Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

“Haven’t you desired something that doesn’t belong to you?”

“No,” I said with a calm soul, because I love Nadia alone.

“Now think, my son! Haven’t you lied at all?”

“No, not this week,” I murmured with an uneasy feeling, since he was not letting me go.

“That is not possible. That is arrogance. Pray, my boy, that you will be able to receive humility in your heart once again. One Our Father and one act of contrition!”

December 6 — The pastrycook was not at home, but his wife also knows Italian, since she often goes to Italy to visit her in-laws. She translated the three Italian words and read everything that had been translated up to that point.

My father wanted to know whether I’d made anything out of the text yet (funny that this interests him, too). He looked at the page and said the script second from the last could only be Assyrian. He told me that two Kurdish families live on a side street. I should go to the little church nearby and ask a priest about it.

December 7 — Both the Kurdish families and the priest helped me out. The text is complete. The madman is a wise man! Here is his story:

Once upon a time, in a shady courtyard in the Orient, there lived a bird. Around its neck was a heavy, jewel-encrusted ring. The bird felt safe in its marble courtyard, enjoying the flowers’ scent and joyfully listening to the plashing of the little fountain. When the master of the house had visitors, one of them would say, “Oh, what a lovely green bird!”

Another would contradict him, “Lovely, yes, but it’s not green; it’s brown. Look more closely.”

“But my good sirs,” a third would declare, “anyone who has eyes in his head can see the bird is blue!”

Even if the guests never agreed on the bird’s color, all of them were enthralled by the beauty of the ring.

Autumn came. The leaves of the shade trees withered and fell, and the bird could see open sky. One day it caught sight of a flock heading south. It wanted to follow, but the heavy ring kept it earthbound. Day after day the cold intensified, and the little bird shivered and felt the bitterness of captivity.

At twilight on the seventh day, with a powerful jerk, the bird wrenched itself free from the clinch of the heavy ring, which left a deep wound on its neck. Bleeding profusely, the liberated bird fluttered through the wide heavens. Over seas, deserts, mountains and valleys it flew, discerning the beauty of the world. It learned to outwit buzzards and snakes and to live with danger.

On the thirty-first day it reached the huge bird colony in the south and was astonished by the joyous reception of its fellow birds. An owl explained, “The coming of the rainbow bird means health and happiness for us all.” Only now did the bird become aware of the multiplicity of the colors of its own feathers.

The rainbow bird lived a long life and flew all the way around the world. Whenever it saw a ring, however, the deep scar on its neck throbbed.

Tomorrow, as promised, I will go round to all my new friends and take them the translation. This, I think, is the gift the madman wanted to give me. Now I know how many people of different nationalities live together here.

December 8 — After dinner my father wanted to hear some music. He turned on the radio, but instead of music, the voice of an Islamic scholar blared from the speaker. Unlike Uncle Salim, my father listens to everything about religion. I wasn’t really paying attention, but suddenly my father began to curse the man who was speaking, who apparently said that Christians had no real religion and only imagined they followed a son of God.

“He talks as if the Christians in this country were deaf or couldn’t understand Arabic. The devil take him! He’s no authority; he’s an idiot who’s been loosed on us.”

December 9 — A bitter disappointment! I was longing to see the madman and was enormously happy when I spotted him with his sparrow today. I ran home and brought him my dessert, an orange and some bread with marmalade. He would neither sit down nor accept the bread; mute and anxious, he just stared at me. To his sparrow he said:

Fly, bird, fly,

the barbarians are coming.

Fly to the clouds,

where I’ve built a nest for you.

Fly, fly away and take my sorrow with you.

My joy will frighten the barbarians.

I tried to talk to him about the story, but he seemed not to understand and kept repeating, “Fly, bird, fly!” p.s.: Mahmud received an invitation from the editor at Syrian Radio. I thought he was joking, but the letter actually was signed by A. Malas. I am still waiting for a reply from the publisher.

December 11 — Mahmud went to the radio station today. The editor, surprised he was so young, asked whether Mahmud’s father was an author. Mahmud said his father could not even write. Nor did he need to in order to sell potatoes. The editor laughed and had tea brought for him. He said the play still needed a lot of revision, and when he was finished working on it, he would inform Mahmud.

Uncle Salim was in stitches over Mahmud’s play. He said that once, when he was a coachman, he had to pass an examination to determine whether he knew all the new street names and traffic signs. He told the examiner that he really ought to test his horse, because he himself often slept while driving; his horse was the one that found the way. The examiner supposedly had a good laugh and gave Uncle Salim a high grade.

December 12 — I had a great time with my mother today. I pretended to be a journalist and she acted like a know-it-all. It’s a pleasure to hear my mother speak High Arabic. Like a queen, she exclusively uses the we-form and infinitives.

“In your opinion, Mrs. Hanne, what is Syria lacking?” I asked her in the kitchen.

With a slight, affected cough and mincing footsteps, my mother approached the invisible microphone I held in my hand. “When we consider it, we find that Syria is lacking in cakes and fertilizer.”

I could not help giggling. My mother is always playing the blasé, offended Majesty.

“Where are the servants to remove this dreadful journalist from our palace? We do not like journalists. Journalists do not laugh!”

She herself burst out laughing at the word palace, because there we were, sitting in our shabby kitchen. She is truly a sight for the gods when she arrogantly sticks her nose up in the air and, with raised eyebrows, disapprovingly gazes at the poor journalist. It’s easy to have a tremendous amount of fun with my mother.

Nadia asked me about the publisher. I told her she shouldn’t be so impatient. After all, a man in his position has a lot to do. Will he answer?

December 13 — Nabil pinned a paper tail on the English teacher. It looked funny on that clotheshorse.

Today my old man messed up a batch of pound cakes again. Now all day long we have to choke down this dry, burned stuff! He can’t even sell them to the poor.

It’s been raining for days. Still no answer from the publisher.

December 14 — Nadia’s parents and her two brothers went to a party. I sneaked over to her house, and she showed me where she sleeps. I stretched out beside her on the little bed. She lay quite close to me, and I could smell the perfume in her hair. She knows that jasmine is my favorite flower.

December 15 — Hooray!!! The publisher answered today. His letter was friendly, and he thought my poems were good. Great! He wants to print five of them in an anthology of young poets; the rest weren’t bad either. I am to send him a photo and visit him sometime, whenever I choose.

I’m going to appear in a book as a poet! Blessed Mary, I will light two candles in church for you tomorrow.