A Hand Full of Stars Read online

  He was received in the same way at Mahmud’s and at Josef’s. Only Ali said he would have no part of it; tourists really ought not to see our poor homes. We were grateful that it was Josef and not Ali who had met this wonderful guy. I think Robert loved us—and even my mother liked him to distraction. Every morning she told me to take good care of him. She made such a fuss over him, you would think he was made of chocolate.

  Robert had grown up in Egypt, where his father had worked for fifteen years. Then he returned to Luxembourg (I was ashamed I had never heard of Luxembourg, but Robert said it’s only a tiny little state anyhow). When he’d finished his studies there, he decided to spend one month of each year in an Arab country. Next year he wants to travel to North Yemen.

  What I especially like about Robert is that he’s a sly fox. One day he lost his wallet, but he refused to report it to the police (he cannot tolerate the police). He laughed and said, “If you lose money but find such friends as you, then you’ve won.” Two days later, the wily Luxembourger came up with a good idea. He would put on clean clothes and comb his hair and lie in wait for tourists. He wanted to pass himself off as the son of a Luxembourgian ambassador in Cairo, who only occasionally spent a few days in Damascus. He had it all worked out: Tourists would very quickly trust him because he was blond and spoke four languages perfectly. He would then accompany them to shops run by our friends; later we would get ten percent of the price of everything the tourists bought. He put his plan in action, and it went very smoothly. We spent the money like lunatics. We ate at the best restaurant. And he also brought home trophies from his hunting expeditions, in the form of small presents.

  But the best things were our conversations with him. He told us about children in Europe, and we were astonished to learn that things often go no better for them than for us. Certainly, they have a lot more chocolate, but many fewer playgrounds and less free time. Their parents hit them, too (though somewhat less openly, resulting in fewer kisses). No, we should not envy them. Or maybe we should, in one regard, namely that child labor is prohibited. I find that good. In Europe parents must be able to feed their families without the help of their children.

  Two days before his departure, Robert had his hair cut. He gave each of us a blond lock and said when we think of him, we should stroke it. Wherever he might be, he would feel our hands. A crazy fellow, but while writing these last lines, I took the little box out of the drawer and stroked the soft hair.

  October 11 — School has started again. We have the same teachers as before. My old man seems to have forgotten that he’s forbidden me to go to school. Since our last argument, I try to keep out of his way.

  I like our Arabic teacher and our history teacher better than all the others. Mr. Katib has been instructing us in Arabic for a year now. He is rather old and extremely funny. Very often he sits in a corner, reading a book, even while we’re taking an exam. He never goes into the staff room during recess; instead, he sits by himself under the big weeping willow in the schoolyard and reads. Once I crept close and watched him. He becomes wholly engrossed in his book; sometimes he cries, then he laughs out loud and slaps his thigh, so that anyone who sees him simply laughs along too. Mahmud says Mr. Katib has a good heart, and this is no exaggeration. He always gives us the best grades. Once he told us he had experienced difficulties in other schools for this reason. He enjoys teaching in our school because the principal is a decent man.

  Our history teacher is a Palestinian. Mr. Maruf may be young, but he’s really good. He’s a tireless, interesting lecturer who gives tough exams. He is also the only teacher who bitches about all the Arab governments. If I weren’t going to be a journalist, becoming a teacher wouldn’t be bad at all.

  October 12 — There was another coup today. School will be closed till next Monday. This is the second time schools have closed this year.

  In Damascus coups like these generally start at dawn. We who live in the old quarter first get wind of what’s happening on the radio. Suddenly everything’s quiet; then brisk military music comes on, and then the new government’s communiqués—full of charges against the old government—are broadcast.

  Uncle Salim just now told me that fifteen years ago, during the first coup, he believed what the new government promised. He rejoiced and celebrated until dawn. At the time of the second coup, he merely applauded. Since the third, all he can do is shake his head.

  My father came home and talked about his fears. “The new government talks about war too much.”

  I hate war and am afraid of it, too.

  Nadia’s father is still a secret service man—perhaps higher up. What a traitor! As of today, he is in the employ of the opponents of yesterday’s government. How he can do this is completely beyond me.

  October 18 — School is open. Our history teacher, Mr. Maruf, has vanished. Nobody knows whether he was imprisoned or if he fled. Soon we’ll get someone else. If only the bio-boxer would leave! I can’t stand this thug of a biology teacher; he forbids us to ask any questions and hits us, even though it’s prohibited. Sometimes I dream of getting up and telling him I think he’s dumb. Then he can thrash me, for all I care. But it’s only a dream. I haven’t yet dared say it.

  At least our congenial Arabic teacher is still with us.

  October 25 — Autumn is the season I like best. Damascus is at its most beautiful. Swallows fill the sky with their vivid cries, as if anxious to reap the last joys before setting out on their long journey south. The streets are full of peddlers, extolling their fall fruits. There aren’t as many tourists as in summer, and the few who are here seem to take a genuine interest in our everyday life.

  Today an old lady looked through the door to our house, which is always open, and saw my mother preparing stuffed eggplants. She politely asked me what they were. I explained in dreadful English, and she asked if she might come a bit closer. My mother, embarrassed about her old dress, was afraid the woman wanted to photograph her. But the lady had no camera. I calmed my mother down, and the woman admired her skillful hands.

  And I don’t have to help my father in the bakery so often in the fall. After harvesttime many farmers and agricultural workers, now unemployed, stream into the city in search of work. My father gets more applicants than he needs. I can properly concentrate on school, and once school is out, my time is my own. And Nadia’s!!!

  October 28 — We’ve had chemistry for one year now. Today the old oddball teacher wanted to take us into the laboratory. News of this nearly triggered a disturbance. Everybody wanted to make a stink bomb, but nobody wanted to sit in the first row.

  Before recess, the teacher called Mahmud, Josef, and me up to his desk. Since we all live near the school, he wanted one of us to rush home and get a hard-boiled egg for an experiment demonstrating a vacuum. Mahmud said his mother had no eggs, but if a potato would do, he could bring a splendid one. Josef, the old fox, said his family never ate eggs because all of them were allergic. I was trapped. My last grade in chemistry wasn’t exactly the best, and I wanted to make a good impression. I hurried home.

  But when I asked my mother, she gaped at me, horrified. “What a strange teacher you have. Instead of books, he uses eggs for his lessons!”

  I had a hard time explaining to her what a vacuum is. “Vacuum?” she repeated. “Eggs are for cooking; the teacher should make his vacuum with something else.” After a while she reluctantly gave me a small egg. She suspected I wanted to sell it and buy some cigarettes with the money.

  The egg was as small as a pigeon’s. I boiled it, and by the time I reached the schoolyard, recess was over. We went into the lab, whose plentiful glassware and equipment give it a mysterious air. We squeezed ourselves into the last three rows, and the teacher paraded up and down like a peacock, as if enjoying our cowardice.

  He told us something about a vacuum, peeled the egg, and tossed some cotton into a bottle with a long, wide neck; then he poured in some alcohol and ignited it. He explained that when he stoppered the bottle
with the egg, and the fire had consumed all the oxygen, a vacuum would be created, causing the egg to be sucked into the bottle. “Without a vacuum, the egg would not go into the bottle,” he said, holding the egg over the neck. Unaware of what he was doing, he let the egg fall, and it smoothly slid through. The class howled.

  “You don’t need a vacuum for that, just small eggs!” Isam called out.

  The teacher was furious; he wanted to extract the egg and try a different flask, but the egg got wedged crosswise in the neck. He cursed and shook the bottle hard. The alcohol sprayed out, and suddenly the egg flew smack into the wall and fell down, smashed. The laboratory smelled like a tavern.

  November 2 — Mahmud is incredibly brave. Today he dared ask the bio-boxer a question. (This fool doesn’t like us to ask him anything.) It concerned the difference between human sperm and eggs, and the biology teacher did not answer it. Instead, he took pains to show Mahmud what a bad student he was, and his speech ended in a reprimand.

  “Do you have another question?” he sneered cynically.

  Mahmud looked at him and answered, “Now I have two. The first, the one you did not answer, has given birth to a second.”

  The bio-boxer flipped. He slapped Mahmud. “And now?”

  “Now there are four,” Mahmud exclaimed.

  We all cried out “bravo” so loud that the teacher refrained from carrying out what was certainly his plan, to thrash Mahmud even more.

  During recess Isam swore that if the thug had touched Mahmud one more time, he would have strangled him. That would have been something! The Class Colossus against the Bio-Boxer. We would have understood Darwin as never before.

  November 4 — Mr. Katib let us freely choose a theme and develop it as a poem, story, or fable. I will offer him two poems from my collection.

  November 7 — Our religion teacher really got hot under the collar today. Josef asked him—as vulgarly as only he can: What is the significance of the seal of confession? The teacher stressed that as a priest, he is forbidden to betray or exploit this seal of confidentiality when someone makes confession.

  Josef went on to ask what he would do if someone confessed he had placed a bomb in the confessional. The priest said of course he would remain seated and not exploit the seal of confession. Then the entire class burst out laughing, because everyone knows the priest is a scaredy-cat. Finally he admitted he would flee after all, because doing so would harm no one.

  Josef immediately cried out, “You can’t do that; you’d be exploiting the seal of confession!”

  The priest’s sole reply was: “For next time you will copy out the story of the creation three times.”

  I must tell this to Nadia. Surely she too will laugh about Josef’s bad luck.

  November 9 — Of all heavenly bodies I love the moon most. Not just the full moon, but even the smallest sliver of the moon instills in me a special kind of peace. Uncle Salim said that when his grandfather looked at the moon, he was able to predict whether or not it would rain. If only the all-seeing moon would tell me whether I’ll manage to do well on my biology exam. Certainly the moon thinks the bio-boxer is just as stupid as I do.

  November 13 — Today Mahmud told me the story of how the madman silenced a scholar. Mahmud and his father went to the nearby mosque to say Friday prayers. The madman stood at the big fountain, washing his hands, feet, and face, just like the other believers. His sparrow also cleaned itself happily and then perched atop a pole. The madman seated himself rather far back in the mosque, and Mahmud nearly forgot about him until the service began.

  The scholar leading the congregation was an indignant critic in general. He disparaged all religions other than Islam and aggressively attacked all Islamic sects that did not subscribe to Sunnite precepts. Suddenly the madman stood up and intoned a long “amen” in an incredibly beautiful voice. Then he proceeded to sing a rhythmical religious song, extolling the divinity of mankind and love for all living things. The song made such an impression that the faithful sang the stanzas with him.

  The scholar was struck dumb. To be sure, several times he tried to regain the floor, but his voice was drowned out by the loud singing. Foaming with rage, he had the madman dragged out by two servants. You could hear him go on singing, even though his mouth was being held shut. The members of the congregation settled down again and were quickly led to the end of the prayer.

  What a pity they didn’t follow the madman!

  November 14 — Today was one of the loveliest days of my life. Our double period in Arabic was so powerful, I’ve never experienced anything like it. We all presented our themes extemporaneously. Mr. Katib sat among us, and enthusiastically discussed or disputed our stories, fables, and poems. When it was my turn, I recited “I Dreamed Aloud” and “The Flying Tree”; I know my poems by heart. The teacher found them extraordinarily good and remarked that a poet was speaking from inside me. I felt myself blush a deep red. Mahmud said I spoke well, even if sometimes I declaimed so loudly he nearly got an earache.

  When the class period was up, we even continued into the break, so that the remaining five students could recite. Previously, something like this was unimaginable in my class; we always have one foot in the schoolyard before the bell rings.

  Now I’m tired, but tomorrow I absolutely have to record Mahmud’s presentation. It was unique!

  November 15 — Mahmud wrote a play entitled The Letters of the Alphabet It portrays a young teacher who decides to teach the people who live on his street how to read. He is very stupid and treats the old men and women like snot-nosed little brats. When they come for the first lesson, the people are curious. Tired from a long day of work, they go to a room in a nearby school and wait for the teacher. After having sounded the bell, he arrives in a suit and tie, carrying a walking stick. He asks the people to stand up. Many of them do, but a proud old farmer says he has only risen in someone’s presence twice in his life, once when the bishop visited him, and the second time when Sultan Abdülhamid rode past his field.

  The teacher mulishly begins to discuss the letters of the alphabet. He draws an A and tells them to impress this form on their minds. When he gets to the letter C, a woman wants to know if laundry day has a C in it. A butcher asks how to spell cattle. The farmer asks a question like the butcher’s, how to spell water. The spice dealer calls out that he prefers to learn to write customs form. No, the letters come first! the teacher cries.

  A few of them ask him to go through the letters more quickly; they lie down and commission their pals to wake them up when the letters are done. The farmer takes out his tobacco pouch and rolls himself a cigarette. The teacher won’t let him smoke and tells him to wait until the break. The farmer walks up to the front of the room, takes the bell, and rings for the break. The teacher goes wild, screaming at the farmer to stand with his face to the wall. But the farmer leaves the room, and as he leaves, the greengrocer asks him to tell his donkey, waiting outside, to be patient a while longer.

  The next evening only half as many people come. An eager porter is proud of having done his homework. Demanding recognition, he shows his notebook to the teacher, who makes a face because the porter has not kept within the lines. Sadly the porter replies, “It’s not my fault. I write on the back of my trusty old donkey. The streets are full of potholes. The government plugs up one only to tear open another.” Since he can write, the teacher ought to complain to the government about the holes.

  When the butcher starts to laugh, the teacher tries to rap some manners into him with his ruler. But the butcher shatters the ruler and calls on his pals to strike. They all leave, and the teacher swears at them, calling them barbarians.

  Our class split its sides with laughter. Mr. Katib praised Mahmud for his incisive wit. Nobody can write as amusingly as my friend.

  November 16 — My father is happy that my poems pleased Mr. Katib. He said I take after him; he also wrote verse when he was a boy. After supper he even wanted to hear the poems. My mother yawned, and when he
reproached her for this, she said she had to get up early or her dirty laundry would write a poem for her.

  November 17 — The new history teacher has arrived. A funny sort of guy, all he ever wants to hear from us is dates. Right after getting acquainted, he wanted to test our knowledge. When was Napoleon born; when did Caesar die; when was this emperor appointed and that emperor deposed? After a while, he had us so far afield we scarcely knew when Syria had become independent.

  Dates, dates, dates! What is all this? I don’t think I’m going to make real contact with this teacher. Mahmud says this drillmaster must have been trained by a midwife or else at a funerary institute.

  Sometimes, unfortunately, I have to admit that my father is right. What we’re learning from this guy is sheer nonsense.

  November 19 — For a brief moment Nadia stood by her door and smiled at me.

  November 21 — Today Mr. Katib surprised me in the schoolyard. “Have you sent your poems to a publishing house?” he asked. I was speechless. Publishing house? That meant very little to me. Mr. Katib explained that writers send their stories and poems to publishing houses in order to bring their work to the public. He even gave me the name and address of a publisher. I’m supposed to send him a few of my poems, especially the two I recited in class. He’s really serious. I’m a poet!

  November 22 — I began my letter to the publisher three times, but each time it got too long. Mr. Katib said it should be brief and to the point. How can I describe in so few words why I write poems? I threw Leila out of the room three times because she wanted to touch the letter with her greasy fingers. She is so pigheaded today.

  Now my letter is finally done. I wrote that I was enclosing seventeen poems I had already shown to my teacher. I may be very young, but the publisher should take into consideration that many of our poets started out young—just think of Jarir, the greatest poet of the Umayyad period. I also mentioned my uncle, the best poet in our neighborhood. Then I explained that although it might seem crazy to have a tree fly away, my teacher says that poems without madness are mere sermons. I also wrote I had composed all the poems by myself, without cribbing anything. He can check this himself. My mother can’t even read, and though my father loves poetry, he never writes.