The father makes me sick. He sleeps with his wife, is ashamed of it, and blames it on an angel. My father cries out — far too often — that he has sired me.
April 27 — The chick that belonged to me and my little sister, Leila, grew into a splendid rooster. He was very strong and pecked at the legs of the neighbor women whenever they went to hang their wash on their terraces. Later he even attacked my mother and my old man. The only people he left alone were me and my sister. The day before yesterday he pecked my father in the back of his head and wounded him badly. Cursing, my father got his big knife and cut the rooster’s head off.
Leila turned quite pale, and I felt sick, too. My mother says the rooster’s flesh is the best she ever tasted, but for two days Leila and I have been eating nothing but cheese and olives, marmalade and butter.
“I can’t eat my own friend,” Leila says, and she’s right.
May 2 — We spent a week with my uncle in Beirut, the capital of Lebanon. It is an incredibly beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast. I love the sea. My mother is terribly afraid of the water and forbade me to go near it. But my uncle’s house was so close by, and the sea is such a powerful attraction.
The first time I came back from the beach, my mother screamed at me for lying and telling her I was going to the park. My sunburned face betrayed me. So there was no dessert for me that night. The next day the sea drew me back again, but I stayed in the shade. When I came back and merrily talked about the park, my mother said, “Take off your shoes.” She took them and knocked them together, and sand fell out. I lost my second dessert. That night I decided never to go back to the sea, but when I woke up the next morning, I heard the roaring surf and hurried out again. This time I was determined to fool her. I played in the water and ran around in the shade. Before I entered my uncle’s house, I shook out my shoes so carefully that not a single grain of sand remained.
“What a lovely park,” I announced as I walked in, smiling. My mother gave me a searching look, and I spoke even more enthusiastically about the beauty of the park’s garden. She shook out my shoes, and I laughed inwardly.
Then she said, “Come here!” She took my arm and licked it. “You were in the water. Only sea salt tastes like this!”
Strangely enough, that day she gave me a double portion of vanilla ice cream.
May 15 — Just now I saw the tall, gaunt man with the sparrow, who for years has been wandering through the streets of Damascus. What a strange madman he is! And the little bird follows him like a dog. Sometimes it flutters around him, then perches on his shoulder. Whenever the bird rises into the sky, the man calls to it until the bird returns again. Sometimes the man plays tricks on the bird. He lets it sit on the walking stick he always carries and then balances the stick — with the bird perched on it — on his nose.
The madman never begs for food, but as soon as he stands at someone’s door, people come out, bringing him a plate of vegetables or rice. He is very proud. He never takes anything with him. When he is satisfied, he leaves. My mother said he is probably a saint, because she has never heard of anyone besides Solomon the Wise being able to talk to birds.
Uncle Salim confirmed what my mother said about Solomon: “One day Solomon called to the birds, and they all came, except for the sparrow. Solomon called repeatedly, but the impudent sparrow came only after the third call. The wise king asked why it had not come at the first call, and the pert bird answered that it did not want to. Then Solomon the Wise cursed it: ̒From this day on, you shall no longer walk like all the other birds; instead, you shall jump!’ And since then, the sparrow hops.”
May 18 — Uncle Salim often tells me about a journalist who was his friend for many years. Later the man became famous, but when he was just starting out he was poor, and Uncle Salim helped him however he could. Out of gratitude the journalist wrote a long article about his friend Salim. Since Uncle Salim cannot read, he gave the newspaper to a neighbor, who read him the journalist’s praise of his wisdom and generosity.
With Uncle Salim you cannot distinguish between fantastic tales and real life. Everything is so interwoven, you don’t know where one thing begins and another ends. So today it was quite a surprise for me when, while telling me about something, Uncle Salim began to search for a strongbox on a shelf. He took it down and opened it. What was inside? The article! The journalist’s name was Kahale. The paper has yellowed, but the article glows. I was happy to fulfill my old friend’s wish; slowly and with pleasure, I read it aloud. A splendid article about a person ahead of his time. When I reached the end, Uncle Salim’s eyes were filled with tears.
Saturday, June 1 — Around nine o’clock the principal came into our class. Every year he hands us our end-year evaluations himself. I already knew I would have good grades, but I had never imagined I would be first in the class. The principal praised me but emphasized that, although I could now serve as a model for the whole class, at first I had been a rather mediocre student.
My classmates listened impatiently, as they did every year; they wanted to go home, to slam their book bags into a corner and run outside. After all, it was the beginning of the holidays. But I, I couldn’t get enough of his otherwise boring speech. I — the son of the baker — am first in the class! I could embrace the entire world!!! As I jubilantly burst into our courtyard, I nearly stumbled over my mother’s friends, who sat with her in the shade of the tree, drinking coffee. My mother kissed me proudly and accepted with pleasure her neighbors’ good wishes.
I could scarcely wait to show my father my fabulous end-year report. For now I thought I could demonstrate to him that continuing in school would be right for me.
Worming my way through the people in the bakery, I shouted the news to my father over their heads. But he paid no attention to me, no matter how much I tried to make myself conspicuous. All he cared about were the customers and his money, and then he even snapped at me, “What are you standing around for? Help this stupid Mustafa! The bread is towering up in front of him, and he drags his feet over the floor like a turtle with foot trouble. In the meantime the shelves are empty.”
I knew perfectly well he did not want to listen. My father does not like school.
Enraged, I snatched a few loaves, banged them down on a shelf, and set to work. After a couple of hours in this heat, my dusty clothes stuck to my body.
Not until we were almost home, just before we came to our door, did he say: “You are first? That’s good. But the bakery is a gold mine.”
Again he blathered about the customers who paid him for bread, although he himself had no such sublime schooling behind him.
Why didn’t I scream in his face that I hate his bakery?
Of course my mother noticed my bad mood right away. All through dinner she talked about how the neighbors had congratulated her. As always, my father had to have the last word: “What do these stupid educators know of life? Our son will be a baker, and that’s that!”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. Without saying good night, I ran to my room. I do not want to be a baker! I do not want to be buried alive in a bakery! I want to travel and write! I want to be a journalist. Yes indeed, now I know it; that is my calling! I swear to God, now at 9 P.M., on Saturday, the first of June, that I will never become a baker. Never!!!
Sunday — On Sundays, after church, I am allowed to do as I like, undisturbed. But having to go to church in the first place is a bothersome duty. My father knows I don’t like to go. When Sunday school is in session, we have to line up for attendance, and the religion teacher calls out each name and checks if anyone is missing. But now, despite the fact that we are on vacation, my father wants me to attend mass! Otherwise he won’t give me my allowance. Josef's mother is the same. But we have a plan. One Sunday Josef will go to church, and the next Sunday I will. We’ll tell each other which Gospel passage was read and what the priest preached about. For that’s all our parents want to know.