Two short stories
Translated by Fiona Collins

The Donkey

“CAN A DONKEY not be a donkey?” I asked her calmly.

“How?” she replied even more calmly.

“I mean that it is a donkey in its physical, animal form, but not a donkey in practice” I said, getting ready.

“How?” she replied with a challenging tone.

“For example, a donkey is the son of a male donkey and a female donkey. He has a tail, two big ears, a belly that sticks out both sides, silly legs, a raucous bray, foolish eyes and yellow teeth: is it possible for him to be a dog in the way he looks at things, imagines things and in his way of thinking about life?” I elaborated.

“Explain more” she said flippantly.

“I’ll explain. My grandfather, who today rests in the ground, had a donkey just like the one I described now. When I was young I loved to feed him from the piles of hay that one by one my grandfather had gathered up for him. When I handed him the bale of straw he would just look at me, ridiculing my childish innocence, and turn away from the food. The first time I treated him kindly because I wasn’t his master but his master’s grandson. Then I started to get angry. I gathered up the straw and piled it up in front of him, looking at him defiantly. “Eat,” I muttered with little authority and a lot of hope, “Eat!” And he did not eat . . .”

“That’s because he was stubborn,” she said, with contempt for my honourable person, “and not because he was a dog.”

“This is only part of the picture. I used to think as you do now, until that day that I noticed my grandfather standing behind me, smiling. My grandfather approached us, the donkey and I, and moved the straw with his hands so he could get a little closer to the donkey, who suddenly swooped down and greedily gobbled up the straw,” I explained, perplexed.

“That is natural,” she replied with an air of superiority, “since he was used to your grandfather feeding him.”

“Bravo!” I shouted hotly. “Bravo! But that is one of the characteristics of dogs, that they are faithful to their masters . . . What matters to a donkey is that he eats, even if it’s a carrot from my hand.”

“You exaggerate,” she grumbled. “You were angry with the donkey because he refused to eat from your hands . . . ”

“Certainly not,” I protested. “And there is another story.”

“What is it,” she asked with the least possible interest . . .

“One day I was practising my favourite childish activity, lighting fires. On that day I remember I was very keen to keep the small fire I had lit burning. I began to take straw from the pile intended for the donkey and to throw it on the fire. In the beginning I was only concerned that it would stay alight but after I experienced with my own ears the magnificent sound of the blazing straw, and with my own eyes the colour of its flame and the speed of its chemical reaction with oxygen, I wanted to increase the combustion. I was like someone who ups his daily dose of cocaine to get higher than he is used to being, and I began to throw more fuel on to the fire, moving like a shuttle between the piles of straw and the growing flames . . .

“In my oceans of enthusiasm, I did not notice that the fire had got out of control and crept up to the nearby almond tree. No more than two minutes had passed before I heard my brother Anan, who was eleven months younger than me, screaming hysterically with delight: ‘Ala’a lit a fire, fire, Ala’a lit a fire, fire,’ and after repeating his ninth symphony, he hurried to the house screaming his little song: ‘Al’aa lit a fire, fire, Ala’a lit a fire, fire.’

“I stood between the pile of straw that had practically disappeared and the flames that had ridden the back of the wind and taken hold of our huge vegetable garden. I watched the fire and I felt a burning desire to urinate. Suddenly I remembered the donkey. He was standing quietly, slowly chewing the straw, and his eyes, no longer foolish, cast about in the direction of the fire. ‘God blacken your name!’ It was my mother’s voice as she rushed from inside the house with Amer and Anan who was clapping his hands and hurrying along behind her: ‘ . . . a fire, fire’. I couldn’t help it, I was the eldest of five sons and yet I burst into tears. Hardly seconds later, my mother’s loud screaming bore fruit for people poured forth from all directions, every one of them with his pickaxe and his hoe and his bucket to put out the fire. When I saw everybody running about in chaos and confusion I cried even harder and without knowing why I looked over at the donkey. He was still gazing at the fire, overwhelmed with indifference. Suddenly I saw him shudder, and then he bucked, pulling tightly on the rope fastened around his neck. The rope snapped and he lunged toward . . . my grandfather!

“My grandfather, who today rests in the ground, had been digging a trench with his hoe between the flames and the side of the garden not yet on fire. Unexpectedly and with all his might the donkey shoved my grandfather, flinging him forward. In the same second, a large burning branch from the almond tree broke off and fell on the donkey’s back. All at once he fell to the ground. In no time at all the flames were burning him and he brayed with a loud bark, like a hunting dog and gave up the ghost . . . ”

“That’s drivel,” she said angrily. “For the sake of telling a gripping story you make up any lie and any exaggeration. Now you’ll say, all very pompously, that it’s all right for you to use literary exaggeration to build good drama . . . ”

“Never, my darling,” I said sincerely, “I swear to you that the donkey brayed a distinct bark.”

“Stop this twaddle. You’re trying to lend romance and a bit of philosophy to your ordinary childhood – to the point of boredom.”

“Ask my mother,” I said, furious.

“Ooh, a witness from his family,” she replied, in an irritating voice.

“Very well. I don’t care if you don’t believe me but I just wanted to tell you the secret of the donkey who was a dog in his life, and in his death as well.”

“Let it be,” she said calming down. Then she began to smile, looking at me with loving indulgence: “I know a story about a faithful dog that I love very much, but at the same time he is a donkey.”

The Story Writer

It is not easy for anyone these days to remember exactly what happened. Even the attempt of the famous American TV station ended in failure for the report didn’t involve gathering statements or documents, or anything at all that would possibly lead to the end of the thread, however simple. Only then would the truth begin to come out; and it was not only confined to this mystery. No one knows where it happened. There was some conjecture and speculation about it here and there, but no one dared to stand up and point his finger in a particular direction and declare: Here! . . . No one. Absolutely no one.

If you think for a moment that the situation is any better with respect to the time it happened, then you’re mistaken. No one, either, can stand up and declare: This happened before X time . . . No one has the nerve to take the risk, no one . . . And though there are those who are considered eyewitnesses to what happened, no one knows who they are or even their names. Once there was a rumour that an eyewitness had come to light and that he would shortly deliver his evidence, but up till now no one has heard this evidence. After a while no one asked the question again.

I was sitting, as I often did, with many of our neighbours and other townsfolk in the porch of Hajj Mohammed, our neighbour and close friend of my father. I was busy smoking the waterpipe with him while he hid me from my father who did not approve of my favourite pastime. As I was smoking the pipe and watching an extremely tense game of backgammon I listened, as I did every day, to the same story; every day there were some variations and insertions and seasonings added here and there. The only one who was not engaging in the banter over this story was Hajj Mohammed who, as usual, paid no attention to the conversation. Instead he urged one of the players, who had become more embroiled in telling the story than was necessary, to carry on with the game.

One day, while we were about our aforesaid daily activity, a strange car stopped in front of the porch. Several minutes passed and nothing happened. No one got out of the car and no one got into it. After several more minutes a thunderous shout bellowed out: “That’s them . . . That’s them . . . ”

Suddenly the car took off at a terrible speed.

“That’s them! That’s them!” the voice kept shouting.

“Take the number!” Hajj Mohammed said to me angrily.

I ran out to the street, watching the car as it sped away. Distractedly, I searched my pockets and then searched them again, but I didn’t find a pen. The car disappeared.

“Did you take the number?” asked Hajj Mohammed, knowing the answer. Perhaps I wanted my punishment. I stood with my head bowed, silent.

“It’s not right.” The sound of his voice was a cruel reprimand.

I raised my head to look at him, my eyes bathed in tears. I wanted to ask him about the thing that was not right but I couldn’t.

“It’s not right that you are a schoolboy and you don’t carry a pen.”

He went back inside and I ran as far away as I could. A week went by, full of sadness and feelings of humiliation, but little by little I returned to the porch and to the daily sessions. >From the first day of my return I took care to carry a pen and I made sure that it was fastened conspicuously in my shirt pocket. If the car came again, I would be able to take down its number. But the car didn’t come back. And because I got used to carrying the pen, I began to rewrite the stories I heard in Hajj Mohammed’s porch. Later, I began to imagine stories myself and I wrote them down. This is how I became a story writer.

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Unpublished in the original
Reprinted from Banipal magazine No 15/16, Autumn 2002/Spring 2003. www.banipal.co.uk
© Translation copyright Banipal and translator. All rights reserved.