Zeinab's Dreams Window
29-05-2016, 10:55 AM
Story (9) By: Ibrahim S. Nadir
Zeinab's Dreams Window
Translated by : Qahtan F. AL-Khatib Iraq
(Zeinab), as a burned coffee grain, some parts of which stuck to the blunt-edged cup, washes her eyelids with the orange-flower water everyday morning. Now, she, as she often does, comes home, sits in front of her heritage window, inspires its snaky inscriptions and sings. The tune dries up in the hollows of the hoarse pharynx. Her eyes turn as a weary music disc among the plastering street walls and the deserted ruin courtyard. With dumb curiosity, she overlooks the marble temple courtyard, besmeared by the kids’ viscosity and the dirt of beggars. She monitors his return to her, calls him through the embraced bars inscriptions into the narrow street vacuity. From the bottom of himself, he makes up his mind to tell her, but he intends to run away the unknown which forwards to him superstitious tales similar to black snakes.
That evening he revealed his secret without counterfeiting and desires. Now, as he is sometimes, treats her affectionately behind the cracked wall. She sits in front of him; he speaks to her, exchanges love and a shivering smile. His pulses scatter through the vague street.
(Zeinab), an inexperienced butterfly, of limited and narrow thinking, is not like the playful city girls, but he surprises her with no reserve.
- “Why did I choose you an ache of mine ?” But he does not know how to kill his desire in her. He may be wrong if he is engaged to her. “Why doesn’t she read what’s in my head ?”
As if she were reading a primary school first class book, full of colored pictures, she, then warned him of his devilish ideas, but she was unable to prevent the whim of her pupils of the eye to have idiot glances every afternoon through the intersections of the window spits.
- “Don’t go to him after now.” said her mother then.
She became very much angry and wept. She replied her mother in such a way that made her think confusedly.
- “No one can prevent me even though I married other than him.”
She goes sluggishly towards the hanging box at the fore part of the porch and draws a small vial from between the shelves, shakes it several times then puts some eye drops into congested eyes, wipes her tears with medical gauze hidden between the divergence of the breast, walks on worn out over the time flagstones losing their home identity, faced by the odor of the pickles barrels, bitten by the night guard’s voice, among the street twists a salt seller passes. She thinks with herself: ( Where am I going now ? ), as though she has neither a home to accept nor a room to contain her and her mother, blocked fancy and dialogues intersect in her imagination as the window twisted spits. A day before the exam appointment, she grasped his wrapped arm when he was about to tap on the colored glass. His feeble arm was adhering with transparent fear for fear of uncovering the blood course in the tunnels of tales.
When she sits to the heater, she holds the colored wool thread, remaining surplus of food collected from houses. She makes a glove on the plait engineering or a pair of stocking to protect her from the cold. Her lame beautiful bird ( Al-Sabooni ) passes, pecks at her feet. She throws crumbs of the core or a ball of coiled wool on its lined tail. Consequently, it runs scared and hides under the antique seat.
Meeting him she said to him, “Did anybody except me visit you ? ........... Ah ! if it were true, what would the result be ?”
She was through with repairing the curtain fitting and kept a distance from him like a slow falling down of a tent on friable sands. He felt a wind ascending to his chest. He closed his eyes as if he didn’t want to witness a crime or aggression. One day he shall tell her what he desires in her. At that time he shall find a hand stretching forth towards him with graceful fingers, plays with his twisted hair like a pink grain.
A bright dream by which he washes the glitter of his eyes. Her embellished wittiness bathes in pearl ponds, as if he were an inheriting traitor, immortal temperament. he can do nothing but betray his playing fingers among the chest folding pressing his bones. Inherited derogatory weight over times and remote evenings. He set out to light a cheap cigarette borrowed from a friend. His voice lowered to say coldly without desisting whiffing the smoke ...........
- “Zeinab. W..h...e.....n ....... shall we get married ?”
But he, as usual, stammered and remembered that she detested that word. She often heard it with pale fidgeting.
- “Do you have enough for my dowry.” said she mocking at his awkward speech. “Learn at least one craft. Do something. My fate is to love a damned imaginary unsuccessful man, an icy-desired and breath man !”
She woke up terrified and scared of her night mare. Then she set out searching for him among narrow twisted streets, whereas his shadow faded away gradually in the night beast garments.
Zeinab's Dreams Window
Translated by : Qahtan F. AL-Khatib Iraq
(Zeinab), as a burned coffee grain, some parts of which stuck to the blunt-edged cup, washes her eyelids with the orange-flower water everyday morning. Now, she, as she often does, comes home, sits in front of her heritage window, inspires its snaky inscriptions and sings. The tune dries up in the hollows of the hoarse pharynx. Her eyes turn as a weary music disc among the plastering street walls and the deserted ruin courtyard. With dumb curiosity, she overlooks the marble temple courtyard, besmeared by the kids’ viscosity and the dirt of beggars. She monitors his return to her, calls him through the embraced bars inscriptions into the narrow street vacuity. From the bottom of himself, he makes up his mind to tell her, but he intends to run away the unknown which forwards to him superstitious tales similar to black snakes.
That evening he revealed his secret without counterfeiting and desires. Now, as he is sometimes, treats her affectionately behind the cracked wall. She sits in front of him; he speaks to her, exchanges love and a shivering smile. His pulses scatter through the vague street.
(Zeinab), an inexperienced butterfly, of limited and narrow thinking, is not like the playful city girls, but he surprises her with no reserve.
- “Why did I choose you an ache of mine ?” But he does not know how to kill his desire in her. He may be wrong if he is engaged to her. “Why doesn’t she read what’s in my head ?”
As if she were reading a primary school first class book, full of colored pictures, she, then warned him of his devilish ideas, but she was unable to prevent the whim of her pupils of the eye to have idiot glances every afternoon through the intersections of the window spits.
- “Don’t go to him after now.” said her mother then.
She became very much angry and wept. She replied her mother in such a way that made her think confusedly.
- “No one can prevent me even though I married other than him.”
She goes sluggishly towards the hanging box at the fore part of the porch and draws a small vial from between the shelves, shakes it several times then puts some eye drops into congested eyes, wipes her tears with medical gauze hidden between the divergence of the breast, walks on worn out over the time flagstones losing their home identity, faced by the odor of the pickles barrels, bitten by the night guard’s voice, among the street twists a salt seller passes. She thinks with herself: ( Where am I going now ? ), as though she has neither a home to accept nor a room to contain her and her mother, blocked fancy and dialogues intersect in her imagination as the window twisted spits. A day before the exam appointment, she grasped his wrapped arm when he was about to tap on the colored glass. His feeble arm was adhering with transparent fear for fear of uncovering the blood course in the tunnels of tales.
When she sits to the heater, she holds the colored wool thread, remaining surplus of food collected from houses. She makes a glove on the plait engineering or a pair of stocking to protect her from the cold. Her lame beautiful bird ( Al-Sabooni ) passes, pecks at her feet. She throws crumbs of the core or a ball of coiled wool on its lined tail. Consequently, it runs scared and hides under the antique seat.
Meeting him she said to him, “Did anybody except me visit you ? ........... Ah ! if it were true, what would the result be ?”
She was through with repairing the curtain fitting and kept a distance from him like a slow falling down of a tent on friable sands. He felt a wind ascending to his chest. He closed his eyes as if he didn’t want to witness a crime or aggression. One day he shall tell her what he desires in her. At that time he shall find a hand stretching forth towards him with graceful fingers, plays with his twisted hair like a pink grain.
A bright dream by which he washes the glitter of his eyes. Her embellished wittiness bathes in pearl ponds, as if he were an inheriting traitor, immortal temperament. he can do nothing but betray his playing fingers among the chest folding pressing his bones. Inherited derogatory weight over times and remote evenings. He set out to light a cheap cigarette borrowed from a friend. His voice lowered to say coldly without desisting whiffing the smoke ...........
- “Zeinab. W..h...e.....n ....... shall we get married ?”
But he, as usual, stammered and remembered that she detested that word. She often heard it with pale fidgeting.
- “Do you have enough for my dowry.” said she mocking at his awkward speech. “Learn at least one craft. Do something. My fate is to love a damned imaginary unsuccessful man, an icy-desired and breath man !”
She woke up terrified and scared of her night mare. Then she set out searching for him among narrow twisted streets, whereas his shadow faded away gradually in the night beast garments.
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