Oh, What a Reunion!

Abu Hanna was not at all himself that day, for his beautiful young bride was away visiting her family. She had promised him to return the day before, and here the second day was nearly dawning and she had not yet come back.

And although Abu Hanna had reached the age of sixty-five, he was still a fresh bridegroom that day. Do not wonder at his years: he had money and property enough to guarantee him a young bride even at ninety.

When his former wife died — Umm Hanna, the partner of his life — all who knew him said he was sure to die of grief and gloom. But he wanted to prove to the world that their beliefs were false, so a month after his wife's death he announced to them that he wished to marry a new wife... and he would accept no ordinary girl, but a beautiful girl, shapely of figure and full of winning charm, who could win his precious love. The strange thing is that he succeeded where many fail who are in the bloom of youth and the pride of their years.

Abu Hanna was no blind-hearted fool to fall under the spell of any woman whatever, though he declared to every woman he met the power of her spell over him. This one was stout, and he did not like a stout woman; that one limped a little, and he wanted her sound and whole of body; that one laughed too much, and he did not like a woman who laughs too much; and that one was perfect in every quality except that she resembled Umm Hanna, his former wife, and he wanted to try a new kind of woman. So he refused many, until at last, after toil and effort, he found that lucky one who found favor in his eyes... That girl possessed nothing but a strong feminine attraction. She was twenty-five years old, of modest means and ambitious, dreaming night and day of ease and riches; her smile was broad, her voice sweet, her eyes languid, her talk melodious, and the touch of her hand warmth and bliss.

On the day of the wedding crowning the people watched him standing erect beside her like an electricity pole, and had his eyes not gone dry of tears he would have wept for joy. And how it pleased him to defy the people, and those among them who said that his departed wife was watching him from heaven, weeping over his stinging betrayal, and charging the angels to make his life a misery... He told himself they said such things only out of envy. Yes, Abu Hanna married; he danced and made his bride dance; he drank and made merry, and felt youth returning to him once more, and the accumulated years vanishing to make way for new years brimming with wine and nectar and honey.

As for his new wife, she never once regretted having married him. How could she regret it, when he doted on her as a mother dotes on her child? She declared many times that there was no difference between him and any young man in point of strength and firm muscle. Indeed, he surpassed the young man in many things: in his rich talk built upon the experience of the years, his sweet jokes that never ran out, his surpassing frankness, and his varied teasing, whether in word or in gesture. How often he would say to her, as though in earnest: "I shall save for you all I can, and leave you the largest inheritance possible, so that when I bid life farewell you may find a rich man to marry you after me, with whom you can secure your living."

In this fashion matters went on between husband and wife, with nothing to trouble their serenity, until that ill-omened day arrived — the day the wife was away at her family's house. Old age, with all its terror and its weight, assailed Abu Hanna once more. Rising from sleep in the morning had lost its splendor and its magic, and the face of the day had changed, appearing fickle and scowling. Instead of greeting the world from his window as usual and saying, "How beautiful this morning is," Abu Hanna sought refuge in God from the accursed devil, then made a violent, heavy movement, pushed along with sudden haste... and sighed, grieving over the absence of his beloved wife, "Daad."

It had been her duty to be with him that morning. "What has kept her until now?" he cried from the depths of his voice. "Do I no longer please her, that she should want to be rid of me? Let her dawdle. I'll show her when she arrives." Then he sat in his place, rigid, surrendering to loneliness, running wild with troubling thoughts. He took no breakfast, for his appetite for food had vanished together with his peace of mind and ease of heart.

Then he put his head between his palms once more and gave himself up to his crowding thoughts, going over the lesson of his tangled case again: Was there any reason for this delay? Why had she not told him she was staying two or three days instead of one? Had some harm befallen her?... God forbid — if anything of the sort had happened to her, they would have sent him word at once. God forbid it, God forbid it. No, there was no reason, unless she had grown sated and weary of his wrinkled face and white hair and gone off in search of a young man like herself — a modern, mincing, dull young fellow, one of those creatures hateful to Abu Hanna. Perhaps she was sitting with him at this moment under a pine tree, whispering to him and he to her, laughing and mockingly recounting to him the jokes of her old husband. What horror!... Could this be possible? Could his sweet wife be capable of such betrayal? Never, God forbid — grant Your protection and Your help, O God!...

He bit his tongue until he almost cut it through, then repeated: "If she does not come today or tomorrow, I will accept no excuse from her. I will beat her, I will kill her, without uttering a single word." He had learned from experience never to believe a woman, whoever she might be. And here was the proof of his experience: had she not promised him a speedy return? And here the second day of her delay was passing. Had she left him? Was not this talk of hers deceit and trickery? How monstrous!

The sun climbed in the sky and noon was almost at hand, and Daad had not yet appeared. Now he heard footsteps on the stairs, and Abu Hanna pricked up his ears: she had arrived!...

Knock. Knock. Knock. A head appeared from behind the door — and behold, it was the head of the neighbors' boy. What do you want? Abu Hanna shouted at him loudly: "Get out of my sight... I don't want to see you, I don't want to see anyone... Go."

The boy answered him, trembling:

"My mother, my mother sent me so you would come over and eat with us... we've cooked a dish you like."

— I don't want to eat. No one, and no dish... Leave me alone, if you please...

He felt his throat dry and parched. He took up the water pitcher and found it empty. He began wrestling with the great jar crouching in its stand in the corner, with agitated, nervous movements — and it too tilted, a strong tilt that upset its balance, and it fell to the floor, smashed to bits, and the water flooded the room. Abu Hanna cursed the jar, cursed the pitcher, cursed the water, cursed his wife and his wife's father, cursed himself, cursed life and everything in it, lifeless and living alike. As for the poor boy, he froze in his place a moment, wary, then took to his heels...

Abu Hanna was accustomed to sleep a little at about that hour, so he stretched out in his chair and tried to close his eyes; but they opened in spite of him, and the troubling thoughts got the better of him: "I will crush her between my hands, this lying traitress. I will strike her a blow on the crown of her head that will drive her out of her wits. Will she not come today? Ah, if only she were before me now, I would pour out upon her breast all the rage and pain that is in mine."

Then he cursed her, and cursed her family, and whoever had shown him her face. Suddenly, while he was in this state, the same boy — the neighbors' son — appeared, running toward him, panting with fatigue and shouting: "Daad has come, Daad has come... she's come, Uncle Abu Hanna!" Abu Hanna fixed him with questioning eyes, the muscles of his face taking on a shape quite different from before, and pronounced: "Lies." — "Come and look, you can see her from the window." Abu Hanna rose and ran to the window, directing his gaze toward the distant road, and saw the figure of his wife. He leapt up, snatched his stick in haste, and went out to the road hurrying along, swaying now to the right and now to the left.

It was she. She herself, Daad, with her broad, loving smile, her measured gait, and her languid black eyes. And behold, Abu Hanna's scowl vanished from his face without a moment's delay, and on his face appeared the shadow of a tender smile. No sooner had he reached her than he took her bag and printed a kiss on her forehead and another on her cheek, saying:

"Poor dear... you're all perspiration from the weariness of that long journey... Hurry home, come in at once out of this scorching sun." And he walked beside her, stumbling, overflowing with joy and gladness, repeating with all the tenderness in his heart: Where have you been, my little qarquri? Why were you delayed so long? I was so worried about you. He did not wait for her to answer, but went on: "Come in! Come in, my dear! I have prepared cold water for you to wash your feet after your weariness." And he led her inside, brought her the water, drew off her sandals, and set about tending to her... The feeling of vigor and youth came back to him once more... That black specter of the accumulated years had vanished!