WAITING FOR THE WIDOW

 Nihad Sirees

 The hour approached a quarter to eight, so I set my breakfast near the window and sat down there. Breakfast was made up of a plate of black eyed beans, an onion, a cup of strong tea (the way my maternal grandmother used to make it), and a flour halaweh, as I had become used to something sweet in the morning after having beans.

 Down below, the neighborhood was opening in front of me like a hand; from my spot behind the shutters I could clearly see the patio of the coffee shop and its wicker chairs, a green metal table next to each one, where the regulars usually sat, their cups of tea and coffee off to the side, out of the way. 

 All at once, everyone from Abd el-Atheem to Abu Musareea to the Golden Boy took their place in their shops, waiting for the widow to leave her house and get into the government car that comes to take her to work at precisely five to eight. The owner of White Angel Laundromat also took a seat outside his store, as a boy brought him his morning hookah, while Abd the greengrocer took a break from opening up and began fiddling with his crates of vegetables, his eyes on the entrance of the widow’s building. Even Subhee the pigeon keeper brought out his cane, around which he had wrapped a rag to attract his colored birds, and leaned against the railing of the roof. He spent most mornings there, waiting for the widow to come out. She had blonde hair, which she had started hiding behind a scarf after more and more men waited for her to come out.

 For a while now, I’ve noticed that the street vendors began stopping their carts occasionally and making a ruckus about their goods, waiting for her to come out. As for me, many months have passed since I first discovered the pleasure of eating breakfast by the window and watching everyone so interested in the widow. But I’ve also realized that I have joined them, so that the number of her admirers has increased by one.

 The widow had a pretty face and delicate features, and every one whom she looked at thought she was smiling for him, but her face locked up when she discovered the reason for their smiles and brazen greetings. The widow was employed by the government, and I heard that she gets paid more than the school principal who lives at the end of our street. Then there’s a guy who said that he ran into her in one of the federal buildings, and that she had a big office that’s cool in the summer and warm in the winter. He also said the men in that office stand when she passes and greet her formally with every consideration. The widow became a widow when her husband, the professor, passed away. He had brought her here to the neighborhood, to live at his late mother and father’s; six years went by and they were not blessed with a child.

 Before she became a widow, no one was inclined to keep waiting for her to come out.  But the professor grew ill and died, and the men waited out the forty days of mourning before this inclination overtook them, one after the other. As for Aisha el-Arja, she who visits the widow twice a week to help her clean the house, all the men in the neighborhood started pampering her and asking about the widow. I heard the owner of the laundromat was trembling when he asked her if it would be appropriate to send his mother to ask for the widow’s hand, or if his mother would be kicked out because he was the owner of a laundromat and not up to her standards. I also heard that Abd el-Atheem can’t sleep nights, sighing continuously, but he doesn’t dare open his mouth about his hopes or dreams because he is married to only two women, and for him, that’s a disaster.  As for the one I call the Golden Boy, he’s not from around here. He always wears glasses and is always stylishly dressed. Not a day has passed that I haven’t seen him without a suit and tie, and when the widow comes out, his face turns as red as a boiled beet.

    Six minutes before eight the government car arrived and the driver stopped at the entrance to the widow’s building. Life came to a standstill in our neighborhood. I’m not just saying that. I mean it. I for one stopped eating breakfast and found that good spot behind the shutters where, through the slats, I could see the whole street from both directions. My building was in the middle of the street, and as luck would have it, her building directly faced it. All the talking below stopped, and the shuffling, this way and that, came to a halt. Abd the greengrocer no longer fiddled with his crates. He had stopped, just as Sobhee the pigeon keeper forgot his birds and craned his neck to get a better look. As for Abd el-Atheem, he stopped flicking the beads on his mesbuhah, and Abu el-Mesareea stopped rolling his cigarettes (without having lit even one), while the street vendors fell silent, and the Golden Boy pulled out his snow-white handkerchief in preparation to wipe off the sweat which pours from his whole face whenever he and the widow make eye contact.

 Life stopped, a silence pervaded, the minute hand moved to exactly five minutes before eight o’clock. The door of the building opened, the widow appeared in a modest navy blue dress and a simple line-patterned headscarf. She walked to the back door of the car and opened it, but before getting in, she quickly swept the street 180 degrees with her eyes. She saw Abd the greengrocer and two of the street vendors, then the owner of the laundromat, and lifted her head to see Sobhee the pigeon keeper, then lowered it to find Abd el-Atheem and Abo el-Mesareea. She looked pale, serious, and her face was shut. But when her gaze lingered on the Golden Boy, her face relaxed. She then got in the car, closed the door, and was off to work without looking back at anyone.

 The street came back to life.  Everyone went back to his personal affairs: pigeons circled the buildings of the neighborhood, the street vendors’ ruckus started again and Abd el-Atheem let out his warm sighs, raising his eyes skyward. As Abu el-Mesareea lit one of his cigarettes, the Golden Boy got up and started on his way to work, wiping his face with his handkerchief. As for me, I had lost my appetite and began absent-mindedly gathering the scraps left from breakfast and putting them away.   

Translated by Ali Issa & Eugene Sampson

Edited by Ishai Barnoy