“We’ve gone too far, Rushdi,” she said, then looked at her watch. “We’ve been rowing for two hours. We only rented the boat for one hour.”
“Don’t worry, I have fifty piasters, my monthly allowance. I’ll spend it all today.”
They stopped rowing. The rowboat stopped in the middle of Mahmudiya, and a light current carried it to the bank, where it rested.
“We can get off here. Don’t be afraid, the boat will not move,” he said, and as he stood up the boat swayed under his feet. He almost fell, but he kept his balance. She laughed. A long time had passed, and he had a hard time stretching his legs. She also stood up, and the boat shook, but she had given him her hand, and he was now on land, so he helped her off the boat and pulled her up. They were standing on the edge of a huge expanse of green fields, over which the sun was smiling kindly.
“How wonderful! What more could we ask from the gods?” He exclaimed as he stretched his arms fully. “Let’s run!”
He ran and she ran behind him. He stopped running only when he heard her having difficulty breathing. He threw himself to the ground next to a big sycamore, stretching out his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the tree. She did the same thing. They were breathing fast. Her legs glistened above her short white socks. When she saw that her knees were showing, she placed her leather school bag on top of them. He raised his left arm and embraced her, pulling her toward him. She clung to his thin, fragile chest.
“This is the best place in the world for madness!”
She drew back, apprehensive of what he had just said, and moved her chest away, but he said, “Don’t be afraid of me, ever. I only felt that I would die in front of you.”
Once again he was saying strange things.
She heard the sound of a crow, and she was startled. He told her that the crow was a poor bird; it was the crow that taught man the greatest secret, that of burial, and yet it was the most maligned of the birds. He asked her if she had read Sophocles’ Antigone, and she said she had read it last summer in the holiday reading program.
“All Antigone did was bury her brother’s body. Humanity can’t have dignity if the dead aren’t buried.”
She fell silent for a few moments.
“Did you bring me here to talk about death?” she finally asked.
“The problem is, I only read literature,” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t come across a funny story yet. If you find one, please let me know.”
He got up. “Don’t move,” he told her. “Today I’ll read you some brilliant, crazy poetry.”
He took a small notebook out of his bag. “I translated it for you just this week.” Then he began to recite:
O clock, sinister, impassive, frightening god,
Whose threatening finger says to us, “Remember!
Soon the vibrant sorrows, like arrows
Will hit the target that is your heart.
Pleasure, ephemeral, will take flight toward the horizon
Like a sylph making a hasty exit to the wings;
Each instant gnaws a piece of the delight
Given each man for all his life.
Three thousand six hundred times every hour, the second
Whispers: Remember! In an insect voice,
The Instant says: I am the Past,
I’ve sucked out your life with my loathsome proboscis!
……………….
Soon the hour will strike when.
Everything will tell you: Die, you old coward! It’s too late!”
She admired his performance and his recklessness, with his half-closed, perpetually sad eyes, his fragility in the midst of the great, green space, that very tender being who could be carried away like a feather in the wind, never to return. And yet it was to that same being that all the open space and all the greenery submitted. He was the master that the gods had made, not knowing that he would be rebellious, always aiming to play their role. That also would be the cause of his perennial anguish.
He reached out and held her hand, and she left her bag next to his and stood up. He leaned her against the trunk of the tree. Three egrets flew from the tree when he started kissing her neck, as she made faint gestures of resistance.
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m speaking about death today,” he said.
“Enough,” she said as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He had gotten used to her doing that, and she had gotten used to his backing down. She took his hand in hers as they walked along the edge of the field.
“I liked that a poet should write about a wall clock,” he said. “The poem is by Baudelaire and is called “L’Horloge.” I didn’t realize it’s tone was so dark until I had worked on it and I did not stop. Next time I’ll translate cheerful poems for you — I’ll translate crazy poems by Rimbaud and Verlaine.”
She did not say am thing. They walked in silence. A peasant, his wife, and two children emerged from a cottage and watched them in surprise; they had never seen anyone so clean, young, and beautiful.
“Don’t be afraid. Don’t talk to them,” he said and gripped her hand. When they reached the peasant and his family he said, “May peace be upon you,” and they quickly replied, “And upon you peace, Please come in.”
He smiled and she smiled, and they headed back to the tree as the peasant and his family continued to watch them in surprise. The clear day and the gentle breeze had added to their glowing looks. They heard the peasant woman saying, “City folks are so pretty!” They laughed and hurried to the tree. They must have rowed a great distance, if the woman spoke of them as city folk. They had gone deep into the countryside, or so they thought. Rushdi raised his head toward the sky and looked at the sun overhead. He said to himself, “The clock, alwavs the clock,” and took her by the hand to the rowboat, still where they had left it. They sat facing each other, with the oars between them. He started rowing and as soon as he got to the middle of the canal, she placed her hands on his and said, “I’ll help you.”
She smiled and the world looked even more brilliantly beautiful. What happiness! Where did he get the courage that day the two schools had the contest, and how did his daring bring him to this point beyond reality? His body was shaking. He wanted to enter her to the point of no return. He needed to tear her up every which way, to lose himself completely in her, and she in him. Who would believe this was his first love experience? It began at an incredible speed, with an incredible girl in her simplicity, beauty, and religion. Who remembered religions now? She was laughing as the sun behind her lit the world around her delicate body. Next time, he would choose a spot farther away. He would not listen to her gentle appeal to stop as her body shook. He would go further.
“She is a beautiful girl with a magnificent neck who lets her hair drift languidly in the wine of her complexion. She walks like-kings and sits like sultans. Her eves invite humanity to explode, to dissolve in her open arms and her full breasts. The beauty of her flesh is a heavenly gift.”