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

“You are well-suited to meet, and to love each other, but – as happens in all times—envy will not leave you.”

I brought mint tea to Mama “Zuwina Al-Salih,” along with a small plate containing four dates, exactly as she always requested at the beginning of our meetings since I first saw her at Mama “Fawaz’s” house. Mama “Zuwina” was wearing a loose dress the color of seawater, which hid the weight she had gained in recent years.

Along with the mint tea, I prepared hot black coffee for Mama “Shahla Al-Tayea,” in the ivory-colored ceramic cup she preferred. She came in looking elegant, as always, wearing one of her men’s suits, although it was tight around the hips, signaling to onlookers that she had not lost her femininity, even away from men. Today, she wore a golden pin with the image of a peacock. Perhaps, Mama “Shahla,” you still think about men, keeping the peacock’s image near your heart?

As for Mama “Sabah Al-Hamoud,” her perfectly brewed Turkish coffee was ready, along with a piece of vegan chocolate, which she loved. Mama “Sabah” wore a brightly colored blazer, and I think I’ve seen it two or three times before. She always hides her short stature with high heels, adding to her beauty on her dark skin, which resembles that of an Indian woman from Udaipur. She was the only one who visited Mr. “Mohsen” in his room upstairs, unlike Mama “Shahla” and Mama “Zuwina,” who had never gone up there.

This gathering reminded me of one from 21 years ago, in the days following Mama “Fawaz’s” wedding. True, they had come on many occasions, the last of which was on February 26th, during Mama “Fawaz’s” birthday, but the atmosphere now is different—from Christmas to a wedding, but with no wedding!

The fourth lady with them, whom I see at Mama “Fawaz’s” house for the first time, asked me to bring her boiling water in a pot. Then she took out from a box with red glass decorations a silver teapot, added hot water to it, and placed green tea leaves she had brought from a box. She then requested that I bring a set of small glass cups to pour what she called “Moroccan tea” for the guests who would arrive tonight at Mama “Fawaz’s” house.

The ladies were calling the new guest among them “Sirr Al-‘Uyoun” (Secret of the Eyes).

The women sat at the end of the hall, beyond the fountain, and beyond the staircase leading to Mr. “Mohsen’s” room upstairs, where no one in the front hall could see or hear them. I told them that Mama “Fawaz” would come soon, though I couldn’t say she had been in the room with Mr. “Mohsen” for the past two hours, or more, talking to him as she had in recent weeks.

Poor my daughter “Fawaz!”

I have known you for forty years. I have shared in your pain many times. I know that today is the hardest day of your life.

I remember your small childhood pain, the blood that spilled from your knee the first time when you were a child, after you fell from the swing in your grandfather’s garden.

Then I remember your greater pain as a young woman when you had a car accident and broke your arm.

I also recall that overwhelming pain when you returned to Kuwait after the liberation, carrying your son “Khalid,” and did not find your husband, whom we all lost in the war.

Then, I remember the psychological pain you suffered, which caused you insomnia that never healed, as you endured malicious gossip about a man who visited you here years ago, left before sunrise, and after him came misery and rumors.

And finally, this current pain, growing without end, when your beloved fell ill.

Now, Mama “Fawaz,” you have decided to sever the link between your past and your future, and you have resolved to put an end to these pains. You will marry a man between life and death, and travel with him on an unknown journey, never believing it would end unless he is healed, and you return with him, safe and sound, to continue your life together and put an end to the world’s torment.

Every time I saw you praying for him, I prayed for you too, as though I were watching the epic of “Rama and Sita,” sung to us by the storyteller in my hometown of Udaipur, as if what happened two thousand years ago were repeating itself today, just as great love stories do.

You, Mama “Fawaz,” resemble Princess “Sita,” the daughter of King “Janaka,” and Mr. “Mohsen” is none other than Prince “Rama,” the son of King “Gharatha.” You are well-suited to meet, and to love each other, but—as happens in all times—envy will not leave you.

You never understood the reason behind the envy and hatred, until you were surprised—just two days ago—by what your guest, sitting in the outer reception room, Mr. “Adham,” told you:

“We at the institution were baffled by several things; how did my esteemed teacher suddenly collapse, and who caused the shock that led to his stroke? And why didn’t Dr. Salman care about what happened to the translator, and why didn’t he visit him—even once—in the hospital, but rather rushed to bring a replacement to sit in the translator’s office without waiting for his recovery?”

Questions that hung around our necks like question marks.

“But the answers were only revealed to us recently, after Professor Ahmed Abdul Majid approached the employee Shankar, who informed him that he had been in the director’s office, serving him coffee, when he heard him addressing Mr. Mohsen, as seen on the internal line, in a loud voice. When he descended a few minutes later to bring the translator his usual coffee, he found his colleagues carrying him unconscious, heading for the elevator.

It was then that we realized the call had only been from the doctor, and that what happened to my esteemed professor was undoubtedly the work of Salman Ibrahim, even though we didn’t know the contents of the call that had been so harsh and painful.”

I took down Shankar’s number and called him. I introduced myself as “Darsin” from Udaipur. He, too, was from Rajasthan, but from the city of Jaipur, near my own. I told him I worked as a governess at Mrs. “Fawaz Al-Abdallah’s” house, then spoke to him in Hindi and reassured him that I would not reveal what he told me to anyone in the institution, especially not to his manager. He repeated what I had heard and added that “Salman Ibrahim” had said to an employee named “Mustafa Sanad,” upon hearing that the translator had been taken to the hospital:

“Finally, we’re rid of his fault. He saved me the trouble of ending his job, and we’ll find a replacement to make us forget all about it.”

The lovers, “Sita” and “Rama,” were supposed to live in peace in the kingdom of “Ayodhya,” before the stepmother intervened, a role it seems Dr. “Salman,” the director, played. And so, “Fawaz” will be exiled with her lover. Will they live happily outside the homeland, or will his hand once again lead to their misfortune?

Perhaps Mr. “Mohsen” and Mama “Fawaz” will find someone to help them, just as “Sugriva’s” monkeys and their leader “Hanuman” helped Prince “Rama” and Princess “Sita.” I will pray for you, “Hanuman,” to guard their safe return to Kuwait, just as you restored the prince and his wife to the kingdom of “Ayodhya.”

Just a while ago, I brought plain coffee to the officiant, the young man with the thin beard, carrying a black leather bag, wearing a loose cloak, and a white turban on his head. I also served tea to Dr. “Medhat” and Mr. “Adham,” who were sitting with the turbaned man in the closed room to the right of the entrance.

After the formalities and signatures, the officiant will leave for Cairo, where the papers will be processed. Once he confirms the completion, he will contact us, specifying when he will bring the papers, at which point Mama “Fawaz” will confirm the hospital reservation dates at the university hospital in Heidelberg, Germany, a hospital specialized in treating brain injuries. She will also purchase travel tickets for herself, Mr. “Mohsen,” and me.

I was looking at the gold-faced wall clock as I waited for Shankar, the employee from the Arabic Translation Institute, who had suddenly called me this morning. He said he had something he wanted to tell me but couldn’t do it over the phone, as it was, in his words, a serious matter.

I waited for him near the door at the time Shankar had set. When the bell rang, everyone was busy with what they had. Mama “Fawaz’s” friends were in their distant rooms, the officiant and his company were in the closed room, and Mama “Fawaz” was praying for her lover and the heavens upstairs.

The doorbell rang, and I hurried to open it, expecting to find Shankar. But instead, I found “Khalid,” my lady’s son. He asked me to be quiet, as he wanted to surprise his mother, and he had come down for the Christmas vacation for that purpose. I told him his mother was upstairs and that her friends were waiting for her, but I didn’t mention the men visitors in the closed room. He asked me to help the driver, who had brought him from the airport, with the luggage and settle the payment, then he hurried up the stairs!

From a distance, I saw the Indian man I had expected to be Shankar. He quickly moved forward and helped me bring in the luggage.

After the driver left, Shankar spoke to me:

“This morning, a senior manager came to Dr. Salman’s office. I had been bringing them coffee and tea, and running errands for the doctor, so I entered the office a few times. The important part is that I overheard part of their conversation. They mentioned a person named Badr Al-Sultan, and they repeated the name many times. I wasn’t paying attention to the meaning of the name, but what caught my attention is that they then mentioned your lady’s name—Fawaz Al-Abdallah—three times. They were saying that her husband, Badr Al-Sultan, is here in Kuwait, and I understood from the conversation that they are treating him in a sanatorium.”

The ground seemed to shift beneath me.

I thought the surprise that would shock Mama “Fawaz” would be the arrival of her son “Khalid” from the United States, but her husband, after twenty years, showing up in Kuwait!

I noticed a taxi stop near the distant door. A tall figure emerged from the taxi, moving slowly. I saw him cross the gate after looking around carefully. The figure approached the gate where Shankar and I stood.

He called out when he saw me:

“Darsin!”

Badr hugged me, mumbling unintelligible words. He looked much older than his age. Then he awkwardly pulled away and looked at Shankar. He saw the door was open and entered, calling for his wife and son. (Concludes)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"