Inside a Car

(A Short Story)

... And the child asked his father, as the car continued on its way: Father! Are we going home? Yes, Samir, answered the father, yes, my son, we are going home... Then, Father, the child added, I shall see Mother there?

Bewilderment showed on the father's face, the world darkened in his eyes, and his hands trembled and could not turn the steering wheel of the car with ease, so that the car swerved in its course; and the child, in his innocence, sensed that there was some secret in the matter — so he fell silent and surrendered to a troubled, uneasy sleep.

After a spell of silence, Nadim said, continuing his conversation with the nurse, his cousin: ... And so, Salwa, I spent these five years of my life, a prey to agitations and a companion of vexations and sorrow...

But, said the nurse, but you loved her. Yes, said Nadim, yes, I loved her, and my love for her was the root of our affliction. I saw her for the first time and imagined the sun had taken bodily form in her radiant face and her flashing, captivating glances. I asked her family for her hand, and imagined I had won the whole world when I obtained from them the word of blessing. For her sake I made my house a paradise, and to that end I spent everything, costly and cheap alike. I made enemies of my own family for her sake; I sacrificed my work so that she might enjoy the life she craved, the life of sleepless nights and parties carried to the furthest extremes of luxury and extravagance. And all that was like a beautiful dream in whose bliss I lived for a time; then I woke from it to find my very existence threatened, my profession about to dwindle and vanish from the face of existence, and the money I had put by in the bank on the point of running out. And then — and then, Salwa, I tried to make my wife understand what ruin was about to befall me if each of us went on pursuing this life that was never made for people like us. But she wept over her ill luck, and wept and wept again; and her weeping moved me, so I left her free and unfettered to do as she pleased, on the understanding that I would return to my daily newspaper, tending it with care and keeping watch over it as it befits a journalist to keep watch.

And my wife chose for herself what she wanted of life. Not long after the birth of this son of ours, she went back to the life of parties and soirées — went back to squandering what I toiled to win by the sweat of my brow, and to showering smiles upon those whom in former days I had loathed the sight of and counted among the degenerate. Here, Salwa, I could have borne down upon my wife's feelings, and, if she persisted in this life of hers, given her a choice: a choice between returning to her family or living in my house as I wished. But I loved her, Salwa, and I could not bear to force her, against her will, to what she did not want.

One of my friends volunteered to take my wife home on an ill-omened night, having seen her standing bewildered at the door of one of the pleasure halls as the guests began to depart with their families. Yes, one of my friends volunteered to take her home, and the hour was two past midnight. A desolate night, empty roads; and my friend knew what love I bore for this willful wife — a love that drove me to work until the last hours of the night to provide the money she needed to spend on her pleasures. And the friend's car drove on, carrying its precious burden and some of the family, until —

until it drew near the house; and there — there, and only there — another car came out of the opposite street, and in but a few seconds there was a terrible collision which smashed my friend's car. Yet no one was hurt — no one, save my wife, whom I lost from that hour.

I was all but struck dead when the news reached me. I forgot the house and the family, and forgot this child, who fell ill and was sent to the hospital, there to find in you a mother to tend his condition and take pity on the orphanhood that had become his lot. But love is a killer, Salwa — would that I had not loved my wife to such a degree.

...

Never mind, Nadim, said Salwa; you are nothing but a big child. But what is this? You have lost the way, and I see you have come back into the city a second time. — Nadim sighed, then said: A small error, soon set right; a passing aberration, easily left behind. And now, will you not tell me about yourself and how you have fared during these five years in which I have not once seen your face?

Salwa pictured her house standing beside Nadim's house; pictured Nadim's mother describing her as his sister and as dearer than a sister; pictured her innocent childhood, when the two of them would frolic in the orchards, she pelting him with green almonds while he swore he would catch every sparrow that sheltered in her little garden. Then she pictured him running about, after the preparations, to adorn his house; and pictured herself welcoming his wife after the family had resolved to break with him and with her; and finally she pictured herself going far from the house and all who were in it, turning her steps toward the hospital to work there at easing humanity's afflictions — so as to be far from surroundings where to remain was unbearable, so bitter were the memories. Salwa pictured all this, and in a calm, beautiful voice she answered:

You ask me about my life, Nadim? My life is like the life of these trees you see before you, spread along both sides of the road, green and splendid: the storms of winter do them no harm, nor does the glory of summer gladden them. They are ever green, whether the clouds gather and brood in the sky above them, or the weather clears or darkens with whatever rains and tempests it sends down upon them. They are ever green, Nadim; it makes no difference to them whether the sun shines upon them with its warm rays or the snow weighs them down with its heavy white flakes. My life, Nadim, is like the life of these trees — but how noble the trees are! For they can smile in the face of the storm, and return the shining sun greeting for greeting; and they can bend in tenderness over every child of man who stands in need of tenderness.

...

Home!! Home!! said the child as he woke from his doze. Shall I see Mother there? And Nadim kept silent before this question for the second time, while the nurse said: No, my dear, you will not find your mother there; your mother is now in a beautiful place whose beauty surpasses the description of any place... And shall I be allowed to see her there? asked the child. — Yes, my dear, said the nurse, but that will be at night, when the sultan of sleep visits you and shows you a vision of those people you love.

The child fell silent and tried to sleep, while the car kept up its rush, folding up the streets fold upon fold. A gentle breeze blew upon two frowning faces, and upon a third face whose small owner had surrendered to sleep. Phantoms pass through the imaginations of Salwa and Nadim, and each reviews them in his own mind; memories surge up from the world of the unseen and print themselves before Nadim's face, and he remembers and remembers — remembers his cousin's tenderness, remembers her family's fury at his marriage, and remembers, above all this, the affection she had shown toward his child. And suddenly he becomes aware that he has spent five successive years in chains to a mirage, following it and taking it for water itself. But man is driven, not free to choose; let him, then, make of his tragedies lessons on which to build his future, and the future of this child whose life depends upon him and upon his conduct. And suddenly Nadim turns to Salwa and asks — Salwa, do you love me?...