by Rafik Schami
I was quiet a long time, and Uncle Salim went on talking. Of course, I didn’t believe it would work out, but when he said, “Just try it for half a year. Today is February 26. Six months from now, we’ll sit down together again, and if things haven’t improved, I will carry your bag to the bus station, so you can go wherever you like. Is that asking too much? Half a year!”
All right, then, I will try to find a solution here in Damascus. I can always run off after six months have gone by.
“Do you promise?” Uncle Salim asked.
“I promise!” I said and crept back into bed.
March 1 — “Then write me about what’s wrong,” I implored Nadia when she passed our house on her way to get milk.
“Why should I? So you can show it off?” she said coldly. I just don’t understand. She must be crazy.
March 4 — In the early morning my soul throbs at the sight of students, hair just combed, on their way to school. Sometimes my old man notices, strokes my hair, and for a while is very nice to me. Once he even wept and said, “You’re more clever than all those students. I know what kind of son I brought into the world.” Another time he said, “All people are born the same, naked, but after only three breaths they are different.”
Sometimes I really feel compassion for him. I don’t think my father wanted to become a baker either.
March 6 — Today I learned that Uncle Salim slept on the stairs for more than that one night. He was on guard for a whole week. He understood I truly did want to escape. What a fabulous friend!
March 8 — Today I convinced my old man that I can best help him by delivering bread. Well-to-do customers, who can afford to pay a bit more, get fresh bread delivered to their homes. I won’t need to work in the heat and a haze of flour and can win new customers for my father’s business. At first he would not agree to this, but after a week of arguments, he wanted his peace and came around.
It’s hard work. I have to carry a basket containing fifteen kilos of bread and run up and down stairs—some of these people live five floors up. Altogether I deliver sixty kilos per day. There are four rounds; I’m done by noon. Some of the customers are stupid; others are nice and give me a piaster or an apple. What rankles, however, is that now I have to deliver bread to a few of my former classmates, and they laugh at me. Nonetheless, Uncle Salim says I have already taken a giant step forward. I have escaped further instruction at the dough machine or the oven. He thinks it’s only a matter of time before my father can do without me. I’m not so sure; perhaps Uncle Salim is overly optimistic.
March 9 — “Stop telling me about your love,” Nadia snapped at me when I whispered a few terms of endearment to her. Then she simply ran past me into her house. How curious! Whatever does she think of me?
March 20 — I have acquired many new customers. Now, by early afternoon, I’ve delivered one hundred and twenty kilos of bread. My old man is very pleased because his bakery has never had so much business before. I don’t like the work, but most of my time is my own. I read a lot and write poems.
Today I wrote my first article, about a woman I have been delivering bread to for a week. Sometimes she’s as happy as a child, and sometimes she’s so sad that she cries. When I read my work to Uncle Salim, he said, “But a journalist must also know the reason the woman is the way she is.”
March 21 — Today I selected an especially good loaf of bread for the woman. She looked downcast but invited me to have some tea. Her apartment is lovely. After a while, she became talkative, and I got to hear her story.
Her name is Mariam, and she comes from a village in the north. She was very much in love with her childhood sweetheart, but her parents wanted to give her away to a rich old geezer, and so Mariam and her boyfriend fled to Damascus. They married and lived together very happily. Then her husband lost his job, and though he searched long and hard, he could not find work. Finally he learned of a job in Kuwait and accepted it without delay, even though he could not take his wife with him. He was gone for five years, coming back only two weeks each year. Now he has returned for good—a rich man. He has a big business and is very content, but being abroad changed him. He is never any fun; he never caresses her; he bestows all his love on his business. She lacks neither food nor clothing, but she feels very lonesome.
This is the cause of her sadness. Yet, despite all my questions, I don’t know why she is sometimes cheerful. Mariam denied that she ever is. I still want to find out why!
March 23 — Today, once again, I have grave doubts whether my decision to remain here was right. Two of the dumbest kids in my class threw stones at me. The sissies knew I could not leave my basket unattended to pursue them. One stone hit my ear, and it bled.
And Nadia has changed. She avoids me. I haven’t been able to speak to her for days. Josef said she disparagingly called me a baker boy. Somehow or other I have the feeling that Josef enjoyed making a fool of me.
March 27 — “Greetings!” I said, when I saw Nadia with her eldest brother on the street.
“Greetings!” he answered and was about to give me his hand when Nadia looked away and kept walking, as if she didn’t recognize me. I felt a stabbing pain in my heart and completely forgot about her brother.
March 30 — Uncle Salim changed barbers today. He came home with short hair and several facial wounds, but he laughed and swore he wouldn’t go anywhere else. I was amazed he had left the best barber on our street and sought out a butcher who cut him up like a piece of meat.
“For twenty years good old Sami has cut my hair, but from day to day he says less and less. I’ve had enough of his silence. A barber should tell stories better than the radio. Sami regards each story as a loss; it’s as if he counts up every word. And he bores me with his “Yes, yes, you don’t say,” while he doesn’t listen to anything you are telling him. Sami may have a lot of clients, but today I went looking for a new barber and found one at Thomas Gate.
“This barber has an assistant, and since I was new, he left me to the boy while he himself attended to his regular customers. The lad has quite a mouth but was born with bumbling hands. They’re like two big shovels and would be better off on a farmer than a barber. He dragged the shears through my hair as if my head were an overgrown meadow. We both laughed when I told him my haircut looked so ridiculous, the army would be glad to take me. Chattering away, he soaped up my beard, and as he started to shave me, he began to tell the story of the witless king and his cunning wife. Again I laughed because he told the story so well, which resulted in a cut on my cheek. It hurt like hell! He asked a thousand pardons and tried to stem the flow of blood. In the mirror I saw the boss raise an arm to box his assistant’s ears. The sly fox pretended not to notice a thing, but at the last moment he stooped down, and I got the blow! The boss apologized, cursed at him, and went back to his own customer.
“The boy went on talking and cut me again, but it wasn’t so bad. I said I felt like a sheep in his hands; he laughed, and the razor skidded along. It hurt and I cried out loud. This time the boss approached softly, ready to strike, and—because the assistant got out of the way just as craftily as before—his hand landed around my neck. He apologized many times for his clumsiness, and when his assistant wounded my right cheek again, I didn’t cry out. When the assistant was finally done, I wanted to pay, but the embarrassed barber wouldn’t take any money.
” ’A free shave for two blows! I’ll be back!’ I said, and we all laughed.”
Next Saturday I don’t want to go back to my cousin’s. He’s not a good barber; all he ever talks about are his debts.
Saturday — What a crazy shop! The master barber is Armenian; his assistant comes from Persia. But the barber’s grandparents came to Syria a long time ago.
Unlike my cousin’s or Sami’s posh establishments, this barbershop is an incredible mess. In one corner is a grinding wheel; in another, a big, dusty case filled with jars, lavender water, rose water, and jasmine water, as well as two large aquariums full of leeches. The
se worms look disgusting but are supposed to be very useful. Along one wall is a row of chairs and a splendid heap of magazines.
I sat down, greedily read the illustrated magazines, and laughed at the barber and his assistant. The boy would not stop kidding around, and the master did nothing but moan and wail.
When a woman approached the grinding wheel, the barber simply left his soaped-up client sitting there, took the woman’s old knife, and slowly began to sharpen it. The man complained, but the barber suddenly seemed unable to understand Arabic, answering only in Armenian.
The best thing is that the haircut cost only half what it does at my beloved relative’s. I got an ice cream out of it, too.
April 6 — “Let’s go for a walk in the fields,” I suggested to Nadia, when she smiled at me at the greengrocer’s.
“It’s all very well for you to talk,” she said and ran off, as if I were a skunk. What in heaven’s name is wrong with her? Does she love me or doesn’t she?
April 11 — In all his life Uncle Salim never worked more than three days a week; three days he spent with his family, and on the seventh day he withdrew and reflected. He never became rich, nor did he ever live in dire want. Today he told me a lot about the wisdom of death, which only a few understand. “Every moment, my boy, Death tells us: Live! Live! Live!”
Today my old man had a bad day and was in a rotten mood in the evening. When Uncle Salim joined him for tea, my father made an effort to be more cheerful because he respects Uncle Salim and likes him so much. But nobody can hide anything from our old neighbor. He may be nearsighted, but he can always see straight through you.
“Do as I do,” he recommended to my father. “I sometimes had very bad days, too; nonetheless, I learned how to feel good at home afterward.”
“How do I do that, Uncle?” my old man wanted to know.
“When you get to the house, stand outside the door and say to your troubles: ’Get off my shoulders, Troubles, get off!’ Then go in, and the next morning on your way out, stand on the same spot and say: Troubles, you can get back on my shoulders now!’ But you must not leave them behind on the doorstep, for then they will take their revenge.”
My father laughed, stroked Uncle Salim’s knee, and said, “But what if they come after me through the cracks in the door? What then?”
“Then call upon your friend Salim, and I’ll come with my dagger, and you’ll see, they’ll cringe like dogs and slink away!”
We all laughed, and I seemed to feel the troubles disappearing.
April 15 — A tourist has settled in our neighborhood. He has a permit from the government, and according to Mahmud, he converted to Islam long ago. Unlike Robert, he is not much fun; he always has a look on his face that seems to say he’s expecting an earthquake.
At first his Muslim neighbors admired him, praising his piety. But he is so strictly observant they are now fed up with him. He uses far too much water because he washes himself five times a day and his car once a day. Damascus is so dusty that his car instantly gets dirty again. That alone isn’t so bad, but the vehicle has a magnetic attraction for us and for dogs, and we all piss on the tires. The enraged man wrote on four pieces of paper in red Arabic script, “Pissing forbidden!” and taped them inside the car windows. But children don’t read while they pee. They just laugh!
April 18 — I wanted to see her badly. Mahmud suggested that I kick a soccer ball into the courtyard of her house. And so I shot the ball in a high arc over the wall, knocked on the door, and entered the house. Nadia, her mother, and both her brothers were sitting in the yard.
I asked about the ball. The elder of her brothers sneered, “Nadia! Give him the ball; it’s behind the flowerpots.” But Nadia didn’t move a muscle. The younger of the two stood up, gave me the ball, and whispered, “She’s been acting peculiar lately.”
“Leave Nadia alone,” his mother called to him, having heard him whisper.
Nadia really is acting strange. She didn’t even say good-bye when I left. Mahmud grumbled about her.
April 26 — Two months have gone by; my customers are satisfied with me, and no other baker can take them away. My old man is slowly getting back on his feet. His debts are smaller and his bakery is flourishing. The work is not difficult. I can carry the baskets more easily, and the stairs no longer bother me. But the boredom! I read a lot, but I write little, except in my journal.
Uncle Salim gives me strength every single day. He insists on discussing my work. He gets angry along with me, and at times I even have to reassure him that the bakery is not always hell.
I only feel good at Mariam’s. She never lets me leave before I have had some tea or coffee. I like her a lot and think she likes me too. I still have not found out how she can sometimes be as happy and carefree as a child.
For more than a week Nadia has been in the village where her grandparents live. Why, I don’t know.
April 28 — What a surprise! Mariam gave me a blue shirt today. However could she know that blue is my favorite color?
“It will look great on you with your white slacks,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. Is she in love with me? Uncle Salim says love has nothing to do with age, but that I ought to take care her husband doesn’t catch me.
Is he pulling my leg, or have I spiced up my stories about Mariam too much?
April 29 — Today I brought Mariam a cake. I told her about the profession I dream of. She laughed—I don’t know why—and promised to help me. A neighbor of hers, named Habib, is a fine journalist. She will tell him about me. Tomorrow I am supposed to bring along a delectable sweet bread.
April 30 — Ha! It worked out! Mariam is fantastic! She actually accompanied me to the third floor and rang the bell. After a while, a man of about fifty opened the door, still in his pajamas. Yawning, he smiled and asked us in. “How elegant bakers have become,” he said. I was wearing my white pants, my white tennis shoes, and the blue shirt Mariam gave me. The whole day my father had been griping about how I was dressed.
Habib took the bread and sniffed it. “Delicious! Mariam wasn’t exaggerating!”
We had tea in a completely disorganized room. Mariam was happy as a child. As we were leaving, Habib asked if I could bring him half a kilo of the bread every day. Can I ever!
Friday — I knew Habib was free today. I selected the best bread for him. Extra crusty, the way he likes it. I brought it to him when I had finished one of my rounds and had an hour before starting on my noon round.
He invited me to have some tea; I sat in his living room while he made it. Books and newspapers were everywhere, especially French ones. His pants lay on a chair, and on a crowded little tabletop were a bottle of arrack, a big ashtray, and several glasses. Habib must have had guests the previous day.
A thick book by Kahlil Gibran was also lying around. I love this author dearly, but I only know a few of his works. I was leafing through the book when Habib brought the teapot in.
“Do you like Gibran?” he asked me.
“Naturally I like him. He loves children and understands them better than anyone.”
“Do you know much about his tragic life?”
“Of course,” I declared, although all I knew was that the best poet in Lebanon had to become famous abroad before his own country recognized him. He emigrated to America.
“You’re not just bragging?” Habib asked somewhat suspiciously.
“No! Why should I? Shall I recite something for you?” I asked, sure of myself, because I knew two of his pieces by heart.
“Go ahead, my boy. It’s always good to hear Gibran.” I astonished Habib. “A baker boy treasures Gibran, and the editor in chief asks who he is,” he said softly, as if to himself.
I told him I wanted to be a journalist and asked him to teach me something about his profession.
“Forget about it, my boy! I would rather be a baker; at least a baker knows he’s doing something useful.”
In some way I’m afraid of Habib. He’s different from U
ncle Salim. He is often extremely curt. I didn’t dare smoke at his place, though I had cigarettes with me. Unlike Uncle Salim, he is embittered and angry about everything, although his anger can suddenly be transformed into explosive joy. He laughed at my dreams for the future. I was afraid he would not want to see me again, but as I was leaving, he gave me the book by Gibran. “Take it. I want to discuss it with you. But forget about newspapers!”
May 10 — Mahmud has also been taken out of school. His father doesn’t want him there either; he cannot feed nine mouths by himself. “They bring children into the world and then they moan and groan,” Mahmud cursed, for, just like me, he enjoyed going to school. Mahmud’s fondest hope was to become a pilot and see the world. Poverty smothers our dreams even before we have finished dreaming them.
Now Mahmud is working in a café in the New City. Of those in our gang, only Josef is still in school. His mother wants him to be a doctor. She inherited some fields in the vicinity of the city, and each year their value increases; she saves everything for his studies. Josef a doctor! I would sooner let a butcher operate on me. Josef doesn’t even know how to tell a heart from a kidney. He wants to be a military officer, which horrifies both us and his mother.
May 14 — I have grave doubts whether my decision to stay in Damascus was the right one. I tumbled down a flight of stairs this afternoon and scraped my left arm. It hurt like hell. And the people who live in that goddamned high-rise swiped the bread.
Josef said that pearls, hidden in their shells, need the wide sea, pure water, and the sun in order to grow. “Has a shell in the sewers of Damascus ever brought pearls into the world?” he asked sadly. Not meaning to, he grazed an open wound. The bakery is doing me in. What will become of me?
May 16 — I didn’t know Uncle Salim could get so angry. Today he spent a long time preparing his water pipe, then made himself some tea, and sat in the courtyard in front of his door. Children were playing with a tennis ball. Uncle Salim admonished the children to let him smoke his pipe in peace for an hour, but the children of Abdu the truck driver went on playing.