My mother began to bawl. “Mr. Katib is such a splendid person. We are very poor, but the Blessed Virgin Mary will hear me and guard your life. She always hears the prayers of mothers.”
I begged her to stop going on about the Virgin Mary. We ought to be celebrating, not crying. I went and got twenty pounds and gave them to her. She was to buy two kilos of coffee and one kilo of tea.
“And what about me?” Leila piped up, as if the neighbors alone were going to drink the tea. Fine, I gave her a pound, and in the course of the late afternoon she bought a sundae, nuts, chewing gum, and cotton candy; afterward she felt sick to her stomach. My mother made her some strong anise tea. Leila suspected that things had gone so badly because I did not give her the pound with my whole heart. Can she ever tell tales! p.s.: At six o’clock I went to Habib’s. He wasn’t half surprised about the book I gave him. “You really are a character,” he said and for an hour explained how a newspaper article is put together.
Sunday — Uncle Salim had dinner with us today. It was delightful. My father praised the good tea I had provided.
September 1 — My parents are showing the book to everyone. Habib tirelessly instructs me about newspaper work and shows me how to write an engrossing article. He himself, however, is desperately unhappy about his work. He will help me get out of the bakery. A friend of his has a bookstore in the New City. My father is doing well; we no longer have any debts. The bakery brings in enough to live on.
September 3 — Mahmud told me about yesterday’s boxing match. Syria’s most famous boxer is a third-rate thug who got nowhere abroad. Again and again he beats up frail Syrian opponents, who must then venerate him as undefeated.
For weeks posters were plastered on every wall in Damascus. The boxer had challenged a United States champion; Mr. Black Fire accepted the challenge and came to Damascus. Tickets sold for over twenty pounds on the black market. Many people just wanted to see the bitter defeat of the Syrian braggart; they were siding with the black guest, especially since he had some good words for Arabs and Syrians. He was interviewed by newspapers, magazines, and the radio in his expensive hotel, the Samir Amis. Others, especially the supporters of the Syrian show-off, wanted a definitive confirmation that there was something more than fat beneath the skin of their colossus. The whole town spoke of nothing but this fight. I don’t generally like boxing, but one of the journalists in the café got Mahmud a ticket.
The boxer from America really must have looked terrifying. He stomped around the ring, bellowing in English, repeatedly wanting to attack the spectators in the first few rows who were making fun of him. Then the fight began. The first round drew to a leisurely conclusion. The second fell more to the guest than to the boaster. The spectators spurred the staggering, shattered Syrian fighter on. In the third round, he fought his opponent hard and mercilessly knocked him down. With his last ounce of strength, the American dragged himself into his corner, and the spectators — opponents and supporters both — cheered the Syrian colossus, inciting him to punch wildly in the fourth round. Suddenly he hit the guest forcefully on the nose, causing him to reel backward and begin to scream — in Arabic!
Mr. Black Fire ran in front of the colossus and wailed into the hall that he was not American but Palestinian. “Help, help, he wants to kill me!” he screeched loudly, staggering around the ring on unsteady feet and trying to hide behind the referee. “This was not the agreement!” he cried over and over, letting the referee take the punches. Now the Syrian colossus wanted to silence him with a K.O., but time and again he hit the referee. The crowd began to rampage, demolishing the seats and, after a drawn-out fight with the police, left the hall.
“He was a Palestinian,” the journalists reported, “who for a little money and a few nights of luxury in a hotel participated in this rotten game. The Syrian boxer had promised to hit him gently; only in the fifteenth round was he to fall on cue and simulate a K.O.”
When I told Uncle Salim about it, he laughed for a long time. “You see, my boy, this boxing match is just like Arabian politics.”
September 5 — Habib is pressing me to say something to my father once and for all. His friend has agreed to hire me, being in need of someone who loves books. Uncle Salim says it’s now or never. I have to do it alone, and without too much deliberation. Sometimes I think too much. Tomorrow I’ll take the plunge.
September 6 — Fabulous! When I told my old man that I wanted to leave the bakery in order to work for a bookdealer, all he did was nod.
“Selling books is an honorable profession!” He was quiet a while. “A bookdealer,” he repeated, “that’s good. You were not born for the bakery. I’ve always known that. You love books, so go ahead!”
Habib, my mother, and above all Uncle Salim congratulated me. Now I’m looking for a baker’s apprentice I can train in one week, and then I’m out of here. Only Mariam was unhappy. I calmed her, saying I would be at her friend Habib’s every day. She did not even react to my using the word friend!
September 11 — For three days now I have been going around with the apprentice. A clever young man from a village on the Lebanese border. He is full of plans; he wants to be an actor. He has a beautiful voice, and when he sings in the bakery, even my father listens.
Not only does he have a lovely voice, he can also imitate famous actors incredibly well; best of all is his imitation of Charlie Chaplin. Many passersby grimace and say, “You’ll go crazy fooling around like that.” If he has a friend as good as Uncle Salim, he will become an actor.
September 15 — Today was my first day in the bookstore. Though it’s not very big, five of us work there. All I got to do was the dirty work: fetch cartons of books from the storeroom, open them, repack them, dust the shelves, clean the big window, make tea, and be available. I have neither sold books nor wrapped them for the customers. The others do these things.
My boss said I ought to learn everything from the bottom up; otherwise I’ll never be a good bookdealer. He’s an odd bird. He claims that when he started out, he had to put his master’s house and garden in order. Clearly he’s stretching the truth. But he calls Habib his best friend.
I’m earning only half of what I was in the bakery, but I’m not half so tired as I was there. At noon we have more than an hour off, and today during that time I read a short story — sad and beautiful — by a Russian author.
September 18 — Mahmud had a rotten day. A customer had it in for him. At first the man was friendly and invited Mahmud to have a lemonade. Mahmud, however, declined. Somehow or other the man was unappealing. Suddenly the coffee was no good; Mahmud brought him another cup. No, now he wanted tea. Mahmud gave the coffee to another customer and brought some tea. The man became insolent and screamed at Mahmud for having touched the rim of the cup; he would not drink from it. Mahmud brought him a new cup. The man had his tea and went over to the counter, where he complained that Mahmud had said, “Here, now gulp down your shitty tea!” Mahmud had said no such thing, but his boss believed the guest and pulled Mahmud by the ear. Then Mahmud got furious and punched the loudly laughing guest in the stomach. He was fired!
He doesn’t dare tell his father about it, and he badly needs a new job.
September 25 — A whole week has gone by, and although Mahmud has been searching from morning until night, he can’t find a job. I had to advance him three pounds today so he could give them to his father. He said he would never forget this. I believe him; he’s a good friend. Until he finds a position, I will give him three pounds a week from my reserves. After all, I have saved nearly two hundred and fifty pounds.