by Rafik Schami
Chalil ended his report with the following sentence: “In order to keep them from getting a divorce, I have sworn never again to ask my parents about a banquet!”
The teacher gave him an F. “Theme lacking.”
Chalil did not return the next day or any other. Now he works in an auto repair shop.
March 30 — Every day Uncle Salim listens to the news. He crouches in front of his old radio, a tense expression on his face; visitors are not even allowed to cough. He is better informed about what happens in the world than our teachers.
Today, when I came to see him, he was in a cheerful mood. The news was that an English journalist had, after years of work, solved a murder in his country. Two ministers and the director of a bank were involved in the case, which at first had been thought to be a suicide. The deceased knew too much. A horrible story. Worse than an American whodunit.
“Here,” Uncle Salim remarked, “here, among us, the journalist would be dead by now.”
“What exactly is a journalist?” I asked, since all I knew was that such people made newspapers somehow or other.
“Oh, a journalist,” Uncle Salim replied. “A journalist is a brave and clever person. With only a piece of paper and a pencil, he strikes fear in a government, its army and police force.”
“With paper and pencil,” I said in astonishment, because every schoolboy has those, and we can’t even impress the school janitor with them.
“Yes, he strikes fear in the government, because he is always searching for the truth, which all governments take pains to hide. A journalist is a free man, like a coachman, and, like him, lives in danger.”
It would be great if I could become a journalist!
Thursday afternoon — Mahmud has a cousin who knows a lot of journalists. He works in a tavern near the newspaper and has to bring bucketfuls of coffee to them in their smoked-filled cubicles. That’s not bad. I like to drink coffee and usually do so secretly, because my mother does not approve.
April 5 — Bakers’ children tend to have bowlegs and tousled hair. The bowlegs come from carrying heavy loads at a young age; their tousled hair is always full of flour. The children of butchers are fat; those of locksmiths have powerful, scarred hands; the children of auto mechanics have eternally black fingernails, and so forth. I don’t have to look hard at children to tell what their fathers do for a living. Only children of the rich give me trouble. They all have velvety hair and soft hands, straight legs, and don’t know a thing.
A few days ago, when Josef told one of these rich brats it was no angel who had brought him into the world but his mother, who had slept with his father, the kid started to cry that his mother would never do such a thing. Josef did not let up. During recess the kid got hold of me and asked me about pregnancy, and I answered him. Then he had to listen to all the witnesses Josef produced.
Once home, the rich blockhead would not touch his food. In the evening he wanted to sleep between his mother and his father. Both of them most likely were hot for each other and were annoyed. They coaxed out of their darling son the reason for his sudden strange behavior, and the idiot told them about Josef. Today the boy’s father came to school and complained about Josef, who was severely punished for allegedly having depraved the character of a child.
The father makes me sick. He sleeps with his wife, is ashamed of it, and blames it on an angel. My father cries out—far too often—that he has sired me.
April 27 — The chick that belonged to me and my little sister, Leila, grew into a splendid rooster. He was very strong and pecked at the legs of the neighbor women whenever they went to hang their wash on their terraces. Later he even attacked my mother and my old man. The only people he left alone were me and my sister. The day before yesterday he pecked my father in the back of his head and wounded him badly. Cursing, my father got his big knife and cut the rooster’s head off.
Leila turned quite pale, and I felt sick, too. My mother says the rooster’s flesh is the best she ever tasted, but for two days Leila and I have been eating nothing but cheese and olives, marmalade and butter.
“I can’t eat my own friend,” Leila says, and she’s right.
May 2 — We spent a week with my uncle in Beirut, the capital of Lebanon. It is an incredibly beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast. I love the sea. My mother is terribly afraid of the water and forbade me to go near it. But my uncle’s house was so close by, and the sea is such a powerful attraction.
The first time I came back from the beach, my mother screamed at me for lying and telling her I was going to the park. My sunburned face betrayed me. So there was no dessert for me that night. The next day the sea drew me back again, but I stayed in the shade. When I came back and merrily talked about the park, my mother said, “Take off your shoes.” She took them and knocked them together, and sand fell out. I lost my second dessert. That night I decided never to go back to the sea, but when I woke up the next morning, I heard the roaring surf and hurried out again. This time I was determined to fool her. I played in the water and ran around in the shade. Before I entered my uncle’s house, I shook out my shoes so carefully that not a single grain of sand remained.
“What a lovely park,” I announced as I walked in, smiling. My mother gave me a searching look, and I spoke even more enthusiastically about the beauty of the park’s garden. She shook out my shoes, and I laughed inwardly.
Then she said, “Come here!” She took my arm and licked it. “You were in the water. Only sea salt tastes like this!”
Strangely enough, that day she gave me a double portion of vanilla ice cream.
May 15 — Just now I saw the tall, gaunt man with the sparrow, who for years has been wandering through the streets of Damascus. What a strange madman he is! And the little bird follows him like a dog. Sometimes it flutters around him, then perches on his shoulder. Whenever the bird rises into the sky, the man calls to it until the bird returns again. Sometimes the man plays tricks on the bird. He lets it sit on the walking stick he always carries and then balances the stick—with the bird perched on it—on his nose.
The madman never begs for food, but as soon as he stands at someone’s door, people come out, bringing him a plate of vegetables or rice. He is very proud. He never takes anything with him. When he is satisfied, he leaves. My mother said he is probably a saint, because she has never heard of anyone besides Solomon the Wise being able to talk to birds.
Uncle Salim confirmed what my mother said about Solomon: “One day Solomon called to the birds, and they all came, except for the sparrow. Solomon called repeatedly, but the impudent sparrow came only after the third call. The wise king asked why it had not come at the first call, and the pert bird answered that it did not want to. Then Solomon the Wise cursed it: ̒From this day on, you shall no longer walk like all the other birds; instead, you shall jump!’ And since then, the sparrow hops.”
May 18 — Uncle Salim often tells me about a journalist who was his friend for many years. Later the man became famous, but when he was just starting out he was poor, and Uncle Salim helped him however he could. Out of gratitude the journalist wrote a long article about his friend Salim. Since Uncle Salim cannot read, he gave the newspaper to a neighbor, who read him the journalist’s praise of his wisdom and generosity.
With Uncle Salim you cannot distinguish between fantastic tales and real life. Everything is so interwoven, you don’t know where one thing begins and another ends. So today it was quite a surprise for me when, while telling me about something, Uncle Salim began to search for a strongbox on a shelf. He took it down and opened it. What was inside? The article! The journalist’s name was Kahale. The paper has yellowed, but the article glows. I was happy to fulfill my old friend’s wish; slowly and with pleasure, I read it aloud. A splendid article about a person ahead of his time. When I reached the end, Uncle Salim’s eyes were filled with tears.
Saturday, June 1 — Around nine o’clock the principal came into our class. Every year he hands us our end-year evalu
ations himself. I already knew I would have good grades, but I had never imagined I would be first in the class. The principal praised me but emphasized that, although I could now serve as a model for the whole class, at first I had been a rather mediocre student.
My classmates listened impatiently, as they did every year; they wanted to go home, to slam their book bags into a corner and run outside. After all, it was the beginning of the holidays. But I, I couldn’t get enough of his otherwise boring speech. I—the son of the baker—am first in the class! I could embrace the entire world!!! As I jubilantly burst into our courtyard, I nearly stumbled over my mother’s friends, who sat with her in the shade of the tree, drinking coffee. My mother kissed me proudly and accepted with pleasure her neighbors’ good wishes.
I could scarcely wait to show my father my fabulous end-year report. For now I thought I could demonstrate to him that continuing in school would be right for me.
Worming my way through the people in the bakery, I shouted the news to my father over their heads. But he paid no attention to me, no matter how much I tried to make myself conspicuous. All he cared about were the customers and his money, and then he even snapped at me, “What are you standing around for? Help this stupid Mustafa! The bread is towering up in front of him, and he drags his feet over the floor like a turtle with foot trouble. In the meantime the shelves are empty.”
I knew perfectly well he did not want to listen. My father does not like school.
Enraged, I snatched a few loaves, banged them down on a shelf, and set to work. After a couple of hours in this heat, my dusty clothes stuck to my body.
Not until we were almost home, just before we came to our door, did he say: “You are first? That’s good. But the bakery is a gold mine.”
Again he blathered about the customers who paid him for bread, although he himself had no such sublime schooling behind him.
Why didn’t I scream in his face that I hate his bakery?
Of course my mother noticed my bad mood right away. All through dinner she talked about how the neighbors had congratulated her. As always, my father had to have the last word: “What do these stupid educators know of life? Our son will be a baker, and that’s that!”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. Without saying good night, I ran to my room. I do not want to be a baker! I do not want to be buried alive in a bakery! I want to travel and write! I want to be a journalist. Yes indeed, now I know it; that is my calling! I swear to God, now at 9 P.M., on Saturday, the first of June, that I will never become a baker. Never!!!
Sunday — On Sundays, after church, I am allowed to do as I like, undisturbed. But having to go to church in the first place is a bothersome duty. My father knows I don’t like to go. When Sunday school is in session, we have to line up for attendance, and the religion teacher calls out each name and checks if anyone is missing. But now, despite the fact that we are on vacation, my father wants me to attend mass! Otherwise he won’t give me my allowance. Josef's mother is the same. But we have a plan. One Sunday Josef will go to church, and the next Sunday I will. We’ll tell each other which Gospel passage was read and what the priest preached about. For that’s all our parents want to know.
I was the first to go because, idiotically enough, I drew the short straw. I always have bad luck! Today the priest gave a boring sermon about the decline of morals in Syria.
I think Jesus was very brave, throwing the merchants and money changers out of the temple like that. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are the Jews blamed when the Romans killed him?
June 12 — My father is up to something. He said to my mother, “The boy will soon be fifteen and he still has no trade.”
Over dinner a fight started. I only wanted to have a little fun, so I asked my mother if she knew how many synonyms there were in Arabic for the word lion. My mother didn’t know a single one. I explained that there were thirty for lion and eighty for dog. She laughed heartily and said she had always known a dog was more useful than any number of lions.
My father grimaced and railed against lions, dogs, and schools that give snotty-nosed brats nothing but feeble minds. He thinks I go to school because I don’t want to work in the bakery. He believes that school is made for people in the higher classes. Poor laboring devils like us have no business there. When I retorted that I’ve already learned a lot and that he can’t even do algebra, he laughed scornfully. “Algebra!” he cried. “Who needs algebra? What I need I can calculate in my head.” I am supposed to banish school from mine.
June 13 — I tried to tell my sister a horror story today. But she never gets the creeps. In the middle of the battle between the hero and a terrifying dragon, she fell asleep. I felt ridiculous.
P.S.: Leafing through these pages, I just noticed that I still haven’t written a word about Nadia. I love her. She is thirteen and lives two houses down the road. Funny that I’ve been able to keep it a secret from my journal for so long.
June 15 — “Why school?” my father asked me. “There are too many teachers and lawyers already.”
I told him I wanted to be a journalist. But he laughed at me. He said it’s a profession for good-for-nothings who sit in cafes all day, spreading lies. He doesn’t want a son who runs around like a vagabond, twisting people’s words and writing indecent things about them. He says we are Christians; I must get that into my head. If I were named Mohammed or Mahmud, I would only have one chance. When I asked him what he meant, he told me in a sorrowful voice that one day I would come to find out.
Nadia says she would rather marry a journalist than a baker, but she would never love anybody who worked for the secret service.
June 17 — Wow, what a wild evening at Uncle Salim’s! The old man has experienced so much in his long life. One day I will write a poem about him, or a long story.
I have decided to keep my poems in a lovely notebook. I am forever losing slips of paper.
June 19 — My mother says Uncle Salim tells lies. I wish my teachers would lie a little, so their lessons would be as fascinating as Uncle Salim’s stories.
June 21 — Josef has been making eyes at Nadia again, even though he knows quite well that she is my girlfriend. What a devil! I know what I’ll do. Today he can tell me once again what went on in church, but next Sunday, when I’m there, he can just wonder! I’ll simply tell him the wrong Gospel!
June 27 — Damn it! Mustafa, the apprentice in my father’s bakery, has cleared out. I knew this was coming. In the summer nobody can stand the bakery. So I had to work there today, taking bread from the oven ledge and piling up the loaves on the shelves. My father was very nice to me. He always is when I help out in the bakery. But I can’t bear this work. The steaming loaves burn your hands until you can’t feel a thing. Now my palms are red and swollen. And it’s so incredibly boring!
But then something funny happened. I laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants. I was supposed to assist our journeyman baker, who in the afternoon was already preparing the sourdough for the following morning. An older customer, all dressed up in a dark suit, was grumbling about the bread he had bought from us yesterday. It had become hard as bone. Naturally my father would not stand for such an affront, and so he squabbled with him for a while. Then he politely apologized and promised it would never happen again. But the customer became more and more upset and would not let my father total his receipts in peace.
In the meantime, I had climbed up on the stack of flour sacks and was trying to lower the uppermost sack so the journeyman could catch it. I grasped the stupid thing securely by its corners, but a sack like that easily weighs fifty kilos, and this one was so crammed full that it slipped right out of my hands. My fingers clutched at the seams as I tried in vain to hold on. The journeyman leaped back, and at that very moment the sack burst. The flour poured like a waterfall over the customer. A cloud of flour went up my nose, and the disgusting stuff got into my eyes. My father coughed and showered us with the choicest terms of abuse. The man stood stock-st
ill, a living, breathing plaster cast. When my father turned and saw him, he burst out laughing.
The journeyman made the whole thing even worse. He rushed up to the speechless customer and brushed off his suit with doughy fingers. “We’ll have you cleaned up right away, sir, right away,” he assured him.
When I picture it to myself—the good suit full of flour, the sticky hand prints—I could laugh out loud all over again. Of course, the customer did not find any of this the least bit funny. He stormed out of the bakery, cursing.
Hopefully my father will soon find an apprentice. I cannot stand the work.
My poems look much better in the notebook.
June 29 — Today the journeyman who works at the oven said that all bakers go to heaven. When I asked him why, he answered with a laugh, “Because we already endure hell here on earth.” Does he hate this work as much as I?
June 30 — Thank God! My father has finally found another apprentice. I don’t have to work in the bakery any longer.
Today a fight broke out among the neighbors. Playing ball, Josef broke a neighbor’s window. The wife of Nuri the florist berated Josef and his family. After only a few minutes, all the neighbor women were arguing over everything imaginable, the windowpane long forgotten. After about an hour, they were all sitting at my mother’s, harmoniously drinking coffee.
July 3 — My friends and I can no longer pull the wool over my sister Leila’s eyes. Once upon a time we could send her to Uncle Salim with the task of telling him to keep an eye out for his gazelle. Uncle Salim would always act surprised and say to Leila, “Well, I never, has the gazelle run away again? Come, we’ll look for her together, but before we do that, I’ll tell you a tale. Okay?” And Leila would become engrossed in the story and forget all about us and the gazelle. We would have the peace to enjoy our game of cards to the end.
Today, when I wanted to send her away, she said, “Uncle Salim never has had a gazelle.” Just to be contrary, she sat down beside Josef, who cannot tolerate little girls anyway, and looked at his hand. Suddenly she called out, “You have three kings, but how come you only have two jacks? Eh?”