A Hand Full of Stars

by Rafik Schami

  Josef almost flung his cards away. He snarled at Leila, and she bawled until he gave her a piaster. Then she went over to Mahmud. But Mahmud knows how to deal with Leila. He smooched her, and the devil only knows she can’t stand that! She screeched, wiped off her cheek in disgust, and ran away.

  July 5 — In the afternoons women in our neighborhood like to read coffee grounds. It’s crazy! Many of them believe they can predict the future this way. I think it’s funny. Nonetheless, my Aunt Warde does it best. When she does, she is so devout and earnest that it makes us laugh. She drones on and on, without moving a muscle in her face. She incorporates some of the most complicated things, and after a while she transforms the room into a fantastic landscape. Soon we are enthralled and stop interjecting stupid remarks. She speaks of the good fortune and bad that will befall us. Her voice shifts between sorrow, mourning, and joy.

  Best of all, one can never tell how Aunt Warde’s fortune-telling will turn out. Unlike the other women, she never feels obliged to close with a happy ending.

  July 7 — Today I wrote a poem about a tree that doesn’t know what it wants to be. It gets crazy leaves, at times like the moon or like swallows, because everything excites it. Its neighbors make fun of the tree.

  July 10 — What is a prison compared to the bakery? My father has worked there now for more than thirty years without a break. He only took days off for his wedding and my baptism. Even when my sister Leila was baptized, he stayed in the bakery.

  Every morning he’s up at four, and he doesn’t leave work until five in the afternoon. When he comes home, he washes, eats, then sleeps. After a few hours he gets up again, talks to us a little, and goes to the barbershop, where the men get together. When he returns home, he eats and goes back to bed. He’s never awake after ten o’clock.

  Day after day, summer or winter, he always rises at four o’clock without an alarm. I’d like to know how he does it. I never get out of bed until my mother has called me three times.

  I once asked him about it, and he said: “When you have gotten up at four o’clock for thirty years, it’s deep in your bones. You respond to an inner bell, more reliable than any Swiss clock.”

  Maybe he enjoys it, but it is no life for me.

  July 11 — Today at two in the afternoon I saw Nadia. As usual, she smiled at me, but once again I did not trust myself to smile back. Her father was standing nearby.

  I’m not the only one who’s afraid of her father. The whole street seems to be more anxious since he and his family moved here. He is in the secret service. Everybody knows it. Although he wears civilian clothes, you can see his pistol under his thin summer shirt. He might just as well carry it openly; he’s not fooling anyone,

  P.S.: Where shall I get a job this summer? Last year I worked for a stingy goldsmith, and the summer before as a street peddler, selling sweets. My father doesn’t need me in the bakery over summer vacation (thank God), but now that it is summer, I need to earn pocket money; otherwise the winter will be bad. I don’t want to be in a tight spot. I would have liked to get a job with our neighborhood locksmiths, but at the moment, nobody needs an errand boy.

  July 12 — After several spells of weakness—I was dizzy and did not feel well—my mother took me to a doctor. He took blood. Next Wednesday we’re supposed to go back.

  July 15 — Father Michael was a good man. Today he was expelled from the country because he interfered in a brawl with the police. At dawn the police set out to demolish two homes belonging to poor people. Father Michael had gotten wind of this and had spent the night with one of the families. When the cops started to use their clubs, the priest stationed himself in front of the people and stood up for them. Now and then I used to see him in his shabby old clothes, riding his bicycle. He was usually in a hurry. He always greeted us with a smile. My father knew him better, and today he was very sad that this brave man had been forced to leave our neighborhood and country.

  Wednesday — I have thalassemia, a congenital Mediterranean anemia. I did not understand and asked the doctor what sort of strange illness this was. He calmed me, saying it was harmless.

  My mother turned pale. She swore to the doctor that we ate meat at least twice a month. Thalassemia is hereditary, he explained, so named because thalassa means sea in Greek, and Arabs, Jews, Turks, and others who live near the Mediterranean Sea get it. However, I should eat more meat.

  My mother scraped together her savings and bought two hundred grams of minced meat for me, mixed it with spices, and made several kebab skewers out of it. While the meat was frying, Leila was already grumbling that she, too, was anemic. After all, she is my sister. When my mother brought me the food, Leila looked at me with wide eyes. I couldn’t get a bite down. So I divided up the skewers and swore not to touch anything before my mother also ate her share.

  Uncle Salim told me where this illness comes from: “When people go hungry for decades, the sickness gets into their bones, and that’s where blood is made. Then even a kebab skewer every day is no use. People need to eat their fill for centuries.” He says it is stated in the Bible.

  July 18 — For years Ali has been earning money off tourists. He’s a rotten student—except in English, where he shines. Last summer he single-handedly earned three hundred Syrian pounds. I’ll never earn that much in ten years put together. He does it in a rather clever way. My mother says I should sooner go begging in front of churches and mosques than latch onto tourists. It would ruin my character. Of course I don’t believe what she says, but I’m ashamed to speak to foreigners. Ali says they are grateful to him for showing them a few places of interest and finding cheap goods and hotels for them. He gets a cut (about ten percent) from whomever he takes them to, but sometimes he has to beat it when the tourist authorities appear; they don’t look kindly upon his activities. He also has quite a few addresses, and now and then he gets a postcard from someone.

  July 20 — Five days ago Uncle Salim helped me find employment with Ismat the cabinetmaker, a remarkable fellow. I like wood, so I’m very pleased. Ismat’s workshop was like a rubbish dump the first day; it took me two days to straighten it up. Since then I’ve had less to do, and Ismat grumbles continually that he can’t find anything now. But he never grumbles if I do nothing at all for hours. He works very slowly and sings the whole time in a rather peculiar way. When he arrives in the morning, he starts singing a song and repeats it all day long. For ten hours he hums or sings this one tune, even the same words. At the end of an entire day spent working on a small table for a farmer, he seems to feel very satisfied with himself and his labors. He likes the tea I make for him and lets me have some, but he gets angry when I hammer a nail too much.

  Only one client gets on my nerves. She comes by every day and asks about the bedroom furniture for her daughter, who is engaged to be married. Ismat consoles her anew each time. So far, I have still not seen any sign of a bedroom set. But today Ismat promised her that the magnificent bedroom would be ready next week.

  July 21 — Josef is sick and tired of the construction site where he worked last summer. He wants to copy Ali and go hunting for tourists. Ali let him tag along for two days and learn the essentials. Now all Josef talks about is how easy it is to earn money. Unlike Ali, he does not respect the tourists. He thinks they’re dense.

  Today Mahmud and I teased Josef. When we ran into him in the company of an old, much made-up American woman, we addressed him in English.

  He blushed deep red. Josef speaks such wretched English, I asked him how he manages.

  “Well, do you really believe the tourists want to know anything intelligent? All they ever ask is what something is and how much it costs. You can get that English down in two days.”

  July 25 — Today I finished constructing a treasure chest, consisting of three boxes, for my sister. I’ve been working on it in secret for days; Ismat hasn’t noticed a thing. At lunchtime I brought it to her. She was thrilled.

  The bedroom woman came back and screamed at Ismat. He
paid her no mind and simply went on singing. The song could be transcribed this way: “When you’re going up a mountain, you need not have a care; the peak is coming soon, and then it’s easy to slide down.”

  The woman snapped that if he wasn’t through by next week, she would sing a song for him.

  July 30 — Thank God we haven’t seen the woman for five days. Ismat’s lying to her embarrasses me. For five days we have been working away from the shop, at the house of a rich merchant. He gave Ismat the task of restoring a valuable wooden door in his gorgeous house. Today we finished it. A masterpiece. Ismat has really done a marvelous job. You can’t even tell that a few days ago the door was practically falling apart. He carved a few pieces by hand. The man’s wife and only son kept jeering that Ismat was repairing a whole pyramid and not just a simple door. Ismat took his time and continually demanded tea. But the man was so satisfied that he gave Ismat much more than they had agreed upon, and he also stuck five more pounds into my pocket. (For a whole week of work at Ismat’s all I earn is four!)

  August 1 — Today it happened! I knew it would not go well.

  An incredible story: The woman came about ten in the morning. She demanded Ismat either deliver the bedroom furniture or return her three-hundred-pound deposit. Ismat made fun of her and sang his song about going up and down the mountain. Then the lady went wild. She took the warmed-up pot of glue, overturned it on Ismat’s head, and threatened to come back every day and pour a pot of glue over him until the bedroom set was finished; she stormed out in a rage.

  Ismat calmly sat down on a chair and said I should get the police. He acted as if he didn’t notice the glue, which slowly ran down his head, over his shoulders, into his lap, and fell in drops to the floor. I was confused by his behavior and ran as fast as I could to the nearest police station. But the officer on duty was very busy and made me wait for more than three hours. When he finally heard the story, he wanted to throw me out, but I swore I wasn’t making it up. When we arrived in the workshop, the glue had dried, and Ismat was still sitting in the chair. The officer stared at him speechless, as if he were gazing upon a little man from Mars. Then with his finger he tapped on the stuff that covered Ismat’s head like a crash helmet, and murmured, “Hard, hard!”

  “Mr. Officer, the woman attacked me in my own workshop!” Ismat wailed.

  “And why, if you will permit me the question?” the officer shrieked.

  “Because the wood for her bedroom set has still not arrived.”

  “In this country, the best that can happen is that you go crazy; only then are you happy!” the officer groaned. He pounded his fist on the table. “The government lets the wood rot in the harbor. The daughter won’t marry without a particular bedroom set. I spend an entire day with a drunken tourist who has thrown up in the middle of the mosque. And I can’t even hit him since he comes from an allied country. The woman tips a pot of glue over his noggin, and the dopey carpenter lets it dry. Have you got witnesses?”

  This was all too much for me. I thought, Now both of them have gone nuts.

  “Yes, the boy can testify,” Ismat answered calmly.

  “But he is under eighteen, and his testimony won’t be valid,” the officer objected and began to write in his notebook. Ismat stood up and tried to wash the glue off with water. It didn’t work.

  “Try a chisel,” the officer recommended venomously. He inquired about the woman’s address and left.

  August 2 — Today Ismat came to work with a scarf over his head. He didn’t say a word. When his headdress slipped a little, I saw his head was shaved clean!

  August 3 — Now I have given five pounds to my mother and one to my sister. But neither of them will let me in on why they wanted the money.

  August 4 — I have more than fifteen pounds! My mother is beside herself because yesterday I bought her a pair of stockings. She wept for joy. She had never been able to afford such good ones. Today I brought her a pound of coffee. After supper my father drank a cup, and my mother proudly told him I had given it to her. He looked at me in astonishment.

  “My clever little carpenter,” he said to me before going to bed.

  August 5 — For once I’d like to know what my mother is up to. She seems to be planning some sort of surprise for me. Each time I come in the door, she dashes out of the room, as if she had something to hide.

  August 9 — Nadia was nowhere to be seen today. I haven’t caught sight of her for two days! When I came home, again my mother scurried out of the room. But I noticed bits of blue cloth lying around. Good heavens, I think I know what her surprise is!

  August 11 — I was right! My mother may well be the best mother in the world, but, unfortunately, she is also the worst seamstress. Are these supposed to be pajamas? The sleeves are far too short, and the top is so tight at my waist, I look like a scarecrow inside it! The pants are so big and broad, there’s enough room for me and an elephant! I told my mother she must have a soft spot in her heart for animals. We laughed until we cried.

  August 15 — The woman never returned. She let the police know she would forfeit the deposit if Ismat would withdraw his complaint. Today Ismat was summoned to the police station. When he came back, he laughed triumphantly and sang. His hair is beginning to grow back a little.

  August 16 — August in Damascus is unbearably hot. During the day the temperature sometimes reaches 42 degrees Celsius in the shade. At night it’s so hot we can’t sleep. Often I wake up because the bed pricks me as if it were studded with nails. Then, like many others, I sit on the terrace to try and catch the faintest breeze. Damascus is very peaceful at night. At dawn muezzins from hundreds of minarets used to call people to prayer with their “Allāhu Akbar, God is most Great.” Nowadays they leave cassette players running in front of loudspeakers, and the brief delays between starting up the many tape players cause the call to echo a hundred times. Sometimes I fall asleep on the terrace and get a stiff neck.

  August 17 — Uncle Salim does not let tourists photograph him. Somehow these idiots love him in his Arab attire. With his big moustache, he looks terrifying.

  Today I asked him why he covers his face with his hands when the tourists pull out their cameras. He said he once permitted it and afterwards was ill for a very long time. The camera had snatched something out of his soul.

  Well, sometimes he exaggerates a little.

  August 18 — Today the police were at Ali’s parents’ place. They rummaged through the apartment. Then one of them waited until Ali returned and took him along to the station. A tourist alleged that Ali had stolen his expensive camera. The police had pretty well beat Ali black and blue by the time the tourist found his stupid camera in a bar. Ali was free to go home. The police made him sign a paper that said he would not speak to tourists anymore. But by the following afternoon, Ali was back out hunting.

  August 20 — How Josef manufactures his toys so cleverly out of a heap of wire is a mystery to me. From remnants he’s begged off people, he constructs steerable cars and airplanes, houses with windows and doors that open and close, genuine small works of art. When I was able to get two ball bearings from the auto mechanic, Josef helped me build a skateboard. But today I had bad luck. I was on the skateboard, and it made a hellish noise. Still, I was content and sang at the top of my lungs until a wasp stung the tip of my tongue. My tongue swelled up so much I could barely speak. My mother laughed at me and said she wanted to buy two candles for the saints of the wasps, who had finally granted peace to her ears by silencing my mouthpiece.

  August 22 — We all met at Mahmud’s place because his parents had gone to somebody’s wedding. He got the idea to seal our friendship from a film. I like it a lot. Mahmud, Josef, and I—the inseparable three—will found a gang that fights for justice. We already have a name for ourselves: the Black Hand. That was Josef’s suggestion. We have sworn never to betray one another. Josef pronounced the oath, and Mahmud and I repeated it in a half-darkened room.

  “Whom are we against?” Jose
f asked, pulling out his ball-point pen, which he keeps with him at all times, even when he’s in pajamas. I did not want to be against anyone unconditionally. But Josef said a gang always must be against someone; otherwise, it is not a gang. We agreed to be against the secret service man and the grocer who always cheats our mothers.

  August 24 — Yesterday we met at Josefs and drew up our first letter. It was for the secret service man. The Black Hand is warning you! If you file one more report against a resident of this street, you will have to deal with us, Spy! We thought this message would scare enough respect into him that he’d finally leave us in peace.

  But I was the one who was supposed to tack it up on his door. I didn’t want to, since, after all, he is Nadia’s father and I like her so much. But the others said, “First justice, then love.” Mahmud would actually have given in because he knows how important Nadia is to me, but Josef insisted. He said each of us had to demonstrate his courage.

  “I’m no coward; I’ll do it,” I screamed and ran home from Josef’s. But I couldn’t sleep all night, and I didn’t go to Ismat’s today either. All day long I was sullen. How could I ever explain this to Nadia if she found out? Tonight is my final deadline; otherwise, my cowardice will bar me from the Black Hand. The folded piece of paper is in the pocket of my trousers; it is so hot, it seems made of fire. Perhaps Nadia will forgive me.

  August 26 — Last night I stuck the paper on the door. Josef walked by afterward to make sure the task had been carried out. But he hung around Nadia’s house a long time. I wonder what more he wanted there.

  This morning the paper was gone. Had the secret service man read it? I tried not to get too close to Nadia. I was thoroughly ashamed of myself.

  Josef and Mahmud praised me for my bravery.

  August 27 — Today Nadia said her father read a letter that threw him into a rage. He thinks it came from an underground organization. Nadia doesn’t know who wrote it, but she seems to savor her father’s exasperation. We gang members celebrated the news. Mahmud wanted to tack up a second note himself, on which there would be just one word—Wait! But Josef and I refused. First we want to see what happens.