The singing was interrupted suddenly and her husband’s voice rang out, ‘I’m hungry. Can’t you hear?’
She didn’t change the position of her body, which was stretched out over the edge. His angry voice came from afar, as if from the bottom of the well. She could scarcely hear it with her ears. The voice only touched the edge of her consciousness. She turned over onto her other side in order to reduce the intensity of the sun. In spite of the anger, his voice resembled that of a suckling child. Hadn’t his mother weaned him yet? Before her aunt weaned her, she used to clutch the teat. It was dark, the heat had decreased somewhat after the sun had set, and the sound of the flood was like the waves of the sea.
‘I’m hungry.’ His voice had become full of gentleness. Hunger refines men’s nature. It reveals the man under the rough exterior. Her heart was filled with a mother’s compassion. She went into the kitchen and lit the stove. She pressed on the revolver and a spark shot out. She laughed like she used to do when she was a child. She heated the soup in an aluminium saucepan. She peeled the potatoes and cut off the heads of the onions with a knife. Steam rose from the saucepan. Particles of oil dropped from the ceiling. They formed a dark layer on the surface of the soup. She went and fished them out with the handle of the ladle. However, the particles kept on falling and she had to keep on fishing them out, until finally she succeeded in getting them all out, apart from a few black particles which kept floating on the surface like flies on a corpse.
He sipped the soup with a sound like pipes sucking up oil. Between every sip he would rage with a sound like the roar of the wind. After he finished his food, silence fell. He closed his eyes without taking off the company uniform. It was blue in colour, but covered with oil stains. It exuded the smell of the gas that was stored in the bowels of the earth. Sleeping, he looked like the baby girl she had given birth to in her previous life, but who had subsequently died. When he woke up, she would take his clothes off, rub his body with a piece of rock, and then dry him with an old
sarwal
. She would twist the
sarwal
between her hands until it became like a bundle of aluminium wire. She dried him vigorously as if he was the bottom of a saucepan. In the distance dogs barked at each other and women gasped in unison. She shook her head in tune with them, her arms waving, her lungs rising and falling and her heart beating under her ribs. Then the movements became slow, monotonous and repetitious, sending her to sleep even as she stood there.
He yawned with a loud voice. She saw him smoking as he sat behind the newspaper. He would puff out the smoke between his lips and go off into raptures.
‘Give me a puff too please!’
‘What are you saying?’
‘One puff of your cigarette.’
‘Women do not smoke, by order of His Majesty.’
She clamped her lips shut and did not reply. She had fed him and washed him. She had treated him like her absent child. She had wiped away his pain. Didn’t she have the right to go into raptures like him?
When he handed her the jar to carry it, she had a desire to pour it over his head. But she had second thoughts. She could obey him today for the sake of a higher goal tomorrow. She could not lose everything for one puff.
Smoke was escaping from his nostrils. The nostrils dilated and the little hairs inside them trembled with the intensity of the rapture. She inhaled one or two deep breaths of the air, and some smoke found its way into her chest. She puffed it out from her mouth and nose. Yes indeed, if life held no rapturous pleasure for her, she at least had a right to take a puff of the smoke in the air. Anger seeped out of her body with the smoke, and the world appeared less depressing, or rather, perhaps, the smoke had gone to her head and she felt she had come across some genius idea that would deliver her from her
She didn’t change the position of her body, which was stretched out over the edge. His angry voice came from afar, as if from the bottom of the well. She could scarcely hear it with her ears. The voice only touched the edge of her consciousness. She turned over onto her other side in order to reduce the intensity of the sun. In spite of the anger, his voice resembled that of a suckling child. Hadn’t his mother weaned him yet? Before her aunt weaned her, she used to clutch the teat. It was dark, the heat had decreased somewhat after the sun had set, and the sound of the flood was like the waves of the sea.
‘I’m hungry.’ His voice had become full of gentleness. Hunger refines men’s nature. It reveals the man under the rough exterior. Her heart was filled with a mother’s compassion. She went into the kitchen and lit the stove. She pressed on the revolver and a spark shot out. She laughed like she used to do when she was a child. She heated the soup in an aluminium saucepan. She peeled the potatoes and cut off the heads of the onions with a knife. Steam rose from the saucepan. Particles of oil dropped from the ceiling. They formed a dark layer on the surface of the soup. She went and fished them out with the handle of the ladle. However, the particles kept on falling and she had to keep on fishing them out, until finally she succeeded in getting them all out, apart from a few black particles which kept floating on the surface like flies on a corpse.
He sipped the soup with a sound like pipes sucking up oil. Between every sip he would rage with a sound like the roar of the wind. After he finished his food, silence fell. He closed his eyes without taking off the company uniform. It was blue in colour, but covered with oil stains. It exuded the smell of the gas that was stored in the bowels of the earth. Sleeping, he looked like the baby girl she had given birth to in her previous life, but who had subsequently died. When he woke up, she would take his clothes off, rub his body with a piece of rock, and then dry him with an old
sarwal
. She would twist the
sarwal
between her hands until it became like a bundle of aluminium wire. She dried him vigorously as if he was the bottom of a saucepan. In the distance dogs barked at each other and women gasped in unison. She shook her head in tune with them, her arms waving, her lungs rising and falling and her heart beating under her ribs. Then the movements became slow, monotonous and repetitious, sending her to sleep even as she stood there.
He yawned with a loud voice. She saw him smoking as he sat behind the newspaper. He would puff out the smoke between his lips and go off into raptures.
‘Give me a puff too please!’
‘What are you saying?’
‘One puff of your cigarette.’
‘Women do not smoke, by order of His Majesty.’
She clamped her lips shut and did not reply. She had fed him and washed him. She had treated him like her absent child. She had wiped away his pain. Didn’t she have the right to go into raptures like him?
When he handed her the jar to carry it, she had a desire to pour it over his head. But she had second thoughts. She could obey him today for the sake of a higher goal tomorrow. She could not lose everything for one puff.
Smoke was escaping from his nostrils. The nostrils dilated and the little hairs inside them trembled with the intensity of the rapture. She inhaled one or two deep breaths of the air, and some smoke found its way into her chest. She puffed it out from her mouth and nose. Yes indeed, if life held no rapturous pleasure for her, she at least had a right to take a puff of the smoke in the air. Anger seeped out of her body with the smoke, and the world appeared less depressing, or rather, perhaps, the smoke had gone to her head and she felt she had come across some genius idea that would deliver her from her
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