January 20 — How can one publish a newspaper without the government banning it? Lots of underground parties print their own newspapers and then pass them from hand to hand. I’ve gotten copies of two such newspapers from acquaintances. They were one big yawn. Is it worth endangering your life for such imbecilic drivel? No!
Habib has left the ruling party. I share his happiness. Mariam and I had tea at his place. Eighteen years he was in the underground and suffered every disgrace because of his party. Once it came into power, he couldn’t remain in it for even two years.
January 27 — We wanted to see another skin-flick. Mahmud arranged to get the tickets. This time I specifically wanted to seek out my math teacher and say hello to him, but he wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t see him.
Shortly before the film began, a man got up on the stage and loudly announced, “Unfortunately, we cannot show the film. The new chief of police has found out about it, and in half an hour he will send in plainclothes-men. If he catches us, he’ll have the theater closed.”
The lights went down, and suddenly a kitschy, schmaltzy film came on. The entire theater went wild, and somebody began to tear up the fine cloth of the lovely seats. Soon others started to jump up and rampage. Even Mahmud got out his pocket knife and slit the upholstery.
Amidst laughter and angry cries, the sweet dialogue of the schmaltzy film could be heard. We all laughed at the enamored hero, who had smeared a kilo of grease into his hair and was in a garden saying to his former lover, “I hover like a cloud when I see you. You and I, two flowers in the garden of love.”
Amidst unanimous howling, someone cried out, “I will deliver some fertilizer to your garden! Right away!” When the owners finally understood and turned on the lights, the auditorium was one big rubbish dump.
They deserved it!
February 13 —Habib has changed somehow. He laughs a lot more and drinks less. He translates as if possessed. I brought him an exquisite meat pie that my mother made especially for him. But he won’t talk about the paper.
Thursday — “How would you get a message or a story to a lot of people?” I asked Uncle Salim.
“I would take my whip and go to the radio station, fight my way through to the microphone, and say: ’Ladies and gentlemen, this is Salim the Coachman speaking to you. I want to tell you a story. Whoever does not wish to hear it can turn off the radio for five minutes, because I don’t want to bore any of you — from old men to infants — as our president does.’”
“And what would you do when soldiers came while you were talking?” I laughed.
“Well, then everybody listening would experience real theater on the radio.”
My dear uncle has not been outside our quarter for a long time. There are several panzer tanks outside the radio station. He wouldn’t get very far with a whip.
February 19 — Habib gave me a fine shawl to take to my mother. She was delighted with the present. It had to be very expensive, she said, because its white wool comes from abroad. She said she’ll drape it over her shoulders when she drinks her early-morning coffee on the terrace. My mother reciprocated with a small flask of orange-blossom oil she had distilled herself. Habib likes this scent very much.
February 27 — For two hours Habib made himself scarce so I could be with my Nadia in his apartment. Nadia was embarrassed about meeting Habib. We told each other our dreams. It was wonderful to be able to hold her in my arms.
I have written two poems about our secret trysts.
March 13 — Habib has gotten more translation jobs, two short crime stories and a thick novel. His publisher is enthusiastic about the good work he has turned in.
Now he seldom drinks, but he still smokes like a chimney. Last week my mother did Habib’s laundry, and Mariam helps him somewhat with his household chores. He has two left hands and stumbles over things as if he had a third leg.
Unlike Habib, Uncle Salim does his laundry himself. Nor does he ever allow anyone to tidy up his room, not even when he’s sick.
March 15 — I have the solution! Today I went back to the bazaar with my mother, and when she once again sat at one of the big merchants’ booths, having offered less than half of the asking price, I meandered through the bustling stands. I knew my mother would buy the fabric; she had been talking about it for three days and pricing it with several different dealers. I knew that she and the merchant would come to terms somewhere in the middle of their price range but that it would take some time. I was right. Half an hour later I returned; the merchant was happily wrapping up the cloth for my mother. But something else I saw at the bazaar was more important than all the cloth in the world.
Some dealers are so poor that they don’t even have their own booths. They transport their wares on carts or simply in big pieces of cloth and offer them for sale in the middle of the bazaar. The well-off merchants in the surrounding shops do not like this, but they allow it, primarily because the small dealers tend to sell third-rate goods for very little money.
“Socks thrown away! Socks given away!” a boy loudly cried.
A cluster of people immediately gathered round. On the cloth was an enormous heap of bright socks. People pushed and shoved because two pairs cost but one measly Syrian pound. I pressed forward and managed to pick out two pairs.
Once I got home, I wanted to try the socks on. They were held together with a simple clip. Instead of the transparent paper that is usually stuffed inside to help them keep their shape, the manufacturer of these third-rate socks had used ordinary shredded newspaper.
I let out a yelp of excitement, for I suddenly knew how to get a newspaper to other people quickly, distributing it without the government noticing a thing.
I hurried to Habib’s, but the little red slip of paper was hanging on his door. (We use it when one of us is inside with his girlfriend, so the other won’t come in. Nowadays I have my own key to his apartment.) I had forgotten that Mariam’s husband had gone to Beirut for two days.
I’ll tell Habib about it tomorrow.
March 16 — I told Mahmud about my idea, and he thought it was great. I wrote a rather long story on a narrow strip of paper and stuck it inside the socks. You can’t see anything from outside.
“And what if people just throw the paper away?”
“They might do that. But as soon as word about the first sock-newspaper gets out, nobody will throw away the paper without reading it first.”
Mahmud suggested we distribute the strips of paper not only in socks, but everywhere — in public toilets and in cinemas. He told me that one day in the cafe he got to know an old author who had been in prison for many long years and had written an entire book on three hundred cigarette papers. He was even able to smuggle it out and get it published.
March 18 — First Habib laughed at me. I was fit to scream, but then he grew silent and began to pace back and forth, lost in thought. I told him that Mahmud and I wanted to sell the socks — quick as lightning and each time somewhere different, in and around Damascus.
“What will you do if they catch you?” he asked with concern.
“I’II go to prison like you, Father, and hundreds of others. But I want to be a journalist, to seek the truth and make it known.”
Habib deliberated a while. He opened the door to his closet and gazed at the picture of his wife. Then I knew he would go along with it.
We continued to talk for a long time. Tomorrow I’ll find out where the socks come from, and the day after that, we’ll meet at Habib’s.