‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt
“What we have gathered most is the injustice of men and fate together.”
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid
“Fawz Al-Abdullah” is a cursed woman. She has never known a man without bringing him to his downfall. Her father died in an accident during a hunting trip, her husband disappeared since the invasion, which Lebanese poet never set foot in Kuwait after the scandal with her, her professor in Alexandria got Alzheimer’s, and finally, she ended with that poor soul she brought from Egypt, who collapsed in the hospital, no longer able to see, hear, or speak.
Fawz thought she had escaped everything and that she was better than us in every way. Limitless inheritance, a villa in Jabriya, a chalet in Khiran, a farm in Abdali, an apartment in Cairo, a house in London, and a son studying for a master’s degree in the United States. People write for her, poetry one time, a novel another. And when she feels like drawing… they organize exhibitions for her in the country. We open Al-Rai, or see Al-Qabas, or browse Al-Siyasa, and her face stares at us; as if no one is more beautiful than her, as if no one else exists in Kuwait, as if the world belongs only to her.
I advised her, as a friend since we were in middle school, “Fawz, don’t play with fire. You are the widow of a martyr. You receive the martyr’s pension. Do you know what the National Committee for Prisoners and Missing Persons did when they found out about Soad’s secret marriage? They filed a lawsuit against her and took back what she had received for years since her husband’s name was listed among the martyrs. This is not to mention the scandal it caused her family. But you, Fawz, with your usual stubbornness, said:
“I don’t need their dinars, and I won’t marry secretly.”
Here you are, Fawz, you lost the bet, as the news leaked and you’ve been investigated by the committee, and the man, your dream knight, is lying near death.
Honestly, I don’t know what you saw in him.
A man with heavy speech, and this calmness that brought you closer to him was surely artificial. He showed you weakness to get close, and then you rushed to Dr. Salman Al-Ibrahim, knowing well that you don’t trust him, and that Ibrahim himself doesn’t trust you, as he trusts no one. But you begged him to meet Professor Mohsen in Cairo, and to bring him to work in the institution. Now, Professor Mohsen benefited from you, came to Kuwait, worked with a high salary, educated his daughter in a private school, sent her to study in Canada, and then left you to burn.
Before his appearance in your life, I told you about my brother Nawaf’s desire to marry you. I told you he wanted you for himself. I was surprised when you said, “Nawaf is mischievous, and he plays with his tail.”
You are naive, Fawz. Is there a man who doesn’t play with his tail? Do you think that Professor Mohsen is an angel sent from heaven? My husband himself played with his tail, but he was careful of my dignity and didn’t do anything in front of me, even though I had spies watching him. He fulfilled my needs. Men are made for such tasks; to fulfill their wives’ needs. You wanted to break the rules; you wanted to fulfill the needs of your future husband, so where are you now, Fawz?
Yesterday, I met the miserable journalist Shaden at Marina Mall, this stateless hound. It seemed to me that she was eavesdropping on your news, casually mentioning your name in a few sentences:
“Have you read anything new by Fawz Al-Abdullah?” “Has Fawz Al-Abdullah stopped writing?” “Did you see the news last week in Al-Qabas about Fawz Al-Abdullah?”…
It seemed to me that she knew something about moving Professor Mohsen from Mubarak Al-Kabir Hospital to Hadi Hospital, and that you might be visiting him there. But I think she doesn’t yet know about your most insane idea, your desire to move him to your house. This crime will not go unnoticed. You must return to your senses. Kuwait is not London or Paris. Even in Cairo, this would not be acceptable, let alone here.
There are many like the stateless journalist Shaden, and she has been digging behind you for some time now, and the hatred has doubled, because Professor Mohsen told you about her invitation to him and his refusal to go, based on your bad relationship with her. You are now in the camp of her enemies.
But let me ask you, who are you to bear a comatose patient? You are spoiled, Fawz, and you won’t bear what I went through when my husband was sick for two whole years, even though I didn’t nurse him myself. His sister and mother came and settled in the house until God decreed what He had willed.
They knew his blood was tainted, no doubt a germ that passed to him from his misadventures here or there. But I took my revenge on myself. Fortunately, he was sterile, we had no children to remind me of him, and I would not have to carry their burdens, and suddenly a child of his, from another woman, wouldn’t show up to surprise me by demanding his inheritance.
Speaking of children, how about Khaled, your son? True, he is abroad, but he will return sooner or later. Have you prepared yourself for such a moment? After twenty years of patience, Fawz, do you fast and break your fast on an onion?
I told you that God is warning you, and Professor Mohsen’s illness is nothing but a divine warning to prevent the situation from completing. I thought you understood the warning. You are not just defying the Prisoners’ Committee, or your son, or yourself, you are defying your Lord, may God protect us. The believer takes these signs to heart, reflects upon them, and you pass by them without a second thought.
Do you remember when I told you about the vision I had, and you didn’t accept what I later told you about the fortune teller’s story that I interpreted for you?
When I asked for your permission, and took a handkerchief of yours, a shawl you wore, and a strand of your hair, I went to her, my fortune teller “Ser Al-Uyoun”. This woman has never failed in her prophecies. I met many Moroccans, and you know the depth of my friendship with them, and when they introduced me to “Ser Al-Uyoun”, I thought I would have a fun time, listening to jokes and anecdotes, and then return to my life. But “Ser Al-Uyoun” completely changed my mind.
From the very first day, I read things in my palm that I hadn’t dared confess even to myself. Did you know that my father was once married in Cairo while studying there? Of course not. Despite our companionship of over thirty years, I’ve never revealed that secret. It was a student marriage that ended when their education years did. He had been immersed in dreams of Arab nationalism and struggle, and then he woke up. But to ‘Sir al-Oyoon,’ this seemed like just a readable line in the opening of a transparent, open book she already knew about me.
I gave her the handkerchief, the shawl, and the lock of hair and told her that you didn’t want to come. I begged her, if she could, to read something of your essence. Sir al-Oyoon took your belongings, braided them together like a strand of hair, placed them on her forehead, and closed her eyes until I saw sweat streaming down her face. Suddenly, she threw them away as though pushing away evil, shouting:
‘This is a war with no victory!’
By God, Fawz, I didn’t tell her your name. Perhaps she inquired about me from my many friends, but the matter didn’t stop at a name. She told me verbatim:
‘If your companion is dear to you, advise her to keep her distance. She is approaching fire day by day, spinning around an unmerciful sun, like a moth trapped by flames… She must save her wings.’
Today, you told me that you feel responsible for what happened to Mr. Mohsen, that had you not brought him from Egypt, he wouldn’t have suffered here. How strange you are, Fawz! This is fate and destiny. Are you fate, or destiny, or both? It was his fate to meet you, his destiny to travel, and his lot to suffer a stroke. He went through both the good and the bad, and if you were the cause of his affliction, consider the good you brought him.
Would he have been able to send his daughter to study in Canada otherwise? True, I don’t have children, but I know how Egyptians cherish their children—they’d take food from their own mouths to place it in their children’s. Perhaps his purpose in life has been fulfilled, and God sent you to help him fulfill that purpose for his daughter. If you truly want to do good, send him back to Egypt, let him die among his people, and dedicate funds for his daughter’s education, daughter of noble origins.
I visited him only once with you at Hadi Hospital, and I couldn’t repeat it. That man lying there wasn’t the same person I knew. May illness be cursed. He reminded me of my husband’s final days. But my husband could speak, he could look at people with his eyes, and he moved when necessary. This man, however, was like the machines attached to him—lifeless.
For days, I couldn’t tell you how I felt, and when I finally did, you were angry with me. I know the truth is bitter, but lies are bitterer still at the bottom, and we will reach the truth no matter how much we hide it. Mr. Mohsen is clinically dead, and had he been in Europe, they would have applied the theory of euthanasia.
You should contact his family—his mother, father, or brother. Surely they are asking about him after weeks of silence. Tell them what has happened to him and arrange for his transfer. He will die there with dignity. You know how Egyptians react when one of their own passes away here; they rally together to transport the body, collect a few dinars, as if they believe that if he is buried in Sulaibikhat Cemetery, he won’t enter paradise. As if they are all pharaohs, wanting to bury their kingly dead in their designated pyramid!
Does my talk sound harsh to you, Fawz? What is harsher is delaying what must be done.
Do I need to remind you of your feelings toward your husband, Badr? How you worshipped him? How your story began in London? How you would spend hours telling me about his virtues? The years have done what they did. The wounds have healed. His absence was harsh, but you got used to it. Mr. Mohsen’s absence might be harsher, but you will get used to it.
We will keep you busy, just as we kept you busy over the past years. We will gather our rebellious group once again and resume our activities. Gossip is our first creed: Fawz Al-Abdullah… Sabah Al-Hamoud… Shahlaa Al-Tayeh… and I, your unrivaled leader, Zuwaina Al-Saleh. Since we were in middle and high school, and even when university studies separated us, we always found time for each other. We traveled together, went to the markets together, and had breakfast at the Marina by the Gulf every Friday—together.
What united us more was the injustice of men and fate alike. You lost Badr after the treacherous invasion, I lost my husband to a malignant illness, Sabah Al-Hamoud became a spinster, and Shahlaa Al-Tayeh failed in two marriages—her husband said she was too masculine. Now she raises her daughter from her second marriage, and I see in her the young Shahlaa.
By God, Fawz, I thought we had reached the height of mischief in our youth, but her daughter and her friends have surpassed us. To them, we are outdated. We need to learn from the new generation.
Modhi, Shahlaa’s daughter, used to throw a party in the villa garden every week, inviting her friends. The girl forbade her mother from entering the tent where the girls gathered. Shahlaa, being progressive, said there was no harm in letting her daughter enjoy herself freely with her friends, all girls. But curiosity was killing her. She longed to know what happened inside the tent, even if it cost her a million dinars.
Before the last party, Shahlaa bought small cameras like the ones advertised for door surveillance. She had a specialist install and hide them.
When the girls gathered, Shahlaa turned on the cameras and watched. The disaster was that the girls brought bags, which Shahlaa thought contained juices and snacks—just like we did in our day. But the wicked girls had hidden costumes in the bags. In half an hour, there were three “boys” and three “girls” in the tent. They started acting as boys and girls do when away from parental eyes!
Modhi, whom you remember as a bit of a tomboy like her mother, dressed like a man and painted a mustache on her lips. Then she began kissing her plump friend on the mouth. They kissed, rolling and tumbling together. The girls’ hands intertwined passionately, striking their chests. One of them plugged a hard drive into the TV screen and played a pornographic film. Then they started imitating the obscene scenes. One girl even brought a plastic male organ, tied it around her waist, and the others poured honey and cream over it, taking turns licking it!
The next day, Shahlaa called me to show me the catastrophe, recorded with sound and image. She cried silently as I watched. I held her and reminded her of our times together. True, we were mischievous, but we were never vulgar. The furthest we went was buying Lebanese and Egyptian magazines from Mubarakiya, cutting out pictures of our favorite stars, and kissing their faces. Even when the VHS player came out, we were captivated by Indian movies, where kisses weren’t allowed at the time. We imitated the dances of the girls who revealed their bellies.
Shahlaa burst into tears. She thought it was her fault because Modhi lives in a house with no father. And what would a father have done, Shahlaa? Would he have barged into the tent? Would he have thought to monitor them as you did? Men don’t want to bear responsibility. They throw dinars at us and think they’ve done their duty. They fool around and return to reconcile with expensive perfumes or rare furniture, tossed into a corner here or there, just as they leave you alone.
The internet revolution, Shahlaa, has struck us at our core. Every day, we read about strange and astonishing things. This open space has poured the oil of depravity upon us. The sex industry, as I’ve read, generates revenues no less than major industries. Films, products, stimulants, and sexual services. Imagine—my husband once told me that barbers in Kuwait now offer covert sexual services. Massage clubs have outnumbered mosques. But we must think about how to gradually distance Modhi from this diabolical environment.
Shahlaa thought we could travel together and take Modhi along, show her the world, and make her happy. But I told her that the girl would be bored—she would see us as a gang of old women whose dreams had been aborted. I suggested enrolling her in an equestrian club and promising her a horse if she enjoyed the sport. You know how sports can refine the soul, and perhaps the company of horses will be better than the company of wicked girls.”
Think with us, Fawz, as we always used to do, and don’t forget that I once told you it would be best for Khaled to marry Shahlaa’s daughter. At least his mother-in-law would be your lifelong friend. Are you still thinking about Mr. Mohsen? I don’t believe the love you once felt for him is the same as what you feel now. What you’re doing is nothing but kindness, and it can never be love. What you have now is a mix of pity, generosity, and sympathy, like the feeling you have when you encounter someone who is miserable, but not alive.
Love, and you are a woman of great understanding, is a mutual giving. You love without hope, and the other person has no idea of your feelings. They have no ability to reciprocate any action or emotion. You have become like the pharaohs who revere mummies. This is not the cruelty of a hollow heart, Fawz, but the truth you do not want to hear, the reality you refuse to acknowledge, and the future you don’t wish to face.
I’ve made an appointment for you with “Sir al-Oyoon.” No doubt that when she sees you, she’ll delve deeper. Perhaps she has foreseen something good for you—who knows? But you must come with me, even if only to show yourself some diversion. You must not let despair kill you, nor should pain extinguish the light in your eyes. Our long years together have taught us that no situation remains the same, and glory be to the changer of circumstances and hearts. (Continues)
Click here for Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5,
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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.
