She hated them all. She hated everyone she could think of, members of her own family, members of his family, and all their friends, old and new. This also included those who left and those who, like her, stayed and remained huddled in a corner, waiting. She even tried to remember the people she had forgotten, so she could hate them too.
She was at a loss as to how to express her all-consuming and comprehensive hatred until she decided to ignore her domestic chores by not hanging up the clothes thrown on the beds, and not even making up the beds. Then she thought about the dirty lunch dishes in the sink and decided to leave them there. Today she would not even clean the bathroom.
She sat on the two-seater in her usual corner, propped her feet up on the table and immediately felt a delicious lightness enter her body, almost like tranquillity: oh yes, she hated them all.
She felt eyes staring at her nasty, tranquil smile and glanced self-consciously at the opposite balcony. The neighbour on the second floor was hanging white, squeaky-clean washing on the line that stretched across her balcony. The man, with the grey moustache, was sitting in his usual place trying to focus his eyes on her face or on her outstretched legs. So she got up and carried the small wooden coffee tray and cigarettes to the bedroom. This quiet, faded place was ideal for focusing on hatred. The tray settled unevenly on the crumpled sheets, spilling the leftover coffee. But, although this made her laugh, she reached for a paper napkin from the box on her night table to wipe it off. Oddly, this small effort satisfied her.
Next she turned her attention to what was going on inside her head. Who should she start with? He had promised to call but he hadn’t: she hated him for not living up to his promise. Finito! If he comes back, she will behave snobbishly and put a distance between them. She tried to imagine what this would actually mean. She would say hello and then go to another room, or maybe leave the house altogether. But no, this would not work: it is the reaction of one who cares. Maybe she should say ‘hello’, sit down and start talking as if nothing had happened.
She lit another cigarette and discovered while doing so that the distance between the opposite wall and the bed was disturbingly close: she felt the wall closing in on her and the picture hanging on it pressing against her breast.
A heavy hand knocked at the door, but she was busy focusing her hate on a friend who had left. ‘I will not bring up my children in this country. It is a pile of garbage,’ she had said. She felt like an empty can of sardines thrown into this garbage heap – the country? The heavy hand knocked again at the door, so she got up ready to hate whoever it was. It was the next-door neighbour asking to borrow some coffee.
Her hatred could no longer be contained. It showed in the smile she attempted to welcome her neighbour with and in the wooden box of coffee. The neighbour undoubtedly felt it, for she said nothing more and left abruptly.
While returning to her hideout she caught sight of her father glaring down at her from his portrait. ‘It is difficult for me to be compassionate towards you today,’ he said, and then added, ‘may God have mercy on you.’
Translated by Ellen Khouri