Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

May 15 — Today Habib went to the cafe where authors and journalists meet and tell one another what they’ve heard. He declined an offer to work for the official government newspaper. He’s living well enough off the translations. The book about Arsène Lupin has come out; he gave me a signed copy.

Nadia came to Habib’s apartment for two hours. I showed her the newspaper strips (issues 3 and 4), and for the first time she believed me. She took me in her arms and kissed me for a long time.

She showed me how fast she can type. You can scarcely see her fingers. She learned how to do this in school.

May 21 — Today my father told me that the apprentice who took my place has left the bakery, preferring to become a smuggler. His village lies on the Lebanese border, and by smuggling, one can either quickly become very rich or else land in jail. Before he left, he trained a new boy. My father has slowly renovated the bakery, and things are going better for him. I notice this when we eat. Never before have we had so much meat on the table as in these last months. Immediately my thoughts returned to the boy who replaced me, who wanted to be an actor. He was talented, but he didn’t have as good a friend as Uncle Salim.

June 2 — Issue 5 is finished! We ran off more than two thousand strips. It was an awful lot of work, but the edition is great. In very simple language Habib exposed the lies of the thirty-four rebels who have ruled Syria until now.

June 7 — We sent up five balloons with about three hundred strips, which sailed down wonderfully in the wind.

June 9 — The operation in the Umayyad Mosque was somewhat dangerous, but we were able to distribute the strips in four additional churches and in ten smaller mosques.

Habib is nearly done with the second crime novel about Arsène Lupin. He is very satisfied with himself, smokes less, and has gained some weight. Mariam loves him to distraction, but I don’t think he loves her equally. He’s still always thinking about his wife. Can one person love several people? I think one could love the first one intensely, the second mildly, the third. yes, like all the colors of the rainbow. How right the madman was.

June 13 — Mahmud is really earning a lot of money. He saves some and gives most of it to his parents. His mother is overjoyed and is dressing better and better.

Today he remarked that a few generals are regular guests for the special performance. They drink like drains and behave like pigs; even the chairs could sag in shame. He hears them talk about what they have done and boast about all the people they know.

“Wouldn’t it be good to bring all their gabble to light?” I asked.

“Certainly!” Mahmud answered.

June 26 — Damn it! A catastrophe! Habib got caught!!!

I went to visit him, and from far off I saw the police cars. Two armed soldiers guarded the entrance door. I stood some distance away with many neighbors and a few curious bystanders. Again and again police officers from a special division came out of the house carrying cartons and putting them in the cars. Mariam stood on the balcony. She saw me and shook her head. Her face was dead white.

I waited until the cars drove away, then I sneaked over to her place. She fell crying into my arms and whispered, “What will I do without him? They said he was a traitor and that he got money from abroad in order to destroy the state. My poor Habib!” She sobbed in despair.

Mariam already knew we were making the paper, but she didn’t say a word when friends and acquaintances of Habib’s asked questions. I took her into her bedroom, where she cowered like a small child, weeping on the bed. I crept upstairs and opened the door to Habib’s apartment with my key. It looked as if a pack of wolves had stormed the place. The closet was smashed up, and the photo of Habib’s wife lay in tatters. Nothing in the apartment was as it had been. Tea, salt, sugar, and coffee were strewn all over the floor; dishes were broken to bits. They had taken all the books, the typewriter, the mimeograph machine, even his laundry.

Mahmud was terribly shocked when he learned about it. There is no trace of fear in him personally, but he’s terrified for Habib’s life. They will beat him to death or drive him mad and then put him in an insane asylum.

June 29 — I discussed it with Mahmud. He thought it was now time to give up the gold coin for Habib, that we should get a lawyer with it. But we can’t find one! They gave Mahmud evasive answers as to why they could not take the case, just as they gave me. One alone was honorable, explaining that the defense of political prisoners is prohibited in Syria. Nadia confirmed this. Her boss, that show-off who is always bragging about how many judges have passed through his hands, looked at Nadia with suspicion when she inquired. He brusquely advised her that if she wanted to go on working for him, she had better get back to typing letters and refrain from speaking of political cases in his offices.

Evidently a flyer is more dangerous than a murder in this country.

July 1 — Tonight BBC London brought word of the arrest. They must have gotten it from the French paper Le Monde. Thanks to his intrepid journalistic activity, Habib was arrested.

July 4 — Not until the ninth day did the government newspaper report that a madman by the name of Habib had for a while published a silly newspaper and now was in treatment.

My boss is extremely peculiar. He scoffed at Habib for having been so idiotic as to have set himself against the entire bureaucracy alone. The gutless dog, I could have spit in his face.

July 10 — Yesterday we sat together for a long time, pondering what we could do. We have to get Habib out. But how?

Mahmud suggested that we abduct a general from the nightclub and demand Habib’s release in exchange. Not a bad idea, I thought, and tomorrow I’ll go there and look the club over. Mahmud can offer me a free drink.

My boss found out from some big shot that Habib is beyond help. The guy claimed he could spring any pimp, hashish smuggler, or knifer, but he wouldn’t touch a political prisoner; he didn’t want to get his fingers burned.

The Journalists’ Association also rebuffed my boss. “Habib,” they said, “is sick and irresponsible.”

July 11 — Nadia thinks our idea stinks. She bawled us out for being so stupid and naive as to believe any one general could be so important. She laughed scornfully and yelled at me, “Who knows, maybe you’ll get a medal for having spared the government the trouble of getting rid of a general it wanted to dispose of and didn’t know how to. But Habib won’t come out of it alive.”

July 12 — Last night I went to the club. I told my mother, and she’s supposed to invent something if my old man asks about me. But I promised her I would neither spend money nor have anything to do with the women there. I would only visit Mahmud and see how he does his job.

The club is sheer madness! One can scarcely believe anything like it exists in Damascus. Outside, the women we come in contact with refuse even a kiss, and inside they sit and indulge in the wildest Parisian life.

Mahmud pointed out the minister of justice and then the air force general who took so long to accept the government. These guys don’t look the least bit frightening. The general was a rather small and emaciated man of fifty, dressed in civilian attire. I could have taken him for a cattle dealer or the keeper of a small shop. Uniforms really do make all the difference!

A somewhat fat blonde performed an Oriental dance. That really was something to see! It simply couldn’t be called dancing; it was nothing but a waggling of fat. Still, the men cheered each time she bent over and showed her breasts. After two drinks, the general was drunk and ostentatiously spoke English — but so badly that I commiserated with his English teacher. The guy had no idea what he was saying; he translated his Arabic exclamations into English word for word. What is lovely in Arabic is macabre in a verbatim translation.