By Medhat Shanan
Translated by Sihem Hammouda
An assortment of colorful, unequal, expensive, and inexpensive pairs of shoes were walking closely side by side, following a coffin, the dweller of which was creeping into the shroud of oblivion, and breaking through pebbles and sand till a teardrop fell upon one of them, washing away the dust and burnishing it to a brightness in the shape of a dark circle that settled in the heart of its surface. It kept shining till dust invaded it again as he stopped crying and walked slowly, dragging his feet and wailing, being tormented by the parting of his dearest friend. Many scenes that brought them together in life’s paths sprang out of the memory cloud.
He felt that everything was in the wind’s grip; life was but a straw harvest and death was inclusive, as it did not give up on those it put in its bowels, and no one could ever save them from it.
This scene lit an ember of truth in him, even though it was effaced by camouflage. It squeezed his depths to spurt his guts, and thus images fell from his memory and crowded into his imagination from when he was, and still is, reinvesting his job in plundering and imposing his will on people. His job thrived so that he ate what he desired from its fruit, seizing his soul against his will like a narcotic. He did not close his drawer, which was open like a donation box to all. He did not refuse money, nor did he turn down a gift or a bestowal. It rather had room for more, like rivers flowing to the sea, and the sea was never full.
He felt he was shrinking and dwindling as he pondered his situation. He was wallowing in wealth and had all causes of happiness, while others were in rags and even naked. There was no difference between him and a thief who ripped pockets open to steal all he could. Still, he saw himself as more insolent than a robber who robbed in the absence of the victim, while he stole unashamedly by way of forcing a bribe upon them unwillingly.
He returned to his home breathless, chasing his thoughts. He retreated to his room and laid alone on his bed, resting his head on his arms. Tormented by the fire of regret and moaning with a broken heart, he shed tears out of pain.
He cried in pain, expressing remorse for a self craving for repentance. His soul was seized by nightmares after being stung by confusion’s scorpions, and words preyed on his nerves. In his head, thoughts were boiling, concerns reigned, and diverse feelings were laden with sins inside of him. He looked at the mirror examining his hair where old age had planted its flags. He felt a warning insisting on him purifying himself from past filth before he trod the death line and descended the life ladder and health, step by step, melted by poverty and destroyed by sickness. Hence, he asked himself: would his soul, accustomed to falling, with the principle swimming in his head, grow elusive like oil, allowing everything without let or hindrance and yearning for vice the way a cockroach yearns for dirt?
Would his branches bear sweet fruit while being used to producing bitter fruit? Nothing was heard in this silence but his voice’s echo, so he knelt down on his knees, losing hope of being saved. In his eyes, the life gleam was doused as it was dwelled by absent-mindedness, and thus he surrendered to his crooked instinct with pain in his heart, confusion in his soul, an end in his gaze, and a storm in his head.
But a whisper sprang out of him. He listened carefully through the silence to hear a voice fighting and maybe dying, telling him in a quavery voice: “Why couldn’t you change, when good is born out of evil, and out of dirt chastity springs, and maybe light shines through darkness and softness glows from rocks?”
So he fought his weakness and gathered his smithereens, full of a hope of returning to the human race. Whenever his Satan anesthetized him to give in, his buried friend’s picture appeared to him to wake him up from the sin narcotic and tear off the night from him. Breathless, he ran away from his thought’s fire and looked for light, seeking refuge from a well where he lurked and could not fathom.
He spent the night reined in by a stubborn desire to escape a festering past, and he decided to draw a curtain between him and his rotten traits till sleep overcame him, a captive to scenes of death, the grave, and reckoning.
At break of day, he put on his clothes and set to work with yesterday’s scenes running in his head. He sat at his office sullenly till the place became overcrowded with people. He ordered his coffee and started to complete his tasks. Little by little, his sullenness disappeared and his solitude retreated, till the worker came back with his coffee to find him, as usual, busy opening his drawer, reaching an agreement with people on serving them in return for the promised gift; as if yesterday’s thoughts were lost moments conquered by his black nature that looked like his shoes when the teardrop fell upon them and soon became dusty again.
Sihem Hammouda is a Tunisian author, translator, and educator. She has published the novel The Tunnel Girl, several short story collections including The Button Thief, and the poetry collection Arabian Roses’ Whispers. Her work has been featured in various international magazines. A specialist in English curriculum and literary translation, she bridges Arabic and English literature for global audiences.
