‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“Perhaps our bodies will vanish, buried in the cemetery’s soil, but our breaths remain alive, moving from one soul to another.”

This woman will not rest until she destroys me.

After seven plump years, which passed by me with ease and joy, I lived them as one would cut a generous piece of butter with a delicate knife. It seems that they came to reflect the verse back upon me, drying up my coming seven years.

Since my hands touched the things I sent, flames have raged inside me; fire in my head, fire in my heart, fire in my body.

My teacher, “Al-Taji Al-Marrakshi,” taught me that we do not die; we lend our souls to those around us, and we borrow theirs in return. Perhaps our bodies disappear into the earth of the cemetery, but our breaths remain alive, fleeing from one soul to another. Often, someone falls ill to the point where death almost claims them, only for a person nearby to die suddenly, someone we thought would live far longer. What happened was that the patient took those breaths, shortening the life of the departed. How do I tell her that, if you extend your sick husband’s life on his deathbed, it is as though you are gifting him those days of your own life? Any day added to his life is one taken from yours.

The worst part is that the more miserable life becomes, the harder death is to reach, a precious thing that eludes our breaths.

Many dream of those who have passed, coming to me to say that in their dream, they were walking together, sharing food. Perhaps they do not realize that it is those remaining breaths that sway between in and out, after fleeing from the decaying body, but not yet gone. And here they are, dreaming that they are with their beloved departed in places they cherish, whether those where they lived or those they longed to visit, each one with the other.

Finally, she visited me, after she had stubbornly refused to see me. “Sirr Al-Ayoun” had never struggled with a woman as much as she had with “Fawz.” After our first meeting, I told her to come back, to bring me a lock of her dead lover’s hair next time, with something that carries his scent. She hesitated, but silently nodded in agreement.

In the second visit, I instructed her to open the door to her close ones—hers and his—to see him. I did not tell her why; she would have feared me if she knew. I wanted to multiply the breaths burning in front of him, so he could inhale them, stretching his own breaths. I did not want her to be the only victim, losing only from her own life. I explained my request as a way to soothe him with the visiting faces of loved ones.

She told me how her friend “Sabah Al-Hamoud” had been depressed after a single visit that lasted no more than minutes. I urged her not to tire and to think of inviting other friends, ones she trusted to love her sick husband.

I placed the scarf she had brought, which carried her husband’s scent, in a silver pot. Only silver can secure what is in her heart. I tied the ends with strands of the man’s hair after dividing them into the four corners. This scarf surely carries his breaths, and I will make it gather breaths around it in crowded places before returning it to her for him to wear. I will repeat this with another piece of clothing, tirelessly, for she is now my customer, and my reputation is at stake concerning a man who stands at the threshold of death, one foot trembling on the ground as “Fawz” holds his hand.

We, humans, are breaths numbered, determined by fate, and we know nothing of their amount. Even those who end their lives do not know they are being whispered to about their remaining breaths, disturbing them, most of them, and they do not submit willingly to the end. Rather, their anxious personalities push them to hasten their end with their own hands.

When I was young, I saw the departure of old women as a form of madness. My grandmother “Al-Hurra” died before she could finish telling me the story of my mother, who passed away while giving birth to me. I wanted her to finish the story so badly, but her appointment the next day never came. She fell from the Kasbah’s stairs into the well, breaking her neck.

I remained silent for a week until my grandmother came to me in a dream and finished the story about my mother. I was happy and went to her brother, the scholar; my grandfather, Sheikh “Al-Taji Al-Marrakshi.” He touched my head and forehead. I repeated the story to him, and he confirmed its truth, then said:

“Listen, “Sirr Al-Ayoun”, never tell anyone what you saw with your grandmother Al-Hurra. It is a secret between you and her, and secrets must not be revealed. Keep attending my Quranic lessons and do not leave when the children leave. Stay so I can increase your knowledge.”

Since that day, what others hide becomes clear to me. Even when I sleep on someone’s pillow, I dream of their life, day and night!

Then, it happened that a Kuwaiti woman, visiting Morocco, heard of me, and she visited me. She asked, and I answered her with what I saw. She was astonished and told me I would be her guest, and that it would bring great fortune between her palms.

The journey began seven years ago. During that time, I went on pilgrimage twice, performed Umrah five times, visited my homeland ten times, and every day I pray for my grandmother “Al-Hurra” who opened the light for me. I kiss the hand of my grandfather, Sheikh “Al-Taji Al-Marrakshi,” and I hear him from my place by the Arabian Gulf, thanking me, then prostrating before the Qibla of Jamâa El-Fna.

My mentor, “Al-Taji Al-Marrakshi,” once told me:

“Life is a series of closed glass rooms, connected by invisible pipes. Fragrance or incense enters one room, and a foul odor escapes from it. Smoke flees from one, and oxygen enters it. The desert seeps in, like sand flowing from the neck of an hourglass, to be replaced by a river, and an oasis arises in its place.

We—humans—play in the hallways of life, all our days, choosing to enter and exit those rooms as many times as the hairs on our heads, as though we are playing, wasting our lives in vain.

Perhaps a man chooses one wife and rejects another, one who might be more suitable, but this is our action, which fate knows and predicts, trying to reveal it to us, far from our stubbornness. Choices are present at the door of each room, and with every decision we make, whether small or large.

Do we drink bitter coffee or sweet tea? It’s a choice.

Do we declare war or pledge peace? It’s a choice.

We keep entering these glass rooms, in which the world around us reveals itself to us, only to choose to exit one for another, and we are not freed from this cycle until the count of our breaths ends, when what those who do not know call… death.”

Fawz’s sick husband entered his glass room, filled with illness and sealed by a coma. If he doesn’t leave it, he will die. I must teach her the art of releasing him, without revealing the secret of that art!

I asked her friend “Zouina Al-Saleh” directly if she wanted her husband’s life to be extended or not, and her answer surprised me:

“O “Sirr Al-Ayoun”, the man’s worth lies only in the depths of his trousers; money in his pocket and sex in his lap. But now that his health is gone, no intimacy awaits. But the money remains for me, and I will inherit it through lawful means.”

She was angry because she knew of her husband’s many sexual adventures, and she endured him, despite being barren herself, though she suspected the infertility was on his side and that the doctor had conspired with him, as she told me:

“One day he came to me, blinking his eyes, and said the test results proved we had no hope of having children, that he accepted me as I am, and didn’t want anyone else.”

Of course, I doubted him. He didn’t show me any medical papers, and I was torn between two fires: either I trust him and accept the situation as it is, knowing that he didn’t want children because he hated responsibility, living as a husband for one night and a bachelor for many nights, or I choose the second, more difficult option—going for a fertility test away from his doctor. But I feared he might find out, and our lives would turn upside down.

In the end, I see what happened to him as divine punishment, and the stories I’ve learned and experienced with him will prevent me from repeating the experience and surrendering myself and my body to another man.”

I advised “Zouina Al-Saleh” not to visit him too often and to reduce the number of his visitors. His mother and sister came to tend to him at her house, and she only shed crocodile tears at his door. No one gave him their breath except for his mother, and after his death, the mother passed away just days later.

Seven years were enough for me to learn much about Kuwaiti women and men, even though the men never visited me for any reason, but their wives gave me the full catalog of their miserable lives in their marital homes.

In Morocco, sometimes we women complain about a man’s sharp tongue or his hand, but here, it’s normal. What women do not say in the presence of their husbands, they confess to me. It’s rare to find a woman who truly loves her partner, and the only one who loves hers hasn’t had him as a partner yet!

What hurt me was that my grandmother no longer appeared to me since the day Mrs. “Fawz” visited me, specifically since the breath of her sick husband mixed with mine in his scarf, and I began to fear her visit, yet an inner compulsion prevented me from pushing her away.  (Continues) 

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"