The three children jumped down the beach
until they arrived at the water’s edge, where Layla submerged her toes and
entered anxiously. After he had scooped a little water and splashed it on her
back and she had screamed as though she had been stung, Mahmud followed her. As
for Ahmad, the youngest, he kept running along the beach hesitantly. His
mother, who was walking behind him, removed his clothes piece by piece and
threw them into Fatima’s hands.
After she had pushed Ahmad gently into the
water, she turned to Fatima. “Pull up a chair and sit here, and don’t you dare
take your eyes off them!” she said. Fatima let her ten-year-old body sink into
the chair opposite the sea. She smoothed down her flowing yellow dress and
gazed unblinkingly at the three children playing in the water.
Again, she smoothed down her dress, spreading
it out on the chair. Originally the dress had belonged to her mistress. One
evening, she had sat at her sewing machine and altered the dress: she had
shortened the sleeves, tightened the bodice, and cut a long piece from the hem,
fashioning it into a belt that wound around the waist. After she had finished
sewing, she asked Fatima to try the dress on.
Fatima
was beside herself with joy. She stood in front of the big mirror in her
mistress’s bedroom, swaying from side to side, then she quickly removed the
dress, for fear of spoiling it. She decided to wear it only at the summer
resort, after she had discovered that her mistress was buying new clothes for
her children for this journey, as if they were going to a religious festival.
On the
day of the journey, she had approached her mistress hesitantly, holding a
headband that Layla had not worn in a long time, and asked shyly, “Can I wear
this instead of the headscarf at the summer resort?” The mistress looked at her
in amazement, as though seeing her for the first time. She pondered awhile and
then said, “Okay, but only at the beach.”
Overjoyed, Fatima rushed to open her bundle of
clothes and placed the headband in the middle of the yellow dress. She did not
feel the need to try it on, for she had often worn it secretly when everyone
was asleep, and the lights were turned off. She would remove it gently from
under the pillow, put it carefully around her head, and drift into dreams until
she was overcome by sleep. And now her dream was fulfilled. She was sitting
opposite the sea, adorned with her most beautiful things: the dress, the
headband, and the glass necklace. All she had to do was watch the children
playing in the water.
She imagined that on the first Friday after
returning from the summer resort, she would visit her village—as her mistress
had promised—and her little friends would gather around her and ask her
insistently: “Did you see the real sea, Fatima?” “What did you see at the
seashore? Tell us.” “I saw naked women . . . and little children building
castles in the sand, and men playing in the sea. I saw big ships, white and
black, carrying flags of different shapes and colors ...They passed from a
distance.” “Did you go into the water?” “Every day . . .” How could she possibly
admit that she had merely sat on a chair near the water, with a towel and a
lunch bag in her lap, watching the movements of the children in the sea without
blinking her eyes? From time to time, one of them would approach her, dripping
wet and trembling, and she would put the towel around his shoulders and give
him a sandwich, which he would devour ravenously. It pleased Layla, whenever
she came out of the water, to run to Fatima and say, “The sea is delightful,
Fatima. Come into the sea with us.” And Fatima would immediately reply, “No, my
dress would get wet.” She disdained telling the girl, who was only one year
younger than her, that she had to remain chained to the chair like a watchdog.
She
turned around and saw that her mistress was busy talking with her neighbor
while showing her the needlework in which she was engrossed day and night. Then
she looked back toward the sea. The soft waves advanced from afar to break up
leisurely at the shore. The longer she gazed, the more she felt that the sea
was calling her, for today was their last day at the summer resort. What a pity
not to go into the water like the other children, if only once! Her glance fell
again on her mistress, who was still absorbed in her embroidery, her glasses
slipping down her nose.
Fatima rose and advanced hesitantly toward the
sea. She lifted the hem of her dress a little and waded into the water near
Ahmad, who was sitting in the sea filling a tin can and then emptying it. “What
are you doing, Ahmad?” “I’m selling juice. Play with me.” She stood bewildered.
She glanced around her, then swayed as she plunged into the sea with all her
weight. “Oh . . .” she screamed as the cold water stung her thighs and soaked
her underclothes and belly. Her dress billowed like a tent above the waves,
then, saturated with water, it collapsed and floated. Gazing at her mistress,
she said in a voice loud enough to be heard, “Ahmad pushed me. Ahmad pushed me
into the water . . .” When her mistress did not react, Fatima stretched out her
legs and rolled in the water while moving her arms about, as though she were
swimming. Then she crawled on her belly until she drew near Layla and Mahmud.
“The sea is . . . beautiful,” she said in a drawn-out voice. “Fatima! But your
dress! Take it off so it will dry,” Layla shouted. “Your mother would kill me!”
“Fatima!
Fatima!” The mistress’s voice rang out angrily. “Where are you, Fatima?” Fatima
jumped out of the water and ran toward her mistress, her dress clinging to her
body, dripping wet. “What have you done, crazy girl? Have I not warned you not
to leave your place? Look what you have done to yourself! Good heavens! You
will surely catch cold. Wring out the dress. What on earth has happened to you?
You’ve been so sensible until now!” Fatima listened to the rebuke with bowed
head, hiding her confusion by wringing the hem of her dress. The water flowed
in little streams to the ground, forming small puddles around her feet.
“Go
now. Fetch the kids from the sea so I can take the last picture.” Fatima
breathed a sigh of relief as she ran toward the sea, her steps hindered by her
dress, which gathered between her thighs.
“Layla, Mahmud, Ahmad!” And she plunged headlong into the sea for the
last time, pretending that they had not heard her. “Layla, Mahmud, Ahmad!” She
felt a pleasant sensation as the water caressed her belly. She swung her arms
about vigorously, and when she came close to Layla, she splashed her with
water, just as she had seen Layla do with her brothers earlier. “Layla, come to
have a picture taken. Mahmud, get out of the water. Ahmad, hurry up!”
The
children stood in the frame of the camera lens with the sea behind them. Layla
put her hand on Mahmud’s shoulder, as he stood frozen in a karate posture.
Ahmad sat on the ground with his neck twisted around, half looking at the
camera, while Fatima stood behind him. Her beautiful dress had been ruined by
the water, which was dripping from the hem to the ground and collecting in
puddles around her feet. Her wet hair clung to her temples and neck, the
headband had slipped to her forehead, and grains of sand were stuck in her
glass necklace. She looked like a soaking wet dog that had not yet shaken
itself off. But she was the only one in the photograph whose face was lit with
a smile stretching from ear to ear.
**
Translated by Dalya Cohen-Mor.(Arab Women Writers: An Anthology of short stories) , State University Of New York Press, Albany, 2005
