A Christmas story by Miss Najwa Qa'war

It is Christmas Eve! I looked at the bare walls of my room, then turned my gaze to the chair with its worn cover, then to the table over which a few books and papers lay scattered, and after that to the bed covered with an old blanket which, with time, had become a thin and gentle companion — and when the turn came of the mirror with its peeling wooden frame, it too reflected a pale, tired face.

And the gloating voice came back, ringing in my ears: "You are alone... alone! Do not try to contemplate the old furniture of your room in order to forget your loneliness."

At that I checked my tears with violence and force, and resolved to face the voice. "Yes, I am alone. But is it a sin or a wrong for a person to be alone? In any case, solitude is nothing new to me. Here is the second year about to run out, and with its passing two whole years will have passed over my solitude. Why, then, do you find your voice so loud, O truth, on Christmas Eve?

"I have told you again and again that I do not mind solitude — indeed it pleases me, and as I storm its silent kingdom I feel something of heroism and adventure. I do not deny there is in it something of gloom and despair, but it is a beautiful gloom, like the moonbeam that breaks into the darkness of the forests."

And the voice said to me: "Yes! That is bold and sensible talk. But on Christmas Eve the matter is otherwise. What family does not gather at the feast to share out and distribute presents to the children? And what heart, whatever its creed, is not taken hold of by the feeling of the feast and the air of the feast — nay, the very scent of the feast? And there in the grand hotels the music plays, the lights sparkle, perfumes hang in the air, and the people dance. Look, rather, from the window, and you will see the lighted streets, the decorated shops, and the fine motorcars gliding along them.

"And in the churches the prayers rise, and the choirs of chant, and people feel the greatness of the memo-rial and the joy of salvation; and with the Christmas carols drift old memo-ries and old airs of peoples who once, in days gone by, chanted and sang these very carols. I told you the feast has a fragrance of its own, an old fra-grance mingled with the scent of pine

and candles; and it has, too, an air of its own, marked out by falling snows, storming winds, and streaming rains — and all of this takes possession of people on Christmas Eve, and they yield with gladness and delight to the feast's dominion; even the angels in heaven hold their rejoicings and send forth their lovely singing. And you... and you are alone."

And I said to the voice: "You know quite well that none of this matters to me; but you strike a tender chord when you point to family life. My heart flames when I remember my parents, who lie now in the distant cemetery outside the city; my very soul trembles when I remember the wind that blows at the grave, so that the mighty trees bend with violence and force, as though bowing tenderly over the grave I loved with all the power of love in my soul. But listen, O voice! You shall not get the better of me for all that; for my mother taught me that pity for oneself is the worst kind of pity... it is a negative selfishness... And I shall not weep, I shall not wail, though I feel a strong inclination to tears." And there came a knock at the door...

When I opened the door, my neighbor Jamila stood before me, as if she were a very model of one of the feast's displays: "Who is it? Jamila — come in!"

And in glided my neighbor in her evening gown and her coat of costly fur, escorted by the strong scent of "Joya." She said in astonishment: "What? You are not dressed yet? Are you not going anywhere?" And I do not know what drove me to say, "I came back late from the office and haven't begun dressing yet."

"And where will you be going?" "Oh... some of the club girls will be calling for me, and we shall go together to the club hall, where a simple party is to be held under the patronage of Reverend Salim and his wife."

My neighbor stood before my old mirror and studied her face, and I noticed in my turn the extraordinary care my friend had spent on adorning herself. Then she turned and said fretfully: "Why is my brother As'ad so late? The Hotel al-Amal will be at its most splendid tonight.

"But... Nadia, shall I let you into a secret? Do you know who has lately come back from America?" "Who?" "Dr. Kamal al-Sa'id."

And when my face showed no stir

of feeling at this thrilling piece of news, my neighbor added: "You don't know Dr. Kamal?" "No."

"Ah... what a calamity! Rich... of good family... exceedingly clever. Two years ago he went off to America to specialize in nervous diseases, and one of my friends told me he may well attend the dance at the Hotel al-Amal. But there — I hear the horn of my brother's car. Goodbye, my dear! I wish you a pleasant time."

"Goodbye." And the door closed, and the last wafts of the scent of Joya trailed away.

And I sat down. Ah! Why did she come? To trouble the calm of my memories?? And here the phantom of my mother took hold of me, chiding me for clinging so hard to sorrow and gloom. A few moments later I found myself putting on my clothes and going down into the street. The lights blazed there as though it were broad day; as for the weather, it was bitterly cold, though the sky was clear.

Where shall I go? I walked along the main road until I came to the crossroads, hearing the Christmas carols echo and answer everywhere from the broadcasting stations. And I remembered an aged old woman who lives at the turn of the street opposite which I had stopped. "Ah... I remem-ber her from Sunday-school days: she used to come every Sunday carrying a cane and a bag of figured green velvet, a cap of thick lace set upon her head — how often she stirred our laughter when we were small. But with time the old lady could no longer teach in the Sunday school, and I would do the teaching in her stead; yet the school board remembered her on occasions, and the teacher would choose a boy and a girl to go with the pastor and the teacher to present a gift to Mrs. Hanneh." I asked once about the story of her life, and they told me she had married long ago, and God had not blessed her with a child; then her husband died, and she lived alone.

"Alone." And I shuddered at the word as I walked toward her house.

I knocked at the door, and heard her lovely voice: "Who is it?" "Nadia." And a long while passed before she opened the door to me. "Who?" And I said again, "It is I — Nadia."

"Ah... Nadia. How kind of you to visit me on Christmas Eve — truly, I did not expect it of you."

Mrs. Hanneh was seated near a glowing fire, at her right a small radio which one of her near relations had given her, to be an amusement to her since she cannot go out; over her shoulders she had laid a great shawl of dark red wool. I said to myself: "Loneliness and old age weave together most beautifully. When shall I become an old woman?" And Mrs.