criticism.
Zakariah al-Khartiti often forgot his numerous transgressions, which he wiped clean by going on pilgrimage, praying and fasting. He married Bodour without love and without sincerity, a marriage of convenience. From the moment he saw her father’s picture in the paper alongside top government officials, and from the moment her father became head of the great cultural and literary establishment concerned with art and journalism, his subconscious mind told him to pay heed, for this was his last and only chance to achieve his dreams in journalism.
From the first moment Bodour saw him, her subconscious mind told her to watch out, for he was an opportunist, an upstart who was using the chance to arrive at the top before any of his peers. She realized that he was the product of the school of the revolution, like the other young people of his generation. It was a lost generation that fell between a corrupt monarchical system and a republic that was even more corrupt, between Karl Marx and the Prophet Muhammad, between British imperialism covering itself with fig leaves and American imperialism shamelessly flaunting its nakedness, between women wearing headscarves and others parading in miniskirts. Between these were the young women who hid their hair with scarves but wore extra-tight jeans revealing their bellies.
Zakariah al-Khartiti gazed at women’s legs as he walked down the street. His narrow, deep-set eyes would move up the long slender legs until they got to the plump thighs. Girls stomped with the heels of their shoes on the ground like wild mares. When a girl’s round buttocks moved, his finger reached out in his imagination to the deep cleavage between them, each buttock hard and round like a rubber ball. From the back, one couldn’t tell a girl from a boy. In his adolescence, he used to desire males with their firm, tiger-like haunches. A senior teacher once took him to the lavatory and violated his virginity. He later did the same to a younger orphan boy with no father or mother.
Zakariah al-Khartiti banished these old, deeply buried memories from his mind. He moved his head with the rhythm of the dance music on the radio or television. He felt relieved because he had just finished writing his daily column. It was a heavy load that weighed down on his mind until he finished writing the last page. He had a whole day without his wife and daughter. Whenever his wife was away from the house, a secret ecstasy overtook him and the invisible chains fell from his mind and body. During her brief absence, the house became his own. He would extend his arms and legs until the discs of his spine creaked. He would bring out the small green notebook from the secret drawer at the bottom of the desk. This was where he kept his old secrets: secret pamphlets detailing political actions, his secret sexual activities, pictures of prostitutes, love letters sent to him by women or written by him but never sent, lines of love poetry, decent expressions, vulgar expressions by street children that he found exciting and sexually arousing. Vulgarity was essential for him to reach sexual arousal. But his wife was decent, like all women from good families. If he whispered a vulgar word in her ear during lovemaking, she’d pout her lips in disgust and a cold chill would run down her body, from top to toe. If he pressed on her with all his might, or if he pricked her with a knife in the sole of her feet or the folds of her flesh, not a cell in her body would move and neither would she bat a single eyelid.
He glimpsed her as she entered the garden door. He was examining his face in the mirror, arranging the little hairs sprouting in the bald spot on his head. He looked with disgust at his triangular chin. He had been trying to call an old mistress. The phone rang for a long time. He dialled other numbers, but to no avail. He couldn’t find any of them, so he wondered to himself in dismay, have they all found husbands or lovers? Or
Zakariah al-Khartiti often forgot his numerous transgressions, which he wiped clean by going on pilgrimage, praying and fasting. He married Bodour without love and without sincerity, a marriage of convenience. From the moment he saw her father’s picture in the paper alongside top government officials, and from the moment her father became head of the great cultural and literary establishment concerned with art and journalism, his subconscious mind told him to pay heed, for this was his last and only chance to achieve his dreams in journalism.
From the first moment Bodour saw him, her subconscious mind told her to watch out, for he was an opportunist, an upstart who was using the chance to arrive at the top before any of his peers. She realized that he was the product of the school of the revolution, like the other young people of his generation. It was a lost generation that fell between a corrupt monarchical system and a republic that was even more corrupt, between Karl Marx and the Prophet Muhammad, between British imperialism covering itself with fig leaves and American imperialism shamelessly flaunting its nakedness, between women wearing headscarves and others parading in miniskirts. Between these were the young women who hid their hair with scarves but wore extra-tight jeans revealing their bellies.
Zakariah al-Khartiti gazed at women’s legs as he walked down the street. His narrow, deep-set eyes would move up the long slender legs until they got to the plump thighs. Girls stomped with the heels of their shoes on the ground like wild mares. When a girl’s round buttocks moved, his finger reached out in his imagination to the deep cleavage between them, each buttock hard and round like a rubber ball. From the back, one couldn’t tell a girl from a boy. In his adolescence, he used to desire males with their firm, tiger-like haunches. A senior teacher once took him to the lavatory and violated his virginity. He later did the same to a younger orphan boy with no father or mother.
Zakariah al-Khartiti banished these old, deeply buried memories from his mind. He moved his head with the rhythm of the dance music on the radio or television. He felt relieved because he had just finished writing his daily column. It was a heavy load that weighed down on his mind until he finished writing the last page. He had a whole day without his wife and daughter. Whenever his wife was away from the house, a secret ecstasy overtook him and the invisible chains fell from his mind and body. During her brief absence, the house became his own. He would extend his arms and legs until the discs of his spine creaked. He would bring out the small green notebook from the secret drawer at the bottom of the desk. This was where he kept his old secrets: secret pamphlets detailing political actions, his secret sexual activities, pictures of prostitutes, love letters sent to him by women or written by him but never sent, lines of love poetry, decent expressions, vulgar expressions by street children that he found exciting and sexually arousing. Vulgarity was essential for him to reach sexual arousal. But his wife was decent, like all women from good families. If he whispered a vulgar word in her ear during lovemaking, she’d pout her lips in disgust and a cold chill would run down her body, from top to toe. If he pressed on her with all his might, or if he pricked her with a knife in the sole of her feet or the folds of her flesh, not a cell in her body would move and neither would she bat a single eyelid.
He glimpsed her as she entered the garden door. He was examining his face in the mirror, arranging the little hairs sprouting in the bald spot on his head. He looked with disgust at his triangular chin. He had been trying to call an old mistress. The phone rang for a long time. He dialled other numbers, but to no avail. He couldn’t find any of them, so he wondered to himself in dismay, have they all found husbands or lovers? Or
Similar Books
