The Report of Mrs. R Concerning the Last Day of the Week
It’s a lake. In olden times a Romantic poet would picture himself sitting on its banks, and behind him, or perhaps to one side, would be a willow tree whose branches hung down like the plaited hair of a despondent woman. He stares into the lake and sees the face of Narcissus on the surface, beautiful and miserable, matching his own. He is preoccupied by his face. He feels sorry for himself and mutters, “Who’ll mourn for you, you poor thing?” Then he begins his elegy.
There’s no willow tree, no face of Narcissus, just my car in which I drive to my job. A passing driver, as he overtakes me, hurls an insult at me; I give one back and continue on my way. At work it’s all a mess; I face up to him as though I’m stronger, then I get in my car to return home. The traffic light shows red, giving me the opportunity to answer this question: I appear as fragile as an autumn leaf that has surrendered itself to the wind before it settles on the ground. How, then, had I faced up to him? In the evening I’m used to going out in the street. My shoes have got wet and I must buy another pair. I move between the display windows of shops selling shoes, then I go into one of them and buy a pair. As I walk in the street I mumble to myself, “What happens to a dream that’s postponed?” The question remains suspended in front of me as I drive the car slowly, hindered by the heavy traffic on Gala’ Street. Once again there’s a traffic light and I come to a stop. I spot a large rat hurriedly crossing the road. “Is its smell diffused like rotten meat?” I wonder. The dream, not the rat. Maybe we drag it along like a heavy weight. Eventually, I arrive at the house. I park my car. I climb the stairs and turn the key in the lock. I make myself coffee and a cheese sandwich and put on the television. I watch the news, and some of the commercials, which are interrupted by a telephone call from a colleague at the office who gives me a free lesson in office etiquette: “Common sense dictates that you treat those younger than yourself harshly and those older gently. To clash with your boss at work is stupid. His venom must be dealt with by tact, flattery, and cunning. Confrontation is always hopeless. Do whatever you like with those you’re in charge of and stand up to them as you think best; put to right any deviation they are guilty of, if necessary with a blow to the head with a stick. I see that you’re doing the opposite of this and that’s a grave mistake.” I thanked him for his advice and terminated the conversation. “What happens to a dream that is postponed?” I turned off the television and called my friend. She told me about her day and I told her about mine. We had a long chat, then I said, “I’ve got an idea for a story.”
“Don’t talk about it,” she said. “Write it.”
But I wanted to go on talking, “A woman in the prime of life prepares to meet the man she loves. Having made herself up, she leaves her house, buys a bouquet of flowers and goes to the station where she waits. A train arrives. She looks around, she searches: he hasn’t come. Another train arrives. More and more trains arrive. The flowers wilt. The hours go by, the days, the weeks, the years. The woman becomes middle-aged, then reaches old age.”
My friend interrupts me. “And she dies, and they walked in her funeral procession from the Omar Makram Mosque, and the film ends with the National Anthem. The old maids weep their hearts out, while the audience in the cheap seats whistle and call out ‘The movie’s nonsense, so give us our money back.’ The two sides get caught up in a fight and the riot police come along to break up the disturbance. Two people are killed, one from each group. The one who’d been in the cheap seats has his picture published in the paper, with the caption “The terrorist who caused the disturbance and fell a victim to it.” As for the picture of the old maid who was killed, the national press ignored her, though the Egyptian Organization for the Rights of Women hastened to send her picture to Europe and America where it was decided by all the women’s groups to consider the day on which the film was shown and the woman was killed as an international day for spinsters.”
I didn’t laugh and moments of silence went by. Then, “Are you angry?”
“I didn’t imagine that the project for the story was all that bad.”
“Melodramatic!”
I decided to change the subject. I told her about the book I’d finished reading and about the woman who had refused to look at her newborn child after giving birth to him: “For several days she remained in this state, sleeping in her bed on her right side, with her face to the wall and her eyes staring into its whiteness. They carried the child to her and placed him alongside her. They talked to her about him, but she didn’t budge an inch.”
“And what happened after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you say you’d finished reading the book?”
“Yes, but the book wasn’t about her. It tells her story in a mere three lines.”
Before we finished the conversation she said, “Can you write your story along the lines of Charlie Chaplin’s silent films?”
“How?”
“As a comedy, with broad characters and a fast pace.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like cartoons—would it be possible for you to do that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Having put down the phone, I sat down to write.
The First Project: The Melodramatic Story
Her image in the mirror astonished me. She had taken a bath and made herself up well and paid attention to arranging her hair, and had put on her best clothes, yet all that did not explain the sudden change from a girl with pleasant features to the beautiful woman she was looking at in the mirror. She left the house to go to the flower shop. She chose scarlet roses with long stems. The florist wrapped them in cellophane after having added some greenery with leaves like those of the evergreen cypress but with tiny white flowers. The florist was about to tie the bunch of flowers up with a white ribbon but she quickly informed her that she wanted a pink one. Having handed over the money, she went to the station, the bouquet in her hand and a song on her lips. In the station she looked up at the large clock fixed to the wall and at the small watch she was wearing round her wrist. The time on both was identical. It was possible for her to sit in the cafe for the twenty-five minutes that remained before the train’s arrival. She asked for a cup of coffee, which she forgot to drink. She went off to stand on the platform.
The train approaches its destination. Her body trembles at its uproar and her heart beats. She chooses a position that makes it possible for her to observe all those arriving. They pass by her. They all pass by. He hasn’t come. She inquired about the time of arrival of the next train.
Seven trains arrived.
It was midnight.
The stationmaster said that the next train would arrive in the morning. As luck would have it they didn’t close the station café at night.
The Second Project: The Story as a Comedy
She put on her clothes with lightning speed, then left the house at a run. In the elevator her neighbor looked at her in astonishment, noticing that she was holding a pair of shoes in her hand. She put them on and sped out of the elevator to the flower seller. She bumped into a man, then into a woman, then into a tree, and she apologized to the tree. She bought a flower and flew with it to the station. The train arrived. She poked her head into its windows. She climbed up into all the carriages. She peered into people’s faces. She got down on her knees and searched under the seats. She climbed onto the seats and explored with her hands the luggage racks on either side. She jumped down from the train just as it was leaving. She waited for the next train. The platform was on the other side. She darted off to it, tripping over luggage and colliding with passengers. She asked. She described. She employed her hands to reinforce her words with gestures. They shook their heads. She rushed off to a bookshop close to the station. She bought some cardboard and a pen. In thick black letters she wrote his name and a description of him and took up her position on a side of the platform, holding up the board. No one stopped. She ran to the outside of the station. She bought a bell. She came back to the platform. She stood ringing the bell trying to attract the attention of passersby to the board. The trains kept on coming, arriving and departing. The sun comes out. The sun sets. The wind whistles. The rain pours down. The summer heat intensifies. She’s seized with pangs of hunger. She eats the flower.
She hasn’t noticed that the ink she’d written with on the board has been dampened by the rain and is no longer legible and that her hair, made wet by the rain and then dried by the sun, then made wet yet again by the rain, has become disheveled, and that her dress has become shabby and faded and is hanging down loosely on her skinny body. She is also not aware that the passersby were placing a few-small coins alongside her before hurriedly moving on.
My friend was right about the melodramatic story. I took a tranquillizer and got into bed. Once again I attempted to think about the story, but my thoughts were cut short as I fell into a deep sleep.