The Last Shirt

One thing only announces that the hour has reached six in the workshop: not the striking of the clock, but the sudden ceasing of the sewing machines' clatter, when eyes fasten on the hands crawling over the wall clock, and the stilling of the din that begins at half past seven in the morning.

The women workers rise and go to the agent, handing over to him the day's work, counted just as they received it; each pulls her jacket about her, a weary phrase — "See you well" — tottering on her lips, and goes off to her house. All except Wadad, who had to stay an extra hour to finish a private task: she had promised Nadim — her son — a new shirt, one that would make him feel the feast has a face free of the gloom of his ordinary days, and would kindle in his small heart a joy that shows itself but rarely.

In her hands was a blue cloth patterned with white squares, from which she had chosen to make the shirt; she would cut it herself, and do the sewing and fasten its buttons with her own needle and thread, alone.

The agent looked up at her when she did not rise with those who rose, and she told him that she would sew this shirt for her little boy and pay him the price of the cloth... He nodded his head and left her after the cutting, entering it in a ledger with frayed edges.

As for her, she let her gaze drift out of the window and fell to wondering whether to give the garment one pocket or two small pockets; then she decided to make two pockets, roomy enough for some of what Nadim would crave at the feast. For she meant to be a little more open-handed with her household — first of all, a feast is a feast; and besides, she had drawn her week's pay: 12 liras for six full days, the weekly day off being at her own expense, of course. She intended, once she had finished sewing the shirt, to pass by the market and buy some sweets and a piece of meat, a few oranges and other small things, and to keep back a few liras on which the family would live for a week, until payday came at the end of the second week...

And Wadad fell glum as she remembered that the workshop would close for two days on the occasion of the feast — days that would fly out of her account as well. She longed for the holiday; she wished for it with all her heart, for her house needed some of her care, and in her soul there was a yearning for the company of her children, whom she scarcely sees: she goes out in the morning and returns in the evening, by which time the girl has surrendered to sleep. As for Nadim, he will be absorbed with his father in memorizing some words from his book, and he may not escape a tweaking of the ear if he errs and says "qir" instead of "bir," or the reverse — even if the word is neither bir nor qir; for she once discovered

that her son reads better than his father. No sooner does she come in than she prepares the supper; she and her husband eat, and Nadim eats with his eyes half asleep...

How she loves this boy; how she hopes that he will grow up, that he will succeed, that he will become a person with a lot in life other than that of his father — out of work ever since rheumatism condemned him to beg his living from his wife.

Yes, she longed greatly for two days of rest, or a week of rest, or a month of rest... but she knew it would come out of her account, that her money the following week would be less, and that she and her children would live for at least two days on black bread and half-dried olives.

Then there was Nadim's shirt: the agent was bound to charge her a lira, or a lira and a half, for the cloth — that is, if he let her off the price of the buttons.

Ugh — feasts are no feasts for the poor; they are an occasion that makes them feel the feast belongs to whoever can afford to buy it... for it is in the clothing shops, and with the sellers of sweets and cakes and meat and fruit.

Wadad tried to drive off her broodings so as to follow closely the movements of the scissors over the blue cloth with its white squares; and her scissors ran with a love they had never known with the pile of shirts she had turned out during the day... for with this shirt she pictured Nadim, elegance lending him a freshness that a life of bare subsistence had wiped away.

She forgot the pains of her back, bent always like a weary question mark, as she worked the sewing machine: the parts of the shirt joined together, the first pocket went on and then the second, the little buttons took their places, and the shirt, once pressed, came out trim, with a great deal in it of Nadim's own sweet ways.

Wadad rose, put her things in order, took up her sagging handbag, wrapped the shirt carefully in an old newspaper, then went over to the agent to inquire about the price of the cloth.

He took the wrapped bundle, opened it, contemplated the shirt, and said: So you picked out this cloth. It is our finest grade, as you see, and the best selling. I see you have sewn it with noticeable care... And the agent gave a muffled cough, then glanced at her fingers clenched over a few liras, and said: Ah — the price... Well, we sell it to the merchants at four liras... and I shall give you the same treatment and let you have it at the wholesale price... Four liras is a moderate price for a smart shirt... Are you satisfied?

Wadad was not satisfied. Everything about her said that she was not satisfied... her trembling lips, her anxious hand, the alarm that leapt into her eyes — everything said that she had stumbled into an adventure that would cost her a dry feast for herself and her family.

Four liras... when the cloth was worth no more than a lira... the buttons and thread a quarter of a lira... Why should she pay four liras — a third of her wage for a long week?

And there was nothing she could do... to return the shirt, say, and take back her liras — she had promised it to her son, and there was no longer any way to buy cloth from the market, for the cloth-sellers' shops had closed.

It was useless to open her mouth to say anything, for the agent had a face that would not soften to the logic of poverty; so she gathered herself and turned to go.

On her way she stopped to buy a piece of meat and some vegetables, and hesitated long before entering the confectioner's, to come out with little cakes hidden beneath a layer of fine sugar.

Altogether she paid out five liras, and on top of them five piasters for the tram. When she reached the quarter, and Nadim caught sight of her from afar staggering under her load, he hurried to lighten it for her and asked breathlessly about the shirt. She tried to smile as she said: Didn't I promise you I would bring it? It is with these parcels. And the little one flew off with what he carried and reached the house ahead of her — then before long he met her at the door with tears in his eyes:

— Mother, you lied to me. Where is the shirt?

— I do not lie. Come! And she took him by the hand and opened the parcels with him — and the shirt was not in any one of them. The whole bundle was lost. She was beside herself: had the bundle flown off in the crush of the market, or fallen in the tramcar?...

It was neither the weariness nor the four liras that lay behind her anguish... but her grief for Nadim, who would spend the feast in an old shirt. She sank onto the nearest seat, drinking in the little one's tears as he drank hers, scarcely hearing her husband's voice saying in vexation: Did you bring anything home for supper?