I never wear a watch. I hate to have this little machine on my wrist fighting for my attention with its little hands moving forever, never resting, never stopping to enjoy the moment they are supposed to measure so accurately.

نزار قباني

(extrait traduit par Jalel El Gharbi)

 http://www.babelmed.net/index.php?c=1968&m=&k=&l=fr 

J’ai commencé mon cheminement dans une enveloppe de parfums, dans des voiles de  senteurs intimes, chaudes et lisses. Je n’ai pas souvenir d’un instant qui ne soit enveloppé d’exhalaisons.  Il n’est pas juste que, habitués à une odeur, elle n’exerce plus d’influence sur nous. Chaque fois que je pense m’être habituée aux effluves de la séduction, elles s’emparent de moi avec toute leur splendeur à chaque crépuscule. Il est certain que la même chose se produit pour mon propre parfum. Mon parfum n’est soumis à aucune loi. Il ne connaît ni la crainte ni la mort. La pluie, l’imagination et les souvenirs l’excitent. Dès que quelqu’un me sent, je nidifie dans les cavernes de sa mémoire … J’y érige mythes, châteaux et temples…qui ne te quittent plus. Je ne fais pas cela exprès. C’est mon parfum qui me conduit à maîtriser cette sensation extrêmement sensible. Il donne des dimensions légendaires à un beau souvenir, lui confère une délicieuse douleur et donne une beauté particulière à un souvenir douloureux, le rendant ainsi plus supportable. Mon parfum donne à la vie son profil et des limites acérées, trompeuses…

Wednesday at last. They met face to face after an eternity of waiting.

It began six months ago, at one of many chat websites, in a private chat room, where she bared her soul before him. It did not occur to her that she would get so lost, that she would so stray, that her path would so spiral driving her to ever more recklessly optimistic alley.

Only when her eyes fell upon him could she breathe again. She plunged into his arms without hesitation, as if she had known him always. The first time she saw him she recognized him instantly. His eyes, his smile…he was real after all, not a fantasy but a warm, tender man just as his gentle name Atif suggests.

He kissed her trembling hands. He kissed her neck. She became the liquid on his lips. She reddened and ripened before his eyes. Slowly, sweetly, agonizingly, he set free her moist body from the imprisonment of her clothes. Her scent was deliciously released like a fruit whose last peel has just fallen to the ground. He lustily swallowed up her feminine nectar.

He was drained. He felt as though he had expired and was reborn. She dissolved, was absorbed into his being. It was her first time, yet she felt no inhibitions, no fear, no hesitation. It was as if she had been his in many previous lives. Her instinct guided her over the expanse of his masculinity. How exhilarating and intoxicating his aroma was.

Wednesday at last. They met after an eternity of waiting. She plunged herself into his arms. He kissed her. He released her from her clothes. She inhaled the aroma of his body. Not a second escaped their attention. It was almost as if time had condensed itself. Only yesterday was an hour a full 60 minutes, what has happened to it now? It has evaporated leaving nothing but few moments barely enough to share a cigarette. Together they felt safe from the erosion of time.

Wednesdays’ meetings became their secret conspiracy; something they consented to without the need to voice their consent. He waited for her, and she for him. They met. No prearrangements. He finds her when he goes, and she him when she goes; an abandoned cottage at the edge of the waves, where the salts of their bodies mingled.

Nothing of relevance occurred between Wednesday and Wednesday. Nothing to do except search for ways to fill the vacuum between encounter and encounter. How agonizingly slow these days of vacuum were, and how entrancing short their hour of encounter.

Wednesday at last. They met. He kissed her. She sat in his lap. The tumultuous sea sang to them. He told her about the first book he read by choice. It was a Colombian novel whose title he could not pronounce.

He told her of the first kiss he had seen at the movies, how all his classmates had clamored to watch the film, how he could no longer remember the name nor the story but how clearly he remembered every single detail about the kiss and how he had attempted numerous times to mimic it with his girlfriends.

She would gather his words like wild flowers growing as they willed, she would place them in a vase where water never decayed. She sat in his lap all the while, and all the while he absently caressed under her hair, her neck, her back, until she became engulfed by her own desire – yet she did not act upon her impulse, rather she let him go on speaking.

Wednesday came. They met. He placed a routine kiss on her hand. She sat next to him. He started talking about his childhood, about his mother who died so long ago he barely remembered her. He talked about his father who attempted to compensate his mother’s tenderness with his callousness.

She wanted to tell him about those moonlit nights she had spent alone. She wanted to tell him how lonely she was before him. She wanted to tell him about how she felt when she gave herself to him. She wanted to feel close to him, for him to feel how close to him she was. She wanted release from this feeling of loneliness. She had no chance to share these feelings; he spoke alone, and he spoke for a very long time, the silence of their bodies leaving a foggy emptiness between them. Her hand in his, all the while, warm, nervous, apprehensive … like her, yet in between his words, she managed to steal a glance at the watch on her wrist.

Wednesday. They met … as usual. The words “as usual” sat between them. It was their fifth meeting … perhaps their seventh? When did their meetings start carrying numbers?

His kisses spiritless, his conversations long. She sensed a familiarity with the place. The sea released a heavy, unpleasant odor, and a cloud of dust rose around them as they sat on the couch. She felt a bizarre urge to clean the place, or perhaps to prepare dinner.

Time toyed with her yet again; one hour had become a million minutes.

Wednesday came and went. There was no meeting. Longing distorted into anxiety after Wednesday last. Did he wait for her there? Will he wait for her Wednesday next?

Will she go Wednesday next? She went. He went. A feeling of guilt enveloped her. She plunged into his arms feeling as if she was playing the role expected of her. He kissed her, and she sensed that he, too, was playing the role expected of him. They did not speak of last week. They did not speak at all.

They had sex for the sake of sex alone.

Another week passed, since their last meeting. Days passed quickly, between Wednesday and Wednesday, and slowed down tremendously on the Wednesday.

She did not go. She expected that he would be there, waiting for her. Her lack of desire to go pained her, imagining him waiting for her pained her. For two weeks regret pierced her; regret at not meeting him, regret at having ever met him. She felt as if she was walking forwards with her back turned and her face always looking the wrong way.

Wednesday. She went. She lingered in the car for eternity.

He saw her as he stood behind the window. He turned himself into the shadow of a ghost, praying that she would not see him. He could not decide whether or not to come this time. Weeks had passed without him having any will to come, although whether or not to come was all that he could think about.

There he was, looking at her through the glass. Maybe she was crying, maybe she was hesitant because she did not find him the last few times. He would have liked to apologize to her, to send her a letter, or a message, just as he use to do in the chat rooms where they had first met. He would have liked to tell her not to be so sad, that she was wonderful, beautiful, that she would find someone more worthy than himself to give herself to. He wished he where facing the glass of his monitor rather than the glass of this window.

She felt as if they had arrived at a tragically pessimistic end. Who would reach to the other with seconds left before the world ended?

She came out of the car and headed towards the cottage. How small it was, how filthy!

She stood facing the door; he stood facing the other side, his hands on the knob

Fadwa

(Part of my collection of short stories “The Scent of Cardamom” published in Arabic - translated into English by myself).   

To read the story in Arabic, click here.

أمارس تلك العادة السرية التي لا أعرف حتى الآن متى وكيف أتقنتها، أراقب خلسة كل من حولي، وأدون المشاهد بخيوط من دخان النارجيلة التي لا أعرف أيضاً متى وكيف أتقنت طقوسها.

ترددي على المقاهي، وسنوات من التجارب، علمتني اختيار أكثر أبراج المراقبة كشفاً لمحيطي أينما جلست.  

هذا المساء، ككل مساء، تتراكم السيارات أمام المقهى، ونتراكم نحن المتسكعات البشرية في مقاعده.أستنشق الهواء النقي، الرطب، الذي تنشره المياه المالحة، وأجلس. بمجرد أن أتعرش موقعي، تأتيني النارجيلة كالعادة. لا داعي للتفوه بكلمة، الجميع يعرفني، ويعرف احتياجاتي من تنباك، وشاي أسود أغرقه بالسكر، وزجاجة مياه معدنية كبيرة، باردة جداً وإلا رفضتها.   أتفرغ للمراقبة فقط عندما تجهز حولي كافة طلباتي، كي لا ينتزعني شيء من نشوتي هذه حتى نحترق تماماً .. أنا والحجر. لحظة دخول المبسم فمي، أغدو شفافاً، لا يرى الوجود وجودي. كأني أمام تلفاز ضخم، شاشته مئات البوصات، أغير القنوات بحركة خفيفة من رأسي، حركة طفيفة من عيني.. شمالاً، يميناً، شمالاً ..  

أراها شمالاً، لا شيء يميزها، أعرفها ولا أعرفها. أراقبها تتفحص شعرها. أراقبها تعدل تنورتها فتكشف عن ساقيها. شرحت لي صديقة يوماً أن ثمة فرقاً دقيقاً للغاية بين الإغراء الأنثوي والابتذال (أهدرت وقتاً كثيراً في البحث عنه). تبتسم.  

أتعرّف على ابتسامتها التي تحملها معظم نساء هذه المدينة.

تمشي واثقة خطوتين، ثم يقع موبايلها. أراقبها وهي تنحني بحذر لتلتقطه. تتظاهر، دون جدوى، باللامبالاة، كي لا تشعرنا بأنها تنحني بحذر. ثمة فرق دقيق جداً بين الإغراء والابتذال، لا يهمني لحظتها البحث عنه.  تتأرجح على كعبها العالي بين جرأة مبالغة وانعدامها. تترصد نظرات الإعجاب، وتزداد تمايلاً ودلعاً بقدر ما تعتدي عليها تلك النظرات. أشعر بإيقاع خطواتها يزلزل جبالي.

تبتعد، فأضطر ت القناة بنظرة إلى اليمين.

 يمشى، بل كأنه يحلق فوق الأرض كشبح، رجل يلبس ضوء القمر، يتأبطه جسد داخل غيمة كثيفة سوداء، لا دليل على هويته، سوى حذاء ناصع البياض، ذي كعب عال وثقيل من فلين. هل ترتدي هي الحجاب، أم أنها تجعلنا نحن نرتديه لتحجبنا عنها؟ أغير القناة بنظرة إلى اليسار .. سروال جينز ضيق جداً بداخله فلبيني. أحاول تجاهل الرؤوس التي تلتفت إليه. أقنع نفسي بأنها فقط فضولية مثلي. 

أغير القناة يميناً… رجلان آسيويان تتشابك أياديهما. في طفولتي، وحتى أيام الشباب في البلاد، كان هذا تصرف طبيعي، تشدنا إليه صداقات حميمة، طويلة، وطيدة، لا دخل لها بالجنس بأي شكل من الأشكال. جعلتني سنوات الدراسة في الجامعات الأمريكية أتتقزز منها الآن. أغير القناة.. أمامي… نساء “مستشقرات” كذباب حول وليمة غنية ترتدي بزة رمادية، وتحمل مسبحة من فضة وأحجار العقيق.  

أغير .. أنظر إلى الأعلى. خمس شاشات تلفاز تراقبنا، نحن المراقبين، من سقف المقهى. تتعارك قنواتها لتحظى برضى مدخني السلوم المخضرمين، ومدخني التفاح الهواة مثلي.  “… كانت هذه الأنباء بالتفاصيل، طاب مساؤكم.” 

يهرب دخان النارجيلة من أنوف وأفواه ضجرت منها المقاهي. تهتز رؤوس كثيرة حولي، لست أدري، أطرباً للغنج الأنثوي، الذي يجتاح خواء حياتنا، عبر شاشات التلفاز، أم أسفنا أن تفسد مجرد كلمة “أنباء” مزاجنا الجماعي الرائق؟ لم أعد أميز بين طرب، ونشوة، وأسى.  كأني خارج التلفاز، لم أعد أميز اجتياحاً من احتلال من إعلان.   كأني داخل التلفاز، لم يعد يميزني لا اجتياح، ولا احتلال، ولا إعلان. 

كأني أنا كل من بالمقهى، وأنا مجرد مقعد قديم، مهترئ. كأني أنا حجر النارجيلة، أنتهى الكون من تدخيني. كأني أنا دخان الحياة المتصاعد بكثافة كلما مزقت أطراف الليل براءة النهار، وبراءة كل حلم جميل. 

فدوى القاسم

دبي