Mahmud looked at him and answered, “Now I have two. The first, the one you did not answer, has given birth to a second.”
The bio-boxer flipped. He slapped Mahmud. “And now?”
“Now there are four,” Mahmud exclaimed.
We all cried out “bravo” so loud that the teacher refrained from carrying out what was certainly his plan, to thrash Mahmud even more.
During recess Isam swore that if the thug had touched Mahmud one more time, he would have strangled him. That would have been something! The Class Colossus against the Bio-Boxer. We would have understood Darwin as never before.
November 4 — Mr. Katib let us freely choose a theme and develop it as a poem, story, or fable. I will offer him two poems from my collection.
November 7 — Our religion teacher really got hot under the collar today. Josef asked him — as vulgarly as only he can: What is the significance of the seal of confession? The teacher stressed that as a priest, he is forbidden to betray or exploit this seal of confidentiality when someone makes confession.
Josef went on to ask what he would do if someone confessed he had placed a bomb in the confessional. The priest said of course he would remain seated and not exploit the seal of confession. Then the entire class burst out laughing, because everyone knows the priest is a scaredy-cat. Finally he admitted he would flee after all, because doing so would harm no one.
Josef immediately cried out, “You can’t do that; you’d be exploiting the seal of confession!”
The priest’s sole reply was: “For next time you will copy out the story of the creation three times.”
I must tell this to Nadia. Surely she too will laugh about Josef’s bad luck.
November 9 — Of all heavenly bodies I love the moon most. Not just the full moon, but even the smallest sliver of the moon instills in me a special kind of peace. Uncle Salim said that when his grandfather looked at the moon, he was able to predict whether or not it would rain. If only the all-seeing moon would tell me whether I’ll manage to do well on my biology exam. Certainly the moon thinks the bio-boxer is just as stupid as I do.
November 13 — Today Mahmud told me the story of how the madman silenced a scholar. Mahmud and his father went to the nearby mosque to say Friday prayers. The madman stood at the big fountain, washing his hands, feet, and face, just like the other believers. His sparrow also cleaned itself happily and then perched atop a pole. The madman seated himself rather far back in the mosque, and Mahmud nearly forgot about him until the service began.
The scholar leading the congregation was an indignant critic in general. He disparaged all religions other than Islam and aggressively attacked all Islamic sects that did not subscribe to Sunnite precepts. Suddenly the madman stood up and intoned a long “amen” in an incredibly beautiful voice. Then he proceeded to sing a rhythmical religious song, extolling the divinity of mankind and love for all living things. The song made such an impression that the faithful sang the stanzas with him.
The scholar was struck dumb. To be sure, several times he tried to regain the floor, but his voice was drowned out by the loud singing. Foaming with rage, he had the madman dragged out by two servants. You could hear him go on singing, even though his mouth was being held shut. The members of the congregation settled down again and were quickly led to the end of the prayer.
What a pity they didn’t follow the madman!
November 14 — Today was one of the loveliest days of my life. Our double period in Arabic was so powerful, I’ve never experienced anything like it. We all presented our themes extemporaneously. Mr. Katib sat among us, and enthusiastically discussed or disputed our stories, fables, and poems. When it was my turn, I recited “I Dreamed Aloud” and “The Flying Tree”; I know my poems by heart. The teacher found them extraordinarily good and remarked that a poet was speaking from inside me. I felt myself blush a deep red. Mahmud said I spoke well, even if sometimes I declaimed so loudly he nearly got an earache.
When the class period was up, we even continued into the break, so that the remaining five students could recite. Previously, something like this was unimaginable in my class; we always have one foot in the schoolyard before the bell rings.
Now I’m tired, but tomorrow I absolutely have to record Mahmud’s presentation. It was unique!
November 15 — Mahmud wrote a play entitled The Letters of the Alphabet It portrays a young teacher who decides to teach the people who live on his street how to read. He is very stupid and treats the old men and women like snot-nosed little brats. When they come for the first lesson, the people are curious. Tired from a long day of work, they go to a room in a nearby school and wait for the teacher. After having sounded the bell, he arrives in a suit and tie, carrying a walking stick. He asks the people to stand up. Many of them do, but a proud old farmer says he has only risen in someone’s presence twice in his life, once when the bishop visited him, and the second time when Sultan Abdülhamid rode past his field.
The teacher mulishly begins to discuss the letters of the alphabet. He draws an A and tells them to impress this form on their minds. When he gets to the letter C, a woman wants to know if laundry day has a C in it. A butcher asks how to spell cattle. The farmer asks a question like the butcher’s, how to spell water. The spice dealer calls out that he prefers to learn to write customs form. No, the letters come first! the teacher cries.
A few of them ask him to go through the letters more quickly; they lie down and commission their pals to wake them up when the letters are done. The farmer takes out his tobacco pouch and rolls himself a cigarette. The teacher won’t let him smoke and tells him to wait until the break. The farmer walks up to the front of the room, takes the bell, and rings for the break. The teacher goes wild, screaming at the farmer to stand with his face to the wall. But the farmer leaves the room, and as he leaves, the greengrocer asks him to tell his donkey, waiting outside, to be patient a while longer.
The next evening only half as many people come. An eager porter is proud of having done his homework. Demanding recognition, he shows his notebook to the teacher, who makes a face because the porter has not kept within the lines. Sadly the porter replies, “It’s not my fault. I write on the back of my trusty old donkey. The streets are full of potholes. The government plugs up one only to tear open another.” Since he can write, the teacher ought to complain to the government about the holes.
When the butcher starts to laugh, the teacher tries to rap some manners into him with his ruler. But the butcher shatters the ruler and calls on his pals to strike. They all leave, and the teacher swears at them, calling them barbarians.
Our class split its sides with laughter. Mr. Katib praised Mahmud for his incisive wit. Nobody can write as amusingly as my friend.
November 16 — My father is happy that my poems pleased Mr. Katib. He said I take after him; he also wrote verse when he was a boy. After supper he even wanted to hear the poems. My mother yawned, and when he reproached her for this, she said she had to get up early or her dirty laundry would write a poem for her.
November 17 — The new history teacher has arrived. A funny sort of guy, all he ever wants to hear from us is dates. Right after getting acquainted, he wanted to test our knowledge. When was Napoleon born; when did Caesar die; when was this emperor appointed and that emperor deposed? After a while, he had us so far afield we scarcely knew when Syria had become independent.