Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs by Abdulaziz Al Farsi

Author:Abdulaziz Al Farsi [Farsi, Abdulaziz Al]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781617973383
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2013-03-31T22:00:00+00:00

Let Thy Heart Be a Cloud

O thou who hast been exiled from thy homeland, let thy heart be a cloud. The earth is thirsty, the caravans weary, and sorrow is a litter that doth trace for the wind a path that no pen might inscribe. So forget all cities and come to me. I have waited for thee, intoxicated by the distance alone. Turn away from all paths but me. Come, let me show thee how songs are bathed. An hour ere dawn thou wilt find the back doors open. The light of the red candle doth banish the spirits of intruders.

I was relaxing on the bed as Khalid read the letter Ayda had thrown down to him, wrapped around a red candle. He reread it five times. He turned and cast me suspicious glances. With a smile on my face, I said, “I’ve told you before that there’s someone who wants you.”

“Don’t joke with me. This letter can only be from you. It’s written in your language.”

“My God! And do I have a monopoly on language? There are thousands of people who are good at using words.”

“Yes, there are. But not in this village.”

“Pardon me, but your assumption is incorrect.”

I got up and walked around the room. I opened the balcony and looked out at the minaret and the dim lights. The night was still like an infected wound, its darkness festering. I looked again at the expression on his face. I smiled again.

“Exactly where were you when the note fell in front of you?”

“You know.”

“I know. But I want you to say it.”

“Outside Abu Ayda’s house. What are you trying to say?”

“It’s obvious. On more than one occasion I’ve seen her watching you intently.”

He turned and started to guffaw, then stopped. He gazed into the mirror. He began to smile. He stroked his face and contemplated his beautiful eyes. Without looking at me, he said, “You know, if you weren’t in this village, I would have spent this night in terrible confusion. I would have gone on wondering who threw that candle at me. And I would have wondered whose words those were. Then I would have concocted nice stories depicting me as a hero who sparks the interest of a marvelous female he doesn’t even know. I would have drawn all sorts of pictures of her in my imagination: of her hair, her eyes, her lips, her smile, her nose, her bosom, her figure, her walk, and, most important, her voice when she cries. The voice of a woman when she cries from the heart is something we don’t take into account when we evaluate her beauty. Living in the shadow of probabilities and the anticipation of discovering the name of the beloved who is pursuing us is quite nice. I know now that it’s Ayda, because you’ve told me, and because yesterday after sundown I saw her looking at me from her balcony and smiling, her hair hanging down over her shoulders. I didn’t pay any attention to her.

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