Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

Even as he entered, the priest admonished everyone to remain level-headed. A funeral procession would be dangerous, and thus he would see to getting a permit for a car in which he and the daughter of the deceased could be taken to the cemetery. Never in his whole life had my father screamed at a priest, but yesterday he was mad as hell. I was really proud of him. He shrieked that the church was no longer serving the poor but only those who drive a Mercedes. Jesus always stood up to those who abused him, but the church obeyed the orders of the most asinine officer.

“Uncle Salim,” my father cried out into the dumbstruck congregation, “was not a criminal to be smuggled to the cemetery under the cover of night and fog. He was a noble man, and the funeral procession should show this!”

Men and women both supported him and decided to ignore the curfew. The priest grew pale and wanted to slip away. He said he had a baptism to perform and that he would send a deputy.

“You’re staying right here,” Uncle Salim’s daughter commanded, grabbing hold of the man of the cloth when he sought to get by the silent men. “If the men won’t keep you here, then I will. He is my father!” she cried, and the priest stayed.

The women elected, contrary to prescribed custom, not to remain in the kitchen but to go along to the cemetery. None of them wanted to leave the men alone in their distress.

Our street had never seen the likes of this procession. Hundreds of people accompanied Uncle Salim’s casket, which was borne by six men. Over two hundred women ran ahead of it; this too was something that had never been done. I walked, with Mahmud and Habib, directly behind it in the midst of the crowd. When the pallbearers reached the main road, they turned around three times in a circle so Uncle Salim could take leave of his little street; then the procession advanced into the nearby church. It was crammed full. I stayed outside with Habib, but Mahmud wanted to stand with his father right beside the coffin. Josef came late and quietly joined us. The priest gave a good speech.

From the church the funeral procession took the broad street to the East Gate of Damascus, then turned right, toward the cemetery; after a hundred paces, it suddenly came to a halt. I couldn’t see anything; I just heard shrieks. We knew something had happened and ran to the front. I seized the knife in my pocket; Mahmud already had his out. A jeep blocked the street, and four soldiers aimed their machine guns at the women. But the women would not stop. They cursed out loud, and Uncle Salim’s daughter tore open her black blouse and cried, “Let the procession go, and shoot me!” She forged ahead, and the other women grabbed stones, from the side of the road and advanced on the retreating military officers.

When a woman cried out, “We are your sisters and mothers!” I saw a few soldiers look down at the ground. The officer in the jeep gave the command for retreat, and the vehicle sped away. I looked back and was surprised to see that Habib stood behind me with a pistol in his hand. He put its safety back on and stashed the gun in his jacket. Never in my life would I have thought that Habib owned a pistol, though I knew my father and two neighbors had taken their weapons along. I’d heard them discussing it in the stairwell. But it was the brave women who drove off the soldiers with stones.

At the graveside, Habib made a moving speech in a sad voice, speaking of the wisdom of the deceased and weeping just as the other men and women were.

P.S.: Exactly as Uncle Salim wished, I placed the marble, the key to his coach, and the dried root beside him in the casket. The priest regarded this as superstitious, but when he learned it was the request of the deceased, he agreed. All I kept was the gold coin. I will fulfill the wish of the robber and of Uncle Salim.

April 11 — Since yesterday life has returned to normal. I’m back at work. Panzer tanks are everywhere. The radio station has been destroyed, and many buildings in the New City bear the scars of battle. Uncle Salim goes on living in me, and as long as I’m alive, he will remain there.

About ten years ago his wife died. Roughly a month later, I visited him. I was seven years old at the time and already a fast friend of the old coachman. When I got there, I saw how he set the table for breakfast: two plates, two cups, two knives, and two spoons. I brought to his attention the fact that his wife had died. He smiled and said, “To you, my friend, to you she is dead. In me she is still alive and will remain so as long as I breathe.”

My mother probably won’t set a place for Uncle Salim next Sunday, but as long as I breathe, he will still be alive within me.

April 14 — Our silly neighbor Afifa has frightened her five-year-old daughter, and now she’s bemoaning the consequences. Little Hala asked her mother why Uncle Salim died, and she answered, “Because he was old.”

“But all of you are old; why aren’t you dying?” the curious daughter asked.

Afifa was in a tight spot and could find no better excuse than “Uncle Salim forgot how to breathe while he was sleeping.”

Now the poor child cries before going to bed because she’s afraid of forgetting how to breathe. Or else she wakes up scared every night, struggling for air. And Afifa, this stupid cow? She complains that the girl has no sense of humor.

April 21 — The days go by, and yet I cannot get Uncle Salim out of my thoughts. I miss him terribly. A student moved into his little room. Sometimes when I go downstairs and hear a noise, for a few seconds I think about looking in on Uncle Salim. Funny, although I know he is dead, this happens to me repeatedly. We miss his laughter in the courtyard. No one could laugh as childishly and gaily as he.

Today I know that he was mistaken about something. “Death,” he said one day, “is a long sleep.” No, death is a final step. It leads somewhere, from which there is no coming back. Uncle Salim may well live on in the trees, flowers, and thistles; every kind of vegetation takes a part of him out of the earth and passes it all on: The trees — shadow and security; the flowers — fragrance and color; and the thistles — barbs and resistance. But no being on earth can make a living mixture out of all that is Uncle Salim.

No, I have lost my best friend for good. I feel lonesome. I love Mahmud and Nadia. I have great respect for Habib. But Uncle’s place remains empty.

May 4 — Mahmud is now content at his job. He’s no longer in the kitchen; he’s serving guests in the nightclub. He doesn’t make much in tips, but he gets to cheat a few rich drunks who have oodles of money.

All the women in the club are blondes. Half of them come from Europe; the other half bleach their hair because men who come to the club like to look at blondes. They dance practically naked in front of these guys who gawk at and drink with them. Of course, when the women order drinks, they demand the most expensive ones, since they get a percentage.

The owner also has them strip before certain powerful or super-rich guests. The women may be very pretty, but they drink a lot and are desperately unhappy.

May 7 — Once again Nadia’s father serves a new government, hunting those formerly in power, since a few of them escaped the first wave of arrests. What a filthy pig! Nadia has nothing but contempt for him.

When I talked about Uncle Salim again today, she said something really lovely: “No one can replace a friend, but I will keep your friend’s faith so that your loss will grow smaller.”

I love her.

May 11 — We are preparing the fifth issue of the paper. Habib is writing an article about the Syrian coup; I, a story about friendship, which I’m dedicating to U.(ncle) S.(alim). I cannot reveal his name. Mahmud’s seven questions are better than ever. They are about double standards, death, and the coup. The funniest one goes “Not only are bread and milk nowhere to be found, Oriental dancers have died out as well. In nightclubs American women wiggle and wobble before our eyes. Do you know where all these lost things have gone? Ask the revolutionary government!”