A Hand Full of Stars

by Rafik Schami

  P.S.: Mahmud laughed himself half to death when I told him about the choir. He wants to hear the story over and over again!

  December 25 — Christmas. Today we had a fabulous meal. My mother really surpassed herself; my father brought home a bottle of red wine, which we all emptied. Even Leila had a little glass.

  The

  Second

  Year

  January 7 — Some of my schoolmates are ill. This weather is really the pits! Leila and Uncle Salim also have colds.

  Today Leila had a fever attack. She sat up in bed and began to sing. Raising her right hand, she swayed back and forth, as if she wanted to dance. I laughed, which my mother found absolutely appalling. She threw me out of the room.

  Once Leila had calmed down and fallen asleep, my mother reproached me: “A person can go mad from such a high fever, and there you are, laughing like an idiot!”

  P.S.: I went to the publisher, but he wasn’t in. He’ll be back on the tenth of January.

  January 10 — Today I went to the publishing house. Was I ever trembling; I scarcely made a sound as I stood before the publisher, but there was no reason to have gotten so worked up. He is a little bald man with rather fat fingers; he smokes like a chimney and coughs nonstop. He was incredibly friendly. My fear that he might consider me too young vanished with his first few remarks.

  He treated me like an adult, telling me about his problems and about the wonderful books he had already brought out and the others he still plans to. I was surprised to learn he doesn’t own a printing shop. He gave me a beautiful book of poems, then talked about my poems, which he intends to publish in the summer. He read them aloud and said he liked the one about the flying tree best and that he also plans to place it first in the book. I was so happy I could have hugged him!

  I walked all the way home; I wanted to be alone. I looked at the bare trees. It was sunny and cold, and I saw myself, hand in hand with Nadia, reading poems in front of a huge audience.

  January 12 — The radio drones on and on about war. My father hates war; he says one person has no right to take another’s life. Lately I’ve been having bad dreams and growing more and more fearful.

  January 13 — Our religion class was great fun today.

  “Why does Jesus have blond hair and blue eyes in all the pictures?” Josef asked the priest.

  The priest jabbered something about Jesus radiating peace.

  But cheeky Josef would not buy this explanation. “Was Jesus born in Palestine or wasn’t he? Palestinians and Jews have dark eyes and hair, and they look peaceful, too.”

  The priest became all the more enmeshed in his own web of prattle. But Josef had only asked the first question so he could push on to the real issue: “And why haven’t we had a Palestinian pope yet? Eh? Or an African pope?

  This threw the priest completely off balance, and he ordered Josef to write out the act of contrition ten times as punishment. What a weak response.

  During recess I told Josef how much I want to become a journalist. He laughed at me. “A journalist lives on questions, but here you get acts of contrition for asking. I want to be an officer. An officer never asks; he gives and carries out orders.”

  I should have picked some other time to tell him.

  P.S.: Leila is well again and just as impudent as ever.

  January 15 — Uncle Salim has also recovered. I’m so glad!

  It was warm out; he emerged from his room to enjoy the sun in silence. Bundled up in a quilt, he sat quietly and smiled at me as I chased all the children out of the courtyard so he would have some peace.

  January 16 — We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When we were coming back from school, Uncle Salim was already waiting for us at the front door. His voice was far from cheerful as he told Mahmud that his radio play had been broadcast at eleven in the morning. Mahmud immediately asked if they had mentioned he was the author. Uncle Salim hesitated—maybe he had missed it. But he could not put Mahmud off with that answer for long. Then he admitted that Ahmad Malas had been named as the author.

  I just don’t get it. There must have been a misunderstanding. We’ll see; tomorrow afternoon the broadcast will be repeated. Maybe Uncle Salim didn’t hear right.

  January 17 — What a dirty trick! Mahmud has been wailing. The shameless script editor passes himself off as the author of the play and doesn’t say a word about Mahmud. Certainly Mr. Katib also heard it today. We told him when it would be broadcast. It just can’t be true!

  And what if the publisher were to steal my poems and pass them off as his own son’s?

  January 18 — Mr. Katib is appalled. He wrote a furious letter to the editor, informing him that over fifty students were witness to his outrageous act of theft. He demanded a correction and an apology. Mahmud mailed the letter, but he doubted it would have any effect. Mr. Katib reassured me, however, that he knew the publisher, and that man would never do such a disgraceful thing. All he knew about the editor was that he was always encouraging young authors to send him their plays.

  January 20 — I really enjoy writing in my journal. Today my parents and Leila went to visit a sick uncle. I made myself some tea and sat down by the window. Nadia briefly looked out of the door to her house and waved, and I sent her a “flying kiss.”

  Distance was the mother of this invention. My lips make a kiss just as if she were there; then I pluck the kiss out of the air like a jasmine blossom. This must be done very slowly. Then I lay the kiss on the palm of my hand and gently blow it in her direction. Momentarily, she catches it and places it wherever she likes—sometimes on her cheek, her lips, or even under her blouse.

  Now, after the flying kiss Nadia put to her lips, I write a little and leaf through my journal. There’s already quite a lot inside it, and this spurs me to keep writing. Otherwise I would never know where something happened and who said what to whom.

  January 22, afternoon — Yesterday we decided to punish the script editor. Josef got the idea to execute judgment in the name of the Black Hand.

  “But we have disbanded!” I said.

  “Justice demands it, my little one,” Josef answered in the deep voice of a grandfather.

  We laughed, and then we talked about what we would do. We decided on a couple of things. In the middle of the night Josef will write with red paint on the wall opposite the radio station: All script editors have hollow heads! Give them your ideas! The Black Hand.

  Mahmud and I will cover Josef. And in a couple of days’ time, he and I will attend to the editor while Josef is on the lookout.

  January 24 — First thing this morning we had to take a look at what had become of the writing on the wall. It seemed to amuse a few passersby.

  “Of course,” one of them said to his wife. “I noticed that myself long ago; that’s why I don’t listen to the radio anymore.”

  A wise guy called out, “Then they should go begging on the street and gather a few fresh ideas!”

  Everybody laughed. It wasn’t long before an official from the radio station came with a bucket of paint and rapidly eliminated our message.

  Mahmud felt great. He laughed at the bureaucrat.

  January 25 — I was going to take care of the editor, during which time Mahmud would see to his car. We sneaked into the radio station’s parking lot and lay in wait. Finally he arrived—he’s a small man who hops nervously when he walks! Mahmud slit all four tires and taped the following message on his windshield: Best regards from the Black Hand. I drew my slingshot and fired a packet of red paint at him. It hit him with such force, he was nearly scared to death. As if deranged, he began to scream, “I’ve been wounded! Blood! I’ve been wounded!” We ran as fast as we could.

  P.S.: Josef couldn’t join us because he had to do his chores. Odd, usually he shirks them.

  January 27 — Now I’m writing lots of poems, especially about Nadia, whom I love very much.

  Tuesday — Shit! Since yesterday I’ve been working full-time in the b
akery. This winter many people have returned to their villages to till their fields, or else they’re emigrating to the Gulf states, or God only knows where they’ve fled to. My father couldn’t find any workers. I’ve neglected my math homework. Our math teacher is all right, but he’s very strict, and through Mahmud he let me know that I have at most two weeks in which to make up the work; otherwise I’ll be put on warning. Our Arabic teacher also asked about me today.

  Funny. Both yesterday and today my old man gave me three pounds after work. Because I’m entitled, he said.

  February 7 — My seventh day in the bakery! Today, at lunchtime, I had to deliver bread to the restaurant near school. The students were just then storming out of the building. A few of the biggest imbeciles in my class gathered around my cart and began to mock me. “Bakery errand boy,” jeered the goldsmith’s son. What a mean thing to say! The others snickered. I would like to have thrashed them all. Then they started to paw the bread, trying to tear chunks off. Mahmud came to my aid, and we succeeded in fending them off for a while. There would have been quite a stink if the restaurant owner had gotten partially eaten bread. But the idiots refused to understand this, and a real brawl ensued. Mahmud and I against the two loudmouths, the dentist’s sons. We showed them what we’re made of; they ran off with their tails between their legs.

  My old man cursed me even more because I came back so late and so filthy. I didn’t say a word about the fistfight. I hope he finds a worker soon!

  Monday — Damn it! The biology exam has come and gone. I’ve already been put on warning in history and math. My father has declined to answer the principal’s letter. He said the principal could wait a few days; I’d soon be back in school. Every day he gives me three pounds. But I don’t want the stupid money; I want to be back in school!

  Nadia says I’ve become very aggressive lately. What does she know? I told her to work in the bakery just one day and see how she feels then.

  February 14 — I can’t stand it! Now I have learned the truth. How can he be so mean? My old man doesn’t want me to continue in school. What a cheat! He’s just been putting me off the whole time!

  Mr. Katib visited my father today, to try to persuade him that he’d be making a mistake if he took me out of school. My father acted as if the teacher did not exist. But Mr. Katib didn’t give up so easily; he was adamant. He waited politely until my father had taken care of his customers; then he began to press my father again. My father said it was no concern of Mr. Katib’s; after all, I am his son, and he can make of me whatever he chooses to. I was so ashamed I wanted to sink into the ground.

  Mr. Katib remained entirely calm and went on talking. My old man got louder and louder. He has no fear of teachers or officials. He said school no longer interested me and asked me in a loud and angry voice whether this wasn’t true. Totally dismayed, I could not utter a word and began to howl. When Mr. Katib spoke of parental duty, my father became really nasty. He reviled the teacher and the school. He knew very well that school was compulsory only through the fifth grade; the teacher shouldn’t think he was stupid just because he was a baker. Mr. Katib tried to explain to my father that he had meant a different duty, but my father was pissed off and pushed him out the door. He so truly enjoyed his victory over the teacher that he flaunted it all afternoon in front of his employees!

  I’m not speaking to him any longer. I feel paralyzed. At some point he tried again to explain the difficult situation he was in and that he, too, would have liked to stay in school. But he had simply been stuck in the bakery. He said he understood my anger, but soon I would have far more pocket money than any of my friends. He would even give me four pounds a day, which would come to over a thousand a year.

  When he had concluded his litany, I asked him why we were supposed to be bakers and nothing else. Surprised, he looked at me and declared this was our fate.

  Not mine! I don’t want it to be! I want to go on in school and become a journalist!

  My mother tried to soothe me. Things would soon be better; I shouldn’t take my father’s words so seriously. It’s just one of those bad times.

  I don’t want to speak to him ever again.

  February 16 — Nadia has changed; she’s become so strange. And that horrid Josef—my so-called friend—has been giving her the eye. I think they’re making fun of me. Mahmud says that a girl should not be ashamed of her boyfriend, even if he is a baker. Mahmud’s mother was disowned because she loved his father. She comes from a very wealthy family and ran off with Mahmud’s father instead of marrying her cousin. To this day she lives with her husband in poverty because she loves him. Mahmud says it’s better to forget Nadia.

  But I can’t! I love her!

  February 17 — I told Mahmud about the fight with my old man. Laughing, he said that all fathers are the same. He would like to see the day when fathers exchange places with their sons, if only for a few hours. Would they be in for a surprise; he thinks many fathers would freak out if they could read their sons’ minds. I admire Mahmud because he can laugh about everything—himself, his father, our teachers, even though he really doesn’t have much to laugh about.

  February 19 — Today I told Uncle Salim my secret. I really can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to run away. He asked if I had considered this carefully. I told him I had saved up nearly two hundred Syrian pounds. I have to get away from here. He looked at me sadly and said he wanted to speak to my father one more time. Maybe, after all, he might be open to discussion. I don’t want to grow old in the bakery and one day say to my son: You are supposed to become what I have been.

  February 26, 11 P.M. — Neither Uncle Salim nor my mother can convince my old man I should go to school. We quarrel every day. Today I threatened to run away if he won’t let me go back. He just laughed and asked where I would go. I don’t care where, as long as I don’t have to work in the bakery.

  My mother wept for a long time; Nadia blanched when I confided in her and said she felt sick; nonetheless, I want to get away. Tonight, when everyone is asleep, I will bundle up my clothes. I will also take my notebook of poems, the photo of Nadia, and my journal. If I don’t get out of here, it will be the end of me.

  I will set out for Aleppo, the biggest city of the north, far from my father’s hand and my mother’s tears. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to laugh and live as I like. Somewhere in Aleppo I’ll find a room I can rent for twenty pounds a month. As soon as I get there, I’ll try to find a newspaper that will have me. I’ll clean the floors, make tea for the journalists, deliver mail. All they need to do is show me how to become a good journalist. And if I can’t earn my living that way, I will get some kind of work during the day, and at night maybe I’ll write about all the things I’ve heard people discussing.

  I want to make a clean break. These are the last lines from Damascus. Nothing holds me here any longer.

  February 27 — Last night I crept downstairs, intending to flee, and there on the bottom step, in the dark, sat Uncle Salim. Did I ever get a scare!

  “Were you going to leave without saying good-bye to your friend?” he whispered and took me into his arms. I started to bawl.

  “Let me go, I want to leave,” I begged him. But he insisted on having tea first—then I could go to Alaska or anywhere I liked. I gave in, and we went to his tiny kitchen. He made the tea in silence and carried it into his room; I followed him.

  “You will be a good journalist,” he said, giving me some tea. “Yes, and I know you will write about me and my silly stories. I know that in my heart.”

  “But the bakery is killing me,” I protested.

  “That’s a fact. It is bad. In the past I envied bakers, but since you and I have become friends, I pity them.” He nodded and said nothing for a time. “But what will be different in Aleppo? Can you tell me that? Not that I have any great love for Damascus. Coachmen, like beggars, have no place they call home. No, I don’t like Damascus, but how will Aleppo be different? If you want to run away, emigra
te to Saudi Arabia. You can earn a lot more money there. Aleppo? It’s just like here, a pile of manure.”

  “But I’m only fifteen, and they won’t let me out of the country!”

  “That’s true. What a stupid government!” He poured more tea, stroked my hair. “And have you given any thought to finding me a friend as good as you to take your place before you leave? Eh? I have two children and thirteen grandchildren, none of whom I’m as fond of as you, and what do you do? You go off and leave me alone. I hate bakeries!”

  “I will never forget you. I’ll write to you,” I promised and started to wail again, for at this moment I felt both my best friend’s sorrow and my own.

  “You’ll write, but I can’t read! I’ll have to go around asking people to read your letters to me. And I couldn’t really ask them to write back, because, after all, that wouldn’t be the same as talking to you.”

  “But I’m suffocating here!”

  “You’re suffocating because you have given up. Salim never gave up! When I was freezing, starving, and had to live like a dog in the mountains because I did not want to go into the army, I, too, considered ending the shame and doing my military service. But I held out and brooded over how to fight my way through. In the spring a shepherd came along, gave me something to eat, and invited me to work for him. He got me false papers, and so for five years my name was not Salim but Mustafa, and my life as a shepherd wasn’t so bad. Many of my friends, who laughed at me at first, later regretted it, for in 1914 the Great War broke out, and many of them were wounded, missing, or killed. But the shepherds never went hungry. Give some more thought to how you can get out of the bakery without running away. You’ve got brains. You know your way around Damascus. Let yourself get an idea, and perhaps we can cook up some scheme together. Salim is always good for a plan. And you, my friend, will be a good journalist. Of that I’m sure.”