Edward El Kharrat

It was quite hopeless. Each time he reached the old wooden doorway and stepped into the house, coming down the narrow winding lanes from the direction of the sea, he was struck in the face by the overpowering smell of the dark and narrow staircase. I t was a composite smell, a smell of life itself, made up of people's cooking and their sleep, of their children and of the dirt which had accumulated around their lives over the years; a smell that never vanished, but hovered in the air in clouds, clung to the wooden banisters which had acquired a dark polish from the constant touch of greasy hands; a smell that lingered close to the stone wall which had lost its plaster and had gained instead countless children's drawings, and ribald inscriptions which, fortunately, could hardly be deciphered in the dimness of the staircase. As he went up the stairs slowly, he could hear the wheezing of primus stoves from behind closed doors and the voices of exhausted housewives scolding their constantly noisy children, screaming and striking, and heaping curses upon evil days.

There were full, crowded lives. 'What part did he have in it all ? He was going up to a solitary room on the roof, a room with silent walls that hemmed in his days and, staring down at his loneliness, marked out the emptiness which was his life. He had neither wife nor mother. Each evening he had to prepare his meal himself, and he was sick and tired of it all. Now it was time to leave all this behind. Tomorrow he would move. But what was the use ! It would only be to move to another solitary room on another roof in another town, He was to carry out immediately the orders transferring him; and tomorrow he would start looking for a room in Damanhour. He would move the shoddy piece of furniture which he called his desk, and his old bed, the table he used for cooking: a few utensils and his chairs. These were all the objects that made up his life. Tomorrow he would once more start correcting exercise books, filled with sums by yet more pupils. He would explain the multiplication tables, long division and how to convert ardebs into kilos and feddans into square metres. But what of Noussa, his puppy?

How the problem troubled him! What was he to do with her ? He could not take her with him, that much was clear: it was unthinkable. Tomorrow he would start a new life, and form new relationships. He could not live all his life in this manner, alone with this dog. He would start a new page tomorrow. He would teach his new pupils how to respect him. He would not lose control: he would know how to main¬tain discipline in the class. And from tomorrow he would study advanced mathematics. He had always wanted to do this, and now there would be nothing to stop him; he was quite determined. He would also do daily exercises, every morning, five minutes at first, then ten, then fifteen minutes, very regularly. Every day, for something would have to be done about his personal appearance. It was a disgrace. How could he have allowed himself to go to seed in this way? And he was going to look for a wife. And why not? His heart leaped at the thought. Yes, indeed, he would. He would go about all this with care, and prudence - and with tact, of course. When he had been some time in the new town, and without great fuss, he would com¬mission a matchmaker to look for a dependable bride, kind and obedient. She would not have to be a great beauty -- not at all. In fact, he would rather she were not particularly good-looking. She would not have to be rich either. Heavens, no ! -- just as long as she was a reliable girl who came from a good, decent family. Never mind looks - but above all she would have to be quiet, and devoted to him and to his home.

He reached the door to the roof slightly out of breath. Noussa was yapping behind the door, leaping with joy, scratching away at the door and yelping with suppressed pleasure and anticipation. How rough she was! How full of vitality ! She broke into short husky barks, burying herself between his legs, smoothing her body against his legs, longingly, submissively, as if she were presenting him unreservedly with her fidelity and homage.

He bent down and stroked her soft white hair, feeling her animal body under his hand, warm, and writhing with excitement at his return. in his palms he felt her frank unmistakeable warmth. Yapping and grunting a welcome, she raised her moist and shiny eyes and jumped into his arms as though she wanted to annihilate herself in them, to .lose her separate identity. He could smell the sea in his nostrils: from a distance the moist breath of the Mediterranean rose to the roof, throwing up its abundance of buoyant energy. He fondled his puppy, punching her playfully on the jaws; on his lips a mischievous smile fixed itself, while a strange look crept into his eyes.

Noussa sensed her master's elation, and could not contain her wild delight. Barking, growling, skipping around, she scampered off in jerky little steps, rushing back to throw herself headlong upon him, and gave him little bites, the saliva running lightly off her teeth, ,hen rubbed the side of her face between his palms with a low yelp of entreaty.

And yet he would have to get rid of her.

The blows he was giving her grew more brutal and determined; the puppy responded to this violence by showing an ever-increasing delight.

He stood up straight and walked away to the low balustrade of the roof. He had neither appetite nor energy to prepare a meal tonight. In the darkness he looked down at the narrow street. The sky was bright and speckled with stars. Forgotten in one corner, a half-moon shone down on the roofs of the close-huddled houses which stretched out on every side to the rages of the horizon, seemed to hang down and touch them. In the distance, neon signs shone persistently, like an unquenchable desire.

He called the dog after him, and went downstairs into the lane. Noussa ran behind, skipping impetuously in and out between his steps, past the doors of the old dilapidated houses round which stood the accumulated dirt of years, the smell of fish and the clamminess of sweaty hands. Her lithe, agile body rejoiced in its little life beneath the skies: she scampered around, sniffing, exploring the byways, running back to him with a whimper in brief flashes of fright when she came across street boys, but fearlessly thrusting her muzzle at the occasional woman numb and weary-jointed who sat sprawling in a doorway, her flimsy worn-out skirt drawn up off her weary legs which lay stretched out in the dust of the roadway.

Suddenly, he found that he had emerged from the labyrinth of close-standing houses, out on to the Corniche, where the Anfoushy tram was rattling past as if it were carrying a luminous message to the people at the other end of town. The lapping of the sea-water reached him on the salty air, soothing, comforting. At the sight of this sudden expanse the puppy was overwhelmed; they might have reached the boundaries of the world. It seemed that nothing but the clean metalled street separated her from this wilderness. She drew near to his feet seeking protection, looking up at him in questioning bewilderment, yelping in fear and perplexity.

He crossed the street and called her. The cars skimmed by, swiftly, unconcerned, coming from one world and going to another - worlds he and she knew nothing of. He jumped over the low stone parapet onto the narrow strip of beach with its soft damp sand. Overcome with lassitude he collapsed, and lay on the beach. The wavelets splashed over the sand before him in mocking serenity. Small fishing boats, drawn up on the sands, lay scattered here and there around him ¬meaningless wrecks, swathed in their treacherous nets.

The din of the world behind the stone parapet had died away. A lone cricket chirped away in the quietness of the night, faint yet clear, poignantly clear, against the stillness of the sea. Its tiny tone, tremulous yet persistent, would not be stilled - it acquired an unflag¬ging persistence in the face of the broad stretches of dark sky.

Tomorrow he would start anew. Tomorrow he would find the meaning of life that had so far escaped him. The exercise books would make sense both to him and to his pupils. After all, arithmetic was rational, was method, was the measure of logical truth. Arithmetic was the way to reality. Yes, as from tomorrow he would teach his pupils how to go to the heart of the matter, how to solve a problem calmly, methodi¬cally, rationally. And he himself, he would start searching, would know how to start searching, for a meaning to this life that was slipping through his fingers. He would go about all this with care, and prudence, and with tact, of course, and without great fuss, calmly, methodically, rationally. The meaning - no question about it - had been awaiting him ever since the start. It had stood within sight, but he had lost it, had lost his way to it.

A beautiful girl? Heavens, no ! She would not have to be a great beauty - just sweet, understanding and kind.

He woke up to the fact that Noussa was leaping at his shoulders, licking his face gently, as though to bring him out of his reverie and attract his attention to herself. Her whole body was dancing at his side as she drew her wet pointed nose up to his cheek, her belly tightly wedged between his arm and side as she tried to bury herself beneath his shoulders, her friendly tongue darting short, childlike licks at him, her eyes flowing with a love and submission which she bestowed freely, unreservedly, unconditionally.

He pushed her away with sudden roughness. She fell on to the sand only to spring up quickly, yapping delightedly, thinking that he was playing with her and that the real fun had just begun. She flung herself on to the sand, rolled in it on her back, leaped up again, running and skipping. It dawned upon him with perfect clarity that he had to get rid of her - right away, for tomorrow he was going to start living. Now was the time to put an end to his loneliness.

He stood upright, seized hold of her, and clasped her in his arms, his mind working at full speed: how to get rid of her? She lay snug and confident, perfectly at ease, still glancing hither and thither with little, gentle growls. He felt her small body peaceful and submissive. But there was no going back now.
Yet how?

Excerpt from: The Water’s Edge, by Edward el Kharrat. Arabic Short Stories, 1945-1965. Edited by Mahmoud Manzalaoui. The American University in Cairo Press, 1985. pp 219-224.