Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

Mariam wept for a long time and said that without Habib she could not go on. She must feel relieved though that her husband is doing well and is very sweet to her.

I took the key and hurried to Habib’s apartment. What a strange feeling; it was so sad without him. For some reason or other, I began to tidy up the place. After a while Mariam joined me. When she went home toward six o’clock, I wanted to straighten up his clothes closet, and there I saw a picture of his wife. He had pasted it up inside the door and written with a felt-tip pen: “As long as I live I will avenge you.”

I can’t read or write except in my journal. Habib really is a brave man.

Thursday — Six days have gone by now, and Habib is still in prison. Uncle Salim is furious with the government. He, too, learned of the arrest without my telling him; every afternoon he listens to Radio London and Radio Israel. They mentioned Habib and read his article aloud. I haven’t said a word about it to my father, but it’s impossible to hide anything from my mother. First she asked about Nadia, and when she learned that things were all right between us, she said, “Then something must have happened to Habib; am I right?” I had to tell her.

December 1 — Nadia has been working in the law office for a week. She’s bored and has to do everything — make coffee, distribute memos, deliver the mail, and sometimes even clean the desks. Next week she’ll start a typing course. That’s the only way she can better her position there; she has no desire to make coffee for the rest of her life.

The attorney she works for is very famous and employs five young lawyers. He treats them all rather badly. Nor does he have any respect for judges. He says they were all his students at the university, and were it not for him, they wouldn’t be where they are.

Since Nadia started work, we always meet during lunch break. Her office is only three blocks away from the bookstore. I wait downstairs for her because her boss doesn’t like it when one of his four secretaries goes out to meet a friend.

December 3 — Shopping with my mother is an experience! The bazaar is rather far away, and I rarely go there with her because it always takes so long. But today I accompanied her.

I am constantly amazed at how the merchants can recognize my mother among the thousands of customers who come to the bazaar month after month. They ask about my father, and she inquires about their wives and children. Sometimes she’ll sit down at a booth, let the merchant show her fabric and clothing, have coffee, chat about herself, and listen to the merchant’s chatter. Then she’ll get up and go without buying anything, and the merchant isn’t the least bit annoyed. But once she begins to bargain, I need the patience of Job. That’s exactly what happened today.

My mother found some good material and asked how much it cost. The dealer named a price and stressed it was so low only because my pretty mother was a regular customer. Instead of rejoicing, she became angry and offered to pay half the sum. The merchant snatched it away and complained he wasn’t such a fool as to sell his best fabric at a loss. He showed her some cloth of lesser quality at the price she named. My mother tested it, quickly running her hand over it, saying it wasn’t all that bad, but she wanted the better cloth, for which she offered the merchant a few piasters more.

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.