Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

January 18 — I am writing many poems and short tales again. Nadia thinks they’re lovely. Today I began a story about a very small red flower that attempts to climb over a huge stone because it doesn’t believe the stone is the end of the world. I don’t know what will happen to the flower.

Leila says my tales are odd. She would rather I write about marriages of princesses or princes. What do I care whether these sorts marry? I love Nadia and she is my red flower.

January 23 — Today I am seventeen. I hadn’t given it any thought, but Habib absolutely insisted that Mahmud and I come to dinner. When I arrived, the superbly spread table was a surprise. Even Mariam joined us for half an hour.

January 30 — Today Nadia told me that her father talks about nothing but the newspaper. Swearing her to secrecy, I confessed that I and my friends made the newspaper. She swore by her love for me that she would rather die than betray me. But she did not believe me, for when leaving, she said, laughing, that the fairy tale about the newspaper was terrific.

I have written more of “The Red Flower.” The flower climbs and climbs, surmounts the stone, and sees a vast world before it. It plays with the sun and falls in love with the moon, which tells it stories. Then a wind comes and brushes against the flower, wanting to glide over the stone. The wind flatters the flower and asks it to adapt itself, to cling to the stone like ivy.

Will the flower do it? What will happen if it doesn’t?

February 6 — Uncle Salim dreamed of his dead wife today. She, was naked and as young as on their first night. She took him into her soft arms, and he felt the pleasure of physical love as he had not in twenty years. Fabulous!

February 11 — Our neighbor the greengrocer had bad luck today, though at first it appeared to be good. This morning his wife brought his son into the world. The first son after seven daughters! He was so happy that he drank half a liter of arrack in the morning and soon was pleasantly drunk; toward noon he was dead drunk. He began to give away his produce, simply throwing it to passersby. A few poor devils gathered up carrots, tomatoes, and potatoes and hurried home before the stingy merchant came to his senses and demanded money for them. But others cursed him, because he’d hit them in the head with some vegetable. His joy grew and grew, as did the heap of vegetables he had cast around himself in his enthusiasm; for the first time in his life, he was the center of attention on the street.

But a melon put an end to the fun. An officer was strolling by, and it hit him solidly in the stomach. He staggered and fell into a puddle. The greengrocer’s gaiety was contagious; a couple of hooligans, who had seldom seen an officer sitting in a puddle, rolled him in the mire and repeatedly tossed his cap in the air. The good luck turned to bad. Officers set great store by their uniforms. The greengrocer was taken to the police station, where he received a few blows and a fine, which hurt him even more.

February 20 — I am seventeen and still love the stories of my best friend Uncle Salim just as much as I did ten years ago. Today I think he has been very wise to repeat the stories at intervals, for not only do the stories change with the telling, but the listener also has grown older and carries away different “magic fruits” from each telling.

Stories are magical springs that never dry up.

March 1 — I told Mahmud and Habib that I had revealed everything to Nadia. They were not angry, as I had feared they would be. On the contrary!.

The red flower decides not to obey the wind and declines its seductive offers. The wind grows angry, turns into a storm, and attacks the flower. The red flower fights, striking back with its thorns, but is torn out and thrown to the ground. The other little flowers are afraid, and a few that wanted to dare climbing over the stone are disheartened. Some of the older flowers say, “That red flower had it coming, always so curious!” But the red flower replies by gently describing the world on the other side of the stone, speaking of the moon and the sun. Because until now all they knew was that the world consisted of moist earth and a huge stone, behind which some sort of twilight appeared. When the other flowers heard the red flower’s tales, they began to climb. Many fell back, but others went forward. Since that day, there are no flowers behind the stone. They climb until they can see the sun and hear the moon’s stories.

Nadiá wept when I told her the tale. She said the flower could be any woman.

Leila did not like the story. She moaned that it would be better if the stupid wind died or got punched in the jaw. Her idea isn’t so dumb. Maybe I’ll settle up with the wind in another chapter.

March 11 — Mahmud has found a job washing dishes in a posh nightclub. I am against his working among pimps, as are Nadia and Mariam. Only Uncle Salim and Habib think no harm will come of it. To each his own. Uncle Salim said a lion would not become a dog if it gnawed a bone out of hunger. Habib also defended Mahmud, saying Mahmud had to earn his living and my screwed-up morals were useless for that. His remark really made me mad!

Mahmud was furious with me, and for the first time we really had a fight.

“You should become a priest and not a journalist,” he said angrily. He was extremely snide, and I gave it back to him. “Better to be a priest than to earn one’s living off whores!” I cried.

Habib defended the whores, saying they were just as good as ministers or housewives, no better and no worse. They have to get through somehow, too. “The state is the pimp!” he screamed and laughed peculiarly. “And you are a priest.”

I ran out of the apartment in a rage. Mahmud followed me, and we walked home, not speaking. Shortly before we reached the door to the house, he grabbed hold of me. “You’re my friend, even if you’ve hurt me,” he said.

I embraced him and asked his forgiveness. But I don’t want to go to Habib’s anymore.

March 15 — “For the third time my wife has appeared to me in a dream. Over and over again she says she would like to see me soon,” Uncle Salim stated, making me anxious. My mother believes in it. I’m worried about my friend, even though he is the picture of health.

March 19 — “You are my best friend. What a pity you were born so late. I would have liked to meet you sometime as a young coachman,” Uncle Salim said today for no reason. I had dropped by to see if he needed anything from the market. All the children in the house do this. “Up until now my wife alone has seen my treasure,” he went on, “but I want to show it to you as well; only afterward you must grant me a wish!” Salim took a small cigar box out from under the bed. He stroked it gently, as if it were made of silver. Carefully he opened it.

“Do you see this key?” he asked. “This is the key to my coach. I had to sell everything, but I would not hand over the key.” He put it aside and took a marble out of the box. “I played with this marble as a child. It was my favorite, and when I rubbed it, it brought me luck in the game.”

Then he took a small dried root out of his treasure chest. “This root is from a plant that grows in the mountains, where I hid myself. The plant is cut every year, and it always grows back. It cannot be killed. The peasants carry it in their pockets because it gives life. During my five-year flight I always had it with me. — And this gold coin is from a robber whose life I once saved. He gave me the task of giving it to someone who no longer sees any way out. I realized only very late how much wisdom was concealed in this robber, for whenever I wanted to give it to someone, we looked for a way and found one, too.”