قصة عيد المراكب.. للكاتب محسن خالد

Quote: The Boats Festival The river was a whole era of glimmering yearning, not merely a moment involving passing water. I will never forget the time when she was a pupil in the first year of the intermediate school. I was in the first year of the secondary school. I brought with me to the village season of Migration to the North. I looked at it with renewed joy every moment, as a young girl would in her mirror. We were going to read it together. She had just seen its cover and leafed through it. We agreed to read it in the night, just the two of us. One of the officials in the harvest team in our quarters glimpsed at some of the expressions in the book and confiscated it. People say that he was a security element under cover. She wept; she had learned dispossession so early on in life. As for me, I knew hunger for three full migrations. I guessed what The wedding of Zein was about. We heard of it, but never read it. I had seen a picture of El Tayeb Salih. So, I told her about the picture . she asked me to give her a description that did not accommodate the facts in the picture. She persisted as she put her arm on my side and said: “Describe him to me from here; description is like a crosier scraping off fruits.” Which ‘here’ did she mean? I didn’t know to where she was pointing, may be to the ground. I said to her as I added details of my own: “He is not tall to any particular height. He is rather as short as wedge driven into the ground, and as firm as a Christ’s-thorn.” She laughed and said: “He isn’t handsome then!” I answered her as I was drawing in the air, “No, never! This is only in a treacherous mirror. On the surface of the river the reflection of his handsomeness is akin to a water-wheel that fertilizes a field.” “You are exaggerating; your eyes tell me so,“ she said. “May be; but his temperament is not as in vogue as their envy for you to know the truth,” I said. “The envy of whom,” she asked. “These people, who confiscate everything,” I replied. Long years passed over our head like a stone thrown in the air. I became a teacher of English in our neighbourhood where a higher secondary school was built by public efforts. She was a student at the Faculty of Agriculture in Al-Jazeera University. But still the bondage and love of childhood held us together. We had never parted company since they took away her passionate longing and my hunger. We never celebrate except together. We also used to divide grief between us on two nights: Salma would draw on earth; a triangular sleepless night, with a point inside representing her, and a triangular sleepless night with a point inside representing me. She never drew a big point and small point. Everything was equally divided. even if one us was hurt we used to share the wound: a fever and pricks of pain for her episode; then when this over she would sort of hand them over to me. Even grief and wounds had confidence in us. My mother would wake me up every morning to make it to my work at school on time except on Thursday when yearning itself would wake me up at dawn to see Salma. Thursday was her day off. I always wait for her at the ferry-place or at the place where small boats are anchored. Between the cities of al Hasahisa and Rufa’aa there was an age-old river machination. At a time like this only one boat would come- the boat of Wad Hajo al Hawati. I carry Salma’s things and I clasp her hand to help her step down from the boat. The itching that is triggered by the urge for a hug would remain imprisoned in our bosoms. Irrespective of the wait I have at the river bank, she would ask in her slightly maddening joy, “and you are coming late, too?” I would pretend to be angry and tease her saying, “Is it so Salma? Ok, wait and see!” And her rejoinder would come, “Good God! You are now free to do as you choose. Now you have the right to be mad at me! By God! You have become sophisticated.” She would look at like a person hiding a surprise and wanting to give a clue to it at one and the same time. Her face would seem relax as if she were in a nest, belonging to me alone. She would then pull down her blouse in a move suggestive of drawing circles that would widen. Time would late afternoon when the sun is merciful to some degree and neutral. The sun on Salma’s weekend could appear by night and day; the higher wisdom of such a son could not be contained in colours. Salma’s colour is like twilight, amazingly transparent. She would pull her blouse again in a circular movement. I would say to her, “You always remind me of a canary bird, Salma.” We would laugh together at the stupidity of the idea, and she would say, “Why haven’t you told me?” “Told you what?” “that your fellow student at the College of Art is beautiful and stylishly dressed, as they.” “Of course she is; but you are usually the last to know.” And I would laugh to tease her, and then add, “You will have quite a hard time with me Salma. You are jealous then, right?” “Me? I’m far beyond the reach of you and her. I’m the prettiest girl, do you get this?” by then we would have gone half the distance covered by the fields. she knew me well amid that state of orphanhood and alones. She would notice that we were alone and say over a distance we would go enjoying intimacy only: “If you stop I will chop off your head.” I would not stop or look back; I would only be a little angry. She used always to please me as a man as she was drawing my attention to a state of elegance I should attain to. She would touch my her for a long time and then kiss me briefly on the cheek in a kind, whisper-like move saying, “If people don’t cut their hair it would be like that of lambs.” “I have had a haircut two weeks ago. I have many other things to worry about. It’s not Salma to have myself totally given up to.” “Stop cheat! You are happy and contented with television series. It seems that you never remember me.” We would then walk among the fields feeling just satisfied with our affinity. The smell of foreignness that had come over from the other bank of the river would server us in the manner of a chewing gum or a cigar. She would to help carry some of her things, and I would push her away as she was a male friend and my love. She always looked like a male friend to me. She would surprise me with a question she learned on the other bank: “You are no longer concerned with discussing parties as you used to do in the past.” “Who listen to this here?” “Dear, say that you have forgotten this.” “Never! I haven’t forgotten or given up. Tomorrow when we cross together this river to our home, we will find out who will stay loyal and who will be preoccupied by sons.” “Don’t say sons; I want daughters.” “Daughters? Ok, dear. This is so because you are a liberal activist and the like .I’m ready to have a wager with all the unions of women that bringing up boys is easier than bringing up girls. you are mad and I’m an addict of television series; so your girls will be lucky Salma, free to go around without any control or check.” “Beat it; you are too backward. I wish if I had more baggage to make you carry it till you ate chastised.” She would then fall silent for awhile, hit on the bags I’m carrying, and say in anger, “The limit of your guardianship on a child is the edge of the bed, you understand? Once a child reaches a stage in which he fears falling off the bed, he is free as of that moment.” For these reasons I would keep my worry about her concern with parties to my self. I used to avoid warning her of anything. I had tried this many times. I would not spoil a mere weekend for both of us by talking more than once. That was our mutual mistake; but it was mire apparent on her part. So as to compensate for the book taken away from us, we had brought many books. Thus Salma had become a stubborn person. I would not be hypocritical like them and say for the sake of the country and the land… even love is something selfish; it is concerned by its sole existence and nothing apart from it. We reached the end of the fields and climbed a mound on the road surrounding the gigantic of sycamores ben trees. We had a glimpse of taxis from there. We would leave much of our weariness near the river because of our pleasant chat, and we would aspire for more to be satisfactorily equipped for the farm we dream of, Salma and l. That could the boat of Wad Hajo!! The river was a whole era of glimmering yearning, not merely a moment involving passing water. Faraway the rover was dotted by a boat in a moment of fog insanity, just as a mind held captive by a presentiment of fear and great danger. At last the mind came up with an idea to save the day. My feet turned greenish where the river water, in which I had stood for a long time, touched on them. What kind if greenish ness was that? Was it the tickling of a field because I am a piece of an Adam made of clay and seeds? Or am I planktons algae of waiting because I had stopped for a full age? It might have been that the boat that would bring Salma should not be awaited at a river. The foot of yearning might slip inadvertently and the person pays for his fall, the detailed fall of a full river. It goes towards the waterfall like the sunset end in a painting, an end that the sun in a painting never reaches. True, since my birth my mother has drawn, rather than giving birth to, me. I never keep my appointments irrespective of resolute intentions to do so. A pretty visitor like Salma never comes my way a patch of colour in a drawing comes forward; only her luminance come towards me. Things only intend to catch up with me as a last resort when I am full of a certain hope. I always say to myself such things, as if Salma would never come. Her examinations timetable is still too distant in the future. But what if the university reconsiders things and changes the calendar. Who could object? Salma is the prettiest girl as she says; and the loveliest girl as I say. This is based on my visits to her at the university. What will happen if one her female fellow students insist that she spends Thursday with her? This what I always say; this is the way the heart of one in love tells always, a heart overflowing with the worry about things that have not occurred yet. This was especially true because it was not Wad Hajo’s boat that time. It was the large feed boat; but was full of people that time. It was a large, flat boat like the nose of a hippopotamus. And if Salma was angry with me, the boat would have been as my nose. She would say this to me if I was angry with her. On such occasions her laugh alone would reconcile us directly. I wish this boat would go away from here so that I would not lose my right to become angry because of Salma’s delay. Of course Salma’s nose is not a nose in the ordinary sense of the word. Rather, it is like a bird of paradise made of honey that has alighted on her face. This is what I say to her to reconcile her when I bear the responsibility of our anger. I definitely exaggerate bring prompted by the scent of her breaths. Sometimes Salma becomes angry with me and behave with the authority of a mother. If we are surrounded by people, for instance, she will open her back and hands it over to me saying manipulatively, “Take it then…” “What?” “Get your hand in the bag.” And then she would pinch my hand inside the bag without anyone taking notice. I would threaten her that I would yell: “I’m going to yell, you fool.” “This is so that you won’t repeat this again. Have manners, you understand?” The river was dotted with many boats, even the large ferry specialized for peak periods had moved toward the bank where I was standing. It was full of people? What was happening? Could our quarters and their city have exchanged markets without our knowledge? As if the dresses and ages of those heading towards us had becomes harmonized to some extent, harmonized and suitable for expressing an interest or a single department: the post, electricity, or… When I learned that she was lovable, as I had related, she invited me to attend a briefing session by their party in the university. That time Salma moved her sunglasses instead of her blouse, and said to us as if she were a boy. “Here in the night only prayers and woman captivate our existence. During the day, we either carry axes and hurry behind hunger to annihilate it, or a faction of mercenaries take its rifles and hurry behind us to kill us. We are going to hide our grief from them. This is how things work; we forge ourselves in the face of the nature of life and the nature of history, so that we become more authentic in the eye of the future that we deserve.” When she finishes her mission, as she says, I tease her as someone who has professed such words of old: “Listen Salma, I don’t want to associate with this. We go our separate ways. I’m going to engage another girl. You are going to make me adopt inconstant stances; you do so even to the neighbors. This discourse and eloquence is more than our little home can sustain.” I say this in my capacity as an old professional. A professional who has retired because there is a river that separates Rufa’aa from al Hasahisa. A professional who waits for the river to stop so that he can begin a new. This is the selfishness of love as I have said. From Salma woman has learned to make my existence contingent on my being a settlement for her first, then a her being my love if possible. Who would love my with such a measure of sacrifice if I lose her? She knows that she is like Halley’s Comet; I don’t remember after how many tens of years one like it would visit us. So, Salma must show sarcasm of my being engaged to a girl other than her in the following manner: “I think it’s the history teacher this time. You could only do so at a very big cost. This is called provocation; it’s possible that your punishment could be imprisonment, and could be death.” She says this and strike her chest with awe. Then she would put her arm on my thigh, regaining her old childhood posture when we read a book together in our mutual childhood. She then apologizes, “I’ve forgotten that you are our guest. I would too angry with myself if I find that it has become dry now.” She would then search in her bag and slowly take out a sandwich, saying as a child, “Please, for my sake, I will be angry with you if you do this.” She then hands me the semi-dry sandwich, saying as she laughs: “Wet it with the juice. Cheer up villager, this is a mixed juice, you understand?” despite her familiar laugh when we get reconciled, I felt at that moment she hates poverty as a personal issue; it has no relation with the way they have provoked her. It is he who does not permit buying another, non-dry sandwich for me. She is sensitive with respect to hospitality matters, even with me. I buy one claiming that I would receive my salary within two weeks; a salary I owe to thousands of creditors. I say in glee, “You say mixed? You give colourful excuses and your tone is sweet. You can make one eat stones.” After that we decided that it was suitable to have a walk, or Salma could inflict some punishment on me that takes the form of buying ice cream, with the transport money and then go to the nurseries of the Faculty of Agriculture. I always disagree with her over the fact that my tongue is colder than hers. As for her, Great God, she hates allegations and likes to examine lies. The boats drew nearer; their white and slightly dirty sails and other white things opened up over the river like cotton bolls. The clamour of a gathering of people, shrieks, and closely knitted yelling. No, the outcries of the university students have started to demolish the foundations of the river from bank to bank. The cotton signboards stretched between their hands like a shroud in the hands of each one of them, countless signboards. had they put them altogether and made a mast of them. The would have pulled the other bank to here. They would not have needed boats. They could have crossed to the other bank on their foot that were stained by the ink of their writings. now I am permitted to read what they have written on the signboards in red: Salma Khidir is the martyr of the homeland and freedom; and the ambiguous words that I would have not bet the whole of Salma to meet them. they written on the signboards something that belongs to my tombstone, then. Who has hidden age on the other bank if the river? But how easy is it for bullets to gun down Salma amid a demonstration. Since when has she stopped leading other’s opinion? Since the primary school she got used to lead pupils yelling: al fat, al fat!? And the other pupils would respond saying: and its tail consists of 7 folds. And she would ask a new: and the soldiers? And the pupils would reply: standing in rows. And she would say: and the adjutant? And the pupils would respond: a hired killer. I used to say to her do not be so rash; if you continue this rashness you end up being part of the blue, pointing with my hand to the Blue Nile. Then I would add saying they nothing in this ditch which extends from her to Egypt except that parts that serve as a grave. You will wake with the sea gulls of the Mediterranean Salma if you go too far in this. She would digress to avoid a clash between my carefulness and her unwiseness leading to a squabble and ask me, “And you? Would you fall in love after me?” I laugh to tease her and then answer, “After you my heart will become an inn without charge.” “You won’t be able; o challenge you.” “Who says so?” “I read this in your eyes.” “My news will reach you; and you will become so jealous as to hate me till the day of judgment.” Being always confident of herself, she would give me an authoritative look by the side if her eye, and say, “Me? This is beyond you. I’m countless fingerprints in the hands of all those who become passionately connected to you.” “Really? Are we resorting to lies now? What do mean by fingerprint?” “It mean an identity card, brother motel!” Tonight life takes her to domains that lie beyond the days you spend in this world. My whole has become infected with mites, exposed to destitution and the absence of an entity reminiscent of the houses of widows. They brought her without her notebooks as she was no more a student. They were no longer important, just like the book they had taken if you could remember. The smell of an unfinished lesson is sufficient as the memory of someone. No, wait for her near the project; she would return. Or here she would sleep; she might wake up with the sea gulls of the Mediterranean if her fellow angels insist on her to spend with them this Thursday. Do you understand? Translated by Ahmed Tigani