‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt
“The man is the man, a corrupt factory from the beginning of humanity to its end.”
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid
How distressed you are, “Fawz”! I wish you hadn’t complied with my request, I wish you had opposed me.
I told you I wanted to see the man and pray for him, and spread some incense around him, hoping that magic might achieve what science could not. You didn’t believe me, you accepted, and allowed me to see him, as if you were clinging to the last hope that he might awaken.
Seeing him shook me, I don’t know how I’ll recover from the state his sight put me in. By God, the women of strength no longer have the means for such situations. “Shahlaa al-Tayyib” and “Zouina al-Saleh” were right; they told me you had gone mad, and I didn’t believe them. But I saw with my own eyes “Fawz al-Abdallah,” the woman of sound judgment, falling in love with a heap of bones!
Perhaps, of course, you are saying to yourself that love has nothing to do with me now, to understand how you could be in this state. I’ve said goodbye to the world of men, and a hopelessness about them has taken hold of me that time cannot fix. Their words no longer affect me, their tricks no longer move me, and I no longer believe their eternal lies. But you, you try to make me understand that you love a man who cannot hear you, does not respond to you, and does not move in response to your needs. You are free, “Fawz,” but I must heal myself to get out of this depression.
I saw you standing beside his bed as if you were the little “Fawz” I first knew in middle school. The only change in you was the disappearance of the braids, but the same confused look returned, the one that lived with you for many long years, as if your dates with confusion would never end.
You were the only one who was afraid among our group. And when the young men would look at us, you almost stumbled. Even when one of them would talk to us on the street, you were the one hiding your face. But you became someone else when we moved together to study in London, and your eyes opened as wide as they could, and you surprised us with your boldness when you fell in love with “Badr al-Sultan.”
I told you that you were a girl with no experiences, and that you should test love more than once to be sure of your feelings, but you told me he was the first and last man in the world.
Then “Badr” disappeared. You adapted to life alone. Many years passed, during which you experienced the crisis of that Lebanese poet, and you realized—or so I thought, along with “Shahlaa” and “Zouina”—that you would forever rid yourself of the disease called men.
Yes, men are a disease, especially these sons of our town. They still have a hidden line of deceit and betrayal in their veins, it seems to be born with them. And when they sever their umbilical cords, they do not cut them off; they live with it like a crooked tail following them wherever they go.
They always absolve themselves of every crime they commit, big or small. To them, we are no more valuable than a car they buy, or a headdress they wear, just decoration, embellishment. It’s a form of masculinity for them to have a woman, whether she is a wife or a mistress, it doesn’t matter. And they don’t waste time searching for another like stray dogs. I swear, if they saw a woman’s cloak on a trash bin, they’d flirt with it.
I wasn’t born hating them, and as you know, my father and mother used to flirt with each other, so I didn’t grow up with a complex that I healed by distancing myself from this type. But the truth is I’ve tried them, once, twice, three times, and the result was the same. They come from the same factory, with the same flaw.
In Kuwait, we used to say that any electrical appliance was excellent because it was British or American-made, then we began to accept Japanese and Korean goods, and now the markets are flooded with Chinese and Turkish products. The world changes and shifts, and the man is the man, a corrupt factory from the beginning of humanity to its end.
I healed early from this disease. What do I need a man for, to untie his knots in my body, while he feels that by marrying me, he has purchased me? He marries me tonight, then spends the wedding week searching for a mistress. And if he doesn’t find one, he’ll go to the kitchen to ask for the maid. The reputation of our town is in the gutter because of what these men do with maids in homes and saleswomen in stores, to the point where they leave their villas to rent apartments for them.
You suffer from a cycle of failure every ten years, Fawz. The first began with your loss of Badr, the second came with the Lebanese poet’s adventure, and now the third bout comes after twenty years, as you watch a man you met by chance dying in front of you, and you say you love him!
When I entered the room, which was once your creative sanctuary, where you used to take us to sign your new books… as if it were a journey to paradise, I was horrified by what I saw.
The books are gone, and the medications have arrived. The flowers have disappeared, and the IV fluids are hanging. The elegant mahogany desk with its Italian design is gone, and the white metal bed, with its coldness penetrating the bones and invading the eyes, appeared, sickening the heart. The fragrance of perfumes evaporated, replaced by the smells of medicine and disinfectants. Before all of that, and after it, there was no “Fawz” the person, but rather a woman resembling a robot, whose batteries were powered by the pulse of the man lying on the sickbed.
In the town, the catastrophe of your husband’s absence came with the whirlpool of hardship that he lived through and shared with everyone. We were all psychologically devastated.
The invasion implanted sickness in our hearts, in our brains, down to the marrow. That’s why your tragedy melted into the desert of our tragedies. In every house, there was someone who suffered, whether through loss or illness. By God, if we had spent the money for treatment on bribing “Saddam,” we wouldn’t have gotten sick. But the word “if” opens the door to the devil, and we all fell into the forest of devils.
Your second catastrophe, “Fawz,” coincided with the awakening of beards. Suddenly, the men with beards discovered that we are an Islamic country. After fourteen centuries, someone tells us that the presence of “Nancy Ajram” to perform in Kuwait is forbidden. And someone objects to the lifestyle we grew up with.
Do you remember how we used to wear whatever we liked, experiment with our haircuts, and boast about our cosmetics? But no one could ever call us indecent because we upheld our morals. Now, the Saudi and Iranian Islam are in a clash, and overnight, the girls of our town have become the victims of fatwas issued by sheikhs and mullahs who give them the choice between the niqab or the chador.
And here comes the final scene with this third catastrophe. I don’t know how things will develop. This man might remain bedridden for years, and you will wither beside him as your life drains away, just as your tears flow. You must make your decision, “Fawz.” Let me say it: It is no longer just your decision. We fear for you more than you fear for yourself.
Don’t reproach me for not having loved a man this deeply to understand the meaning of love. I don’t need to put my hand in the fire to know it burns. There is no good behind men. If there is any good to be expected from them, it is when they are capable of giving and sharing. You, “Fawz,” did not marry to become a widow, and you did not fall in love to become a nurse. Revolt against your heart, teach it manners. Perhaps it does not know who it is giving its pulses to. There is nothing left for you to do for the sick man.
I told you that it would be enough for you to step out of this prison for just one day to regain your ability to enjoy life. We just need one day together, again, you and me, and “Shahlaa” and “Zouina.” We could have breakfast at Marina Mall, at Zait and Za’atar, then we would roam the shops, buy perfume and new body care products from The Body Shop, have lunch at Al-Nawkhada, and finish the day at the Science Center with a 3D film at the IMAX cinema, and then we could spend the evening at my place or at “Shahlaa’s,” watching a new movie on the home cinema screen.
One day of living a normal life, and you will hate this abnormal life forever.
But I wish I hadn’t suggested it to you, because you were with us only in body. As for your spirit, your thoughts, and all your senses, you left them in the room of the sick man.
We saw you take out a paper from your bag, from time to time, then call the nurses, review the names and times of all the medications, confirm the treatment cycle, apply the ointments, and ask for the patient to be turned on both sides. We wanted to take you with us into a space where you could breathe freely, but you took us into that room that resembled a coffin in paradise.
We exchanged glances, “Shahlaa,” “Zouina,” and I, and decided to confront you. Either you let the nurses do their job, or you leave us. You were silent for a long time, “Fawz,” then we saw you rise, place your phone and belongings into your bag, and tell us you were going back home so that we wouldn’t worry.
What worry, you crazy woman? We want you to be free for a few hours from that pain which I couldn’t bear to see for even minutes. “Fawz,” what you have with that sick man is not love, and you need to wake up before a bigger catastrophe than him and you occurs. This is pity, or mercy, or compassion—call it anything but love. You are atoning for sins you have not committed.
Now we are dealing with one sick person, but if you continue on this path, we will be dealing with two sick people. And that’s a crime because when you fall ill, you will find no one but us, and we want you to get through this ordeal without falling into its deep well. We want you now, before tomorrow. We want you to listen to us, just once. You will not find anyone who loves you more than we do, especially among men!
As for the madness, it was the phrase you threw in our faces as you were leaving us:
“I will marry him!” (Continues)
Click here for Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14,
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About the Author
Ashraf 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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