by Rafik Schami
This evening we all sat round the French newspaper, which displayed an illustration of the sock-newspaper beside a translation. Habib read us the introduction aloud. A more concise and exact report could not have been written. Both the socks and the balloons were mentioned; above all, they said the sock-newspaper was the only good paper in Syria.
Habib embraced me. “We have you and your pigheadedness to thank for this!” he said.
I nearly jumped for joy. The praise was too much for me, but now for the first time I can write: I AM A JOURNALIST!
P.S.: Habib said that Le Monde is read in many countries throughout the world.
The
Fourth
Year
January 2 — I had a second piece of good news today. In the forty days Habib was gone he translated a crime novel. The author’s name is Maurice Leblanc, and the novel is one of twelve in an adventure series whose protagonist is a funny, brave thief named Arsène Lupin. The story is great, and even the author’s life is an adventure. The thief can transform himself into different shapes incredibly quickly. He steals from the rich (good!!!) and gives to the poor. Not only the police but also his colleagues are after him because he snatches the loot away from them. He does all this without firing a shot; his clever head is superior to force. Habib says that Lupin is very much loved in France.
January 10 — Damn it! Mahmud is out of a job again. His boss had to give up. No one comes to him to have his clothes tailor-made anymore. People buy cheap, disposable goods and thus many small shops go under.
Although I offered him money, this time Mahmud did not want to make a secret of it at home. “No, he ought to know. I don’t care whether he gets angry or not.”
His father became raging mad, but Mahmud screamed back at him that he had lost the job not because he was bad, rather because the country was.
His father became quiet and made tea for Mahmud.
January 15 — Mahmud spent the whole day looking for a job. During lunch break I went round to some of our customers who are fond of me and asked whether they might need anybody. All of them were friendly, but nobody wanted help. What a shitty life, always having to look for work!
January 18 — I am writing many poems and short tales again. Nadia thinks they’re lovely. Today I began a story about a very small red flower that attempts to climb over a huge stone because it doesn’t believe the stone is the end of the world. I don’t know what will happen to the flower.
Leila says my tales are odd. She would rather I write about marriages of princesses or princes. What do I care whether these sorts marry? I love Nadia and she is my red flower.
January 23 — Today I am seventeen. I hadn’t given it any thought, but Habib absolutely insisted that Mahmud and I come to dinner. When I arrived, the superbly spread table was a surprise. Even Mariam joined us for half an hour.
January 30 — Today Nadia told me that her father talks about nothing but the newspaper. Swearing her to secrecy, I confessed that I and my friends made the newspaper. She swore by her love for me that she would rather die than betray me. But she did not believe me, for when leaving, she said, laughing, that the fairy tale about the newspaper was terrific.
I have written more of “The Red Flower.” The flower climbs and climbs, surmounts the stone, and sees a vast world before it. It plays with the sun and falls in love with the moon, which tells it stories. Then a wind comes and brushes against the flower, wanting to glide over the stone. The wind flatters the flower and asks it to adapt itself, to cling to the stone like ivy.
Will the flower do it? What will happen if it doesn’t?
February 6 — Uncle Salim dreamed of his dead wife today. She, was naked and as young as on their first night. She took him into her soft arms, and he felt the pleasure of physical love as he had not in twenty years. Fabulous!
February 11 — Our neighbor the greengrocer had bad luck today, though at first it appeared to be good. This morning his wife brought his son into the world. The first son after seven daughters! He was so happy that he drank half a liter of arrack in the morning and soon was pleasantly drunk; toward noon he was dead drunk. He began to give away his produce, simply throwing it to passersby. A few poor devils gathered up carrots, tomatoes, and potatoes and hurried home before the stingy merchant came to his senses and demanded money for them. But others cursed him, because he’d hit them in the head with some vegetable. His joy grew and grew, as did the heap of vegetables he had cast around himself in his enthusiasm; for the first time in his life, he was the center of attention on the street.
But a melon put an end to the fun. An officer was strolling by, and it hit him solidly in the stomach. He staggered and fell into a puddle. The greengrocer’s gaiety was contagious; a couple of hooligans, who had seldom seen an officer sitting in a puddle, rolled him in the mire and repeatedly tossed his cap in the air. The good luck turned to bad. Officers set great store by their uniforms. The greengrocer was taken to the police station, where he received a few blows and a fine, which hurt him even more.
February 20 — I am seventeen and still love the stories of my best friend Uncle Salim just as much as I did ten years ago. Today I think he has been very wise to repeat the stories at intervals, for not only do the stories change with the telling, but the listener also has grown older and carries away different “magic fruits” from each telling.
Stories are magical springs that never dry up.
March 1 — I told Mahmud and Habib that I had revealed everything to Nadia. They were not angry, as I had feared they would be. On the contrary! . . .
The red flower decides not to obey the wind and declines its seductive offers. The wind grows angry, turns into a storm, and attacks the flower. The red flower fights, striking back with its thorns, but is torn out and thrown to the ground. The other little flowers are afraid, and a few that wanted to dare climbing over the stone are disheartened. Some of the older flowers say, “That red flower had it coming, always so curious!” But the red flower replies by gently describing the world on the other side of the stone, speaking of the moon and the sun. Because until now all they knew was that the world consisted of moist earth and a huge stone, behind which some sort of twilight appeared. When the other flowers heard the red flower’s tales, they began to climb. Many fell back, but others went forward. Since that day, there are no flowers behind the stone. They climb until they can see the sun and hear the moon’s stories.
Nadiá wept when I told her the tale. She said the flower could be any woman.
Leila did not like the story. She moaned that it would be better if the stupid wind died or got punched in the jaw. Her idea isn’t so dumb. Maybe I’ll settle up with the wind in another chapter.
March 11 — Mahmud has found a job washing dishes in a posh nightclub. I am against his working among pimps, as are Nadia and Mariam. Only Uncle Salim and Habib think no harm will come of it. To each his own. Uncle Salim said a lion would not become a dog if it gnawed a bone out of hunger. Habib also defended Mahmud, saying Mahmud had to earn his living and my screwed-up morals were useless for that. His remark really made me mad!
Mahmud was furious with me, and for the first time we really had a fight.
“You should become a priest and not a journalist,” he said angrily. He was extremely snide, and I gave it back to him. “Better to be a priest than to earn one’s living off whores!” I cried.
Habib defended the whores, saying they were just as good as ministers or housewives, no better and no worse. They have to get through somehow, too. “The state is the pimp!” he screamed and laughed peculiarly. “And you are a priest.”
I ran out of the apartment in a rage. Mahmud followed me, and we walked home, not speaking. Shortly before we reached the door to the house, he grabbed hold of me. “You’re my friend, even if you’ve hurt me,” he said.
I embraced him and asked his forgiveness. But I don’t want to go to Habib’s anymore.
March 15 — “For the third
time my wife has appeared to me in a dream. Over and over again she says she would like to see me soon,” Uncle Salim stated, making me anxious. My mother believes in it. I’m worried about my friend, even though he is the picture of health.
March 19 — “You are my best friend. What a pity you were born so late. I would have liked to meet you sometime as a young coachman,” Uncle Salim said today for no reason. I had dropped by to see if he needed anything from the market. All the children in the house do this. “Up until now my wife alone has seen my treasure,” he went on, “but I want to show it to you as well; only afterward you must grant me a wish!” Salim took a small cigar box out from under the bed. He stroked it gently, as if it were made of silver. Carefully he opened it.
“Do you see this key?” he asked. “This is the key to my coach. I had to sell everything, but I would not hand over the key.” He put it aside and took a marble out of the box. “I played with this marble as a child. It was my favorite, and when I rubbed it, it brought me luck in the game.”
Then he took a small dried root out of his treasure chest. “This root is from a plant that grows in the mountains, where I hid myself. The plant is cut every year, and it always grows back. It cannot be killed. The peasants carry it in their pockets because it gives life. During my five-year flight I always had it with me. —And this gold coin is from a robber whose life I once saved. He gave me the task of giving it to someone who no longer sees any way out. I realized only very late how much wisdom was concealed in this robber, for whenever I wanted to give it to someone, we looked for a way and found one, too.”
Uncle Salim was quiet for a long time, as if he surmised the great burden of his wish. “My friend,” he finally said, “I would like you to lay the marble, the key, and the root in my grave with me. The gold coin I turn over to you with the robber’s request.”
I felt bad. “You are not going to die,” I whispered hoarsely, but Uncle Salim insisted on giving me the box. Now it lies hidden under the boards in my closet, right where I keep my journal.
March 20 — Uncle Salim is sick. I brought him food and tea in bed. He’s breathing heavily and says he caught cold from a draft,
P.S.: I have not been to Habib’s for nine days.
March 21 — Late yesterday my mother came into my room and said there was a man downstairs at the door, asking for me. She suspected it was Habib because she recognized his shirt and trousers from having washed them.
I jumped out of bed. He was already standing there smiling. I invited him to come in. My mother hurried off to make coffee.
“I want to apologize to you. I was very rough on you, but you were impossible!” he said and ran his hand through my hair.
“Let’s not start again. I only stated my opinion,” I replied.
We talked and talked. He held to his position, as I did to mine, but he was polite. My mother brought the coffee and sat down with us.
“What a beautiful mother you have,” the rogue flattered her; my mother laughed. We agreed I should come to his place today after work.
I went there today, as did Mahmud. His job doesn’t begin until eight and goes on until four in the morning. He talked about it. The owner is a swine, and Mahmud’s fondest wish is to smash him against a wall; still, the dancers and the hostesses are very nice. Now and then they come into the kitchen and joke with the personnel. Sometimes, when they earn a lot of money outside, the hostesses even treat them to something.
Okay, as he describes it, the job doesn’t seem bad. He is paid well.
March 24 — Uncle Salim has been ill more than four days. At first it seemed he just had a cold, but he’s been running a fever for three days now. Neither tea nor cold compresses helped, so my parents went for the doctor. After speaking with him, my father telephoned Salim’s daughter in Aleppo. His son lives in America and cannot be reached.
I have never seen my father so sad. Every day when he returns from the bakery, even before he eats, he goes to see Uncle Salim and strokes his hand over and over again. Uncle Salim wants me to stay with him. I sit by his bedside until he falls asleep. My God, how small he has become, as if he’d shriveled up inside his own skin.
March 26 — Uncle Salim’s daughter has arrived. I hadn’t seen her in ten years. She and her father never got along. Now she is very concerned and extremely kind to him. But Uncle Salim does not treat her in a particularly friendly way. Time and again he asks her why she is here. She ought to go home to her stupid husband.
She came down to our place and wept bitter tears because her father had never forgiven her for running off with the son of his enemy. I don’t understand this, and when Uncle Salim is well again, I will ask him about it. But my mother did not want to wait that long. She went down to his place and talked to him, and after a while she called for me and his daughter, then hurried into the kitchen. We ran downstairs; the old scoundrel sat bolt upright in his bed, laughing. “Come here!” he cried to his daughter. “Mrs. Hanne’s words were like a cold shower. Come, let me give you a hug.”
The woman sobbed on Uncle Salim’s shoulder, and he kissed her on the forehead. I sat there speechless while she told him about all the things her husband had sent along and how the children (she has three) were doing. When my mother came with coffee and saw the two of them, she exclaimed, “Now things are right; anger be damned in its grave!” We all laughed.
March 28 — For three days he improved. His daughter was about to leave, but today Uncle Salim suddenly lost consciousness. In despair I ran to the doctor. (For a week I haven’t been working; I explained to my boss that I did not want to leave Uncle Salim. He was very nice and said I should stay with my old friend until he recovered.) The doctor said Uncle Salim was in a very bad way. And there’s nothing to be done. His heart has become too weak. Damn! I would gladly give him a part of mine.
April 5 — A coup! At dawn there was a clattering of rifles. Fighter planes thundered and swooped over the houses. For a long time the radio was silent. It was nearly noon when the agitated voice of an announcer delivered the first communiqué. The government has been toppled, because it—what else could it be?—had become corrupt and treacherous. The speaker threatened to exterminate each and every opponent of the new revolution. In the coming days a curfew would be imposed, twenty hours a day. Civilians could go out between the hours of noon and four. My father said that the new government still wasn’t fully in control. It certainly sounds that way.
Uncle Salim groans lightly and is feverish. I have given his daughter my bed and have been sleeping with Leila for three days. (The monster continually lies diagonally across the bed and thrashes all night long.) Every morning my mother lights a candle for the Virgin Mary so that she will protect Uncle Salim.
April 6 — The curfew is still on; despite the danger, today I sneaked over to Habib’s. He, too, senses that those in power are not yet firmly in the saddle. The air force and the navy are against them, and it gets worse from one coup to another, because each time weapons play a bigger part. It’s enough that the air force is holding out. The fight for the capital might last days or weeks. Jet fighters fly over Damascus but don’t drop any bombs. Damascus is firmly in the hands of the new rebels, while the northern part of the country refuses to capitulate, and the roads are blocked off.
The streets were as if swept clean when I returned. I learned from Habib that the soldiers, who have grown hysterical, shoot at anyone they see on the street. I was very careful, always walking just a few steps and then standing a while in the entrance to a house or in a side alley to observe whether a patrol was nearby.
Was my mother ever angry when I came home! She didn’t want to talk to me until I promised never to do it again. And she was right. It was foolish.
Uncle Salim slept peacefully. His daughter was somewhat relieved because he woke up in the afternoon. He ate and had some tea, laughed, and asked for me.
My father sat in his room, listening to the radio in the dark. When I came in, he whispered, “They are
still fighting. The navy has recognized the new regime, but the air force has nearly destroyed the radio station and the presidential palace. Aleppo resists, and the panzers are rolling northward. God protect the women and children!”
Monday, April 8 — Yesterday was the saddest day of my life. Uncle Salim, that brave and noble man, died.
What a loss for us all! My best friend is gone. He was always there for me, always stood up for me against all the adults. If I happened to play a mean or dirty trick, Uncle Salim could be very harsh with me. But he never humiliated me in front of others, as my father and schoolteachers did. No, he would take me aside, furious, and gently explain what a louse I was.
All the neighbors, grown-ups and children alike, wept, and the whole house was full of people.
He died in the night, without a sound, and left us forever. His small room is filled with flowers from his friends. My father closed the bakery and made bitter coffee—as is customary on such occasions—for all who came to offer condolences. Together with some other men, he fetched a simple casket, although going out is still prohibited. My mother helped wash Uncle Salim, all the while returning to the courtyard, where she sat down in a corner and wept. Nadia and her mother were here all day. Only her father, the miserable pig, stayed away, even though he just sat at home. Nadia fearlessly stroked my hair and held my hand because I was in a rather bad way.
Even as he entered, the priest admonished everyone to remain level-headed. A funeral procession would be dangerous, and thus he would see to getting a permit for a car in which he and the daughter of the deceased could be taken to the cemetery. Never in his whole life had my father screamed at a priest, but yesterday he was mad as hell. I was really proud of him. He shrieked that the church was no longer serving the poor but only those who drive a Mercedes. Jesus always stood up to those who abused him, but the church obeyed the orders of the most asinine officer.
