by Rafik Schami
The merchant screamed in a rage and reproached my mother for being merciless toward his children but brought the price down a peg. The reproach of merciless-ness should have moved my sensitive mother to tears, but she laughed, wished the children good health and happiness, and offered a few piasters more.
This time the man had a mild and funny reaction. He reminded my mother of the first time she had bought something from him. It was thirty years ago, but he still remembered her wearing a blue dress at the time and how pretty she looked. (She still looks marvelously pretty!) He further reminded her that the clothes she made from his fabric lasted for years, and then he lowered the price a little.
Instead of growing teary-eyed from so much praise, my mother reacted drily. Back then he had been very kind because he had been poor. But today he was rich and obstinate with a customer who passed up all the other merchants and came only to him. (This was not true. She had already checked out and priced the same material at other booths!) Nonetheless, she offered a few more piasters.
“What? So little?” the merchant moaned, indignant. “If my wife hears that I have sold this material so cheaply, she’ll divorce me!”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” my mother laughed. “Maybe she’ll find a younger, better-looking merchant. You’ve grown too old and stingy,” she added, offering a few more piasters.
The merchant laughed, praised my father for having married such a good, thrifty woman, and lowered his price somewhat but swore upon his pilgrimage to Mecca that this was his final offer.
My mother pretended she didn’t know he had ever been to Mecca. “What? You, a pilgrim? I didn’t know that. When did you go?”
The merchant described his laborious journey to Saudi Arabia and the sublime moment when he reached the holy place along with countless other believers. He didn’t go into too much detail, knowing we are Christians, adding that at the next opportunity he would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. For Muslims, this is the second holy city after Mecca.
My mother got up and said on her way out, “You don’t really want to sell it. I would have bought a great deal,” and she offered him a new price, a few piasters higher than the last. Despairing—or at least seeming to despair—and with a loud groan, he gave my mother the cloth, forgot his oath, and did not neglect to ask her not to tell anyone she had bought the cloth so cheaply. He didn’t want to be ruined.
Extremely happy at this turn of events, I took the bolt of fabric and hurried home with my mother. She praised the merchant and his honesty. I just don’t get it.
December 6 — I had a marvelous time with Nadia. For the very first time I got to spend two whole hours alone with her. Her mother told me to look after her and send her home before five o’clock. (Even now I don’t understand what she means by “look after.” Was I supposed to protect Nadia from myself?) I went out alone, she followed, and we sneaked over to Habib’s apartment. It was incredibly wonderful to lie beside her and caress her. She kissed me hard. The time went by so quickly; suddenly it was a quarter to five. Nadia hurried home, and I walked slowly at some distance behind her.
P.S.: Nadia thinks I must kiss so well either because I know a married woman or else because I have seen a lot of erotic films. I swore that I love no one but her. And films? Maybe I have seen a few skin-flicks but none in which the protagonist kisses the belly and legs of his beloved, which is exactly what Nadia likes best. We agreed to meet every Friday, my day off, at Habib’s, even once Habib is out of jail. I will tell him this, and I’m sure he’ll understand. After all, he loves Mariam!
Tuesday — What a delightful surprise: After three weeks, Habib was released today! Early in the morning he came to the bookstore. We gave him a frenzied welcome, and my boss had lemonade and coffee brought out. But Habib seemed bitter. When he asked me for his key, my boss told me to go with him. He furtively slipped twenty pounds into my pocket and whispered, “Get him something!”
Habib has a stubbly gray beard. It suits him and makes him look older. As I opened the door to his apartment, Mariam was already running up the stairs. She’d heard our voices in the stairwell. Habib embraced her and she kissed him.
When he saw the apartment, he was amazed at how neat and clean it was. “I think I should go to jail once a week,” he said, smiling.
I disappeared for two hours and went shopping. I’m no ogre! When I returned with a full shopping bag, Mariam was already gone. The bed looked as rumpled as ever. Habib had a loving smile on his face and was happy about the things I’d brought. He talked to me about prison for a long time.
Right now I’m dog tired; tomorrow I’ll write it all down.
Wednesday — What Habib had to endure those three weeks sounds like an incredibly gruesome tale. With about fifteen other men, he was locked in a cell that had room for five at most. Ten of the prisoners had to stand close together so that five at a time could take turns lying down for a few hours. It wasn’t always easy to maintain harmony among the prisoners; exhaustion made them aggressive, but after a while they were able to manage.
Habib had a very hard time. After all, he’s a member of the ruling party. In the beginning the other prisoners wouldn’t speak to him. At first they thought he was an informer and reproached him with all his party’s atrocities. This hurt Habib more than the ruthless torture that was to come.
The next three days he was left in peace and could prepare himself for the trial. This, however, was to no avail, since his interrogator did not want to hear why he had published the article, rather who had paid him to destroy the reputation of the government. Habib exonerated all his colleagues and even the editor in chief, but this, too, was pointless.
On the fifth day he was subjected to barbaric torture. He collapsed, unconscious, and awakened in the cell, where his fellow inmates had forgotten their hatred and accepted him as one of them. They gave him cigarettes that had been smuggled in and told him why they were there.
Every party, profession, and ethnic group in Syria was represented in that cell. Among them was also a madman who had been called a spy. He continually sang sad songs about his sparrow, whose murderers he sought. Things went very badly for him, and after several days he became ill. But then something happened that greatly astonished the prisoners. A sparrow came flying, perched on the little windowsill, and trilled away as if possessed. At first the prisoners wanted to drive it off, but the madman was very happy about the bird and fed it with bread crumbs from his own mouth. Every day the sparrow came flying, but on the third day the madman was so sick he had to be moved. After that the sparrow vanished. I asked Habib to describe the man—I’m sure he was my madman.
When I was leaving, Habib said to me, “In this country no one can practice journalism.” All he wants to do now is translate.
December 20 — Habib is diligently working away on his translation. He was in an excellent mood today, but when I asked again if he really wanted to give everything up because of his imprisonment, he screamed at me and tore off his shirt. Horrifying scars cover his entire chest!
“This is journalism!” he cried. I looked away. It hurt me. But he calmed down, and we laughed about the editor in chief, who now constantly apologizes on the radio and in the papers, in the hope of getting a job again.
I asked Habib if Nadia and I might come to his place once a week. He guffawed. “Once in seven days? Are you monks? You can come here seven times a day.” He winked at me and nudged me in the side. Of course I have to tell Nadia about this right away.
December 23 — Habib and I have had another fight. I can’t get it out of my head that one should be able to work as a journalist here even without the government newspaper. But Habib asked aggressively, “How then?” and I could not help myself; I screamed back, “If I had been a journalist as long as you, I would have found hundreds of ways.” But he is stubborn and continues to enjoy translating the novel. Today he reproached me, calling me an incorrigible idiot. Let him say that. It doesn’t offend me in the least.
/> The
Third
Year
January 11 — Today I saw the madman. They let him out of jail. He was squatting outside the Umayyad Mosque, mute as one of its stone pillars. People went by without paying him any mind, though now and then someone tossed him a coin.
I recognized him right away, even though he is greatly changed. His hair has been cut; his skin is very pale. Two round scars gleam from his temples; they look like they were burned in with two glowing metal rods. He sat entirely still. The pigeons, which enjoy special protection in the proximity of the mosque and thus fly around cooing in droves, don’t interest him at all.
I squatted down beside him and started talking to him. He looked at me with wide eyes and repeated my question, “What’s wrong with you, Uncle? What’s wrong?” He rubbed his temples with his knotty fingers and began to cry. Then he gazed into the distance and was silent.
What horrifying torture this poor man must have endured. Out of a wise man they have made a miserable bundle of flesh and bones.
January 15 — Today I had an unpleasant row with Josef. From day to day he grows more enthusiastic about the army. He plans, because he is so big and strong, to join the paratroopers and go to war. I told him a joke I’d heard from Uncle Salim, who cannot tolerate any army on earth:
A parachutist is supposed to land behind enemy lines and carry out an act of sabotage. His commanding officer explains the delicate operation and how it should be accomplished: “Since your mission is very important, we have equipped you with a double parachute. After you’ve jumped, press the green button, and the chute will open. If it doesn’t work, which seldom happens, press the red button. Then the second chute will open with one-hundred-percent certainty. When you land, you will find a motorbike leaning against a tree. Get on it and go to the rendezvous.”
The paratrooper jumps. He presses the green button several times, but the chute doesn’t open. “Okay,” he says, and pushes the red button—once, twice—but the second chute doesn’t open either. “This is not my day,” he curses. “And when I land, I bet the motorcycle will have been stolen.”
Josef didn’t find the joke about the stupid paratrooper the least bit funny. He was annoyed and said that only cowards like myself and senile Uncle Salim could tell such jokes. That hurt me a lot.
January 20 — How can one publish a newspaper without the government banning it? Lots of underground parties print their own newspapers and then pass them from hand to hand. I’ve gotten copies of two such newspapers from acquaintances. They were one big yawn. Is it worth endangering your life for such imbecilic drivel? No!
Habib has left the ruling party. I share his happiness. Mariam and I had tea at his place. Eighteen years he was in the underground and suffered every disgrace because of his party. Once it came into power, he couldn’t remain in it for even two years.
January 27 — We wanted to see another skin-flick. Mahmud arranged to get the tickets. This time I specifically wanted to seek out my math teacher and say hello to him, but he wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t see him.
Shortly before the film began, a man got up on the stage and loudly announced, “Unfortunately, we cannot show the film. The new chief of police has found out about it, and in half an hour he will send in plainclothes-men. If he catches us, he’ll have the theater closed.”
The lights went down, and suddenly a kitschy, schmaltzy film came on. The entire theater went wild, and somebody began to tear up the fine cloth of the lovely seats. Soon others started to jump up and rampage. Even Mahmud got out his pocket knife and slit the upholstery.
Amidst laughter and angry cries, the sweet dialogue of the schmaltzy film could be heard. We all laughed at the enamored hero, who had smeared a kilo of grease into his hair and was in a garden saying to his former lover, “I hover like a cloud when I see you. You and I, two flowers in the garden of love.”
Amidst unanimous howling, someone cried out, “I will deliver some fertilizer to your garden! Right away!” When the owners finally understood and turned on the lights, the auditorium was one big rubbish dump.
They deserved it!
February 13 —Habib has changed somehow. He laughs a lot more and drinks less. He translates as if possessed. I brought him an exquisite meat pie that my mother made especially for him. But he won’t talk about the paper.
Thursday — “How would you get a message or a story to a lot of people?” I asked Uncle Salim.
“I would take my whip and go to the radio station, fight my way through to the microphone, and say: ’Ladies and gentlemen, this is Salim the Coachman speaking to you. I want to tell you a story. Whoever does not wish to hear it can turn off the radio for five minutes, because I don’t want to bore any of you—from old men to infants—as our president does.’”
“And what would you do when soldiers came while you were talking?” I laughed.
“Well, then everybody listening would experience real theater on the radio.”
My dear uncle has not been outside our quarter for a long time. There are several panzer tanks outside the radio station. He wouldn’t get very far with a whip.
February 19 — Habib gave me a fine shawl to take to my mother. She was delighted with the present. It had to be very expensive, she said, because its white wool comes from abroad. She said she’ll drape it over her shoulders when she drinks her early-morning coffee on the terrace. My mother reciprocated with a small flask of orange-blossom oil she had distilled herself. Habib likes this scent very much.
February 27 — For two hours Habib made himself scarce so I could be with my Nadia in his apartment. Nadia was embarrassed about meeting Habib. We told each other our dreams. It was wonderful to be able to hold her in my arms.
I have written two poems about our secret trysts.
March 13 — Habib has gotten more translation jobs, two short crime stories and a thick novel. His publisher is enthusiastic about the good work he has turned in.
Now he seldom drinks, but he still smokes like a chimney. Last week my mother did Habib’s laundry, and Mariam helps him somewhat with his household chores. He has two left hands and stumbles over things as if he had a third leg.
Unlike Habib, Uncle Salim does his laundry himself. Nor does he ever allow anyone to tidy up his room, not even when he’s sick.
March 15 — I have the solution! Today I went back to the bazaar with my mother, and when she once again sat at one of the big merchants’ booths, having offered less than half of the asking price, I meandered through the bustling stands. I knew my mother would buy the fabric; she had been talking about it for three days and pricing it with several different dealers. I knew that she and the merchant would come to terms somewhere in the middle of their price range but that it would take some time. I was right. Half an hour later I returned; the merchant was happily wrapping up the cloth for my mother. But something else I saw at the bazaar was more important than all the cloth in the world.
Some dealers are so poor that they don’t even have their own booths. They transport their wares on carts or simply in big pieces of cloth and offer them for sale in the middle of the bazaar. The well-off merchants in the surrounding shops do not like this, but they allow it, primarily because the small dealers tend to sell third-rate goods for very little money.
“Socks thrown away! Socks given away!” a boy loudly cried.
A cluster of people immediately gathered round. On the cloth was an enormous heap of bright socks. People pushed and shoved because two pairs cost but one measly Syrian pound. I pressed forward and managed to pick out two pairs.
Once I got home, I wanted to try the socks on. They were held together with a simple clip. Instead of the transparent paper that is usually stuffed inside to help them keep their shape, the manufacturer of these third-rate socks had used ordinary shredded newspaper.
I let out a yelp of excitement, for I suddenly knew how to get a newspaper to other people quickly, distributing it without th
e government noticing a thing.
I hurried to Habib’s, but the little red slip of paper was hanging on his door. (We use it when one of us is inside with his girlfriend, so the other won’t come in. Nowadays I have my own key to his apartment.) I had forgotten that Mariam’s husband had gone to Beirut for two days.
I’ll tell Habib about it tomorrow.
March 16 — I told Mahmud about my idea, and he thought it was great. I wrote a rather long story on a narrow strip of paper and stuck it inside the socks. You can’t see anything from outside.
“And what if people just throw the paper away?”
“They might do that. But as soon as word about the first sock-newspaper gets out, nobody will throw away the paper without reading it first.”
Mahmud suggested we distribute the strips of paper not only in socks, but everywhere—in public toilets and in cinemas. He told me that one day in the cafe he got to know an old author who had been in prison for many long years and had written an entire book on three hundred cigarette papers. He was even able to smuggle it out and get it published.
March 18 — First Habib laughed at me. I was fit to scream, but then he grew silent and began to pace back and forth, lost in thought. I told him that Mahmud and I wanted to sell the socks—quick as lightning and each time somewhere different, in and around Damascus.
“What will you do if they catch you?” he asked with concern.
“I’II go to prison like you, Father, and hundreds of others. But I want to be a journalist, to seek the truth and make it known.”
Habib deliberated a while. He opened the door to his closet and gazed at the picture of his wife. Then I knew he would go along with it.
We continued to talk for a long time. Tomorrow I’ll find out where the socks come from, and the day after that, we’ll meet at Habib’s.
March 19 — The cheap socks are manufactured at a small factory near the river. Four pairs cost one pound when you purchase in bulk, so we’ll even make a nice profit.