Worries

When you tell people about things that are worrying you, you have to believe that they understand. You’re looking for some support, but in fact that’s not going to happen. On the contrary, people may even stoke the embers of such worries.

The trees all around him in the public park are tall and green; the benches are placed close together. All the people in the park certainly have their own private worries, but who can they go to, to talk? Some of them sit by themselves, while others chat or read. He listens to the deafening roar of cars and motorcycles; he’s feeling so on edge that he can’t stand any more engine-noise.

He resorts to his usual refuge when he feels so tense: a cigarette, followed by another, then another, till his throat and pharynx both feel dry. The bitter taste reaches all the way to his epiglottis and tongue. A feeling of giddiness radiates outward to every fiber in his brain, and his limbs feel numb; he wants to be sick. He dreams of chirping birds of various shapes and sizes, with their multi-colored feathers both bright and dark.

Stretching his legs out in front of him, he starts thinking to himself again. He tries digging a hole in the ground with his heels, striking the earth with deft, measured movements to avoid anyone thinking he’s gone mad. So then what? Raising his right leg, he brings it down hard on the ground, creating a tingling sensation that keeps the pain at bay. He twists his heel nervously in the dust. The ground is hard. Small rocks are embedded in it which are either completely covered or else protruding a little, in which case only the tops jut above the surface like baby-teeth. Chirping birds, rustling trees, and westward-bound rays of sunshine beaming amid the branches and leaves: all are things he imagines as he presses his heels into the ground.

For sure, everyone has his own worries, but he has no idea how much pressure they can put on people. “Sunlight is scattered through the garden like gold coins”; those are the words of the Arab poet. Chirping birds, verdant leaves and branches, migratory birds, Muslim ibn al-Walid, and other things, as well. But what about the illusions that we all have? Poets certainly have had nothing to say about the kinds of worries that he has.

I always look down on other people. They all have second personalities that they try to keep hidden. They only discuss their real problems with themselves. No man ever admits to his wife that he loves another woman, or vice versa. Everyone has his own problems, his own reality.

And what about you? Why do you feel you need to talk to someone? Don’t be content simply to dig at the ground with your heel. You can scratch it with your nails, or else use a whip, an ax, or a crowbar. You can even hide inside it, along with all the worries you may have.

Needless to say, he himself would not be able to do any such thing. The park warden would inevitably stop him. All the people, whether they had worries or not—the kind of things that made them frequent the park today or on other days—they would all gather round. For that very reason, he would be their only concern at that particular moment; it would be an exquisite game, attractive even to people who were apparently uninterested. How wonderful to have something to worry about!

However, he insisted on not becoming a victim of the game. Either let’s all be victims or, if not, then let’s cancel the whole thing. Everyone’s life can be a game, not just some people’s.

“Let’s take the kid to Sinbad Park,” his wife had suggested.

“Does he really like it there?”

“Of course, he does. He loves trees, roses, greenery, night, everything.”

“You can find those things anywhere.”

“But in Sinbad Park they’re different.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“As far as I’m concerned, all parks are alike. Don’t cut the flowers! Don’t walk on the grass! And so on.”

He didn’t say any more, but stood there watching his wife, who was looking into the mirror hanging by the TV set.

That’s not all, either. It’s also forbidden to be alone with a woman in the park. Policemen are everywhere. All parks are alike. He kept mumbling such things to himself.

“What are you saying?” asked the wife.

“Nothing.”

“So, let’s go to the park.”

“You take him.”

“Let’s all go.”

“Since they’re all the same, that’s not necessary.”

“We should go.”

He took a deep breath as he enjoyed a fleeting sense of elation. By now, the tension of the moment had dissolved. His heels felt heavy on the dirt. It was as if his body was no longer his, but part of some other hidden force. The sound of chirping birds was getting louder. He could picture swarms of butterflies hovering around his head and forming a garland or halo. He stood up and began tramping across the grass. Once he realized where he was going, he headed for the paved walkway. A few cars passed by on the road, and the sound of other engines could be heard behind the trees. He’d been alone for more than an hour, sitting, standing, then walking. . . .

“I’ll go push the boy on the swing,” the wife said. “He likes that.”

“Push him on a swing or take him to the bumper cars. Do as you like.”

She was gone for over an hour, but he didn’t think of joining her. He preferred to stay on his own and chew over his worries.

To have some moments of solitude is both pleasurable and painful, but there has to be a limit. He walked toward the lake. People were staring distractedly at the water, either talking, walking, or flirting. He spotted his wife chasing after the boy, who was trying hard not to fall on the grass.

“Look, here’s Dad,” she shouted when she saw him.

“You go after him and let me play,” the boy replied.

He went over to the two of them and started staring distractedly at the water, just like everybody else.

“Daddy,” the boy asked as he grabbed him by the leg of his pants “why don’t people swim in this water?”

Not allowed. The water belongs to the park. It’s forbidden to pick flowers. It’s forbidden to walk on the grass. It’s forbidden to be alone with a woman. It’s forbidden to swim.

The boy left his father and ran on to the grass. He started doing acrobatics, kicking an imaginary ball with his head and foot. He himself was hugged from behind by his wife, but he did not move a muscle. He frowned a little as he continued staring at the lake.

“What’s the matter with you?” his wife asked. “Shall we go home?”

“As you wish.”

“No, as you wish.”

“As long as I’ve been with you, I’ve never had the option of wishing.”

“Does that mean you don’t love me?”

“What does love have to do with it?”

“I don’t know. You look as though you’re carrying the world’s burdens on your shoulders.”

“Could be.”

The world’s burdens or my own? I don’t know. But everyone has his particular problems and worries. Even that pelican in the lake has to worry about food, so do the birds in the sky and the butterflies on flowers in the wild.

He turned toward her. Don’t tell her your problems. No, tell her. What’s the difference?

“Let’s go home then,” he said.

She put her arm in his and called the boy. People looked just like statues, fixed in place all around the lake, glued to the grass.

Even car engines couldn’t be heard anymore. The entire world around him seemed paralyzed.

“Do you really love me?”

“You can see that for yourself.”

“But these days you look perpetually worried.”

“More than that, I’m feverish.”

“Can you talk to me about your worries? I’m your wife.”

“I know, but at this point I can’t. When the time’s right, I will.”

As they left the park, the boy was running ahead. He passed by the bench he’d been sitting on an hour earlier and glanced over to look for the hole he’d dug with his heels. There was nothing, not a single trace. Once he’d passed the bench, he glanced back. His wife noticed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked

“Oh! Nothing.”

“No. There’s something. Why do you keep glancing behind you as though you’re being followed?”

“I don’t know. I was sitting there. I was afraid I’d dropped something.”

“You aren’t behaving normally,” she sighed.

“I’m sorry, I have my worries.”

“Sometimes I feel I’m the cause of those worries.”

“I hope that’ll never be the case. Keep an eye on the boy.”

Don’t talk about your problems. No one understands you. Everyone’s alike, even the people you think are closest to you. They stoke the embers and wait for a chance to humiliate you. He was mumbling to himself again.

“What’s the matter?” his wife asked.

“Nothing. I’ll tell you later, when we get home.”