” ’A free shave for two blows! I’ll be back!’ I said, and we all laughed.”
Next Saturday I don’t want to go back to my cousin’s. He’s not a good barber; all he ever talks about are his debts.
Saturday — What a crazy shop! The master barber is Armenian; his assistant comes from Persia. But the barber’s grandparents came to Syria a long time ago.
Unlike my cousin’s or Sami’s posh establishments, this barbershop is an incredible mess. In one corner is a grinding wheel; in another, a big, dusty case filled with jars, lavender water, rose water, and jasmine water, as well as two large aquariums full of leeches. These worms look disgusting but are supposed to be very useful. Along one wall is a row of chairs and a splendid heap of magazines.
I sat down, greedily read the illustrated magazines, and laughed at the barber and his assistant. The boy would not stop kidding around, and the master did nothing but moan and wail.
When a woman approached the grinding wheel, the barber simply left his soaped-up client sitting there, took the woman’s old knife, and slowly began to sharpen it. The man complained, but the barber suddenly seemed unable to understand Arabic, answering only in Armenian.
The best thing is that the haircut cost only half what it does at my beloved relative’s. I got an ice cream out of it, too.
April 6 — “Let’s go for a walk in the fields,” I suggested to Nadia, when she smiled at me at the greengrocer’s.
“It’s all very well for you to talk,” she said and ran off, as if I were a skunk. What in heaven’s name is wrong with her? Does she love me or doesn’t she?
April 11 — In all his life Uncle Salim never worked more than three days a week; three days he spent with his family, and on the seventh day he withdrew and reflected. He never became rich, nor did he ever live in dire want. Today he told me a lot about the wisdom of death, which only a few understand. “Every moment, my boy, Death tells us: Live! Live! Live!”
Today my old man had a bad day and was in a rotten mood in the evening. When Uncle Salim joined him for tea, my father made an effort to be more cheerful because he respects Uncle Salim and likes him so much. But nobody can hide anything from our old neighbor. He may be nearsighted, but he can always see straight through you.
“Do as I do,” he recommended to my father. “I sometimes had very bad days, too; nonetheless, I learned how to feel good at home afterward.”
“How do I do that, Uncle?” my old man wanted to know.
“When you get to the house, stand outside the door and say to your troubles: ’Get off my shoulders, Troubles, get off!’ Then go in, and the next morning on your way out, stand on the same spot and say: Troubles, you can get back on my shoulders now!’ But you must not leave them behind on the doorstep, for then they will take their revenge.”
My father laughed, stroked Uncle Salim’s knee, and said, “But what if they come after me through the cracks in the door? What then?”
“Then call upon your friend Salim, and I’ll come with my dagger, and you’ll see, they’ll cringe like dogs and slink away!”
We all laughed, and I seemed to feel the troubles disappearing.
April 15 — A tourist has settled in our neighborhood. He has a permit from the government, and according to Mahmud, he converted to Islam long ago. Unlike Robert, he is not much fun; he always has a look on his face that seems to say he’s expecting an earthquake.
At first his Muslim neighbors admired him, praising his piety. But he is so strictly observant they are now fed up with him. He uses far too much water because he washes himself five times a day and his car once a day. Damascus is so dusty that his car instantly gets dirty again. That alone isn’t so bad, but the vehicle has a magnetic attraction for us and for dogs, and we all piss on the tires. The enraged man wrote on four pieces of paper in red Arabic script, “Pissing forbidden!” and taped them inside the car windows. But children don’t read while they pee. They just laugh!
April 18 — I wanted to see her badly. Mahmud suggested that I kick a soccer ball into the courtyard of her house. And so I shot the ball in a high arc over the wall, knocked on the door, and entered the house. Nadia, her mother, and both her brothers were sitting in the yard.
I asked about the ball. The elder of her brothers sneered, “Nadia! Give him the ball; it’s behind the flowerpots.” But Nadia didn’t move a muscle. The younger of the two stood up, gave me the ball, and whispered, “She’s been acting peculiar lately.”
“Leave Nadia alone,” his mother called to him, having heard him whisper.
Nadia really is acting strange. She didn’t even say good-bye when I left. Mahmud grumbled about her.
April 26 — Two months have gone by; my customers are satisfied with me, and no other baker can take them away. My old man is slowly getting back on his feet. His debts are smaller and his bakery is flourishing. The work is not difficult. I can carry the baskets more easily, and the stairs no longer bother me. But the boredom! I read a lot, but I write little, except in my journal.
Uncle Salim gives me strength every single day. He insists on discussing my work. He gets angry along with me, and at times I even have to reassure him that the bakery is not always hell.
I only feel good at Mariam’s. She never lets me leave before I have had some tea or coffee. I like her a lot and think she likes me too. I still have not found out how she can sometimes be as happy and carefree as a child.
For more than a week Nadia has been in the village where her grandparents live. Why, I don’t know.
April 28 — What a surprise! Mariam gave me a blue shirt today. However could she know that blue is my favorite color?
“It will look great on you with your white slacks,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. Is she in love with me? Uncle Salim says love has nothing to do with age, but that I ought to take care her husband doesn’t catch me.
Is he pulling my leg, or have I spiced up my stories about Mariam too much?
April 29 — Today I brought Mariam a cake. I told her about the profession I dream of. She laughed — I don’t know why — and promised to help me. A neighbor of hers, named Habib, is a fine journalist. She will tell him about me. Tomorrow I am supposed to bring along a delectable sweet bread.
April 30 — Ha! It worked out! Mariam is fantastic! She actually accompanied me to the third floor and rang the bell. After a while, a man of about fifty opened the door, still in his pajamas. Yawning, he smiled and asked us in. “How elegant bakers have become,” he said. I was wearing my white pants, my white tennis shoes, and the blue shirt Mariam gave me. The whole day my father had been griping about how I was dressed.
Habib took the bread and sniffed it. “Delicious! Mariam wasn’t exaggerating!”
We had tea in a completely disorganized room. Mariam was happy as a child. As we were leaving, Habib asked if I could bring him half a kilo of the bread every day. Can I ever!
Friday — I knew Habib was free today. I selected the best bread for him. Extra crusty, the way he likes it. I brought it to him when I had finished one of my rounds and had an hour before starting on my noon round.
He invited me to have some tea; I sat in his living room while he made it. Books and newspapers were everywhere, especially French ones. His pants lay on a chair, and on a crowded little tabletop were a bottle of arrack, a big ashtray, and several glasses. Habib must have had guests the previous day.