March 19 — “You are my best friend. What a pity you were born so late. I would have liked to meet you sometime as a young coachman,” Uncle Salim said today for no reason. I had dropped by to see if he needed anything from the market. All the children in the house do this. “Up until now my wife alone has seen my treasure,” he went on, “but I want to show it to you as well; only afterward you must grant me a wish!” Salim took a small cigar box out from under the bed. He stroked it gently, as if it were made of silver. Carefully he opened it.
“Do you see this key?” he asked. “This is the key to my coach. I had to sell everything, but I would not hand over the key.” He put it aside and took a marble out of the box. “I played with this marble as a child. It was my favorite, and when I rubbed it, it brought me luck in the game.”
Then he took a small dried root out of his treasure chest. “This root is from a plant that grows in the mountains, where I hid myself. The plant is cut every year, and it always grows back. It cannot be killed. The peasants carry it in their pockets because it gives life. During my five-year flight I always had it with me. — And this gold coin is from a robber whose life I once saved. He gave me the task of giving it to someone who no longer sees any way out. I realized only very late how much wisdom was concealed in this robber, for whenever I wanted to give it to someone, we looked for a way and found one, too.”
Uncle Salim was quiet for a long time, as if he surmised the great burden of his wish. “My friend,” he finally said, “I would like you to lay the marble, the key, and the root in my grave with me. The gold coin I turn over to you with the robber’s request.”
I felt bad. “You are not going to die,” I whispered hoarsely, but Uncle Salim insisted on giving me the box. Now it lies hidden under the boards in my closet, right where I keep my journal.
March 20 — Uncle Salim is sick. I brought him food and tea in bed. He’s breathing heavily and says he caught cold from a draft,
P.S.: I have not been to Habib’s for nine days.
March 21 — Late yesterday my mother came into my room and said there was a man downstairs at the door, asking for me. She suspected it was Habib because she recognized his shirt and trousers from having washed them.
I jumped out of bed. He was already standing there smiling. I invited him to come in. My mother hurried off to make coffee.
“I want to apologize to you. I was very rough on you, but you were impossible!” he said and ran his hand through my hair.
“Let’s not start again. I only stated my opinion,” I replied.
We talked and talked. He held to his position, as I did to mine, but he was polite. My mother brought the coffee and sat down with us.
“What a beautiful mother you have,” the rogue flattered her; my mother laughed. We agreed I should come to his place today after work.
I went there today, as did Mahmud. His job doesn’t begin until eight and goes on until four in the morning. He talked about it. The owner is a swine, and Mahmud’s fondest wish is to smash him against a wall; still, the dancers and the hostesses are very nice. Now and then they come into the kitchen and joke with the personnel. Sometimes, when they earn a lot of money outside, the hostesses even treat them to something.
Okay, as he describes it, the job doesn’t seem bad. He is paid well.
March 24 — Uncle Salim has been ill more than four days. At first it seemed he just had a cold, but he’s been running a fever for three days now. Neither tea nor cold compresses helped, so my parents went for the doctor. After speaking with him, my father telephoned Salim’s daughter in Aleppo. His son lives in America and cannot be reached.
I have never seen my father so sad. Every day when he returns from the bakery, even before he eats, he goes to see Uncle Salim and strokes his hand over and over again. Uncle Salim wants me to stay with him. I sit by his bedside until he falls asleep. My God, how small he has become, as if he’d shriveled up inside his own skin.
March 26 — Uncle Salim’s daughter has arrived. I hadn’t seen her in ten years. She and her father never got along. Now she is very concerned and extremely kind to him. But Uncle Salim does not treat her in a particularly friendly way. Time and again he asks her why she is here. She ought to go home to her stupid husband.
She came down to our place and wept bitter tears because her father had never forgiven her for running off with the son of his enemy. I don’t understand this, and when Uncle Salim is well again, I will ask him about it. But my mother did not want to wait that long. She went down to his place and talked to him, and after a while she called for me and his daughter, then hurried into the kitchen. We ran downstairs; the old scoundrel sat bolt upright in his bed, laughing. “Come here!” he cried to his daughter. “Mrs. Hanne’s words were like a cold shower. Come, let me give you a hug.”
The woman sobbed on Uncle Salim’s shoulder, and he kissed her on the forehead. I sat there speechless while she told him about all the things her husband had sent along and how the children (she has three) were doing. When my mother came with coffee and saw the two of them, she exclaimed, “Now things are right; anger be damned in its grave!” We all laughed.
March 28 — For three days he improved. His daughter was about to leave, but today Uncle Salim suddenly lost consciousness. In despair I ran to the doctor. (For a week I haven’t been working; I explained to my boss that I did not want to leave Uncle Salim. He was very nice and said I should stay with my old friend until he recovered.) The doctor said Uncle Salim was in a very bad way. And there’s nothing to be done. His heart has become too weak. Damn! I would gladly give him a part of mine.
April 5 — A coup! At dawn there was a clattering of rifles. Fighter planes thundered and swooped over the houses. For a long time the radio was silent. It was nearly noon when the agitated voice of an announcer delivered the first communiqué. The government has been toppled, because it — what else could it be? — had become corrupt and treacherous. The speaker threatened to exterminate each and every opponent of the new revolution. In the coming days a curfew would be imposed, twenty hours a day. Civilians could go out between the hours of noon and four. My father said that the new government still wasn’t fully in control. It certainly sounds that way.
Uncle Salim groans lightly and is feverish. I have given his daughter my bed and have been sleeping with Leila for three days. (The monster continually lies diagonally across the bed and thrashes all night long.) Every morning my mother lights a candle for the Virgin Mary so that she will protect Uncle Salim.
April 6 — The curfew is still on; despite the danger, today I sneaked over to Habib’s. He, too, senses that those in power are not yet firmly in the saddle. The air force and the navy are against them, and it gets worse from one coup to another, because each time weapons play a bigger part. It’s enough that the air force is holding out. The fight for the capital might last days or weeks. Jet fighters fly over Damascus but don’t drop any bombs. Damascus is firmly in the hands of the new rebels, while the northern part of the country refuses to capitulate, and the roads are blocked off.
The streets were as if swept clean when I returned. I learned from Habib that the soldiers, who have grown hysterical, shoot at anyone they see on the street. I was very careful, always walking just a few steps and then standing a while in the entrance to a house or in a side alley to observe whether a patrol was nearby.