November 19 — The madman with the sparrow has disappeared. The barber’s assistant told us that the madman was suspected of being a spy. The sparrow was no ordinary bird; it was supposed to have a tiny camera, with which it flew around photographing secrets.
November 21 — Habib was not in. He seems to have forgotten our date. I didn’t dare inquire at Mariam’s; it was past six, and surely her husband was at home.
November 24 — For two days I have not been able to think of anything but Habib. He’s been arrested! It’s the talk of the town. He wrote an article concerning the plight of journalists who must lie to avoid attracting the attention of the government. By showing the censor a harmless article and getting authorization to publish it, Habib took the censor for a ride. With the official stamp on the article, Habib got it past the typesetters and printers. A few hours later the paper was sold out — perhaps for the first time! — and the entire editorial staff, including the editor in chief, was arrested.
My boss was upset and cursed the government because it did not even acknowledge the arrests in the following issue of the paper. The paper continues to appear as if nothing had happened; only those who read the fine print on the masthead can discern that the editorial staff is completely new.
I asked my boss for the afternoon off and hurried to see Mariam. To my great surprise, she knew all about it beforehand! Habib had told her the evening before his arrest. He had left an attaché case and the key to his apartment with her. She was supposed to give me the key, but no one was allowed to see the case.
Mariam wept for a long time and said that without Habib she could not go on. She must feel relieved though that her husband is doing well and is very sweet to her.
I took the key and hurried to Habib’s apartment. What a strange feeling; it was so sad without him. For some reason or other, I began to tidy up the place. After a while Mariam joined me. When she went home toward six o’clock, I wanted to straighten up his clothes closet, and there I saw a picture of his wife. He had pasted it up inside the door and written with a felt-tip pen: “As long as I live I will avenge you.”
I can’t read or write except in my journal. Habib really is a brave man.
Thursday — Six days have gone by now, and Habib is still in prison. Uncle Salim is furious with the government. He, too, learned of the arrest without my telling him; every afternoon he listens to Radio London and Radio Israel. They mentioned Habib and read his article aloud. I haven’t said a word about it to my father, but it’s impossible to hide anything from my mother. First she asked about Nadia, and when she learned that things were all right between us, she said, “Then something must have happened to Habib; am I right?” I had to tell her.
December 1 — Nadia has been working in the law office for a week. She’s bored and has to do everything — make coffee, distribute memos, deliver the mail, and sometimes even clean the desks. Next week she’ll start a typing course. That’s the only way she can better her position there; she has no desire to make coffee for the rest of her life.
The attorney she works for is very famous and employs five young lawyers. He treats them all rather badly. Nor does he have any respect for judges. He says they were all his students at the university, and were it not for him, they wouldn’t be where they are.
Since Nadia started work, we always meet during lunch break. Her office is only three blocks away from the bookstore. I wait downstairs for her because her boss doesn’t like it when one of his four secretaries goes out to meet a friend.
December 3 — Shopping with my mother is an experience! The bazaar is rather far away, and I rarely go there with her because it always takes so long. But today I accompanied her.
I am constantly amazed at how the merchants can recognize my mother among the thousands of customers who come to the bazaar month after month. They ask about my father, and she inquires about their wives and children. Sometimes she’ll sit down at a booth, let the merchant show her fabric and clothing, have coffee, chat about herself, and listen to the merchant’s chatter. Then she’ll get up and go without buying anything, and the merchant isn’t the least bit annoyed. But once she begins to bargain, I need the patience of Job. That’s exactly what happened today.
My mother found some good material and asked how much it cost. The dealer named a price and stressed it was so low only because my pretty mother was a regular customer. Instead of rejoicing, she became angry and offered to pay half the sum. The merchant snatched it away and complained he wasn’t such a fool as to sell his best fabric at a loss. He showed her some cloth of lesser quality at the price she named. My mother tested it, quickly running her hand over it, saying it wasn’t all that bad, but she wanted the better cloth, for which she offered the merchant a few piasters more.
The merchant screamed in a rage and reproached my mother for being merciless toward his children but brought the price down a peg. The reproach of merciless-ness should have moved my sensitive mother to tears, but she laughed, wished the children good health and happiness, and offered a few piasters more.
This time the man had a mild and funny reaction. He reminded my mother of the first time she had bought something from him. It was thirty years ago, but he still remembered her wearing a blue dress at the time and how pretty she looked. (She still looks marvelously pretty!) He further reminded her that the clothes she made from his fabric lasted for years, and then he lowered the price a little.
Instead of growing teary-eyed from so much praise, my mother reacted drily. Back then he had been very kind because he had been poor. But today he was rich and obstinate with a customer who passed up all the other merchants and came only to him. (This was not true. She had already checked out and priced the same material at other booths!) Nonetheless, she offered a few more piasters.
“What? So little?” the merchant moaned, indignant. “If my wife hears that I have sold this material so cheaply, she’ll divorce me!”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” my mother laughed. “Maybe she’ll find a younger, better-looking merchant. You’ve grown too old and stingy,” she added, offering a few more piasters.
The merchant laughed, praised my father for having married such a good, thrifty woman, and lowered his price somewhat but swore upon his pilgrimage to Mecca that this was his final offer.
My mother pretended she didn’t know he had ever been to Mecca. “What? You, a pilgrim? I didn’t know that. When did you go?”
The merchant described his laborious journey to Saudi Arabia and the sublime moment when he reached the holy place along with countless other believers. He didn’t go into too much detail, knowing we are Christians, adding that at the next opportunity he would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. For Muslims, this is the second holy city after Mecca.
My mother got up and said on her way out, “You don’t really want to sell it. I would have bought a great deal,” and she offered him a new price, a few piasters higher than the last. Despairing — or at least seeming to despair — and with a loud groan, he gave my mother the cloth, forgot his oath, and did not neglect to ask her not to tell anyone she had bought the cloth so cheaply. He didn’t want to be ruined.
Extremely happy at this turn of events, I took the bolt of fabric and hurried home with my mother. She praised the merchant and his honesty. I just don’t get it.
December 6 — I had a marvelous time with Nadia. For the very first time I got to spend two whole hours alone with her. Her mother told me to look after her and send her home before five o’clock. (Even now I don’t understand what she means by “look after.” Was I supposed to protect Nadia from myself?) I went out alone, she followed, and we sneaked over to Habib’s apartment. It was incredibly wonderful to lie beside her and caress her. She kissed me hard. The time went by so quickly; suddenly it was a quarter to five. Nadia hurried home, and I walked slowly at some distance behind her.