A Hand Full of Stars

by Rafik Schami

  “Uncle Salim,” my father cried out into the dumbstruck congregation, “was not a criminal to be smuggled to the cemetery under the cover of night and fog. He was a noble man, and the funeral procession should show this!”

  Men and women both supported him and decided to ignore the curfew. The priest grew pale and wanted to slip away. He said he had a baptism to perform and that he would send a deputy.

  “You’re staying right here,” Uncle Salim’s daughter commanded, grabbing hold of the man of the cloth when he sought to get by the silent men. “If the men won’t keep you here, then I will. He is my father!” she cried, and the priest stayed.

  The women elected, contrary to prescribed custom, not to remain in the kitchen but to go along to the cemetery. None of them wanted to leave the men alone in their distress.

  Our street had never seen the likes of this procession. Hundreds of people accompanied Uncle Salim’s casket, which was borne by six men. Over two hundred women ran ahead of it; this too was something that had never been done. I walked, with Mahmud and Habib, directly behind it in the midst of the crowd. When the pallbearers reached the main road, they turned around three times in a circle so Uncle Salim could take leave of his little street; then the procession advanced into the nearby church. It was crammed full. I stayed outside with Habib, but Mahmud wanted to stand with his father right beside the coffin. Josef came late and quietly joined us. The priest gave a good speech.

  From the church the funeral procession took the broad street to the East Gate of Damascus, then turned right, toward the cemetery; after a hundred paces, it suddenly came to a halt. I couldn’t see anything; I just heard shrieks. We knew something had happened and ran to the front. I seized the knife in my pocket; Mahmud already had his out. A jeep blocked the street, and four soldiers aimed their machine guns at the women. But the women would not stop. They cursed out loud, and Uncle Salim’s daughter tore open her black blouse and cried, “Let the procession go, and shoot me!” She forged ahead, and the other women grabbed stones, from the side of the road and advanced on the retreating military officers.

  When a woman cried out, “We are your sisters and mothers!” I saw a few soldiers look down at the ground. The officer in the jeep gave the command for retreat, and the vehicle sped away. I looked back and was surprised to see that Habib stood behind me with a pistol in his hand. He put its safety back on and stashed the gun in his jacket. Never in my life would I have thought that Habib owned a pistol, though I knew my father and two neighbors had taken their weapons along. I’d heard them discussing it in the stairwell. But it was the brave women who drove off the soldiers with stones.

  At the graveside, Habib made a moving speech in a sad voice, speaking of the wisdom of the deceased and weeping just as the other men and women were.

  P.S.: Exactly as Uncle Salim wished, I placed the marble, the key to his coach, and the dried root beside him in the casket. The priest regarded this as superstitious, but when he learned it was the request of the deceased, he agreed. All I kept was the gold coin. I will fulfill the wish of the robber and of Uncle Salim.

  April 11 — Since yesterday life has returned to normal. I’m back at work. Panzer tanks are everywhere. The radio station has been destroyed, and many buildings in the New City bear the scars of battle. Uncle Salim goes on living in me, and as long as I’m alive, he will remain there.

  About ten years ago his wife died. Roughly a month later, I visited him. I was seven years old at the time and already a fast friend of the old coachman. When I got there, I saw how he set the table for breakfast: two plates, two cups, two knives, and two spoons. I brought to his attention the fact that his wife had died. He smiled and said, “To you, my friend, to you she is dead. In me she is still alive and will remain so as long as I breathe.”

  My mother probably won’t set a place for Uncle Salim next Sunday, but as long as I breathe, he will still be alive within me.

  April 14 — Our silly neighbor Afifa has frightened her five-year-old daughter, and now she’s bemoaning the consequences. Little Hala asked her mother why Uncle Salim died, and she answered, “Because he was old.”

  “But all of you are old; why aren’t you dying?” the curious daughter asked.

  Afifa was in a tight spot and could find no better excuse than “Uncle Salim forgot how to breathe while he was sleeping.”

  Now the poor child cries before going to bed because she’s afraid of forgetting how to breathe. Or else she wakes up scared every night, struggling for air. And Afifa, this stupid cow? She complains that the girl has no sense of humor.

  April 21 — The days go by, and yet I cannot get Uncle Salim out of my thoughts. I miss him terribly. A student moved into his little room. Sometimes when I go downstairs and hear a noise, for a few seconds I think about looking in on Uncle Salim. Funny, although I know he is dead, this happens to me repeatedly. We miss his laughter in the courtyard. No one could laugh as childishly and gaily as he.

  Today I know that he was mistaken about something. “Death,” he said one day, “is a long sleep.” No, death is a final step. It leads somewhere, from which there is no coming back. Uncle Salim may well live on in the trees, flowers, and thistles; every kind of vegetation takes a part of him out of the earth and passes it all on: The trees—shadow and security; the flowers—fragrance and color; and the thistles—barbs and resistance. But no being on earth can make a living mixture out of all that is Uncle Salim.

  No, I have lost my best friend for good. I feel lonesome. I love Mahmud and Nadia. I have great respect for Habib. But Uncle’s place remains empty.

  May 4 — Mahmud is now content at his job. He’s no longer in the kitchen; he’s serving guests in the nightclub. He doesn’t make much in tips, but he gets to cheat a few rich drunks who have oodles of money.

  All the women in the club are blondes. Half of them come from Europe; the other half bleach their hair because men who come to the club like to look at blondes. They dance practically naked in front of these guys who gawk at and drink with them. Of course, when the women order drinks, they demand the most expensive ones, since they get a percentage.

  The owner also has them strip before certain powerful or super-rich guests. The women may be very pretty, but they drink a lot and are desperately unhappy.

  May 7 — Once again Nadia’s father serves a new government, hunting those formerly in power, since a few of them escaped the first wave of arrests. What a filthy pig! Nadia has nothing but contempt for him.

  When I talked about Uncle Salim again today, she said something really lovely: “No one can replace a friend, but I will keep your friend’s faith so that your loss will grow smaller.”

  I love her.

  May 11 — We are preparing the fifth issue of the paper. Habib is writing an article about the Syrian coup; I, a story about friendship, which I’m dedicating to U.(ncle) S.(alim). I cannot reveal his name. Mahmud’s seven questions are better than ever. They are about double standards, death, and the coup. The funniest one goes “Not only are bread and milk nowhere to be found, Oriental dancers have died out as well. In nightclubs American women wiggle and wobble before our eyes. Do you know where all these lost things have gone? Ask the revolutionary government!”

  May 15 — Today Habib went to the cafe where authors and journalists meet and tell one another what they’ve heard. He declined an offer to work for the official government newspaper. He’s living well enough off the translations. The book about Arsène Lupin has come out; he gave me a signed copy.

  Nadia came to Habib’s apartment for two hours. I showed her the newspaper strips (issues 3 and 4), and for the first time she believed me. She took me in her arms and kissed me for a long time.

  She showed me how fast she can type. You can scarcely see her fingers. She learned how to do this in school.

  May 21 — Today my father told me that the apprentice who took my place has left the bakery, preferring to become a smuggler. His village lies on the Lebanese border, and
by smuggling, one can either quickly become very rich or else land in jail. Before he left, he trained a new boy. My father has slowly renovated the bakery, and things are going better for him. I notice this when we eat. Never before have we had so much meat on the table as in these last months. Immediately my thoughts returned to the boy who replaced me, who wanted to be an actor. He was talented, but he didn’t have as good a friend as Uncle Salim.

  June 2 — Issue 5 is finished! We ran off more than two thousand strips. It was an awful lot of work, but the edition is great. In very simple language Habib exposed the lies of the thirty-four rebels who have ruled Syria until now.

  June 7 — We sent up five balloons with about three hundred strips, which sailed down wonderfully in the wind.

  June 9 — The operation in the Umayyad Mosque was somewhat dangerous, but we were able to distribute the strips in four additional churches and in ten smaller mosques.

  Habib is nearly done with the second crime novel about Arsène Lupin. He is very satisfied with himself, smokes less, and has gained some weight. Mariam loves him to distraction, but I don’t think he loves her equally. He’s still always thinking about his wife. Can one person love several people? I think one could love the first one intensely, the second mildly, the third . . . yes, like all the colors of the rainbow. How right the madman was.

  June 13 — Mahmud is really earning a lot of money. He saves some and gives most of it to his parents. His mother is overjoyed and is dressing better and better.

  Today he remarked that a few generals are regular guests for the special performance. They drink like drains and behave like pigs; even the chairs could sag in shame. He hears them talk about what they have done and boast about all the people they know.

  “Wouldn’t it be good to bring all their gabble to light?” I asked.

  “Certainly!” Mahmud answered.

  June 26 — Damn it! A catastrophe! Habib got caught!!!

  I went to visit him, and from far off I saw the police cars. Two armed soldiers guarded the entrance door. I stood some distance away with many neighbors and a few curious bystanders. Again and again police officers from a special division came out of the house carrying cartons and putting them in the cars. Mariam stood on the balcony. She saw me and shook her head. Her face was dead white.

  I waited until the cars drove away, then I sneaked over to her place. She fell crying into my arms and whispered, “What will I do without him? They said he was a traitor and that he got money from abroad in order to destroy the state. My poor Habib!” She sobbed in despair.

  Mariam already knew we were making the paper, but she didn’t say a word when friends and acquaintances of Habib’s asked questions. I took her into her bedroom, where she cowered like a small child, weeping on the bed. I crept upstairs and opened the door to Habib’s apartment with my key. It looked as if a pack of wolves had stormed the place. The closet was smashed up, and the photo of Habib’s wife lay in tatters. Nothing in the apartment was as it had been. Tea, salt, sugar, and coffee were strewn all over the floor; dishes were broken to bits. They had taken all the books, the typewriter, the mimeograph machine, even his laundry.

  Mahmud was terribly shocked when he learned about it. There is no trace of fear in him personally, but he’s terrified for Habib’s life. They will beat him to death or drive him mad and then put him in an insane asylum.

  June 29 — I discussed it with Mahmud. He thought it was now time to give up the gold coin for Habib, that we should get a lawyer with it. But we can’t find one! They gave Mahmud evasive answers as to why they could not take the case, just as they gave me. One alone was honorable, explaining that the defense of political prisoners is prohibited in Syria. Nadia confirmed this. Her boss, that show-off who is always bragging about how many judges have passed through his hands, looked at Nadia with suspicion when she inquired. He brusquely advised her that if she wanted to go on working for him, she had better get back to typing letters and refrain from speaking of political cases in his offices.

  Evidently a flyer is more dangerous than a murder in this country.

  July 1 — Tonight BBC London brought word of the arrest. They must have gotten it from the French paper Le Monde. Thanks to his intrepid journalistic activity, Habib was arrested.

  July 4 — Not until the ninth day did the government newspaper report that a madman by the name of Habib had for a while published a silly newspaper and now was in treatment.

  My boss is extremely peculiar. He scoffed at Habib for having been so idiotic as to have set himself against the entire bureaucracy alone. The gutless dog, I could have spit in his face.

  July 10 — Yesterday we sat together for a long time, pondering what we could do. We have to get Habib out. But how?

  Mahmud suggested that we abduct a general from the nightclub and demand Habib’s release in exchange. Not a bad idea, I thought, and tomorrow I’ll go there and look the club over. Mahmud can offer me a free drink.

  My boss found out from some big shot that Habib is beyond help. The guy claimed he could spring any pimp, hashish smuggler, or knifer, but he wouldn’t touch a political prisoner; he didn’t want to get his fingers burned.

  The Journalists’ Association also rebuffed my boss. “Habib,” they said, “is sick and irresponsible.”

  July 11 — Nadia thinks our idea stinks. She bawled us out for being so stupid and naive as to believe any one general could be so important. She laughed scornfully and yelled at me, “Who knows, maybe you’ll get a medal for having spared the government the trouble of getting rid of a general it wanted to dispose of and didn’t know how to. But Habib won’t come out of it alive.”

  July 12 — Last night I went to the club. I told my mother, and she’s supposed to invent something if my old man asks about me. But I promised her I would neither spend money nor have anything to do with the women there. I would only visit Mahmud and see how he does his job.

  The club is sheer madness! One can scarcely believe anything like it exists in Damascus. Outside, the women we come in contact with refuse even a kiss, and inside they sit and indulge in the wildest Parisian life.

  Mahmud pointed out the minister of justice and then the air force general who took so long to accept the government. These guys don’t look the least bit frightening. The general was a rather small and emaciated man of fifty, dressed in civilian attire. I could have taken him for a cattle dealer or the keeper of a small shop. Uniforms really do make all the difference!

  A somewhat fat blonde performed an Oriental dance. That really was something to see! It simply couldn’t be called dancing; it was nothing but a waggling of fat. Still, the men cheered each time she bent over and showed her breasts. After two drinks, the general was drunk and ostentatiously spoke English—but so badly that I commiserated with his English teacher. The guy had no idea what he was saying; he translated his Arabic exclamations into English word for word. What is lovely in Arabic is macabre in a verbatim translation.

  “Oh, my eyeapple,” he cooed enthusiastically. “You bury me, you sweet bee,” he called to the dancer while rolling his eyes.

  Nadia is right. Any government would love to be rid of such an idiot. They can easily replace him with a similar dope. This evening I will talk to Mahmud and Nadia again.

  July 13 — Today I was in the cemetery, at Uncle Salim’s modest grave. It does not distinguish itself from the earth that bore him and to which he has returned. I set five red roses on it.

  My sadness for Habib is nearly choking me, but I want to live and laugh. I don’t want to give up hope. My old friend Salim taught me this.

  “Everything grows,” he said to me one day. “Everything grows, except for catastrophe. It is largest at birth, and then it shrinks from day to day.”

  July 14 — We spoke for a long time together. Mahmud also became pensive when Nadia asked him, “What do you think Habib would most like to do now?”

  “Make another newspaper,” we whispered as if with one voice.

 
; “Exactly, the newspaper. These murderers ought to know that if they kill Habib, many Habibs will spring up in his place.”

  Nadia wants to collaborate. She wants to report on the women of Damascus; Mahmud is writing about some of the secrets of the last coup. I am writing an article about Habib, the bravest journalist in Syria; Mahmud and Nadia decided this, since I am the one who knows Habib best.

  Mahmud has spent two hundred pounds of his savings on a mimeograph machine and a typewriter. And I contributed a hundred for paper, ink, and balloons.

  It took some time to find a hideout where we could set up our “press.” Here Mariam was a great help. She has an old friend who rents rooms to students. Because the term is over, an attic room has been vacant for a week. It’s very cheap, and young people are constantly going in and out of the house it’s in. The woman who owns the house lives a couple of blocks away in a nice neighborhood; she doesn’t care who her tenants are. The main thing is that the rent be paid each month in advance. Mariam is taking care of this for us and for Habib.

  Tomorrow I’ll go with her to visit the woman and pick up the key. I’ll pretend to be a freshly baked student and that my father is a rich farmer up north. Three months’ rent will convince her.

  Habib needs the newspaper. We will show the military just how many Habibs the imprisoned journalist has brought into the world.

  A Hand Full of Stars

  The Hand is the hand of Uncle Salim, always there to guide the narrator; in the saddest moments, it points the way out of despair. Like the stars that illuminate the dark night sky, the Stars in the hand stand for hope.

  —R. S.