March 19 — The cheap socks are manufactured at a small factory near the river. Four pairs cost one pound when you purchase in bulk, so we’ll even make a nice profit.
Habib is writing an article about prison. I want to write about the madman of Damascus. For this madman could be any one of us, and his sparrow was his hope. What they did to him is what they plan to do to us all.
Mahmud arrived around eight. It was about time my best friends got to know each other. They had a lot of fun together, and later, on the way home, Mahmud told me that he thought Habib was very clever.
Habib wanted to call the newspaper The Spark, but Mahmud and I simply wanted to call it Sock-Newspaper; Habib agreed.
Habib asked Mahmud what he would write.
“Seven questions for every issue.”
“Is this out of some fairy tale?”
“No, seven questions, one for each day.” Mahmud gave some examples: “Have you ever seen the shabby hut of a minister? — Have you had enough to eat today? — Have you asked the president for permission to breathe? — Have you considered today how many kilos of bread a panzer tank costs?”
We didn’t go home until late into the night. I have seldom felt as much strength as today, and Habib was never so childlike.
March 22 — Our street is supposed to be widened so that tourists cars can drive down it. The residents don’t like this idea, so they protested to the city council. In vain! This has been planned for fifteen years and will be carried out.
April 2 — Today Josef got hold of a book containing a few of the forbidden erotic tales from The Thousand and One Nights. He and Mahmud and I sat down together and read the slim volume with pleasure. But the chapter about the love potions and the techniques of lovemaking was so funny, we nearly laughed ourselves to death. No mere human being can concoct the salves. It went something like this: Take the shell of an eagle egg, fry it in the oil of the sacred tree, and store it all in a marble bowl for ninety-three days; knead into it one tablespoon of gum arabic while pronouncing an impossible charm. This paste must be left to draw on the leaf of an exotic tree for thirty-three days. Once this has been accomplished, place a tiny ball, the size of a lentil, into the coffee of your beloved; it will make him or her submissive.
At worst the techniques and postures themselves will result in bone fractures and muscle cramps. We joked about the idiots who had thought this stuff up.
“If I put one of these tiny balls into my girlfriend’s coffee,” Josef said, “she’ll spit and say: ’Hey, old boy, can’t you even make decent coffee? This tastes like the water your socks have been soaking in.’” She would leave him.
“And if before long I’m running around in a cast,” Mahmud laughed, “and someone asks me, ’Have you had an accident?’ tersely I’ll reply, ’No, sex!’”
April 3 — Our articles were far too long; we had to cut them. Habib said this was the first time it was clear to him how important a single word could be. Mahmud has reformulated his questions even more wittily.
Two hundred pairs of socks wait in a carton at Habib’s. He will get hold of a small, primitive duplicating machine. One of his old friends has long been working as a taxi driver on the route between Damascus and Beirut. In Beirut you can buy such a machine cheaply and quickly.
April 16 — Today Uncle Salim dined with us, and my father urged a third glass of arrack upon him. The old man became a bit tipsy and made terrific jokes. We all laughed so loud, people passing by on the street stopped in curiosity. When one man asked what it was we were celebrating, my father said, “The wedding day of our lice.” The man laughed.
Uncle Salim asked the funniest question. “Why do many states have the eagle — an idiotic animal — on their flags?”
“They want to instill courage in us,” my father answered, chuckling. “They know we are timid, and they think: Tell the pigeon three times it is an eagle, and just wait and see; it will start to hunt mice.”
“But an eagle will even eat carrion when it has to. Igitt, igitt! It’s coming, it’s coming! Our government knows us but poorly. I’ll just have to look up the president and suggest that they paint a goat on our flags. Goats are more like us.”
“Because they bleat and moan or because they don’t eat any meat?”
“Neither. Because they get milked!” Uncle Salim laughed.
April 20 — The mimeograph machine has arrived. Habib showed us how to use stencils. The copies are in violet ink, but they’re easy to read. We folded the strips and stuffed them into the socks. Habib’s article is amazing. My piece about the madman also pleased him and Mahmud. Mahmud’s seven questions are fabulous.
April 23 — Habib took the cinemas, restaurants, and cafes (two hundred of them); Mahmud and I went to the bazaar. One of us kept watch and the other did the selling. I spread out the big cloth and began to cry “Socks,” and in half an hour they were gone. Then we hurried our separate ways back to our jobs because lunch break was over.
Habib was very relieved when we turned up at his place toward seven o’clock. He served us cakes and made excellent tea. We had our own cigarettes.
April 26 — I was against it, but Mahmud wanted to assure himself. Today he went to see Josef and told him that he had a friend who had given him a copy of the sock-newspaper. Mahmud asked Josef if he wanted to read it and pass a copy on. According to Mahmud, Josef went dead white and spoke softly, as if afraid someone might overhear. He is just about to take his final exams and then wants to go straight into the army. He has no interest in newspapers, and none whatsoever in those who write against the government. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with something like that, and when he’s a general, he himself will stage a coup.
Saturday — Four days later, during lunch break, my boss told us a customer had given him a remarkable newspaper. He praised the questions and said that all night long he had lain awake contemplating his life. He admired the courage of the underground group and wished he could support it somehow.
May 20 — For three weeks our street has looked gruesome. The houses opposite ours have lost eight meters in depth. Their façades have been cut off. Many small houses have vanished; others, owing to the severing, have become narrow and ugly. We are choking in exhaust fumes and dust. The bulldozers make a hellish noise. The workmen get started very early because they cannot work in the heat of midday; then they resume and work into the night.
We have lost many neighbors. I am sad that Josef and his mother had to move to a street far away. Only three dark rooms remain of what once was their big building; Josef’s uncle lives there because he cannot afford a better apartment. Thank God Mahmud and Nadia are still here. For centuries people have lived here, and now these small clay houses crumble to dust within days. They are no match for the bulldozers.
May 25 — Today began like a dream. I awakened at dawn, smelling jasmine right near my bed. I went out on the terrace and saw hundreds of flowers open their calyxes in the cool morning dew. Without the fourteen children who run wild during the day, our courtyard seemed much bigger.
Tuesday — Today, two weeks later, even BBC London is talking about our sock-newspaper. Extracts from my article and the whole of Habib’s were read aloud, but, strangely enough, not a single one of Mahmud’s questions was mentioned.
June 10 — How Mahmud comes up with his ideas and writes them all out so brilliantly in just a couple of pages is a mystery to me. I am extremely proud of him. Today he finished his third play; it’s even better than the first two: