Novel: The Interpreter – Chapter-13

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The Interpreter-Sindh Courier
The original cover of novel (The Interpreter)

‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“What do we do for hearts silenced by the winter of estrangement?”

Ashraf Aboul-Yazid

There is wisdom, “Dalida,” in what has befallen me. I know you are in pain. That silent, resigned look you have speaks louder than thunder, and it tells me, as much as I can understand, that you are confused. But we must surrender to fate. It could have been that today we had a son or a daughter by our side, helping us, but we never had children. This is fate, and we accepted it. However, if we had had sons and daughters and they were absent during our illness, the psychological ordeal would have been even more intense.

You know, I often tell myself that we have given birth to more than any other father or mother. This place, these chairs, that sofa beside the table, have been occupied by at least two generations—of writers, poets, and painters. They all sat here, and we gave them the warmth of fatherly affection and maternal tenderness, which overflowed, even spilling into the sea of Maria.

Dali-Book-Sindh CourierI remember you would bring them hot drinks in the winter, disappearing into the midst of conversation, and then returning like an angel with wings of light, brightening our gatherings. In the summer, you would send “Malak,” your niece’s son, to bring me Azzah’s ice cream in a gigantic dinosaur box, and then distribute it into crystal glasses from the set we bought in Greece on our honeymoon. Do you remember, we made so many trips to Athens that they started calling me “Daniel the Greek”? Even those who loved our wine, we never withheld it from anyone.

And you know, Dalida, I never turned away a young person who came to seek my opinion about a book or manuscript, nor did I refuse any Arab or Egyptian girl who was feeling her way toward literature and art. These were our children, Dalida. But—please—don’t ask me where they are now. They come and go, but they are still here. Perhaps life has distracted them from us… life has become very hard, both for them and for us.

I feel a great personal ache when one of them asks me about a manuscript they gave me during a previous visit, and I can’t remember. Sometimes, I even forget the visitor’s name. If it weren’t for you, Dalida, it would have been worse. You keep quiet about it, trying to explain to them that I’m tired that night. Then you ask the guest about their manuscript, go to the office, and return with the details about our guest.

Visits from family have become infrequent, and the visits from friends have dwindled. It seems the word has spread that I suffer from Alzheimer’s, so the young no longer come to me. Even the Ministry of Culture considers me dead. I don’t think they’re interested in asking about me, as I’ve reached an age where recognition is no longer of any use, because I might forget the appointment or might not even go to greet their important official. And even if I went, the formal recognition wouldn’t have any meaning. The real meaning was here, in those warm gatherings.

But what do we do for hearts silenced by the winter of estrangement?

What can I say about the Ministry of Culture? They used me for free at every conference: “Come, Daniel, write. Come, Daniel, review. Present, Daniel.” Perhaps now they are waiting for my death so some of them can take pictures at my funeral to say they witnessed the farewell of the late critic Daniel Khayat. Wipe your tears, Dalida. This is not a matter that calls for tears, but rather a story that deserves lamentation.

There was only one wave in this raging sea that was kind, and that was the Kuwaiti woman, “Fawz,” who never ceased visiting us every time she landed in Egypt, and her calls when she was in Kuwait. She is our daughter, Dalida, the daughter we never had. She is not “Fawz Al-Abdullah,” she is “Fawz Daniel Khayat.”

Those flashes that bring our memories seem like storm lightning, bringing me scenes I will never forget. The last of these was her love story with my dear son, “Mohsen Helmy”; a story that was born here.

Fawz’s soul was restless, and Mohsen’s soul was tortured. They found comfort from the torment and anxiety, and they soared together. Just as my son, Mohsen, came and told me about it, so did she come and speak to me at length about him. So deeply moved by these parallel stories, I recorded them in a story that you, my angel, will find in my last collection published last winter.

They came on two different days. She sat on my right, and the next day, he sat on my left, as though I were a priest listening to their confessions behind a curtain.

She told me about the long patience, like an endless desert, through which she walked, shaded only by memories with a young husband they had only shared a few months with. While he spoke of the thorny forest he walked through, which drove him crazy after his feet had bled.

Both were searching for an oasis to settle in, a shade to shelter them, an ear that would listen to their voice alone, away from the noise of life that has scarred hearts and ears:

“I am not speaking to you as my teacher, but I consider you my Egyptian father. I may not be able to convey the sensitivity of my social situation in Kuwait. Things there are complicated. There, a woman does not act according to her feelings, nor does she make her own decisions based on what she thinks; society thinks for her and makes decisions for her, and all she has to do is follow.

To deviate from this path means defying the tribe’s rituals, traditions, and customs. Don’t be fooled by the fact that we have a political system divided between an emir, a government, and a parliament. It’s all just for show, a political decoration. We still speak the language of tribes, we still differentiate between the Bedouin and the urban, we still favor the citizen over the expatriate. In fact, some even suggest that the stateless people take the citizenship of the Comoros Islands and leave.”

The woman in this society is caught between two fires; either she submits and loses her identity, becoming just a sheep in a male-dominated herd, or she rebels and becomes the target of a woman who has gone astray.

“I have adapted to society because I used to live as a widowed mother and the widow of a martyr, but they always viewed my life as a writer with suspicion. Now, I come to tell them that I am a woman who loves and marries. What a disaster this will be for them. Every devil will carry stones to throw at me.”

I told her how similar situations don’t differ much in the social formulas familiar to all traditional societies:

“Fawz, my daughter, we do not ask people how we love, when we love, or where we love, and most importantly, we do not ask them whom we love. And here, I do not see your love as just a typical relationship between a man and a woman. Allow me to say that it is not about physical, sensual feelings. I feel that your lives were like a classical poetic text, its beginning searching for its end, hanging on the wall of the Kaaba in the Souq of ‘Okaz, looking for someone to read it and understand it. Or perhaps it is the sensitivity of a new subconscious stream searching for an outlet in a suitable space.

You two met to complete a life that you have yet to live. Therefore, whatever the consequences, this is your opportunity to reclaim your life. No sane person would miss such a path, and you are the wise one I know. You must cross the desert without fear of the tribe’s tents, and the oasis will make you forget everything.”

When “Mohsen” came to me, he seemed confused. “Fawz” had offered him the idea of traveling to Kuwait. He was concerned about the idea of leaving Egypt altogether:

“I pushed the idea of travel away since my graduation from university. I used to see those who traveled for work or emigration as mere escapees, or cowards, unable to face reality. Or as those who forget the good of the country they grew up in, and they must fulfill their duty toward it. Here, I carved my name into the rock of presence, without any official cultural institution to support me, without a star or eagle on the shoulder of a responsible figure to pave my way.

I was alone, for twenty years, until I was able to make a name for myself, even if it was modest, but it was self-made. Now, travel feels like riding the escalator in the Petro-dollar train. Finally, the oil money will stain these clean hands, and I might not find time to wash its marks. At that time, no one will talk about my love story except as an opportunistic move, a chance I seized to climb the wealth of a Gulf woman.”

“Take it easy, Mohsen. Don’t torment yourself or punish yourself before others judge you. And tell me, who are these others to judge you? You are the one who makes your decisions, you chose to distance yourself from the official institution by your own decision. You preferred not to take the path of connections. You left the land to be taken over by devilish plants, but none of that stopped you from planting your own orchard.”

I had before me a collection of his latest translations, and I held them, telling him:

“This orchard is what will remain, while employees, opportunists, and slaves of authority will perish. The timeless story of Juha, his son, and their donkey represents this phase. If you search for the approval of others, you will lose them and lose yourself. No one will be pleased with you, even if you set your fingers alight as candles.”

But, Dalida, like the legendary love stories, it begins as a dream and then turns into a nightmare.

In the last phone call, “Fawz” was crying. She told me in detail what had happened to our son, “Mohsen.” After her call, my eyes filled with tears as I reflected on the merciless fate that does not allow the simple ones to live their lives, nor does it overlook those who dream of a better tomorrow. It tests them harshly and violently, as though they are the cause of the evils in that world.

“Mohsen” had big dreams, which he shared with me in the times before his travel. He wanted to marry and return to Egypt to establish a major publishing house after working for a while. He wanted “Fawz Al-Abdullah” to be with him, both in Cairo and Kuwait, as a partner of heart and mind.

He wanted to fulfill his ambition of teaching new generations the secrets and arts of translation, and to join them in creating a new House of Wisdom, betting on transferring the foundations of knowledge and philosophy, just as he sought to Arabize texts in the fields of literature and art. He believed that the body of the bird traveling toward the future would only be propelled higher by these two wings, and I would listen to him as he blazed with life, like a boy following a kite in the sky, pulling on the string so it would rise to the moon.

When he arrived in Kuwait, he would call me every Tuesday evening. He knew I would be hosting guests for the gathering on Wednesday, and it was as if he was telling me he was already there before them, having arrived at my house first. I would feel during the gathering that his breath was with us, and his words, spoken the day before, would echo among those sitting around me.

One day, I asked him about “Mustafa Sanad,” knowing that he worked at the same institution, even though “Sand” had joined before him, despite not knowing any languages. Yet he had other qualities, and I knew that half of his sessions with us were devoted to storing what we said to pass it on. I had been too embarrassed to banish him from attending.

My son “Mohsen” was silent for a long time, and I realized that “Sanad’s” tricks had continued beyond the borders.

But what deeply saddened me was what “Mustafa Sanad” had done to me personally. I, who had been embarrassed by preventing him from coming to my home, while he, despite the bitterness in his heart, stopped me from benefiting from something that he had no hand in.

A few months ago, “Fawz Al-Abdullah” came to me and told me she would nominate me for an award from the Arab Translation Institute, as recognition for the effort I had put into translating literary heritage from French, including contemporary theatre and avant-garde critical studies. She asked me for my approval because she didn’t want to nominate me without my consent, knowing that some writers are sensitive to receiving money from Gulf institutions. I told her I had no objection, as it was enough for me that Kuwait would remember me at a time when my own country had forgotten me.

A month before traveling, the time came to announce the honorees. I had mentally prepared for the trip, even going to renew my passport, when I was shocked to find that my name was not among the announced names!

That evening, I received a sad phone call from “Fawz Al-Abdullah.” She told me she would investigate the reason. She knew that the head of the institute, Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim,” would never turn down her request, and the last thing she had asked before putting my name forward for the honor was the matter of our son “Mohsen” traveling to work in Kuwait. A few days later, her voice had changed on the phone, choking with anger and sadness, as she told me that “Mustafa Sanad” was the reason and that he was the one who had blocked my recognition.

Imagine, Dalida, that this man, who ate and drank with us, and whose house we opened to him every week for years, is the boogeyman who jumped in front of “Salman Al-Ibrahim,” warning him of the consequences of my being honored!

I believed “Fawz,” for I know her… she has never lied to me. But what added bitterness to the matter were the details that our son “Mohsen” told me, after I insisted.

He learned from Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim” the reasons that “Mustafa Sanad” had presented to convince the head of a major translation institution to prevent honoring someone from the pioneering generation. He told him that the Islamic current in Kuwait was very influential, and that he could lose his position if he honored a Christian. He also mentioned my poor health, how I had crossed the threshold of old age, and how I couldn’t even leave the house, let alone travel long distances by plane.

Do you know, Dalida, a case like Mustafa Sanad’s is not exceptional? The exception is finding people like our son “Mohsen” and our daughter “Fawz Al-Abdullah.” This harsh world has become a giant maw that devours everything good, and people like “Mustafa Sanad” are the fangs that know nothing but gnawing.

I belong to a generation where literary battles took place openly. There were intellectual schools that competed with reason and evidence, committed writers and critics, and others who were rebellious, yet we all strived together. There were individuals whose productivity surpassed today’s institutions, including translators who were like monks in the temple of the word, bringing global thought to readers who didn’t master its native languages.

There were those who read and absorbed foreign literature, then summarized it and published it for both the elderly and the young. We started cinema because we saw it as a gathering of arts, and we supported theater because we knew its great influence. Today, cinema is nothing but miserable scenes, and theater is reduced to sketches, with exceptions being rare.

You know, Dalida, the decline began after what was mistakenly called the setback, because it was a great defeat that we did not acknowledge, and thus we did not overcome it. Then the wave returned stronger, and the wall of artistic and aesthetic values cracked further after the “contract cinema” of the 1970s. Now, they make films for the West, presenting models that feed orientalism, portraying us as carefree, frivolous societies thinking of nothing but our lower halves. They also produce theater for those seeking a moment of laughter among the tourists coming from the Gulf countries.

Even literature has become for export. When I read novels, I find them re-producing One Thousand and One Nights in clumsy and vulgar ways, as if it were a ready-made literary recipe, akin to a literary version of Kentucky Fried Chicken, tailored for Western consumption, obsessed with a world of instincts, tricks, and drowning in the pleasures of their naked women, photographed by traveling photographers in the East, and the deviants among their roaming poets.

I feel that what we sought to establish in terms of sensitivities rooted in our heritage has failed. It has become something to be mocked, not folklore; just shiny but fake exteriors floating on the surface, hiding the worm gnawing at the fertile, rich soil beneath—the worm like “Mustafa Sanad,” multiplying like single-cell bacteria, splitting and multiplying endlessly, without father or mother.

Should we, Dalida, try again, or should we surrender? I think our time has passed, and perhaps we were waiting too much from the generation of our son “Mohsen,” but now that very generation is being crushed by the mill of time, and it is falling early.

We are waiting for a miracle, in a time without miracles. (Continues)

Click here for Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11, Chapter 12

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About the Author 

Ashraf-Aboul-YazidAshraf Aboul-Yazid is a renowned Egyptian poet, journalist, novelist, travelogue writer and translator. He is author of around three dozen books and Editor-in-Chief of Silk Road Literature Series.

 

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