He blushed deep red. Josef speaks such wretched English, I asked him how he manages.
“Well, do you really believe the tourists want to know anything intelligent? All they ever ask is what something is and how much it costs. You can get that English down in two days.”
July 25 — Today I finished constructing a treasure chest, consisting of three boxes, for my sister. I’ve been working on it in secret for days; Ismat hasn’t noticed a thing. At lunchtime I brought it to her. She was thrilled.
The bedroom woman came back and screamed at Ismat. He paid her no mind and simply went on singing. The song could be transcribed this way: “When you’re going up a mountain, you need not have a care; the peak is coming soon, and then it’s easy to slide down.”
The woman snapped that if he wasn’t through by next week, she would sing a song for him.
July 30 — Thank God we haven’t seen the woman for five days. Ismat’s lying to her embarrasses me. For five days we have been working away from the shop, at the house of a rich merchant. He gave Ismat the task of restoring a valuable wooden door in his gorgeous house. Today we finished it. A masterpiece. Ismat has really done a marvelous job. You can’t even tell that a few days ago the door was practically falling apart. He carved a few pieces by hand. The man’s wife and only son kept jeering that Ismat was repairing a whole pyramid and not just a simple door. Ismat took his time and continually demanded tea. But the man was so satisfied that he gave Ismat much more than they had agreed upon, and he also stuck five more pounds into my pocket. (For a whole week of work at Ismat’s all I earn is four!)
August 1 — Today it happened! I knew it would not go well.
An incredible story: The woman came about ten in the morning. She demanded Ismat either deliver the bedroom furniture or return her three-hundred-pound deposit. Ismat made fun of her and sang his song about going up and down the mountain. Then the lady went wild. She took the warmed-up pot of glue, overturned it on Ismat’s head, and threatened to come back every day and pour a pot of glue over him until the bedroom set was finished; she stormed out in a rage.
Ismat calmly sat down on a chair and said I should get the police. He acted as if he didn’t notice the glue, which slowly ran down his head, over his shoulders, into his lap, and fell in drops to the floor. I was confused by his behavior and ran as fast as I could to the nearest police station. But the officer on duty was very busy and made me wait for more than three hours. When he finally heard the story, he wanted to throw me out, but I swore I wasn’t making it up. When we arrived in the workshop, the glue had dried, and Ismat was still sitting in the chair. The officer stared at him speechless, as if he were gazing upon a little man from Mars. Then with his finger he tapped on the stuff that covered Ismat’s head like a crash helmet, and murmured, “Hard, hard!”
“Mr. Officer, the woman attacked me in my own workshop!” Ismat wailed.
“And why, if you will permit me the question?” the officer shrieked.
“Because the wood for her bedroom set has still not arrived.”
“In this country, the best that can happen is that you go crazy; only then are you happy!” the officer groaned. He pounded his fist on the table. “The government lets the wood rot in the harbor. The daughter won’t marry without a particular bedroom set. I spend an entire day with a drunken tourist who has thrown up in the middle of the mosque. And I can’t even hit him since he comes from an allied country. The woman tips a pot of glue over his noggin, and the dopey carpenter lets it dry. Have you got witnesses?”
This was all too much for me. I thought, Now both of them have gone nuts.
“Yes, the boy can testify,” Ismat answered calmly.
“But he is under eighteen, and his testimony won’t be valid,” the officer objected and began to write in his notebook. Ismat stood up and tried to wash the glue off with water. It didn’t work.
“Try a chisel,” the officer recommended venomously. He inquired about the woman’s address and left.
August 2 — Today Ismat came to work with a scarf over his head. He didn’t say a word. When his headdress slipped a little, I saw his head was shaved clean!
August 3 — Now I have given five pounds to my mother and one to my sister. But neither of them will let me in on why they wanted the money.
August 4 — I have more than fifteen pounds! My mother is beside herself because yesterday I bought her a pair of stockings. She wept for joy. She had never been able to afford such good ones. Today I brought her a pound of coffee. After supper my father drank a cup, and my mother proudly told him I had given it to her. He looked at me in astonishment.
“My clever little carpenter,” he said to me before going to bed.
August 5 — For once I’d like to know what my mother is up to. She seems to be planning some sort of surprise for me. Each time I come in the door, she dashes out of the room, as if she had something to hide.
August 9 — Nadia was nowhere to be seen today. I haven’t caught sight of her for two days! When I came home, again my mother scurried out of the room. But I noticed bits of blue cloth lying around. Good heavens, I think I know what her surprise is!
August 11 — I was right! My mother may well be the best mother in the world, but, unfortunately, she is also the worst seamstress. Are these supposed to be pajamas? The sleeves are far too short, and the top is so tight at my waist, I look like a scarecrow inside it! The pants are so big and broad, there’s enough room for me and an elephant! I told my mother she must have a soft spot in her heart for animals. We laughed until we cried.
August 15 — The woman never returned. She let the police know she would forfeit the deposit if Ismat would withdraw his complaint. Today Ismat was summoned to the police station. When he came back, he laughed triumphantly and sang. His hair is beginning to grow back a little.
August 16 — August in Damascus is unbearably hot. During the day the temperature sometimes reaches 42 degrees Celsius in the shade. At night it’s so hot we can’t sleep. Often I wake up because the bed pricks me as if it were studded with nails. Then, like many others, I sit on the terrace to try and catch the faintest breeze. Damascus is very peaceful at night. At dawn muezzins from hundreds of minarets used to call people to prayer with their “Allāhu Akbar, God is most Great.” Nowadays they leave cassette players running in front of loudspeakers, and the brief delays between starting up the many tape players cause the call to echo a hundred times. Sometimes I fall asleep on the terrace and get a stiff neck.
August 17 — Uncle Salim does not let tourists photograph him. Somehow these idiots love him in his Arab attire. With his big moustache, he looks terrifying.
Today I asked him why he covers his face with his hands when the tourists pull out their cameras. He said he once permitted it and afterwards was ill for a very long time. The camera had snatched something out of his soul.
Well, sometimes he exaggerates a little.
August 18 — Today the police were at Ali’s parents’ place. They rummaged through the apartment. Then one of them waited until Ali returned and took him along to the station. A tourist alleged that Ali had stolen his expensive camera. The police had pretty well beat Ali black and blue by the time the tourist found his stupid camera in a bar. Ali was free to go home. The police made him sign a paper that said he would not speak to tourists anymore. But by the following afternoon, Ali was back out hunting.