Between Yesterday and Today

A Christmas story by Mr. Farid Sayfari

How ignorant people are, and how dull, when they dig into the secret hearts of others!

So thought Miss Widad at the Christmas Eve party. They had worn her out repeating the same cold remark all evening long: "Mademoiselle, it seems you are not enjoying yourself tonight!" She laughed at them inwardly — for who had told them she was unhappy?

Poor things... they were at their feast, and she at hers. Her heart was leavened with a masked joy: the next morning, Christmas morning, her sweetheart "Jean" would come to visit her after a full year's absence. Together they would go on a long outing, spending the day wherever the air pleased her and the sitting was sweet. Was not this unbridled romantic fancy — roaming among luxuriant gardens, running waters, the lights of the cinema, the darkness of the cinema, the crowded streets, the sparkle of the holiday-makers, the glitter of the shops, the dancing of the dancers, the eating of sweets, and taking Jean's arm — enough to set her soul aflame with colored pictures that clothed her mind in a fresh robe of inward delight?

Yet she appeared glum!

Yes, she appeared glum, because she was annoyed by the efforts of that old family gathering, which insisted on repeating those ancient traditions year after year, as it had for hundreds of years.

Good Lord — do they never tire, never have their fill of repeating that antique scene?

The Christmas tree was exactly as it had been the year before, unchanged. The lights that shone in it now had been mounted on it just as they had been mounted before. The little figures of both sexes that her mother had set on it last year she had set on it this year as well. You saw on it nothing but small figures like the ones children play with: men with long beards, cows and goats and dogs. So too the decoration of the sitting room had not changed a hair's breadth from what it had been a year ago: the same thin, colored papers, full of holes, with serrated edges, hung on the walls and strung along threads. And then the Christmas carols never changed at all — those carols composed hundreds of years ago, which she had heard repeated when she was still in the cradle, they repeat now and take delight in. Nor had the manner of distributing the gifts changed: her father puts on those strange red clothes, like a clown out of China, and goes round to each person one by one, presenting the gift. Even the guests had not changed: her uncle's household and their children, her aunt's household, a few of the neighbors, elderly and old-fashioned in mind.

What are these false rituals? thought the mademoiselle, looking glummer than before.

Is this their world? Like a man riding a wheel that turns and turns and comes back to where it first began?!

No matter... let us be patient tonight... these few hours must pass... In the early morning "Jean" would arrive. Would he have changed this year? Oh, when would that happy hour come in which she would meet him? In which she would see what suit he had put on in readiness for meeting her? What would be the first word he would say to her the moment she stood before him? Would he say to her, "How lovely you look in your holiday clothes"? Or "I have missed you so much, Widad, after this long absence"? Or what would she say to him? Most likely she would be struck dumb and stand with her mouth open, not knowing how to begin. Where would they go, and what program would they follow? She was ready to accompany him wherever he wished. And no doubt he would quench her thirst with his fresh youth, his amusing talk, his original gestures. Ah, how many happy hours I have spent with him, and how I have delighted with him in sipping the nectar of pure love! But time is a tyrant that cares nothing for lovers, and it carried him far from her. But now he would return... yes, he would return with the returning of the sun in the morning.

And she waited... and waited, and that evening party would not end easily: mouths open around her like the holes of mice, discordant sounds rising from them — talk and songs and loud guffaws. A single flat word uttered by one of the bores was enough to raise a wave of fawning, hypocritical laughter.

As for Miss Widad, she found no spirit of wit in anything around her, and did not smile. She was far from what surrounded her, enjoying her own private world...

And in the early morning the members of the family rose early, rejoicing, caroling, merry. And Miss Widad, too, met a day different from all other days. The family gathering, their racing one another to exchange holiday greetings, the romping of her small brothers and their playing with their new toys, then

the smell of food in the kitchen, the decoration of the house, the beautiful clothes — all of it was only a spur to her senses, telling of the nearness of her sweetheart Jean's arrival. Without doubt it would be a longed-for day in every sense of the word.

After breakfast and the eating of sweets, each member of the family began attending to his appearance with extra care in readiness for going to church. And should she go to church? Miss Widad began asking herself: what was there? The priest would repeat the recitation of that same story which she had come to know so well: a child born in Bethlehem in a manger for cattle; angels singing "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men"; nomad shepherds belling their flocks; Magi from the East coming with gifts... Was there anything more than the repeating of that old story, the chanting of the same carols, and a long prayer to grow weary of? No — better to stay at home and await Jean's arrival.

And the morning mail came: telegrams of congratulation, greeting cards, a letter for her father, a letter for her mother, a newspaper — a letter addressed to her! She tore open the envelope with a trembling hand... the signature of Jean!

"My dear Widad,

"I have thought long about the matter of my visiting you on Christmas Day, but in the end I have found it preferable not to come and stir up suspicions and the endless meddling of people. It is more fitting for us also, Widad, to be wise and to try to forget each other, so as not to stir up now the remnants of an old, boyish love..."

Widad had not the strength to finish reading the letter; those words entered her head like the wail of the alarm siren. Her head truly rang with clashing, glassy sounds. And she ran to her room, and before she reached it she burst into violent weeping. No sooner had she entered it than she flung herself down upon her bed, playing once more that old role which every girl plays who has been struck by a lover's betrayal. And she wept her calamity hotly, shedding hot tears that soaked the pillow...

A treacherous world... in which no one can be believed... a wicked world... a lying world, the world of the criminal Jean. To whom could she complain of her sorrow? For whom should she live from now on? Was there one human being in existence who would at least share her griefs, now that she had been deceived by that person to whom she had given all that God had given her — that young man whom she had set up as an ideal symbol of the most perfect man?

And the strong, mellow church bell rang. On that morning Christ was born, God's message to suffering mankind, thought Widad, her face buried in the folds of the soft pillow.

Yes, that God was born in the form of a man. He was born, and He lives still, gathering to His breast every sufferer wronged by this corrupt world floundering in evils.

A God born in a manger for cattle — not like this puffed-up modern youth that will sit only in the first row before people and eats bread and olives at home. No; He was born in a lowly place, but one that was safe, simple, wrapped in peace and gentleness and love. Simple nomad shepherds belling sheep and cattle, with hearts purer than the heart of man. The angels too, in their white garments, pouring out their heavenly strains, surrounding that swaddled child, announcing to the world the glory of God and His love.

That old story pleased Miss Widad now, while her eyes brimmed over with tears and in her ears was the strong drumming of the rain on the glass panes of her window.

Then she felt a strange bliss, and divine hands lifting her above the tangible things that surrounded her.

Dong... dong... dong — the Christmas bells rang out, piercing the sounds of the rains and the storms.

And the young lady rose from her bed with sudden speed, went to the washstand, washed the tears from her face, set her appearance in order again, and joined the members of the family in silence, as though nothing at all had happened.

Half an hour later everyone was at church, where each one felt how different that day was from all other days: flowers everywhere, lending a radiance to souls; a Christmas tree fashioned with extra care and artistic taste; girls in white dresses like angels; everything breathing a spiritual beauty and recalling that old story which renews itself year after year.

Strange! How had Miss Widad forgotten this Child before, and forgotten His love, which surpasses every other love? Why should she not ask Him herself today, since He is the only one who receives the suffering? Those chanting voices and the music rising upward — even the old carols she had learned while still in the cradle — found their way to her very core, as though she were hearing them for the first time in her life. Then she began to pray with desire and longing to that divine Spirit.

That old story, and that man who proved to be a God, drew her in a strange way that morning. And she returned to the house silent, exactly as she had been on the previous night.

Except that today her heart had fallen in love with a God, after having been, the night before, the lover of a man.

That was the only difference between yesterday and today...