We Were Three...

...and I was not the most beautiful of them, nor the cleverest, nor the eldest; all that set me apart from them was a delicate sensibility and a tender feeling — and these are not things a person is envied for!

Each of my two friends had a distinction to boast of.

The first — Siham — was of striking beauty, tall, dark-complexioned; in her eyes the color green mingled with a violet gleam that looked like velvet whenever the sun struck them.

As for the youngest, her distinction was her eyes, from which shone such a brilliance that it was impossible to stare into them, and a mind whose keenness you could tell through the gleam of those two eyes.

As for me, I was not beautiful like the first, nor clever like the second; I was by nature inclined to solitude and quiet, a poetic temper prevailing in my soul which I could not strip from myself, for it is in my makeup and in my feeling.

Anyone might wonder at the growth of a friendship among this odd mixture of human beings, but his wonder vanishes when he learns that it was a friendship of childhood, grown up by force of neighborhood. Yes, it was a firm friendship, and it kept growing year after year, its foundations settling firm, until a storm blew upon it that shook those foundations and demolished them, leaving nothing of it but ruins.

And what was that storm? Or rather, who was he?

Do not ask me, and do not ask her, for not one of us could answer you. Because the lapse was not the lapse of any one of us. It was the lapse of a love that was stronger than feeling and deeper than human ideals. A love that demolished everything... even the friendship of childhood, which nothing before it had ever shaken.

Our story began with a slip... the simplest you can imagine — a slip of names.

I remember that day well. We were sitting in front of the dining hall at the noon recess when a little girl came to tell Siham that there was someone who wished to see her. Siham wondered at it, but she went with the girl to the reception room, only to return five minutes later murmuring: If only he really did want to see me — he is a very handsome young man, but unfortunately he wants to see another Siham...

The days passed, and we had all but forgotten this little incident — had we not gone out one evening along the Corniche road for a stroll, when suddenly Siham was pointing to a young man walking with a group of his friends and crying: That's him — the young man I met in the reception room. The one in the brown pullover. And he was truly splendid, so much so that we could not keep ourselves from gazing long at him. As for him, he turned and greeted Siham.

When we returned to the house we fell to talking about him, each of us making her own comment on him. How we laughed that day and made merry! But we were taking no account of our hearts and their beating. And we came to see him often after that, and each of us, without willing it, began trying to draw him to herself.

I realize now how stupid I was, for it was impossible for me to win that battle when Siham had been given that deadly weapon. Yes... I realize it now, but in those days I would not open my eyes to see anything. I chose to keep my eyes shut. But fate opened them... and violently, and without pity, when Issam sent a letter to Siham. That was fate's first slap.

And though the letter was silly, like other love letters sent for the first time by a foolish lover to a girl more ignorant than he, I did not find it silly that day; no, I looked upon it as though it were my usurped right.

Siham gave us the letter to read, Amal and me; we feigned laughter while our hearts bled, and I felt that day a hidden tightness, and a strange emotion toward Siham that I cannot define — but it was not an emotion of love.

Then the letters came one after another upon Siham. At first she showed some interest in them, but she soon grew bored, and I remember that one day she said to me, "How silly he is — isn't he tired of sending these letters?" I pretended to agree with her, while I nearly burst from the feeling that came over me at that hour. To this day I cannot explain it. Was it a feeling of anger, or of sorrow, or of envy?...

I do not know. All I know is that the chasm within me widened, and I came to feel as if Siham were a stranger to me; and though she herself had not changed toward me, I changed toward her. But I did not show my feeling fully until the day she said to me, "I have grown tired of Ramzi. I never loved him at all; only I saw it

as a way of passing the time." Then I exploded like a volcano. I poured out all the rancor in my heart, and said to her these words which I still remember: "You do not deserve him. He was deceived by your beauty, but he does not know what heart sleeps in that beautiful body, or what mind that small head contains. And besides, had you not shown him love, he would never have loved you."

I know quite well now how strange my stand was; but that day I could not stifle my feeling after hearing from her those words which — even if she did not mean them to wound me — drove me out of my reason, and I imagined she meant only to belittle me, and so I answered her as I answered. As long as I live I shall remember her piercing, cold look, which froze the blood in my heart, and her saying with cruel coldness, "I am sorry — I did not know you loved him so much." Her tone inflamed me and I said to her, "Insolent! Vile creature! I have never been in the habit of usurping anyone's love... whatever love it might be." Then I left her quickly and did not speak to her.

The next day Amal came to me and asked what had happened the day before, so I told her everything, and then told her I was sorry for what had occurred, but I had not been able to curb myself. She said to me, "You are extremely sensitive, and I understand your nature, and I do not blame you for what happened; but if I were in your place I would not have done it, for you cannot imagine how the girls will gloat if they see us at odds. And do not forget that the friendship we have built over long years — it does not become us to demolish it in a moment of stubbornness and pride."

And though I promised her fair, my heart kept defying me: the closer it drew to Issam... the farther it drew from Siham. There is nothing harder than quieting an unruly heart: it acknowledges no bounds and cares nothing for duties; it goes on without stopping and without asking counsel. Then too, Siham did not encourage me by her conduct, for she seemed like one who did not wish to forget what had happened, even after long effort — and I was in no condition to make any effort. So I left her entirely, and took to spending part of my time alone and part with Amal, who divided her hours between the two of us. But even Amal did not last me

long, for a week after that incident she came to me saying that "Issam" had learned everything Siham had said about him. I do not know from whom, nor do I care to know; but he learned of it, and that is what matters. So he sent her a letter of reproach — more, indeed, than reproach. Amal told me this, then asked me: was it I who had told him?...

That word was the end of my dealings with them both. I gave Amal a look of reproach and said to her, "Amal, do you believe such a thing could happen?" She said, "No... but I thought that..." I cut her off bitterly: "All that Siham did to me does not equal this one word, Amal. It grieves me to lose you both, but you two took no heed of my feelings, so it is better for me to live without you — even if I must live alone." Then I left her dumbfounded and went my way.

The year was not yet over; six weeks of it remained. Six weeks were all that remained to me in that institute, and I spent them by myself, befriending no one, no girl wishing for my friendship.

Those weeks passed slowly, so that I felt their end would never come. And with every day that came, my love for Issam grew.

I came to love him with all my heart... indeed I almost worshipped him. And the greater my feeling of loneliness grew, the greater grew my love for him; but having learned the value of concealment, I closed my lips upon my secret and buried it in my heart.

But everything has an end, and so those weeks ended, and I received my diploma, and thereby drew a little away from that place where our memories — we three — lie sleeping. And as though fate wished to draw a heavy curtain over the past and its pains, my father was transferred from his post in Beirut to the Lebanese legation in America; so I traveled there, and lived there like thousands upon thousands. But one thing kept troubling my rest: the grandeur of that country, its amusements, the young men who were presented to me at parties — nothing of all this could make me forget little Lebanon; it could not make me forget those who were in Lebanon.

— The memory of the three never ceased pursuing me... the memory of Issam, and of the two friends I had forsaken for his sake. And though I heard nothing of them, every motion I made reminded me of them... every word I heard... everything I saw reminded me of them, until it became impossible for me to befriend anyone or to love anyone.

My nerves could not bear this longing, so I told my father that I wished to return to Beirut to finish my studies at the university there; and as I was his only daughter, whom he refused nothing, I came to Beirut.

And here in Beirut I found — exactly as I had expected — I found Issam.

But I pretended not to know him, and I did not speak to him. The truth is that I hardly mix even with the girls in the students' residence, except a little. For I hate to form a new friendship, or a new love, after losing two friends whom I loved as I have loved no one else, and after my heart was struck down in a losing bargain of love.

And here I am now, these six months, living by myself among people, feeling out of harmony with them — feeling, indeed, a little afraid of them, I know not why.

There is one thing that consoles me in my loneliness: my feeling that he is always with me... always in my heart... always before my eyes. It is enough for me to see him every day... even if he does not sense my existence, my being with him in the same place is enough to stir in my soul each day a new hope. Perhaps one day he will sense my presence... perhaps his heart will beat, if only a little... if only as an echo of this fierce fullness whose force all but tears my heart apart!... Then all that I suffered in the past will seem light to me, and I shall forget my loneliness and my torment.

I live now on this hope, and even if it increases my heart's torment... by this hope alone will this heart live. But sometimes I come back to myself... and grasp the truth. I know quite well that it is impossible for this thing I hope for to happen. He has never spoken to me, and he knew me only a little... perhaps he has even forgotten my face... so how should his heart beat at the coming... how should his heart beat at the coming of one he never knew?

Yesterday I saw him, and our glances met... and at a moment when my heart was all but leaping from my breast, his glance told that he was trying to remember... where had he seen this face! Yes, he has forgotten me entirely, and I no longer have a place in his memory. Then why do I not forget him? I do not know. I am bewildered now... shall I stay near him? Or return to America and try once more... if only a try... to forget him?

But shall I forget him, I wonder? Can I forget him as I am now — having shut the world out from me? No. I shall never be able to forget him while I am in this loneliness. For my loneliness only increases my love for him. I shall not forget him unless I find a tender heart to help me forget. And where shall I find a tender heart to make me forget the unkindness of his?

Shall I find that heart, I wonder? I myself do not believe it... I know quite well that deprivation has been written upon me, and that nothing is left in my life to nourish it but memory. The memory of days that passed as the finest days of a lifetime can pass... the memory of the first days of my knowing him... when my heart brimmed with ardor and hope... the memory of our innocent friendship at school... when we were... three.