Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

The republic survived for one hundred and fifty years. First it extended from the region of the Persian Gulf all the way to Iraq and Syria, but then its arch-enemies, the rulers of the surrounding nations, banded together, and the much-hated republic fell under their swords. The enemies of the Qarmatian Republic let no child or woman escape. They were considered to be contaminated — of course with the most dangerous bacillus of all time, freedom.

When Habib begins to talk about the Qarmatian Republic, he simply does not stop. His eyes take on a strange glow. But he doesn’t believe a word of the legend of Paul; he says it’s a dull tale, invented in retrospect, so that Christians would have tangible places and persons. He may not believe it, but our school books are absolutely silent about the Qarmatians and their republic. An epoch of one hundred and fifty years doesn’t rate a single line in our history books! Nonetheless, we are very well informed about what the caliph Hārūn ar-Rashīd did when he once couldn’t sleep, and exactly what the other caliphs said and how they expressed themselves in various circumstances, and when they were bumped off, and how long they ruled.

My mother believes every letter of the story of Paul, but when I told her about the Qarmatian women, she said Habib must have heard this story from his mother. Because she knows that all women in the world tell stories like these, not because they have happened, but because they ought to happen.

How much of this is true or false does not interest me. These stories persist, and we live in their midst.

October 20 — For days one question has preoccupied me. How does one write an article about beggars? I suggested this theme as an exercise, and Habib agreed to it.

The new mayor of Damascus sends his police force out to hunt beggars. When he took office, he promised to rid Damascus of them within half a year. Beggars allegedly make the city look bad to tourists. I spoke to some beggars and to Uncle Salim and came up with three pages; Habib doesn’t like long articles.

I wrote that I found the new mayor genuinely stupid for persecuting the poor and not poverty. If tourists stay away because of them, then a monument to beggars ought to be erected (old Salim gave me this idea). The mayor comes from one of the wealthiest families in the north. His grandparents owned whole villages, including the inhabitants. His father has a bank, and now the son wants to persecute the very people his parents and grandparents put out of work. For many beggars were once craftsmen or farmers who lost everything and came to Damascus in the hope of finding work. The beggars, I wrote, understand more about people and their souls than many schoolteachers. All they need do is look at someone, and instantly they know how to address that person. Does the mayor know how to do this?

October 29 — Today, when I got to Habib’s place, he was rather down. I sat for one whole hour. He didn’t say a word; he just smoked and slowly, very slowly, drank a glass of arrack. At some point I’d had enough and wanted to leave, but all of a sudden he asked if I had written my piece on the beggars of Damascus.

I gave him the article, and he began to read it. From one page to the next his eyes became happier, and at the end he laughed out loud and slapped his thigh.

“My dear boy! This is good! This hits home!” He gave me his hand. “Now you are a colleague! I can’t teach you anything more. Let’s have a toast.”

He poured me a small glass of arrack. I don’t like the stuff. It has a very strong taste, rather like soap. I took a gulp and started to cough. Habib laughed. “And don’t forget every author’s golden rule: Write every day, even if it is only half a page.”

I will never forget this!

P.S.: Habib said the article was so good that the state newspaper would never publish it. That was supposed to be praise. What a stupid paper!

November 3 — A customer came into the shop, asking for advice. He wanted to buy two books for his son: a volume of poems (naturally I recommended the best— ours) and a novel, Maxim Gorki’s Mother. But first he wanted to know more about the Russian author’s book. Not long ago, I had read it over the course of three nights. I thoroughly identified with the hero. It was the best book I’d ever read, and I managed to convince the man of this. My boss was delighted and rubbed his palms.

November 11 — In our bookshop alone one hundred copies of the poetry anthology have been sold. The publisher wrote us an enthusiastic letter, thanking us for our investment and informing us that the book had been well received everywhere. Now my boss is putting The Flying Tree in the window.

November 12 — Habib is different from Uncle Salim. However much he may like me, he never tells me about himself. I find out things about him from Mariam, or not at all. He has been very sad lately and has been drinking and smoking a lot.

A general, alleged to be dangerous, was given a heap of money (all of it in gold and foreign currency) and fled to Latin America, where he purchased a huge farm and now lives like a lord. The government was said to have greased his palm with millions to get him out of the way. Habib wanted to write about it, but his boss, the editor in chief, gave him a talking-to about the article. He cannot possibly publish it. What really bothers Habib is that once, when they had fled abroad, he shared every bit of his bread with this editor in chief. At that time both of them had sworn to write only the truth.

November 16 — Today, through a friend, Habib got a French novel to translate. The author’s name is Balzac. When I went to Habib’s, things were going somewhat better for him; he had already begun the translation. He likes this Balzac a great deal and calls him the best French author of the nineteenth century. Suddenly he laughed demoniacally and said, “Balzac will be my springboard!”

I don’t understand what he means. Does he want to leave the paper?

November 18 — Nadia has been taken out of school. Her father only meant to let her go through the first level of public examinations. She would very much like to become a pediatrician, but her father wants her to be a secretary for a famous lawyer.

November 19 — The madman with the sparrow has disappeared. The barber’s assistant told us that the madman was suspected of being a spy. The sparrow was no ordinary bird; it was supposed to have a tiny camera, with which it flew around photographing secrets.

November 21 — Habib was not in. He seems to have forgotten our date. I didn’t dare inquire at Mariam’s; it was past six, and surely her husband was at home.

November 24 — For two days I have not been able to think of anything but Habib. He’s been arrested! It’s the talk of the town. He wrote an article concerning the plight of journalists who must lie to avoid attracting the attention of the government. By showing the censor a harmless article and getting authorization to publish it, Habib took the censor for a ride. With the official stamp on the article, Habib got it past the typesetters and printers. A few hours later the paper was sold out — perhaps for the first time! — and the entire editorial staff, including the editor in chief, was arrested.

My boss was upset and cursed the government because it did not even acknowledge the arrests in the following issue of the paper. The paper continues to appear as if nothing had happened; only those who read the fine print on the masthead can discern that the editorial staff is completely new.

I asked my boss for the afternoon off and hurried to see Mariam. To my great surprise, she knew all about it beforehand! Habib had told her the evening before his arrest. He had left an attaché case and the key to his apartment with her. She was supposed to give me the key, but no one was allowed to see the case.