تويت
كتب الدكتور أحمد الليثي:
الإخوة والأخوات
لعلنا نثري هذا المنتدى فيتجمع فيه عدد من القصص العربية المترجمة إلى الإنجليزية بوجه خاص ويمكن طباعتها فيما بعد بدار (جمع) للنشر. ويمكن لمن يترجمون للغات أخرى أن يفتحوا صفحات مماثلة فلعلنا بهذا نفتح مجالاً للنشر لمن لديهم أعمال يمكن أن تضم إلى أعمال أخرى وتصبح كتاباً. ويشرفني أن أقوم بالتحرير والمراجعة عندما يتكون 20 أو 25 قصة قصيرة مترجمة ترجمة (محترفة) أو لعل من الأساتذة الكبار من يرغب في تولي هذا الأمر. وعلى كل حال فلا نزال في مرحلة مبكرة، ويمكن النظر في هذا الأمر في حينه لأننا سنحتاج إلى موافقة خطية من المؤلف أو ورثته ... إلخ قبل النشر المطبوع للترجمة في حال وجود حقوق نشر وترجمة.
وأستفتح باسم الله، وها هي أول ترجمة لقصة قصيرة من تأليف يوسف إدريس، وأعتذر للقراء لأنني لم أجد الوقت لمراجعتها.
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Tamarisk Tree
By: Yousuf Idrees
In our village, we had a tamarisk tree, known as Tarf. It was neither big nor high, and it had neither a trunk, a stalk nor any branches. It was more of a shrub; small and ugly. Its dark green leaves were scalelike; thin and cylindrical, like those of an Athel Tamarisk. The change of seasons, whether spring or autumn, never had any effect on it. Its racemes were always blossoming. It never went through stages of weakness or strength. It did not grow bigger or smaller. For generations on end, its size never changed.
Nobody knew how that tree came to grow in our village as this kind of species rarely grows in alluvial soil. It is more of a swamp tree. Nobody even knew why it chose to grow in our area in particular, either. All that we know is that our village people believed in its powers; and owing to its uniqueness they considered it sacred. They believed that there must have been a huge secret and a and mysterious reason behind its presence there.
For many generations, our village people went to it seeking not only blessings from it but also treatment for their eye problems. Not a single person with an eye infection that was not told to use the leaves of our Tarf. One had to go to our magical tree immediately after dawn, and wait until dew descends on the leaves, then cut some bits from the leaves, break and squeeze them until a thick liquid comes out of them. One only needed two drops, not three, in the infected eye for treatment.
The most amazing thing was the fact that some people were actually cured after doing this. Of course, in many cases, nothing happened to the infected eye, and sometimes people’s conditions got worse. Some even went blind or lost, at least, one eye. Yet, the people never ascribed the failure of the treatment to the tree. In cases like these, they ascribed the horrific results to things like the impurity of the soul of the patient or one of his/her relatives. Other times, the reason was that the infection had got hold of the eye and settled there. And still other times, they said the patient made a mistake by not waiting for the dew to drop on the leaves.
As children, we saw our Tarf as one of the village’s ancient wonders. We saw how sacred it was looked upon by the villagers, and how they surrounded it with mystery. Thus, we used to fear it and felt threatened by it. We used to imagine it with its small size and scalelike leaves an old ugly woman standing on the way which leads to the canal attacking people; and sometimes we thought of it to be a ghoul.
As we grew up, we found that the belief of our village people in the tree was still unshaken in spite of the advancement of medicine which conquered our country. Many ophthalmology clinics and hospitals were established in the big towns, yet our village people grew more proud of their tree and insistent to rely on its healing powers. They always praised Allah for its existence in their village and not anywhere else. Their appreciation for it grew deeper and deeper as time went by. Even some, for the sake of getting blessed, would stand there and read Surat al-Fatihah (the Opening chapter in the Qur’an) for it every time they went past it.
The really astonishing thing was that everybody with no exception, be them young or old, poor or rich, had staunch belief in it; a belief that extended to our neighbouring villages. It became a familiar sight in our village to see many people, strangers included, sitting round our Tarf tree after dawn waiting in complete silence and adoration for the dew to descend.
After some time, we went to school, received all types of education, and learnt history, geography, engineering and medicine, as well as the Boyle’s Gas Law.
As a result, we disbelieved in our Tarf tree. The most staunch in his blasphemy in the tree was the son of the village’s banker. He was a student in the faculty of agriculture. It was not enough for him to blaspheme of the tree; he even mocked our village people for their absurd belief and narrow-mindedness for believing in a useless tree that could bring no harm nor benefit to anyone. After a while, we all declared our blasphemy in the tree, and decided to turn our anger into action. So, one-day, we declared Jihad on the tree and divided ourselves to groups. One group was to talk in the village mosques to tell the people that the Tarf cause blindness; another group was to stand next to the tarf tree and explain to the comers how useless the tree was and try to dissuade them of using its leaves. The people used to listen to our long and fast talk as we spoke to them, shake their heads and say to one another: “Nice talk, brother. You are right.”
Thus, we thought that the people’s eyes were saved at our hands, and that we deserved sculptures in our images be made by way of thanking us for our efforts. However, some days later, we came to discover that the people had not stopped using the Tarf leaves, nor had they stopped gathering round it waiting for the dew to touch its leaves.
Therefore, we declared Jihad anew.
We spent many days talking to the people, discussing the issue with them and giving them examples of how useless, if not harmful, the Tarf was. They used to nod and agree with what we told them. Some even went to the extreme of putting the blame on themselves by saying: “Excuse us Misters. We are no more than a bunch of ignorant people, and as you know an ignorant person is like a blind person who cannot find his way. Excuse us for our lack of sight”.
So, we never left them until they seemed totally and genuinely convinced of what we told them. Yet, as soon as one of them has an eye problem, it was the Tarf tree that was the first thing to be prescribed for the problem, and the first to be used as treatment.
So, for many years, we tried, despaired and failed. And, as usual, our Jihad did not last long, as we soon washed our hands of the whole matter. It seemed to us that there was no way to shake or change our villagers’ belief in the Tarf tree. Yet, still the Banker’s son, who was thin, nervous and strong-headed, and who was also touched by despair like us, refused to give up. He was always pre-occupied with this issue and nothing else.
One-day, he had an idea. So, he took some of the leaves of the tree to one of his university professors, told him the entire story and asked him to analyse those leaves. To our surprise, the investigation concluded that the leaves contained copper sulfate which was used in making eye drops. So, we spread the news in the village. We even celebrated the discovery as if it was the discovery of a hidden treasure. We said to the people: “There is no harm in using the leaves of the Tarf tree. They contain treatment as good as the medical eye drops.”
Our people shook their heads unenthusiastically and murmured: “Did we not tell you?”
All that happened many years later was that we returned to our village after we became civil servants or specialists in whatever field, and found out the our Tarf tree was no longer revered as in the past. It looked haggard and pale. There was nobody standing round it, neither did it look like a frightening ghoul.
The people had stopped using its leaves for their eye infections. When we asked them why, they stared at us, in disbelief, shook their heads and said: “Forget it, mate; the medical eye-drops are purer and less messy.”
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Najma Habib
Neehal
Nejmeh Khalil-habib
She woke up, almost late, dressed quickly, threw a glance at the mirror, and admiringly said: “You deserve a prince Neehal” Abu Mohamed blew the horn of his car, intending to hurry her up. She ran out sporting an apple in one hand and carrying a school bag in the other. The echo of her steps on the stairs reminded the neighbours that it was time to come out of their laziness and start a new day full of many unexpected events. - Good morning Uncle Abu Mohamed, how are you?
- God bless you daughter, God protect you from evil rumours “ Protect you from evil rumours!…. ” A plea that she had never paid attention to previously. If the plea were to work for her neighbour Amira, she would not be an example of shame on the tip of each tongue. She took a seat close to the window, set her eyes to the outside and let her thoughts lead her aimlessly. She re-lived the taste of that kiss that Ali snatched from her lips when they found themselves alone in the lift. She blamed herself for letting it happen. You acted silly Neehal…he will think that you’re a cheap girl. What if he told his friends? What if the subject reached your brother or father? God! Please! Listen to Abu Mohamed’s plea … ………. Abu Mohamed sweeps through the narrow streets of West Beirut’s suburbs: Burj Elbarajneh, Haret Hreik, and Haih Essillum with his bus. On each stop few boys and girls in their late teens rush on. Within half an hour of starting his route, the school bus becomes fully loaded and begins to make its way with peace to the vocational institute in Sibleen….Few months and Neehal will get a diploma in education. A career she never dreamt of, it was the best available. If her father was wealthy, she would now be at the American University of Beirut, on her way to be a doctor or an engineer …if her father hadn’t stuck all his life to his people, the conservative close- minded villagers, she might be a movie star by now. Her beauty supercedes the best of them. This is what her mother and aunt Rabab and all the loving neighbours say. This is what she sees in the staring eyes of the elderly males, not to mention the younger ones. Any way, teaching is not a bad job, who knows! God might bring a doctor or an engineer in her way, for a husband, and that would compensate for her bourgois dreams. The last one to come up into the bus was Ahmad. He greeted the passengers, most of whom were girls. Soon he started picking on them.
- I wonder why girls, these days, like it the hard way. I swear, if I was a girl, I wouldn’t bother waking up early, running mad after a school bus, imprisoning myself in a classroom for years for the sake of a degree…Girls! What makes you run after a degree? Tomorrow, a sweetheart will come, carry you to his nest and all your degrees will fade in cooking and cleaning and breeding kids.
- Save us from your silly advice, said Neehal.
- Especially you , your golden yellow hair is enough to make hundreds of men die to marry you
- Hey…Shut up! . . . Suppose, you idiot, That I married you, and after a few years, a blind bomb or an Israeli raid or a silly skirmish between two local parties, took you from me…what will happen to my kids and me? Go beg around the doors of the mosques? Or send my kids roving the streets selling combs and chewing gum to make their living?
- You are arrogant and illogical. You inherited this sophisticated mind with your sophisticated name. Neehal! For God’s sake, where did they get this bizarre name from? - Bizzare Eh!…you, Mr Ignorant, it’s an original, artistic name, it’s musical, leaves an impression in the heart and the ears. Not like yours!…half the men of the continent named by it.
She fell again into her dreams. This quiet sleepy face of the sea and its lazy waves reminded her of one of the American movies she had seen on TV several days ago. She envied the heroine, who was about her age.
- Why is it that what is permitted to her is not permitted to me? Why am I not allowed to be with a man, just to be, unless he is agreed upon as a future husband from a long chain of brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, the immediate and the extended family? Why do I have to feign anger when a boy steals a kiss from my lips, while deep inside I wished it and even planned for it.. . Why can’t I be proud of this beauty that God granted me? Why is it my fault if this beauty aroused some idiot? Why is it that every time I admire my naked body I feel sinful? Why do I have to blind the window, which is far from any other one by tens of meters, because a sick person just might peep into my room with binoculars? Why….why…why…. On the opposite seat, sat Randa complaining about her mother who is obsessed with cleaning. She forces her, every weekend, to wash the windows, the floor, the tiles, and even the walls. She owned a unit, with real walls and tiles, after a long long life of living in a tent, like a room, in the camp. She adored it. She loves it more than she loves us.
- Oh God! Protect us from spoiled girls, Ahmad said. Suppose you weren’t kicked away from your country village “Sasa”, then you have to wake up before dawn, to pick up the figs, or to feed the cows, or to collect the wheat from the field, early before the sunrise.
- You, curious creature! Hold your peace, no one is interested in your advice.
Layla was complaining about her fiancee who postponed his return from Abu Dhabi for the third time.
- He backed off! He fled your hell, smart guy. Ahmad said. The crowd burst into laughter.
- Don’t worry dear! I have a better suitor for you.
- Mind your own business you smart arse Sukayna mocked Mr Malouf and the enthusiastic way with which he introduced the latest modern theory in class teaching.
- His majesty thinks we live in Paris. He wants us to apply theories put to students who are thousands of developing steps ahead. Put for students who go to airconditioned classrooms, have movies and theatres in their backyards, where classes count no more than 15 student, where teachers earn in a week what we earn in a year. What a dreamer! Sukayna continued, wiring her mouth, imitating the way her teacher talked:
- Delete the teacher’s roll. Delete punishment and awards. Let the students decide when and what to learn ….I swear by God, people will stone us for that. Fadi commented without moving his eyes away from his cards.
- Jesus said, listen to their sayings and don’t do their deeds. Take the degree first, don’t put the cart before the horse.
- Please kids! Be quiet, I want to hear the news, said Abu Mohamed.
- Uncle Abu Mohamed, don’t bother yourself, today’s news are the same as yesterday’s, as tomorrow’s. Bilal and Fadi were seating on the back seat, playing cards. A breeze blew up carrying a refreshing fragrance from the sea, Fadi lifted his head off the cards, scrunched his face, took a deep breath. He was enchanted by the smell. He said: “If it weren’t a sin, I will ask to be buried naked within the folds of the sparkling waves, with the pearls and the fish, not under the dull dark soil with the worms and rotten roots! On the checkpoint at Khaldeh, all went silent. Few meters away, Azza, affected by the autumn atmosphere, started to sing one of Fairuz’ songs: “The golden yellow leaves of September Under the windows Reminded me Of your love Oh!…Golden leaves of September…..” The Girls looked into each other’s eyes and smiled maliciously. Everyone knows what Azza thinks is a secret. All of them whispered about the silent passion, which was growing up between her and Hassan, (the student from the health department). All of a sudden Abu Mohamed shouted: “The bastard! He was about to throw us into the sea!” A car overtook them sharply. Neehal looked at her watch: “Please Uncle Abu Mohamed, hurry up a little bit.”
- At your command my precious beauty a car overtook another, the two drivers started shouting at each other. Abu Mohamed shook his head left and right, wondering why people put their lives at risk for sake of silly demonstrations. He turned towards Neehal and said - Don’t worry beauty, we will be there on time. The bus turned off the main road and into the side street that leads to the institution of Sibleen. There were only few minutes left of the journey. Suddenly, an aeroplane thundered in the sky. Did they find the time to guess its identity or kind?!…. . . . . . . . We were about to end our morning coffee, when the radio broadcasted: “Few minutes ago, an Israeli air raid hit the coastal line, East of Saida, one of the aeroplanes targeted a school bus carrying students to the vocational institute in Sibleen. Witnesses said that pieces of the bus were seen, hundreds of meters away from the site.” We escorted what remained of Neehal. Her golden yellow hair was scattered over the rocks and the wild flowers, on both sides of the road to Sibleen.
Published at: http://www.nobleworld.biz
http://www.nobleworld.biz/pages/4/index.htm
Mahmoud Abbasi
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Towards Break of Dawn
Night is creeping on slowly, the village is covered with darkness, ,raindrops are beating against the window , the dog, barking ceaselessly, is wrecking my nerves and sleep is escaping me like a mortal enemy. Insomnia and my self are twins, it sticks to me like the torture that dwells in my weary eyes and your voice, my daughter, keeps on beating in my head like a drum. Your hoarse and begging voice repeatedly implores: "What my husband's sister slanders me with, is it true? who is my father? Why didn't you tell me the truth? Who is my father"?"
Gissipmongers have whispered in the ears of your husband's family, they, in turn, have slan-dered you, so you have come running to me, wishing to learn the truth.
Oh my daughter, there is no reason to hide the truth any longer, but you had your say and hurried away, your face covered with tears.
You just rushed off, doubt showing clearly on your gentle face.
God forgive you, my daughter, you inflicted a mortal blow on me and off you went, leaving me at the mercy of dangerous hallucination, talking to your phantom that is never out of my sight. I am delirious, oh my daughter, like drunkards who resort to drinking in order to relieve their pain, or like those touched by madness.
Twenty years of your life have passed by. For you they were like a confused dream, while I was counting it by the minute and the second.
My lot was poverty and privation, so that your might enjoy luxury, and that I might compensate you for the fatherhood that you had been deprived of. Both fate and retune turned their back on me, but I subsisted for your sake. I carried you in my teeth from one village to another, doing any dirty job so that you might fully enjoy a noble life. I squatted over the laundry basins of the worthy and unworthy in order to avail myself of the price of the prettiest clothes and tastiest food and provide you with all the school requisites.
And you, flesh of my flesh, blossomed and filled with health and strength, abounding with beauty and vitality whereas I withered and dried up, having been a model of beauty and charm.
Every day that passed brought a particular pain, every second its suffering and privation, and every question that your put to me about your father was like sixty thrusts of a poisonous dagger plunged into my heart. You filled my heart with such happiness and hope as counterbalanced all the trials, suffering and privation that had been my lot.
And then one day you bloomed and opened up like a fragrant violet in a mellow field, watered by the rain of a good year, you were nominated the first female teacher on our small village. How glad was I on that day, lifting my head up, proud of the virtues, beauty and perfection that people ascribed to you.
Suitors flocked to ask your hand in marriage. I hesitated long, felling as if they wished to cut off a limb of mine, you being my source of comfort after all that long suffering, but I sacrificed the tranquility that your presence brought into my tiny home for the sake of your happiness after your silence had disclosed to me that you were willing and content to marry S'aid.
People poked their noses, trying to break up the match. They told me that you would live in the same house as his father and maiden sister , they said she was a real witch, feeding on gossip, unhappy unless she managed to mar people's lives. But those whispers didn't hinder me. You had lived deprived of fatherhood; you had never once uttered the word "father" so why should we deprive your husband of this joy?
I finally agreed to the marriage without insisting on you and your husband having a separate house.
On the day when you were conducted to your husband's house you left my home respectably and honorably. You took with you all the fruit of those hard years and left me only suffering, and cruel loneliness. You and your husband were relishing love and happiness on your first night together whereas I was bent under the yoke of insomnia, prey to thoughts and apprehensions, visited by hopes and wishes. What if he had witnessed you on your wedding night, when you were the talk of the village women and young girls, when they all agreed that you were the prettiest and most impressive bride they had ever seen?
The days passed slowly, oh my daughter, as usual. I used to look forward to your visits as he who sows a seed awaits the raindrops. I used to enjoy all possible kinds of calm and joy during your visits, till you came to me last night, angry and loud, your face pale and covered with marks of agony and misery.
You came to throw at me your question that is still insistently making a din in my head:" Who is my father? Who is my father"?
I constantly see your throwing yourself at my feet, begging: "That old maid slanders me with having been born two years after the one whom you claim to be my father disappeared. My age confirms her words. She says: 'Ask your mother and she'll tell you some secrets'. She mocks me, saying: "Your husband whom you claim to be my father ran away with Kaukji's soldiers and never came back, he ran away two years before I was born, so how and by what right do you claim him to be my father"?
You granted me no respite, oh my daughter. You thrust another blow at my torn-up heart and left me helpless, you slipped off, your face covered with tears, saying over and over again:"You have shamed me, you have made me suffer."
Your calculation of your age was correct. You are twenty years old, and my husband Wasil ran away with Kaukji's soldiers for fear of the new regime on the day our village was taken by the Israeli Forces.
We enjoyed our marital abode for no more than one year. He, God forgive him- had been effervescent in his youth, handsome and obstinate, leader of the local youth, leading dancer at every Dabka. The village girls used to exchange whispers about this youth and chivalry, watching him behind the screen at every wedding. When the drums of war beat and Kaukji's forces settled in our village he was the first to join them. I was very proud of his virility, carrying his French gun and showing it off.
When he ran away I did not got back to my family but stayed on at his father's house. Love maintained a strong tie between us and in spite of the distance I used to see him in my dreams every night, hoping he might come any minute.
That night he infiltrated across the border. The night when he returned I was immersed in profound sleep, living in a strange dream. I still remember that dream as if its incidents were still passing before my eyes now... I saw him as I had often seen him in my dreams. He was standing on the other side of the village pond. I screamed from the bottom of my heart: "Wasil, cross the water, oh Wasil"!
He took off his keffiyeh and waved it, saying:
"The pond is deep, I'm afraid of drawing! "
""Don't be afraid, the village children cross it
""But the clouds are black. it's going to rain, keep away Haniyyah!
."!Wait a minute, I'm coming"
The universe was wrapped up in pithc dark, heavy rain fell and I could only see his withdrawing figure. I hurried up to him, but slipped and fell into the pond. I tried to save myself by beating the water, wrestling with Death. I felt I was actually drowning with no one to save me. I suddenly remembered the Sufi North African Dervish and cried out: "Oh master of Time"!"
The Sufi Dervish was suddenly there. He stretched his hand out to me, and fished me out of the pond. At that very moment I saw Wasil standing there, his beard grown, fatigue and his trials had left clear marks on his face.
He tried to draw closer to me but the Dervish Sheikh pushed him away violently. I begged him with my looks, and finally he said to Wasil:
"Just for a short time, then you must leave her and go"
Before the Dervish disappeared he coughed, mentioned the name of Allah and said:
"Fear nothing, my hand will shelter you two and you won't be seen"
Wasil came close to me, held me in his arms, kissed me and made love to me while I was half unconscious, then a strong arm was stretched out to him and snatched him away. I couldn't help trying to get up, but in vain.
Then the North African Sheikh returned with a group of Dervishes. They surrounded me and performed an excited Zikr (mystic circle). The North African Sheikh was standing in the middle of the circle clapping his hand and repeating the name of God excitedly. I heard it all like the beast of a drum. The sounds made me retrieve my senses, and I kept saying pessimistically: "Oh Lord, pray for our master Muhammad, oh Lord make it all for the best"!
I Heard the sounds again, so I immediately rubbed my eyes to make sure I was awake, and realized it was the sound of someone knocking on the door. I got up and there he was, looking just as he had looked in my dream: exhausted, soaking wet, his beard grown. I almost fainted with surprise. He calmed me and stepped into the marriage-nest, the warmth of which he has missed for two years. That night we never shut our eyes. He told me all that he had gone through during his absence, expressing his suffering and longing. Then he spent the last part of the night in my bed.
In the morning he wished to go back where he had come from, but I summoned up my paternal uncle (my
husband's father) and he persuaded him to hide in my room, till he got in touch with some of his acquaintances to intervene so he could remain in the country. My paternal uncle started going every morning knocking at the doors of the worthy and influential, but all his efforts came to nothing. At the last part of a dark rainy night we heard hard knocks at the gate. We were scared thinking of informers. My husband hurried away, escaping frightened through the back window, saying: "Wait for me, Haniyyah, I'll try to come again, hand in a appeal for family reunion, good- bye".
The police came upon me while I was still confused. I flatly denied everything but the chief officer came close to me and whispered in my ear sarcastically:
"Don't deny it, your husband was here. Otherwise, for who are you wearing jewels, and for whom are these perfumes that fill your rooms? Hand him over, some people who wish him well have come in touch with us".
Yet I was silent and persisted in my denial. I lost Wasil, leaving me the fruit of his stay with us, an embryo beating about in my womb.
I had the baby secretly, fearing disgrace. It was a beautiful little girl resembling her father, as her late grandfather
used to say: "as like as two peas". The same honey-colored eyes in the roundish face, the same dimples, and on her father's own beauty spot. Everything her father had, she had too.
The baby's presence did not remain a secret, and I became notorious. My late paternal uncle was the only one who knew the truth. We were faced with a difficult choice. Either to admit we had given shelter to my husband and sustain the punishment the law decrees for sheltering an infiltrator, or to have me exposed as an adulteress. My father-in- law undertook to quell the fire of revenge that my family had devised against me. He removed me at night to a far-off village, to his relatives' house and thus was the secret buried and the disgrace died down, except for a few people who kept talking about it on the sly.
We did not give up. Despite my pessimism stemming from the dream of that hard night we sent an appeal for family reunion and begged those who have the word, who had been so generous during election- time. As time passed, my father- in-law gave up the ghost and I found to trace of Wasil. I sent him my regards with the Christian pilgrims who used the pretext of visiting the Church of the Nativity to quench their thirst by meeting their families and relatives, yet no one found him. I frequented the Red Cross offices, but there was no trace of him. My last spark of hope went out when I learned by chance that Wasil had married anther woman and left me deserted, neither married nor a widow.
And you, my daughter, are no other than that girl who resembles her father, your are that other pea, as your late grandfather used to say. It is you whose presence in my house used to make me hope he would return since you always reminded me of him. But you, God forgive you, came to burden me with your doubts like the load of the fifty years I carry on my back. You took no pity on me, oh my daughter, when you spoke about your father in a tone of hatred and hostility:
"Your husband to whom your attribute my fatherhood ran away with Kaukjit's soldiers and never came back"
Oh no, my daughter, you're wrong. My husband did come back, yes he did, in the form of a little girl who possesses all of his features and characteristics, resembling him in everything, even in the way he is angry. He, God forgive him, used to come back and ask me to forgive him after he made me angry and you will certainly come back to ease my mind. This unkind hallucination won't last long. You will make your own reckoning and come back...
Night is almost over, rain has stopped and the barking of the dog has died down. A girl's bright face is showing at the door-step and very light knocks are heared at the door.
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الإخوة والأخوات
لعلنا نثري هذا المنتدى فيتجمع فيه عدد من القصص العربية المترجمة إلى الإنجليزية بوجه خاص ويمكن طباعتها فيما بعد بدار (جمع) للنشر. ويمكن لمن يترجمون للغات أخرى أن يفتحوا صفحات مماثلة فلعلنا بهذا نفتح مجالاً للنشر لمن لديهم أعمال يمكن أن تضم إلى أعمال أخرى وتصبح كتاباً. ويشرفني أن أقوم بالتحرير والمراجعة عندما يتكون 20 أو 25 قصة قصيرة مترجمة ترجمة (محترفة) أو لعل من الأساتذة الكبار من يرغب في تولي هذا الأمر. وعلى كل حال فلا نزال في مرحلة مبكرة، ويمكن النظر في هذا الأمر في حينه لأننا سنحتاج إلى موافقة خطية من المؤلف أو ورثته ... إلخ قبل النشر المطبوع للترجمة في حال وجود حقوق نشر وترجمة.
وأستفتح باسم الله، وها هي أول ترجمة لقصة قصيرة من تأليف يوسف إدريس، وأعتذر للقراء لأنني لم أجد الوقت لمراجعتها.
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Tamarisk Tree
By: Yousuf Idrees
In our village, we had a tamarisk tree, known as Tarf. It was neither big nor high, and it had neither a trunk, a stalk nor any branches. It was more of a shrub; small and ugly. Its dark green leaves were scalelike; thin and cylindrical, like those of an Athel Tamarisk. The change of seasons, whether spring or autumn, never had any effect on it. Its racemes were always blossoming. It never went through stages of weakness or strength. It did not grow bigger or smaller. For generations on end, its size never changed.
Nobody knew how that tree came to grow in our village as this kind of species rarely grows in alluvial soil. It is more of a swamp tree. Nobody even knew why it chose to grow in our area in particular, either. All that we know is that our village people believed in its powers; and owing to its uniqueness they considered it sacred. They believed that there must have been a huge secret and a and mysterious reason behind its presence there.
For many generations, our village people went to it seeking not only blessings from it but also treatment for their eye problems. Not a single person with an eye infection that was not told to use the leaves of our Tarf. One had to go to our magical tree immediately after dawn, and wait until dew descends on the leaves, then cut some bits from the leaves, break and squeeze them until a thick liquid comes out of them. One only needed two drops, not three, in the infected eye for treatment.
The most amazing thing was the fact that some people were actually cured after doing this. Of course, in many cases, nothing happened to the infected eye, and sometimes people’s conditions got worse. Some even went blind or lost, at least, one eye. Yet, the people never ascribed the failure of the treatment to the tree. In cases like these, they ascribed the horrific results to things like the impurity of the soul of the patient or one of his/her relatives. Other times, the reason was that the infection had got hold of the eye and settled there. And still other times, they said the patient made a mistake by not waiting for the dew to drop on the leaves.
As children, we saw our Tarf as one of the village’s ancient wonders. We saw how sacred it was looked upon by the villagers, and how they surrounded it with mystery. Thus, we used to fear it and felt threatened by it. We used to imagine it with its small size and scalelike leaves an old ugly woman standing on the way which leads to the canal attacking people; and sometimes we thought of it to be a ghoul.
As we grew up, we found that the belief of our village people in the tree was still unshaken in spite of the advancement of medicine which conquered our country. Many ophthalmology clinics and hospitals were established in the big towns, yet our village people grew more proud of their tree and insistent to rely on its healing powers. They always praised Allah for its existence in their village and not anywhere else. Their appreciation for it grew deeper and deeper as time went by. Even some, for the sake of getting blessed, would stand there and read Surat al-Fatihah (the Opening chapter in the Qur’an) for it every time they went past it.
The really astonishing thing was that everybody with no exception, be them young or old, poor or rich, had staunch belief in it; a belief that extended to our neighbouring villages. It became a familiar sight in our village to see many people, strangers included, sitting round our Tarf tree after dawn waiting in complete silence and adoration for the dew to descend.
After some time, we went to school, received all types of education, and learnt history, geography, engineering and medicine, as well as the Boyle’s Gas Law.
As a result, we disbelieved in our Tarf tree. The most staunch in his blasphemy in the tree was the son of the village’s banker. He was a student in the faculty of agriculture. It was not enough for him to blaspheme of the tree; he even mocked our village people for their absurd belief and narrow-mindedness for believing in a useless tree that could bring no harm nor benefit to anyone. After a while, we all declared our blasphemy in the tree, and decided to turn our anger into action. So, one-day, we declared Jihad on the tree and divided ourselves to groups. One group was to talk in the village mosques to tell the people that the Tarf cause blindness; another group was to stand next to the tarf tree and explain to the comers how useless the tree was and try to dissuade them of using its leaves. The people used to listen to our long and fast talk as we spoke to them, shake their heads and say to one another: “Nice talk, brother. You are right.”
Thus, we thought that the people’s eyes were saved at our hands, and that we deserved sculptures in our images be made by way of thanking us for our efforts. However, some days later, we came to discover that the people had not stopped using the Tarf leaves, nor had they stopped gathering round it waiting for the dew to touch its leaves.
Therefore, we declared Jihad anew.
We spent many days talking to the people, discussing the issue with them and giving them examples of how useless, if not harmful, the Tarf was. They used to nod and agree with what we told them. Some even went to the extreme of putting the blame on themselves by saying: “Excuse us Misters. We are no more than a bunch of ignorant people, and as you know an ignorant person is like a blind person who cannot find his way. Excuse us for our lack of sight”.
So, we never left them until they seemed totally and genuinely convinced of what we told them. Yet, as soon as one of them has an eye problem, it was the Tarf tree that was the first thing to be prescribed for the problem, and the first to be used as treatment.
So, for many years, we tried, despaired and failed. And, as usual, our Jihad did not last long, as we soon washed our hands of the whole matter. It seemed to us that there was no way to shake or change our villagers’ belief in the Tarf tree. Yet, still the Banker’s son, who was thin, nervous and strong-headed, and who was also touched by despair like us, refused to give up. He was always pre-occupied with this issue and nothing else.
One-day, he had an idea. So, he took some of the leaves of the tree to one of his university professors, told him the entire story and asked him to analyse those leaves. To our surprise, the investigation concluded that the leaves contained copper sulfate which was used in making eye drops. So, we spread the news in the village. We even celebrated the discovery as if it was the discovery of a hidden treasure. We said to the people: “There is no harm in using the leaves of the Tarf tree. They contain treatment as good as the medical eye drops.”
Our people shook their heads unenthusiastically and murmured: “Did we not tell you?”
All that happened many years later was that we returned to our village after we became civil servants or specialists in whatever field, and found out the our Tarf tree was no longer revered as in the past. It looked haggard and pale. There was nobody standing round it, neither did it look like a frightening ghoul.
The people had stopped using its leaves for their eye infections. When we asked them why, they stared at us, in disbelief, shook their heads and said: “Forget it, mate; the medical eye-drops are purer and less messy.”
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Najma Habib
Neehal
Nejmeh Khalil-habib
She woke up, almost late, dressed quickly, threw a glance at the mirror, and admiringly said: “You deserve a prince Neehal” Abu Mohamed blew the horn of his car, intending to hurry her up. She ran out sporting an apple in one hand and carrying a school bag in the other. The echo of her steps on the stairs reminded the neighbours that it was time to come out of their laziness and start a new day full of many unexpected events. - Good morning Uncle Abu Mohamed, how are you?
- God bless you daughter, God protect you from evil rumours “ Protect you from evil rumours!…. ” A plea that she had never paid attention to previously. If the plea were to work for her neighbour Amira, she would not be an example of shame on the tip of each tongue. She took a seat close to the window, set her eyes to the outside and let her thoughts lead her aimlessly. She re-lived the taste of that kiss that Ali snatched from her lips when they found themselves alone in the lift. She blamed herself for letting it happen. You acted silly Neehal…he will think that you’re a cheap girl. What if he told his friends? What if the subject reached your brother or father? God! Please! Listen to Abu Mohamed’s plea … ………. Abu Mohamed sweeps through the narrow streets of West Beirut’s suburbs: Burj Elbarajneh, Haret Hreik, and Haih Essillum with his bus. On each stop few boys and girls in their late teens rush on. Within half an hour of starting his route, the school bus becomes fully loaded and begins to make its way with peace to the vocational institute in Sibleen….Few months and Neehal will get a diploma in education. A career she never dreamt of, it was the best available. If her father was wealthy, she would now be at the American University of Beirut, on her way to be a doctor or an engineer …if her father hadn’t stuck all his life to his people, the conservative close- minded villagers, she might be a movie star by now. Her beauty supercedes the best of them. This is what her mother and aunt Rabab and all the loving neighbours say. This is what she sees in the staring eyes of the elderly males, not to mention the younger ones. Any way, teaching is not a bad job, who knows! God might bring a doctor or an engineer in her way, for a husband, and that would compensate for her bourgois dreams. The last one to come up into the bus was Ahmad. He greeted the passengers, most of whom were girls. Soon he started picking on them.
- I wonder why girls, these days, like it the hard way. I swear, if I was a girl, I wouldn’t bother waking up early, running mad after a school bus, imprisoning myself in a classroom for years for the sake of a degree…Girls! What makes you run after a degree? Tomorrow, a sweetheart will come, carry you to his nest and all your degrees will fade in cooking and cleaning and breeding kids.
- Save us from your silly advice, said Neehal.
- Especially you , your golden yellow hair is enough to make hundreds of men die to marry you
- Hey…Shut up! . . . Suppose, you idiot, That I married you, and after a few years, a blind bomb or an Israeli raid or a silly skirmish between two local parties, took you from me…what will happen to my kids and me? Go beg around the doors of the mosques? Or send my kids roving the streets selling combs and chewing gum to make their living?
- You are arrogant and illogical. You inherited this sophisticated mind with your sophisticated name. Neehal! For God’s sake, where did they get this bizarre name from? - Bizzare Eh!…you, Mr Ignorant, it’s an original, artistic name, it’s musical, leaves an impression in the heart and the ears. Not like yours!…half the men of the continent named by it.
She fell again into her dreams. This quiet sleepy face of the sea and its lazy waves reminded her of one of the American movies she had seen on TV several days ago. She envied the heroine, who was about her age.
- Why is it that what is permitted to her is not permitted to me? Why am I not allowed to be with a man, just to be, unless he is agreed upon as a future husband from a long chain of brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, the immediate and the extended family? Why do I have to feign anger when a boy steals a kiss from my lips, while deep inside I wished it and even planned for it.. . Why can’t I be proud of this beauty that God granted me? Why is it my fault if this beauty aroused some idiot? Why is it that every time I admire my naked body I feel sinful? Why do I have to blind the window, which is far from any other one by tens of meters, because a sick person just might peep into my room with binoculars? Why….why…why…. On the opposite seat, sat Randa complaining about her mother who is obsessed with cleaning. She forces her, every weekend, to wash the windows, the floor, the tiles, and even the walls. She owned a unit, with real walls and tiles, after a long long life of living in a tent, like a room, in the camp. She adored it. She loves it more than she loves us.
- Oh God! Protect us from spoiled girls, Ahmad said. Suppose you weren’t kicked away from your country village “Sasa”, then you have to wake up before dawn, to pick up the figs, or to feed the cows, or to collect the wheat from the field, early before the sunrise.
- You, curious creature! Hold your peace, no one is interested in your advice.
Layla was complaining about her fiancee who postponed his return from Abu Dhabi for the third time.
- He backed off! He fled your hell, smart guy. Ahmad said. The crowd burst into laughter.
- Don’t worry dear! I have a better suitor for you.
- Mind your own business you smart arse Sukayna mocked Mr Malouf and the enthusiastic way with which he introduced the latest modern theory in class teaching.
- His majesty thinks we live in Paris. He wants us to apply theories put to students who are thousands of developing steps ahead. Put for students who go to airconditioned classrooms, have movies and theatres in their backyards, where classes count no more than 15 student, where teachers earn in a week what we earn in a year. What a dreamer! Sukayna continued, wiring her mouth, imitating the way her teacher talked:
- Delete the teacher’s roll. Delete punishment and awards. Let the students decide when and what to learn ….I swear by God, people will stone us for that. Fadi commented without moving his eyes away from his cards.
- Jesus said, listen to their sayings and don’t do their deeds. Take the degree first, don’t put the cart before the horse.
- Please kids! Be quiet, I want to hear the news, said Abu Mohamed.
- Uncle Abu Mohamed, don’t bother yourself, today’s news are the same as yesterday’s, as tomorrow’s. Bilal and Fadi were seating on the back seat, playing cards. A breeze blew up carrying a refreshing fragrance from the sea, Fadi lifted his head off the cards, scrunched his face, took a deep breath. He was enchanted by the smell. He said: “If it weren’t a sin, I will ask to be buried naked within the folds of the sparkling waves, with the pearls and the fish, not under the dull dark soil with the worms and rotten roots! On the checkpoint at Khaldeh, all went silent. Few meters away, Azza, affected by the autumn atmosphere, started to sing one of Fairuz’ songs: “The golden yellow leaves of September Under the windows Reminded me Of your love Oh!…Golden leaves of September…..” The Girls looked into each other’s eyes and smiled maliciously. Everyone knows what Azza thinks is a secret. All of them whispered about the silent passion, which was growing up between her and Hassan, (the student from the health department). All of a sudden Abu Mohamed shouted: “The bastard! He was about to throw us into the sea!” A car overtook them sharply. Neehal looked at her watch: “Please Uncle Abu Mohamed, hurry up a little bit.”
- At your command my precious beauty a car overtook another, the two drivers started shouting at each other. Abu Mohamed shook his head left and right, wondering why people put their lives at risk for sake of silly demonstrations. He turned towards Neehal and said - Don’t worry beauty, we will be there on time. The bus turned off the main road and into the side street that leads to the institution of Sibleen. There were only few minutes left of the journey. Suddenly, an aeroplane thundered in the sky. Did they find the time to guess its identity or kind?!…. . . . . . . . We were about to end our morning coffee, when the radio broadcasted: “Few minutes ago, an Israeli air raid hit the coastal line, East of Saida, one of the aeroplanes targeted a school bus carrying students to the vocational institute in Sibleen. Witnesses said that pieces of the bus were seen, hundreds of meters away from the site.” We escorted what remained of Neehal. Her golden yellow hair was scattered over the rocks and the wild flowers, on both sides of the road to Sibleen.
Published at: http://www.nobleworld.biz
http://www.nobleworld.biz/pages/4/index.htm
Mahmoud Abbasi
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Towards Break of Dawn
Night is creeping on slowly, the village is covered with darkness, ,raindrops are beating against the window , the dog, barking ceaselessly, is wrecking my nerves and sleep is escaping me like a mortal enemy. Insomnia and my self are twins, it sticks to me like the torture that dwells in my weary eyes and your voice, my daughter, keeps on beating in my head like a drum. Your hoarse and begging voice repeatedly implores: "What my husband's sister slanders me with, is it true? who is my father? Why didn't you tell me the truth? Who is my father"?"
Gissipmongers have whispered in the ears of your husband's family, they, in turn, have slan-dered you, so you have come running to me, wishing to learn the truth.
Oh my daughter, there is no reason to hide the truth any longer, but you had your say and hurried away, your face covered with tears.
You just rushed off, doubt showing clearly on your gentle face.
God forgive you, my daughter, you inflicted a mortal blow on me and off you went, leaving me at the mercy of dangerous hallucination, talking to your phantom that is never out of my sight. I am delirious, oh my daughter, like drunkards who resort to drinking in order to relieve their pain, or like those touched by madness.
Twenty years of your life have passed by. For you they were like a confused dream, while I was counting it by the minute and the second.
My lot was poverty and privation, so that your might enjoy luxury, and that I might compensate you for the fatherhood that you had been deprived of. Both fate and retune turned their back on me, but I subsisted for your sake. I carried you in my teeth from one village to another, doing any dirty job so that you might fully enjoy a noble life. I squatted over the laundry basins of the worthy and unworthy in order to avail myself of the price of the prettiest clothes and tastiest food and provide you with all the school requisites.
And you, flesh of my flesh, blossomed and filled with health and strength, abounding with beauty and vitality whereas I withered and dried up, having been a model of beauty and charm.
Every day that passed brought a particular pain, every second its suffering and privation, and every question that your put to me about your father was like sixty thrusts of a poisonous dagger plunged into my heart. You filled my heart with such happiness and hope as counterbalanced all the trials, suffering and privation that had been my lot.
And then one day you bloomed and opened up like a fragrant violet in a mellow field, watered by the rain of a good year, you were nominated the first female teacher on our small village. How glad was I on that day, lifting my head up, proud of the virtues, beauty and perfection that people ascribed to you.
Suitors flocked to ask your hand in marriage. I hesitated long, felling as if they wished to cut off a limb of mine, you being my source of comfort after all that long suffering, but I sacrificed the tranquility that your presence brought into my tiny home for the sake of your happiness after your silence had disclosed to me that you were willing and content to marry S'aid.
People poked their noses, trying to break up the match. They told me that you would live in the same house as his father and maiden sister , they said she was a real witch, feeding on gossip, unhappy unless she managed to mar people's lives. But those whispers didn't hinder me. You had lived deprived of fatherhood; you had never once uttered the word "father" so why should we deprive your husband of this joy?
I finally agreed to the marriage without insisting on you and your husband having a separate house.
On the day when you were conducted to your husband's house you left my home respectably and honorably. You took with you all the fruit of those hard years and left me only suffering, and cruel loneliness. You and your husband were relishing love and happiness on your first night together whereas I was bent under the yoke of insomnia, prey to thoughts and apprehensions, visited by hopes and wishes. What if he had witnessed you on your wedding night, when you were the talk of the village women and young girls, when they all agreed that you were the prettiest and most impressive bride they had ever seen?
The days passed slowly, oh my daughter, as usual. I used to look forward to your visits as he who sows a seed awaits the raindrops. I used to enjoy all possible kinds of calm and joy during your visits, till you came to me last night, angry and loud, your face pale and covered with marks of agony and misery.
You came to throw at me your question that is still insistently making a din in my head:" Who is my father? Who is my father"?
I constantly see your throwing yourself at my feet, begging: "That old maid slanders me with having been born two years after the one whom you claim to be my father disappeared. My age confirms her words. She says: 'Ask your mother and she'll tell you some secrets'. She mocks me, saying: "Your husband whom you claim to be my father ran away with Kaukji's soldiers and never came back, he ran away two years before I was born, so how and by what right do you claim him to be my father"?
You granted me no respite, oh my daughter. You thrust another blow at my torn-up heart and left me helpless, you slipped off, your face covered with tears, saying over and over again:"You have shamed me, you have made me suffer."
Your calculation of your age was correct. You are twenty years old, and my husband Wasil ran away with Kaukji's soldiers for fear of the new regime on the day our village was taken by the Israeli Forces.
We enjoyed our marital abode for no more than one year. He, God forgive him- had been effervescent in his youth, handsome and obstinate, leader of the local youth, leading dancer at every Dabka. The village girls used to exchange whispers about this youth and chivalry, watching him behind the screen at every wedding. When the drums of war beat and Kaukji's forces settled in our village he was the first to join them. I was very proud of his virility, carrying his French gun and showing it off.
When he ran away I did not got back to my family but stayed on at his father's house. Love maintained a strong tie between us and in spite of the distance I used to see him in my dreams every night, hoping he might come any minute.
That night he infiltrated across the border. The night when he returned I was immersed in profound sleep, living in a strange dream. I still remember that dream as if its incidents were still passing before my eyes now... I saw him as I had often seen him in my dreams. He was standing on the other side of the village pond. I screamed from the bottom of my heart: "Wasil, cross the water, oh Wasil"!
He took off his keffiyeh and waved it, saying:
"The pond is deep, I'm afraid of drawing! "
""Don't be afraid, the village children cross it
""But the clouds are black. it's going to rain, keep away Haniyyah!
."!Wait a minute, I'm coming"
The universe was wrapped up in pithc dark, heavy rain fell and I could only see his withdrawing figure. I hurried up to him, but slipped and fell into the pond. I tried to save myself by beating the water, wrestling with Death. I felt I was actually drowning with no one to save me. I suddenly remembered the Sufi North African Dervish and cried out: "Oh master of Time"!"
The Sufi Dervish was suddenly there. He stretched his hand out to me, and fished me out of the pond. At that very moment I saw Wasil standing there, his beard grown, fatigue and his trials had left clear marks on his face.
He tried to draw closer to me but the Dervish Sheikh pushed him away violently. I begged him with my looks, and finally he said to Wasil:
"Just for a short time, then you must leave her and go"
Before the Dervish disappeared he coughed, mentioned the name of Allah and said:
"Fear nothing, my hand will shelter you two and you won't be seen"
Wasil came close to me, held me in his arms, kissed me and made love to me while I was half unconscious, then a strong arm was stretched out to him and snatched him away. I couldn't help trying to get up, but in vain.
Then the North African Sheikh returned with a group of Dervishes. They surrounded me and performed an excited Zikr (mystic circle). The North African Sheikh was standing in the middle of the circle clapping his hand and repeating the name of God excitedly. I heard it all like the beast of a drum. The sounds made me retrieve my senses, and I kept saying pessimistically: "Oh Lord, pray for our master Muhammad, oh Lord make it all for the best"!
I Heard the sounds again, so I immediately rubbed my eyes to make sure I was awake, and realized it was the sound of someone knocking on the door. I got up and there he was, looking just as he had looked in my dream: exhausted, soaking wet, his beard grown. I almost fainted with surprise. He calmed me and stepped into the marriage-nest, the warmth of which he has missed for two years. That night we never shut our eyes. He told me all that he had gone through during his absence, expressing his suffering and longing. Then he spent the last part of the night in my bed.
In the morning he wished to go back where he had come from, but I summoned up my paternal uncle (my
husband's father) and he persuaded him to hide in my room, till he got in touch with some of his acquaintances to intervene so he could remain in the country. My paternal uncle started going every morning knocking at the doors of the worthy and influential, but all his efforts came to nothing. At the last part of a dark rainy night we heard hard knocks at the gate. We were scared thinking of informers. My husband hurried away, escaping frightened through the back window, saying: "Wait for me, Haniyyah, I'll try to come again, hand in a appeal for family reunion, good- bye".
The police came upon me while I was still confused. I flatly denied everything but the chief officer came close to me and whispered in my ear sarcastically:
"Don't deny it, your husband was here. Otherwise, for who are you wearing jewels, and for whom are these perfumes that fill your rooms? Hand him over, some people who wish him well have come in touch with us".
Yet I was silent and persisted in my denial. I lost Wasil, leaving me the fruit of his stay with us, an embryo beating about in my womb.
I had the baby secretly, fearing disgrace. It was a beautiful little girl resembling her father, as her late grandfather
used to say: "as like as two peas". The same honey-colored eyes in the roundish face, the same dimples, and on her father's own beauty spot. Everything her father had, she had too.
The baby's presence did not remain a secret, and I became notorious. My late paternal uncle was the only one who knew the truth. We were faced with a difficult choice. Either to admit we had given shelter to my husband and sustain the punishment the law decrees for sheltering an infiltrator, or to have me exposed as an adulteress. My father-in- law undertook to quell the fire of revenge that my family had devised against me. He removed me at night to a far-off village, to his relatives' house and thus was the secret buried and the disgrace died down, except for a few people who kept talking about it on the sly.
We did not give up. Despite my pessimism stemming from the dream of that hard night we sent an appeal for family reunion and begged those who have the word, who had been so generous during election- time. As time passed, my father- in-law gave up the ghost and I found to trace of Wasil. I sent him my regards with the Christian pilgrims who used the pretext of visiting the Church of the Nativity to quench their thirst by meeting their families and relatives, yet no one found him. I frequented the Red Cross offices, but there was no trace of him. My last spark of hope went out when I learned by chance that Wasil had married anther woman and left me deserted, neither married nor a widow.
And you, my daughter, are no other than that girl who resembles her father, your are that other pea, as your late grandfather used to say. It is you whose presence in my house used to make me hope he would return since you always reminded me of him. But you, God forgive you, came to burden me with your doubts like the load of the fifty years I carry on my back. You took no pity on me, oh my daughter, when you spoke about your father in a tone of hatred and hostility:
"Your husband to whom your attribute my fatherhood ran away with Kaukjit's soldiers and never came back"
Oh no, my daughter, you're wrong. My husband did come back, yes he did, in the form of a little girl who possesses all of his features and characteristics, resembling him in everything, even in the way he is angry. He, God forgive him, used to come back and ask me to forgive him after he made me angry and you will certainly come back to ease my mind. This unkind hallucination won't last long. You will make your own reckoning and come back...
Night is almost over, rain has stopped and the barking of the dog has died down. A girl's bright face is showing at the door-step and very light knocks are heared at the door.
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تعليق