My First Attempt at Writing Fiction

This is the final project for my World Literature class. We were to do an interpretation of one of the stories we read this semester.  I chose to do a short story this time, instead of the comics I had done before.  This was a first for me.  I chose a minor character from Naguib Mahfouz’s short story Zaabalawi.  I did a lot of research into early 20th century Egypt to find inspiration for the story I created about this character.  The original story is amazingly beautiful and a pleasure to read.  I honestly recommend you read it!  I hope I did justice to his writing.  I also am posting a short video about this amazing author:

Wanas Goes on a Bender

An Interpretative Story based on: Naguib Mafouz’s Zabaalawi      

Written by: Maranatha Watson, May 2014

Fingers of morning sunlight snuck through a small space left uncovered by the curtains of his hotel room, stamping a bright band of light across the eyes of the sleeping man.  Fitful as his sleep had been, Wanas al-Damanhouri woke with a start, blinking and groaning deeply.  As the vivid dreams that haunted his restless sleep surfaced in his conscious mind, a sense of dread crept up his spine.  He shivered–despite the warm, humid air blowing in through the window.  Rarely, as of late, did he remember his dreams, but today they flooded his memory almost as if he had just experienced them.  He knew where these dreams came from, drawn from memories that he had mostly come to terms with.  But, considering the significance of the day–the anniversary of his sister’s brutal murder–it was no wonder they were filled with violence:

“Bloody handprint smeared down the rough brick wall and the sounds of harsh laughter echoing from the darkened corridor of the alleyway.  Beautiful eyes blinking away the pooling blood…soft voice rasping a final declaration of love and the feel of a hand weakly touching my temple and cheek.  As I saw the life leave my baby sister’s eyes and an animal sound escaped my lips, blood-red rage turned my vision to black.  I dropped her head too roughly on the cobblestones and ran screaming down the alleyway, full of wanton vengeance!  The shadows danced up the walls like demons…”

The echoing sound of her head on the cobblestones, and the guilt that he felt in the aftermath, had haunted him for so long.  For the last sixteen years since the death of his sister, Hasina, he always made the trip back to Cairo to honor her memory.  He and his younger sister had attended university during the revolutionary time that followed Egypt’s limited liberation from British rule.  While the weak, burgeoning Democracy struggled to take hold, youthful fervor gave rise to many new movements.  Conservative social and religious strictures were difficult to enforce as the new government struggled to establish itself.  Some women began to find their voice and gained a new-found respect and freedom amongst their revolutionary peers.  It was an exciting time for the young elite.  He and his sister had grown up wealthy, as their father was a successful merchant and their mother also came from money.  He and his sister were very close; almost inseparable.  She thought so much like him!  As children, they pretended that they were twins. She was one of the first females allowed to enter university, and Wanas was so excited to have her join him in Cairo, far away from the suffocating structure of their family life.

Revolutionary politics seduced them simultaneously.  It was uncanny how like-minded they were.  Hasina, who was so full of charismatic energy, and as bright as the stars that shone above the cotton fields they visited with their father so long ago, became embroiled in the feminist movement that breathed life into a whole new generation of young women.  Of course, Wanas had his own reservations about women’s involvement in politics.  A conservative upbringing clung hard to the roots of intelligent and rational thought; but as the fervor of radical change and the growing belief in equality rose, men also embraced their “sisters” as an integral part of the revolution.  The community they created was strong and supportive, and the insolation from the outside world they fought to change had a giddy effect.

The excitement was dampened a bit when Hasina was briefly arrested for giving a particularly inflammatory, yet inspiring speech to a large group of their Marxist contemporaries.  He was so proud of her that night that she gave the speech.  Her powerful words, her poise and charisma had prompted a roar of approval from the audience, and he could see the eyes of many male admirers turn her way.  Bomani, one of his closest friends, in particular, took an interest in her.  He pretended not to notice the connection between them.  Of course, when Bomani approached him with the intention of protracting a blessing to marry Hasina, it went a little sour.  Most loving brothers feel a little bit protective over their sisters.  Of course, Wanas eventually gave his consent and, in so doing, felt a deep satisfaction in seeing a wonderful future laid out for his favorite sibling.

A few nights later, following their engagement announcement, they all attended a small, informal meeting in a local tavern near the university.  Hasina drank a little more wine than she was accustomed to and disappeared outside for some fresh air, saying nothing to anyone as she rushed for the door.  Neither Wanas nor Bomani saw her walk out, or even knew she was feeling ill.  By the time they realized she was gone and went to find her, it was too late.  Apparently, a group of Muslim fundamentalists was stalking the area, looking for revolutionaries.  His beautiful sister had barely stumbled outside before they grabbed her and drug her down into the darkened alley.  There, in the shadows, those savages stoned her, slammed her head into the wall and kicked her in the stomach and ribs multiple times before he and Bomani interrupted the attack.  Of course, the cowards ran as they threw a few rocks, stained with her blood, after them.  It was over so fast: the horror, the wave of guilt, her softly muttered words followed by the passionate light flickering out in her eyes.  There was nothing to be done about it; no revenge to be had.  Her attackers were gone as fast as they had come, and neither man saw their faces.

His family’s reaction was apathetic at best.  Though his father tentatively supported Hasina’s attending college, he was appalled at her political involvement and the fact that she had made arrangements to marry without his permission.  They had kept their parents in the dark about their activities in Cairo and for good reason.  His father practically disowned her post-mortem.  She was buried in the customary fashion, but his parents seemed unaffected.  The feelings of anguish and guilt nearly destroyed Wanas.  Why was he not there to protect her?  He was too busy talking politics with his friends–those friends that could do nothing for them now.  He felt powerless; his youthful drive deadened like the light in her eyes.  He withdrew from everything that had given him pleasure before.  Without revenge, friendship or parental support, he felt lost in a living nightmare—a nightmare of shadowy demons, endless nights without sleep–with that hollow, echoing thud of her head on the cobblestones playing over and over in his weary mind.  Sure, his friends and family did reach out to him, particularly Bomani, though he was also struggling with his own grief and feelings of guilt.  But he rejected any attempts for consolation and, after years of this, the arms of comfort withdrew.  Opium was the only friend he sought out, and it softened the pain of the horrible years that followed this unspeakable tragedy.

Five years later, his father passed away, after several months of rapidly deteriorating health.  Wanas finally took some steps outside of his private world of self-loathing to be with his father in his last days.  At long last, he was able to forgive him for his callous indifference to Hasina’s death.  His father was a changed man, lying there; weakened frame and raspy breath emanating all the love he had denied his family in his younger days.  As his father passed peacefully, something sparked to life in Wanas.  It was the first time he felt anything close to hope, and it was the beginning of a long journey out of the darkness of his own tomb of despair.  Opium addiction combined with the comfort of self-hatred is difficult to emerge from unscathed.

As the oldest male of five remaining siblings, he inherited much of his father’s investments.  His two younger brothers warned him not to squander it on drugs.  As a sign of good faith, Wanas agreed to accompany his family on the Hajj together.  The pilgrimage and the days spent in Mecca brought their family together again, bringing a closeness that softened the loss of his beloved sister more than he could have imagined was possible.  The guilt still clung to him, not willing to set him free, but it was losing its power over him.  Wanas immersed himself in attending to his father’s investments, and found that he rather enjoyed the wealth and freedom that came with the life of a merchant.  Though he spent much of his time living on his family’s estate outside Cairo, he also traveled abroad and throughout Egypt, furthering his investments.  As his wealth grew, so did his addiction to the influence it gave him.  He grew hard and his heart forgot the love that he had fought hard to win back.  As is often the case, men do not see when they have lost their footing on their path through life.  He had traded opium for power, and his self-loathing disguised itself as arrogance. He spent more of his time traveling, and his family saw less and less of him.

He had never married, despite much philandering and no end of prospects.  Though his youth had passed, he was still handsome as well as rich.  Though the ladies constantly hovered, they all seemed like hollow, soulless vessels to him, and he could barely subdue his growing contempt.  Eleven years had passed since his sister’s death.  Though he still made the trip back to the streets of Cairo to remember his beloved sister; it had become such a hollow routine for him.  That particular trip–that particular anniversary seemed to cement the final stone in its place–Wanas had built a wall around himself.  He spent that night in the bar she died outside of; the Negma Bar on Alfi Street, to be precise.  This was the first time he had returned since that horrible night over a decade before.  The ghosts swirled around him, choking him into some semblance of a feeling man.  He drowned their whispers with wine and distracted himself with the lips of a drunken woman in the shadowy corner of the bar.  She was young, breathless and beautiful.  The light in her eyes reminded him of Hasina that night, and he shoved her away from him as roughly as the memories that confronted him.  The hurt and confusion she felt furrowed her brow, and her eyes no longer sparkled.  He felt pleasure in destroying her passion.  A drunken euphoria passed through him, and he coldly turned away from her dejected huddle.  He walked out into the night, feeling a cool breeze blow up his legs from under the hem of his silk galabeya.  His manhood shrunk and his heart dropped in his chest–then seemed to jump into his throat.  He stumbled down the alleyway and fell like a stone onto the same spot that held his dying sister, tracing the faint outline of blood that he could barely see under the dim streetlamp.  The tears would not come, though they ached behind his eyes and drove his swirling head to madness.  Just like that night so long ago, an animal howl curled back his lips and he dashed his head hard onto the cobblestones.  The echo rang through his ears as he faded from consciousness.  He slept deeply, like a dead man, and he dreamt:

“I awoke from my sleep by a bubbling stream.  The water was lively and sang as it skipped over the rocks, sparkling in the sun.  The spray cooled my fevered brow and the sound of crickets soothed me.  Across the bank of the shallow stream I saw Hasina, as young and beautiful as I remembered, smiling back at me.  Her robe was white silk, and her hands and her head were bare.  Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders like the water that sang a joyous song between us.  Though she never rose or moved any closer, her soft, pale hands caressed my face.  Though her lips never moved, her voice sang out her love for me and the world we had made.  When her fingers touched the corners of my eyes, tears sprang forth like fountains and rushed to meet the stream between us.  The stream became a torrent that swept us up together, laughing, and carried us out to sea.  We swam through the depths like fish and our shadows rose and fell on the stones and coral beneath us.  We burst out of the water like whales, landing gently onto the cobblestones.  We lay back, our arms entwined, still laughing, and caught our breath; feeling content, like children.”

   Wanas blinked his eyes as he awoke in the alley.  A sharp pain in his head made him wince and the morning sun peeked down from the eaves, drying the tears on his face.  He started when he felt a hand on his temple, stroking his hair back from his eyes.  He looked up into the kindest, most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.  They were like a bottomless pool, dappled by sunlight.  Kindness shone from them, and he relaxed as he lay there with his head in this stranger’s lap.  The man held a cool, wet cloth on his forehead and washed away the blood that had dried in his hair.  Where was he?  What had happened, and who was this man?  As the pain in his temple subsided, Wanas rose to get up, with the gentle, but strong arms of this man to help steady him.  As he stood, he remembered what had happened last night.  He was amazed at how long he had lain there, and seeing the pool of fresh blood that stained the cobblestones below him, was surprised that he had awoken.  It seemed this man had saved him, or at least stayed with him to make sure he would be alright.  A fresh pain buckled his knees beneath him and, if not for the supporting shoulder of the silent man beside him, he would have ended up back on the ground.  The kind stranger guided him, almost carrying him, back into the bar.

It was quiet and nearly empty.  A couple of men dozed on couches in the back and the attendant looked up from his morning tasks to inquire if they needed anything.  Some tea, along with bread and honey, was brought to their table.  Wanas ate hungrily and drank nearly all of the tea before he looked up at the man seated across from him.  The kind eyes watched him patiently, full of concern.  Normally, such attention would have made him feel uncomfortable, even angry.  But this man comforted him.  Strength radiated from him and Wanas basked in it, until he finally found his voice.  “I thank you, sir.  I honestly don’t know what came over me last night.  It is quite embarrassing to think of the state you found me in,” he said.  The man just smiled and called for a bottle of wine.

As the bottle appeared, he cringed.  The memories of last night hit him like a back-handed slap.  That poor girl!  What was wrong with him?  Why did he behave like such a beast?  How cruel it is to act out your own misery on others.  He saw it all for what it was now.  Something turned on in him, like a candle in a pitch black cellar.  Wanas grabbed lustily for the glass of wine the man held out for him.  “Drink this and remember,” he said.  It was the first time he had heard the man speak.  His voice was beautiful–resonant and as deep as the ocean!  It reminded Wanas of his childhood, somehow.  Had he met him before?  He gulped down the wine and sighed as the alchohol took effect.  The pain in his head disappeared and a sense of clarity washed over him.  He felt like he had stepped outside of his body—while the vision of himself stretched out like an endless line of pillars surrounded by mirrors.  He saw everything and finally understood.

Another glass was handed to him and the voice spoke: “Drink this and forget.”  This draught hit him hard.  How strong was this wine?  He had quite a tolerance normally.  The painful memories of that night so long ago swirled away in a fog and he wondered if he was passing out?  Clarity returned, but it was softened by a newfound peace.  He saw and he knew; but it didn’t matter anymore.  This time, they drank together and began to talk.  The man was called Shiekh Zaabalawi.  He had been there the night before and had seen his shameful treatment of the poor girl.  Wanas replied, “It is a wonder you didn’t drag me out by my heels and thrash me.  I deserved it.”  Zaabalawi responded, “I heard you cry out for help as you walked away from her.  You had been moaning softly for help since the moment you walked in, but you almost started to scream as you walked out the door.  I followed you out to make sure you were alright.  I haven’t heard such pain in a long time!”

Wanas was taken aback with this statement.  He certainly did not remember moaning or calling out for help.  On the contrary, he was cold, silent and wanton.  But he kept quiet with his doubt and listened as Zaabalawi continued.  “Your screaming got louder as you walked down the alley.  I saw you fall down and then dash your own head into the ground.  At once, I understood what ailed you,” he said, without judgement.  “You cut your head quite badly and it took me awhile to stop the bleeding.  I did not want to move you, so I stayed with you and kept your head elevated.  I could see that you had fallen into a deep sleep, so I watched you to make sure you made it through the night.  Suddenly, you started to weep bitterly.  I sang to you and rocked you until your tears turned to laughter and then to song.  Finally you relaxed and slept in my arms, until the morning sun awoke you.”

Wanas could barely respond; his amazement was so great.  This man could be no man, and yet he was.  There was no more need to talk of the night before.  Instead, they turned to talk of the world and travel and family.  Their friendship grew fast in a matter of hours and they continued to meet for the next few days until it was time for Wanas to leave Cairo.  As angry and hollow a man as he was when he entered the city, he left a changed man.  He returned to see his family and spent as much time with them as his business travels would allow.  Sometimes, Zaabalawi would visit their country estate.  His family loved him like he was one of their own.  Their mother grew weaker over the next few years.  She passed peacefully, as well, surrounded by her loved ones.  His brothers and sisters, along with their families, kept the place going, while he traveled and dealt with the family business.  He still came to Cairo each year to honor Hasina, and it became habit for him to frequent the Negma Bar every night he was in the city.  These trips became a painful, yet healing ritual for him.  He would not eat the entire time he was there, and would drink enough wine to put a camel to sleep.  He could feel his sister with him on these trips and though it hurt to remember, it awoke in him the emotions that he could never let sink beneath the surface again.  These benders exorcised any of life’s demons that might cling to him.  He knew now that he must feel pain in life to stay awake.

Zaabalawi would sometimes join him, but their visits grew more sporadic as the years moved on.  Now, on the sixteenth anniversary of Hasina’s murder, Wanas wondered if he would see him at all.  Zaabalawi briefly visited him and his family nearly a month ago.  Wanas was under the impression that he was going to be traveling abroad for the remainder of the year.  He was apparently wanted by the police for some trumped up charge or other, and was laying low.  This morning, when he awoke in his hotel room, the sense of dread that followed him out of his dreams surprised him somewhat.  Something seemed different.  Why was his sister’s death haunting him so much more this time around?  What was lurking in his subconscious that would dredge up those old guilty ghosts so strongly?  The tempting aromas of grilled meat drifted in the window from the food carts on the street below.  He ignored the rumblings of his stomach and instead filled a satchel with water.  He was going to walk through the city today, he decided.  He couldn’t shake the nagging dread, and it made him restless.  A long, hot walk might quiet his misgivings.

The day was uneventful.  The city was its usual bustle of trams and cars; the marketplace full of haggling women and vendors.  Here and there a dirty street kid would dart between the flowing robes.  It was hot today, and the smells of livestock, food and petrol almost nauseated him.  He withdrew back to the quiet lanes of the well-to-do families.  He rested in the shade for a moment, glancing at the sun to get his bearings and decide what to do with himself next.  The sun was starting to sink in the west and, after a drink from his satchel, he decided to head to the Negma Bar.  As was his custom, he sat at the corner table that he, his sister and their cohorts sat at so long ago.  It was a little more isolated than most of the tables, as a pillar, lined with mirrors on all four sides, separated it from the larger area of the room.  He liked it this way.  He was not really here to meet people.  He was here to drink and meditate.  He expected to spend the next few nights here alone, and actually was pleased with the prospect.  The strange, ominous start to the day had worn off by now.  As he started in on his first bottle of wine, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror in front of him and stretched his legs.  They were a little sore from all the walking and it felt good to relax in the cool quiet.  As he stared through the image before him, his vision blurred and through the obscurity, he saw sparkles like tears, or raindrops shimmer across it.  It lulled him into a dream state and he could feel the cares of the world drop off like discarded, dusty robes.  A beautiful voice spoke near him, pulling him out of his reverie.  He turned to see Zaabalawi seated beside him.  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said.  “I thought you were far away from here, by all accounts from our last visit.”  His old friend replied, with a laugh, “It would seem I am needed here after all.  You came to my thoughts quite strongly this morning.  I knew I needed to meet with you, though I am not sure why.  At any rate, it is always good to see you!”  Wanas poured him a glass of wine and they fell into an amicable conversation.

He told Zaabalawi of the strange intensity of last night’s dreams and the foreboding that accompanied him out into the streets of the city.  Wanas assured him that he was well, though, and Zaabalawi nodded his agreement.  Zaabalawi’s presence always gave him strength; any residual concerns about the dreams and any lingering guilt brought on by his memories of the past now crumbled at his feet.  Though it was never verbalized by either man, they both knew something, or someone, was coming.  They continued to meet there for the next couple of nights.  The third night that Wanas spent at the Negma, he was well into his second bottle of wine and thoroughly at peace, as he stared through his reflections and mused.  A man, almost cringing with apology, crept up close beside him.  Wanas was so deep in meditation that he did not even notice his approach or feel his presence.  When the man spoke, he caught Wanas completely off guard and was treated with a scowl for all his politeness.  Something about this man and his desperate demeanor triggered his concern.  The man tried to explain himself, but Wanas interrupted him, as gently as he could with a simple command, “First, please sit down, and, second, please get drunk!” (1)  The pain that emanated from him was intense.  If anyone needed Zaabalawi, it was this man, Wanas thought.  He plied him with wine, despite his weak protests.  After several glasses, he could see the man visibly relax.  Wanas leaned forward, about to strike up a conversation, but thought better of it when he recognized the look in the stranger’s eyes.  The man slumped forward, his head coming to rest on the arm of his chair.  His sleep seemed restful, so Wanas simply watched over him, drinking his wine contentedly.  Zaabalawi came in not long after and, with a look of concern that only he could express, attempted to revive the man.

Resources:

(1)   Mafouz, Naguib. “Zaabalawi”, pg. 1604, as included in The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Volume 2.  New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company, 2013 printing.