have happened to Habib; am I right?” I had to tell her.

December 1 — Nadia has been working in the law office for a week. She’s bored and has to do everything — make coffee, distribute memos, deliver the mail, and sometimes even clean the desks. Next week she’ll start a typing course. That’s the only way she can better her position there; she has no desire to make coffee for the rest of her life.

The attorney she works for is very famous and employs five young lawyers. He treats them all rather badly. Nor does he have any respect for judges. He says they were all his students at the university, and were it not for him, they wouldn’t be where they are.

Since Nadia started work, we always meet during lunch break. Her office is only three blocks away from the bookstore. I wait downstairs for her because her boss doesn’t like it when one of his four secretaries goes out to meet a friend.

December 3 — Shopping with my mother is an experience! The bazaar is rather far away, and I rarely go there with her because it always takes so long. But today I accompanied her.

I am constantly amazed at how the merchants can recognize my mother among the thousands of customers who come to the bazaar month after month. They ask about my father, and she inquires about their wives and children. Sometimes she’ll sit down at a booth, let the merchant show her fabric and clothing, have coffee, chat about herself, and listen to the merchant’s chatter. Then she’ll get up and go without buying anything, and the merchant isn’t the least bit annoyed. But once she begins to bargain, I need the patience of Job. That’s exactly what happened today.

My mother found some good material and asked how much it cost. The dealer named a price and stressed it was so low only because my pretty mother was a regular customer. Instead of rejoicing, she became angry and offered to pay half the sum. The merchant snatched it away and complained he wasn’t such a fool as to sell his best fabric at a loss. He showed her some cloth of lesser quality at the price she named. My mother tested it, quickly running her hand over it, saying it wasn’t all that bad, but she wanted the better cloth, for which she offered the merchant a few piasters more.

The merchant screamed in a rage and reproached my mother for being merciless toward his children but brought the price down a peg. The reproach of merciless-ness should have moved my sensitive mother to tears, but she laughed, wished the children good health and happiness, and offered a few piasters more.

This time the man had a mild and funny reaction. He reminded my mother of the first time she had bought something from him. It was thirty years ago, but he still remembered her wearing a blue dress at the time and how pretty she looked. (She still looks marvelously pretty!) He further reminded her that the clothes she made from his fabric lasted for years, and then he lowered the price a little.

Instead of growing teary-eyed from so much praise, my mother reacted drily. Back then he had been very kind because he had been poor. But today he was rich and obstinate with a customer who passed up all the other merchants and came only to him. (This was not true. She had already checked out and priced the same material at other booths!) Nonetheless, she offered a few more piasters.

“What? So little?” the merchant moaned, indignant. “If my wife hears that I have sold this material so cheaply, she’ll divorce me!”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” my mother laughed. “Maybe she’ll find a younger, better-looking merchant. You’ve grown too old and stingy,” she added, offering a few more piasters.

The merchant laughed, praised my father for having married such a good, thrifty woman, and lowered his price somewhat but swore upon his pilgrimage to Mecca that this was his final offer.

My mother pretended she didn’t know he had ever been to Mecca. “What? You, a pilgrim? I didn’t know that. When did you go?”

The merchant described his laborious journey to Saudi Arabia and the sublime moment when he reached the holy place along with countless other believers. He didn’t go into too much detail, knowing we are Christians, adding that at the next opportunity he would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. For Muslims, this is the second holy city after Mecca.

My mother got up and said on her way out, “You don’t really want to sell it. I would have bought a great deal,” and she offered him a new price, a few piasters higher than the last. Despairing — or at least seeming to despair — and with a loud groan, he gave my mother the cloth, forgot his oath, and did not neglect to ask her not to tell anyone she had bought the cloth so cheaply. He didn’t want to be ruined.

Extremely happy at this turn of events, I took the bolt of fabric and hurried home with my mother. She praised the merchant and his honesty. I just don’t get it.

December 6 — I had a marvelous time with Nadia. For the very first time I got to spend two whole hours alone with her. Her mother told me to look after her and send her home before five o’clock. (Even now I don’t understand what she means by “look after.” Was I supposed to protect Nadia from myself?) I went out alone, she followed, and we sneaked over to Habib’s apartment. It was incredibly wonderful to lie beside her and caress her. She kissed me hard. The time went by so quickly; suddenly it was a quarter to five. Nadia hurried home, and I walked slowly at some distance behind her.

P.S.: Nadia thinks I must kiss so well either because I know a married woman or else because I have seen a lot of erotic films. I swore that I love no one but her. And films? Maybe I have seen a few skin-flicks but none in which the protagonist kisses the belly and legs of his beloved, which is exactly what Nadia likes best. We agreed to meet every Friday, my day off, at Habib’s, even once Habib is out of jail. I will tell him this, and I’m sure he’ll understand. After all, he loves Mariam!

Tuesday — What a delightful surprise: After three weeks, Habib was released today! Early in the morning he came to the bookstore. We gave him a frenzied welcome, and my boss had lemonade and coffee brought out. But Habib seemed bitter. When he asked me for his key, my boss told me to go with him. He furtively slipped twenty pounds into my pocket and whispered, “Get him something!”

Habib has a stubbly gray beard. It suits him and makes him look older. As I opened the door to his apartment, Mariam was already running up the stairs. She’d heard our voices in the stairwell. Habib embraced her and she kissed him.

When he saw the apartment, he was amazed at how neat and clean it was. “I think I should go to jail once a week,” he said, smiling.

I disappeared for two hours and went shopping. I’m no ogre! When I returned with a full shopping bag, Mariam was already gone. The bed looked as rumpled as ever. Habib had a loving smile on his face and was happy about the things I’d brought. He talked to me about prison for a long time.

Right now I’m dog tired; tomorrow I’ll write it all down.

Wednesday — What Habib had to endure those three weeks sounds like an incredibly gruesome tale. With about fifteen other men, he was locked in a cell that had room for five at most. Ten of the prisoners had to stand close together so that five at a time could take turns lying down for a few hours. It wasn’t always easy to maintain harmony among the prisoners; exhaustion made them aggressive, but after a while they were able to manage.

Habib had a very hard time. After all, he’s a member of the ruling party. In the beginning the other prisoners wouldn’t speak to him. At first they thought he was an informer and reproached him with all his party’s atrocities. This hurt Habib more than the ruthless torture that was to come.

The next three days he was left in peace and could prepare himself for the trial. This, however, was to no avail, since his interrogator did not want to hear why he had published the article, rather who had paid him to destroy the reputation of the government. Habib exonerated all his colleagues and even the editor in chief, but this, too, was pointless.

On the fifth day he was subjected to barbaric torture. He collapsed, unconscious, and awakened in the cell, where his fellow inmates had forgotten their hatred and accepted him as one of them. They gave him cigarettes that had been smuggled in and told him why they were there.

Every party, profession, and ethnic group in Syria was represented in that cell. Among them was also a madman who had been called a spy. He continually sang sad songs about his sparrow, whose murderers he sought. Things went very badly for him, and after several days he became ill. But then something happened that greatly astonished the prisoners. A sparrow came flying, perched on the little windowsill, and trilled away as if possessed. At first the prisoners wanted to drive it off, but the madman was very happy about the bird and fed it with bread crumbs from his own mouth. Every day the sparrow came flying, but on the third day the madman was so sick he had to be moved. After that the sparrow vanished. I asked Habib to describe the man — I’m sure he was my madman.

When I was leaving, Habib said to me, “In this country no one can practice journalism.” All he wants to do now is translate.

December 20 — Habib is diligently working away on his translation. He was in an excellent mood today, but when I asked again if he really wanted to give everything up because of his imprisonment, he screamed at me and tore off his shirt. Horrifying scars cover his entire chest!

“This is journalism!” he cried. I looked away. It hurt me. But he calmed down, and we laughed about the editor in chief, who now constantly apologizes on the radio and in the papers, in the hope of getting a job again.

I asked Habib if Nadia and I might come to his place once a week. He guffawed. “Once in seven days? Are you monks? You can come here seven times a day.” He winked at me and nudged me in the side. Of course I have to tell Nadia about this right away.

December 23 — Habib and I have had another fight. I can’t get it out of my head that one should be able to work as a journalist here even without the government newspaper. But Habib asked aggressively, “How then?” and I could not help myself; I screamed back, “If I had been a journalist as long as you, I would have found hundreds of ways.” But he is stubborn and continues to enjoy translating the novel. Today he reproached me, calling me an incorrigible idiot. Let him say that. It doesn’t offend me in the least.