Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

September 5 — Today we opened our witches’ kitchen in the attic. A soda bottle, a few pieces of zinc (from a broken gutter), and hydrochloric acid (it’s called spirit of salt in the shop and is quite cheap) were all we needed. The contents of the bottle foamed and seethed, and when we set a match to the gas, a bluish flame hissed up and scared us. The bottle tipped over, and the mixture ate into the wooden floor and smelled awful. We coughed like maniacs! But then we managed to fill a balloon with the gas, and it rose in the sky rather quickly.

How will we get it to the height at which it will burst? If we can’t, only God above will be able to read the strips of paper in the belly of the balloon. Maybe we should fasten a long string to it and light the string? We tried this with the next balloon, but the string didn’t burn. Tomorrow we will drench it in diesel oil.

September 8 — Darkness was upon the fields on the outskirts of Damascus. Mahmud stuffed thirty newspaper strips into a big balloon and filled it with gas. I dipped its thin string in diesel oil, and we let the balloon go up. When it reached a height of about ten meters in the dark sky, we lit the string. But the flames raced up too quickly, and before the balloon could rise a few meters more, there was a dreadful bang.

We ran away quickly. We took the bottle and the remains of the zinc with us. On our way we encountered people gazing skyward in confusion, talking about the explosion. Suddenly Mahmud began to laugh. He is quite a guy! In the midst of every catastrophe he finds something to laugh about. At first I was annoyed, but then I joined in his crazy laughter, and we were delighted by the agitated people who suspected they’d seen a UFO. They’ll discover the pages soon enough. Now the newspaper has a cosmic collaborator.

September 11 — I have saved one hundred and eighty-six pounds. When I have two hundred altogether, I will buy my mother a dress that costs fifty.

Things are going somewhat better in the bookstore, and my boss isn’t grumbling so often. Now he has a few titles that are hits with university students: 200 Questions Pertaining to Medicine, 300 Questions Pertaining to Chemistry, 150 Questions Pertaining to Law. Students buy these brochures as if possessed, and the profit per pamphlet is not thirty but fifty percent. And just look at our future doctors, chemists, and lawyers! They read the questions, learn the answers like parrots, and spit them out on paper. In olden times a medicine man or medicine woman was a wise person. When I read about everything that one Avicenna or a single Leonardo da Vinci knew, the university and its teachers seem pathetic.

Yesterday Habib said that Socrates had not read more books in his lifetime than a person who nowadays has taken his university entrance exam, but that with his knowledge Socrates reached even to the root of life. I don’t know anything at all about Socrates. Today I looked around in the shop. There are three books about him.

September 13 — We nearly burned up the attic experimenting with the string and diesel oil. With my face entirely black, I went into the kitchen. My mother made fun of me. All evening she called me chimney sweep, and finally my father wanted to know why. She fibbed, saying that I’d gotten dirty helping her in the kitchen.

This is something I especially love about my crazy mother. She never tells on us. Even when we’ve nearly driven her nuts, she settles things with us herself. She never says, “Just wait until your father gets home.” Sometimes she hits us, crying while she does; then we, too, keep our mouths shut when my old man returns. Mahmud’s mother always runs right to his father and gripes about one thing or another. That’s something I don’t like about her.

September 14 — “Have you told Mariam about the newspaper?” I asked Habib.

“Of course I have. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.” He told me how he had made a secret of his political work, hiding it from his wife out of concern for her. But his seeming prudence had not saved her. He had also seen how wives had unwittingly divulged the names of their husbands’ friends, not knowing that these alleged merchants and docents, farmers and artisans, whom their husbands visited from time to time, were high-ranking functionaries. And so, by not having trusted their wives, having shared their beds only and let them cook, the men had betrayed their confidants. “Among spies I could understand this, but nowhere else!” he said.

I must talk to Nadia about this as soon as possible. I’m no spy!

September 16 — Habib packs up the orders for pharmacies in the factory storeroom. A tedious job. While doing it, he stuffs the newspaper strips into the boxes. We told him about our balloon, and he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

September 18 — I haven’t been to church in ages. My father asked me why, and I said I probably didn’t go because I no longer needed pocket money. He almost choked with laughter. Uncle Salim, who had been listening with amusement to our conversation, told us a story:

“A poor man was out of work. He was very pious and always went to church; he prayed and prayed but found no work. One day he noticed that the collection box under the portrait of the Virgin Mary was full of coins and bills, but the box under the picture of Jesus was almost always empty.

“Soon after, the man had had his fill of begging. He entered the church, stood before the picture of the Virgin, and spoke to her.

“’Blessed Mary, all day long I seek work and do not find it. My children need their food and clothing and I my schnapps, but, as you see, I haven’t got a single cent. I’m not a bad person. Just look at your son’s box. Nothing. The wind whistles in it. And he’s not bad either. May I take twenty pounds? I will share it with your son, ten for me and ten for him. My children will get their food and I my schnapps. It will stand your son in good stead, too. If you don’t want me to do this, just say so, and I won’t even lay a finger on it.’

“Of course the picture made no reply, and the man did as he said. The next day he came back.

” ’O holy Virgin, I am so ashamed,’ he said, ’I cannot even look you in the eye. But what should I do? Look, things go no better for your son. Not a single piaster. Today I need forty pounds, for the rent is due. But I am like a camel; I forget nothing. I will also give forty to your son. If this is too much, just say so. I won’t touch a thing.’ Naturally the image didn’t say a word, and the man took eighty pounds from the overstuffed box, divided them, and went his way.

“The man’s situation did not improve in the following days, and he came, took, and divided. But he always asked whether the Virgin had any objection; she never did.

“The priest puzzled a long time over this sudden change in the two collection boxes. In ten years he had never seen such paltry figures for Mary and such good ones for Jesus. Suddenly his accounts no longer balanced, and to find out the reason, he hid behind the painting of Jesus and waited.

“The man came in, eyes to the ground, and said, ’O Blessed Virgin, for two weeks I have been searching for work and finding none. I told my wife and children they have your good heart to thank for all I have given them, and every day they pray for you. Before, my wife couldn’t stand you, but now you can count on her in hard times. I seem to be saying a lot today because the rent must be paid again, and I’m ashamed. But the woodworms in your son’s box are catching cold from the draft. Still, if you don’t want me to, just say so, and I’ll leave everything as it is.’

“’No, I don’t want you to!’ the priest cried out in anger.