AN ANTHOLOGY OF MOROCCAN NEW SHORT STORY, VOLUME 1
-Short Story-
Written by :
Fatima
Bouziane
Translated by Mohamed Saïd Raïhani
“Words
which travel freely between languages, careless of borders and customs
Words
which weave out of the wonder of dream and the beauty of the flying wings
They
fly like butterflies towards the light
But
never do they catch fire…
They
remain stars that shine on in the darkest darkness.
These
words may be mine, yours, everybody’s… just say your words and let them dream:
let them fly.”
Fatima Bouziane
A Moroccan short-story writer
born in
Author of:
"Whispering Out Intentions”
(Short stories) in
2001
"Tonight, My Chance
Of A Lifetime?"
(Short stories) in
2006
An Exceptional Day :
I stare
at him while he is talking. It seems to me that today I am hearing with my
eyes. If eyes do communicate, what can prevent them from hearing such an
exceptional man’s talk?
His
small almond-like mobile phone captures fully my attention, so does his portable
personal computer as small as my handbag, his sun-glasses changing colour
following the degree of light around. Wonderful accessories which heighten the
degree of his exceptionality!
I feel him a real copy of the
ideal man’s image that I have been developing deep inside me from all that I
have admired in men since the very moment when that hot hormonal torrent ran in
my blood. Here he is now sitting opposite
me with the very lovely sweater that I was dressing him in my imagination under
the influence of the many sweaters that I have seen on fashion magazines. The
lips, themselves, I have copied out of a celebrated singer. The eyes, I have
stolen them from a TV announcer whose name I have forgotten but never have I
lost admiration of his eyes.
Our
chat is multi-lingual like a beautiful delicious salad. I lean on the table
with my elbow, holding my face with my hand. I have never expected that he
would be so perfectly sitting before me. He is as black-haired as I am but he
is quite different, completely different… His liberal thoughts make me fly up
high in the sky… An exceptional man, I whisper to myself. Of course, he is. Has
he not been living in
I
press my looks down on his eyes and I feel myself drowning down to his heart as
if it was a hypertext link driving you from page to page via one click on an
active link. His heart turns out to be another hypertext link leading straight
to my heart that has expected him for such a very long time.
My
dear Spider, let me dance on your web. What a web! The fashionable man is
modern in everything from his head to his toes: his shoes, language, portable
computer, mobile phone, thoughts, glances…I was wrong to have loved literature.
I will leave that poetry imbued with elegies and nothing but elegies, those short
stories sick with gloom and sadness and I will learn his new glossary:
Software, Google, Messenger…I feel them weird on my tongue but I swear to cut
it off if it does not learn them. I whisper them out, whenever I hear him utter
them, in an attempt to learn them by heart: Software, Google, Web, Microsoft…
I
told him:
-
I, myself, have an e-mail.
He
smiled and told me about so many means of fast communication. I did not
understand much of what he was talking about
but I was nodding all the time in agreement. It is true that I never
agree on whatever I do not understand but I will change for this exceptional
man’s sake. For his sake, I will leave all those convictions which have
inherited me nothing but sadness and vain expectations.
I
am today’s girl. I am born not before today. For me, henceforward, there will
be no place for any word called « Before ».
He
talks: he has the right to .I listen to him: I have only old lexicon on my
tongue. For him, masculinity is a pure hormone, feminity is a hormone, sexuality
is an interaction of hormonal systems, love is a myth, marriage is an
enterprise needing capital and insurance…he talks and talks while I smile and
smile…
The Day of Explosion :
Hardly
had I sipped my coffee when he pronounced his astrological sign. I burst out in
laughter spraying the whiteness of the table with black coffee.
How
can a man, any man, be a Virgo?! However, he is not any man. He
has just a few moments ago been talking about extraordinary adventures…he was
talking about conquests bodies, breasts, satisfaction…them, he is worthy to be
a Taurus, a Leo, an Elephant…
I
wiped my fog away shyly. I noticed that I was, nevertheless, not bothered at
hearing the many female names on his tongue although I am, by nature, jealous
and I hate men taking pride in their relationships with women.
I
took notice that I was nodding as if in approval, happiness, relaxation…even
when he apologizes for stopping long at certain details, I would gently say:
- That’s normal, very normal.
That
encouraged him more and more, why am I so forgiving, so tolerant? Is it what
they call it ‘‘inter-civilizational dialogue’’? Is it globalization?
Oh, he has a great deal of stories. He talks about them with respect, in refined
language even when they are naked, drunken: they are gentle pretty women:
-
We
share body. Body is the best means to dialogue with.
How
pretty is his neutrality and understanding! I feel my life thirsty and dry with
no hot sensational details in them. When he surprised me with his question, I
blushed. I told him I experienced love only once when I was a student at the
university. I loved a fellow student. No, not that? We only exchanged
confessions, dreams and Nizar Kabbani’s poems. When each of us withdrew
his sterile university certificate, both of us withdrew from the life of the
other.
I
know that you do not like such dry, short, cold stories. I understand that but
I cannot create hot stories for you. You see being here is different from being
there. What I have told you I consider it a top secret. Please, do not laugh.
Do not. Believe me. When my girlfriends used to talk about their love –affairs,
I would remain quiet swearing in silence not to tell them a word about mine.
Not every body understands such feelings and desires and you know that being
here is different from being there.
He
nods lightly encouraging me to continue. When I stumble, out of shyness, over
my words, he smiles to me. I feel his beautiful smile gently telling me:
-
That’s normal, very normal.
……………………
……………………
The Day of Emptiness:
I
drink my bitter coffee. There is no sugar lumps left on the table and the chair opposite me is empty. I feel
empty deep inside me… Nature fears emptiness: that is right. I am thinking
about Virgo. he cannot be that one.
He put the cup down on the table .he took the
ring out of his finger and put it down next to the cup. He paid his own bill, picket up his small
almond-like mobile phone and his portable computer:
-‘‘So,
go and marry your fellow student’’, he said before leaving. “Never bare your
emotional secrets to any man, no matter what he was”.
« Silence is gold, chatter is zinc »
« Transparency is crime »
«Ambiguous is life »
Where
have I read or heard that? In a book? In a story? In an advice from a mother to
her daughter? in a feminine chat in a public bath ?
There
is wisdom everywhere, why was I so careless to it all?
Damnation!
That black-haired man can also have black thoughts in his head too why was I careless
to it all?
A
I
vomit my vast deception. I get out of my heart the man I have been building in
my imagination since the moment when that burning hormonal torrent blends with
my blood. The very normal man in his talk, look and utters very impolite words:
-
I was a magnetic playboy. I have known many girls. Easy girls are the only
girls in this country.
I
hate normal and ordinary things starting with ordinary flour and ending with
ordinary love, I whispered to myself:
Your love is too still,
Your love is too ordinary,
And I get bored with ordinary love.
Now,
I understand Latifa’s song very well. Perhaps, we share the same
context. Again, he tells stories in the same boring expected details but I
never nod neither in agreement nor in disagreement and when his talk is over, I
will so stupidly say:
-
That’s normal, very normal to any man…
My
love adventures? No, never. Please, do not offend me .I was busy studying and
working. My responsibilities were enormous. What do you mean? No, never. I am
giving you this opportunity only because you look respectable. Please, it is
time for me to go .it is not my habit to come home too late and I do not love
to go to cafés. Now that we got acquainted, what can be the next stage?
I
will put it severely, without hesitation and I will wait for one day, one
mouth, one year
Open doors
Open windows
…
Closed doors
Closed windows
…
And I,
Behind the sun,
Behind the moon,
Am waiting *
---------------------
* (‘‘Waiting’’, a poem written by the
Arab poet Saleh Harbi, in his ‘‘I See Women Watering
Corpses’’, a collection of poems)
***********
* The writer, Fatima Bouziane, is a Moroccan short-story writer
born in
* The translator, Mohamed
Saïd Raïhani, is a Moroccan translator, scholar & short-story
writer, born on December 23rd
* " Normal"
is the sixteenth narrative text in the "The Moroccan
Dream", An
Anthology of Moroccan new short story directed by Mohamed Saïd Raïhani.
***********
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