A Hand Full of Stars Read online

  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 b
reathlessly. “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.