Short Story

My Plight محنة الغراب
الإسم : الدكتور نادر القنة
البريد الإلكتروني : dr-n-alqunneh@maktoob.com
الدولة / المدينة : الكويت
عنوان التعليق : طليعي في رؤياك00 متفرد في كبريائك
التعليق :
صديقي العزيز أنت دائما هكذا سيد نفسك 0 وسيد موقفك 00 رافضا لأملاءات الأخرين 0 لم تنكس رأسك لدولار أو وظيفة ، ولم تقدم تنازلا لقيادة أو تنظيم 00 ولم تستسلم لجوع ، ولم تغادر نفسك الفلسطينية ، ولم تبع موروثك00 فكيف ؛ اذن لا نحبك ولا نعتز بك 00 وأنت البقية الباقية من المفكرين المناضلين الذين رفضوا المساومة على مبادئهم ومواقفهم00

LITERATURE/ Tayseer Nazmi looks for the unfamiliar and the unusual in his writing. As a result he is often misunderstood Dr Omnia Amin says.

TAYSEER NAZMI HAS been writing since he was 20 years old .His early writings caused much controversy when they were published as he was always after the unfamiliar and the improbable ,which he always thought were never out of reach .A

lot of fantasy is involved in his creative writing, but Nazmy is more known as a critic in the literary and cultural field in the Arab World .

He has a piercing vision that responds to the effects of life from an angle that needs a special person with a sensitive perception to understand .More often than not he is misunderstood and misinterpreted as he avoids the familiar in search of different shores. Nazmi is a creative writer, a critic and a translator and has several books that are at the moment pending publication .The following short stories are taken from his collection entitled A Feast ,Silk and A Bird's Nest published by Al Karmel Press in 2004 and sponsored by the Greater Amman Municipality.

The two drunkards, the owner of the house and his friend suddenly became aware. It was an hour after the people entered their house and they greeted themselves.It was after they went to the kitchen and ate what food remained from dinner: Lentils, bread, onions and garlic. After that they served themselves cheap arak and then they excused themselves politely as one of them took the new tape of Fairuz's songs and left. In this manner they both became aware of the question. After a long silence in which they thought , drank and listened to songs, one of them said to the other: " Will they come back to continue the night with us?" The other said: "I don't know". The first enquired: "Do you happen to know them? The second said: "No …do you?" The first said:" No, I've never seen them before." They continued to drink as if nothing had happened and they both wished the visitors had stayed for a while longer and they all sat and shared this long night .The door was still kept ajar, or may be open , but they were too occupied to think of that and too occupied to think of all they feared like for instance their bottle becoming empty or running out of cigarettes in the night. Drunkards are always like that and the night doesn't share anything with them .They are always like this only at night, without the night.

With difficulty, and after many tiring enquiries and readings, I got the address of death. Using my wit that brought me a lot of trouble in life, I chose night-time to visit him and to gently knock at his door. I thought that such secrecy would allow me to achieve my final goal and catch him at home after he was through with the world of a tiresome day. But the first time I knocked his door I found him asleep. Maybe he was tired and fast asleep, so I closed the door and returned extremely depressed. The second time I went a bit early and found him at the doorstep about to enter his house .When he saw me he asked me to leave immediately and to give him three days. I found that it was somewhat too long and boring. Waiting weighed heavily on my heart after so much yearning. I was surprised to find after the three days passed that he was warning me and asking me to occupy myself with life. He even advised me to go ahead to the person I wanted to marry months ago and to give it a final try for I might succeed in getting married and setting down and I wouldn't be in need of him. Maybe he bet that I would forget the address, his address of course. I obeyed his orders and went looking my best and keeping patient, preparing myself to forget the idea. When I knocked on his door his wife answered me saying:" Excuse me I am his wife, Life. He asked me to tell you that you in particular have to forget him", and she shut the door.

My problem is that I always wake up. I get up and start my day with what has become too familiar, repetitive and boring. I stay up till late , I get tired and desire sleep. The minute I enjoy sleep and quiet, I find myself waking up for no reason. Is it the sun for instance? Of course not, for this happens to me also in winter time when dark clouds hide the sun. It seems I have no solution for this problem. Every day I start my day I feel lazy to arrange my things. I hope that long sleep will rid me of them and of seeing them, but sleep evades. Therefore, I found no other way except to defeat the deceitful sleep by waking up till death.

The two drunkards were amazed by the idea but they decided to prepare for it with enough amounts of cheap arak so they could drink to death. And I, the one who came up with the idea decided not to give sleep a chance so that he remains a sleep in my bed and hands me over to oppressive awakening. As for death, he was found dead in his bed for it seems that his marriage wasn't legal and his wife, Life, was pregnant. She told the two drunkards and me: "Give me time until I deliver my baby so that I can accompany you for I too have come to believe in the idea".

The door too was fed up with time and with the two drunkards and those entering and leaving. It got tired of being kept ajar and got fed up with the pregnant woman, her dead husband and of continuing to be a door. It left and went to the forest without knowing that the forest itself had left by force to the city and was turned into office furniture and doors closed on hatred, deceit, oppression, forgery, swindling, hypocrisy, bribes, stealing, robbery, lies, marital deceptions, political conspiracies and party meetings. Finally the door reached its country of origin only to find a huge void. It remained lonesome in the desert .No doubt that over there it forgot the idea without pretending to. After a long time in the desert after it lay down, slept without a forest, without a home, without locks and without hands to close it and open it, without those entering and those exiting, it no longer was a door.

السيد صاحب الكلب يعلم أو لا يعلم أن نباح كلبه المتواصل على حمارنا أستمر يومين و ليلة قبل أن يخرسه أحد ما بقطعة لحم فاسد أو دجاجة معطوبة أو ما تبقى من فطائس عيد الأضحى الأخير. و القصة و ما فيها أن حمارنا الأعرج لا يعرف الكثيرون عنه شيئاً غير الأقاويل. بل أننا خشية أن يلحق بنا العار لم نتطرق من قبل للأسباب الموجبة لعرجته التي نحن سبب فيها، و هذا مبرر عنايتنا به على قدم المساواة بمثل ما نعامل به ما تبقى لنا من خيول بعد أن بيع بعض منها و نفق منها الكثير في جولات خاسرة. و السيد صاحب الكلب حتى لو علم بتفاصيل الحقيقة التي غالباً ما تكون مملة لأمثاله لن يبيع كلباً من أجل حمار أعرج. قد يستبدله، هذا صحيح، بغيره من الكلاب حسب قوتها و لياقتها و خدماتها و تكلفتها، لكنه لن يستبدله بحمار، فما بالك إن كان الحمار أعرجاً ! هل يعيش هو الآخر بفضل حمار أو حمارة؟ خاصة بعد أن غنم بيتاً من الثورة و أصبح لزاماً عليه حراسة أشياء كثيرة و من ضمنها البيت المشيد على شكل مشروع فيلا يمكن ركوبها بطابق آخر، في حي الضباط و قرب مساكن المتقاعدين منهم، في حين أننا نحن، أقصد أمثالنا، لا يجازفون بركوب حمار أعرج أو خيولاً عربية أصيلة باتت طيعة و مدجنة في إسطبلات القصور لامعة نظيفة ليس مثل خيولنا التي زججنا بها في الملاجئ و الثكنات أو أطلقناها في فضاءات جنوب شرق البلاد أو شمال شرق أو جنوب غرب أو شمال غرب البلاد،بل في شرق شرق وشمال شمال البلاد أو الأمة، لا، شتان بين ركوب العقار و ركوب الخيل. أما حميراً فمنذ تلك الواقعة لم نعد نركب لأن حمارنا كان أول الرافضين و عندما رفضنا نحن أن نفهم كسرنا بجهلنا ساقاً له و أصبح في صورته الحالية و سمعته الحالية و قابلاً أن يتطابق مع كل الأقاويل. صبور يذكرنا بما نحن عليه و بأقوالنا المأثورة و "إن الله مع الصابرين".

بدأت الحكاية يا أنام و يا سامعي الكلام إن سمعوا و ناموا بكثير من الزهو الذي أصاب العشيرة ،عشيرتنا، عندما تقدمت على خجل سيدة الحمار من حمولة أخرى طالبة العون في المقلب الذي شربته عندما أقدمت على شراء حمار بمبلغ زهيد و خجلت أيما خجل أن تعاينه إن كان ذكراً أم أنثى ليتبين لها أنه حمارة لا تقوى على حمل شيئ، ففكرت على طريقة بطل قصة" وجه البقرة الميتة" للراحل كبير من فكر و ناضل و أشعر في بلادنا، و ليس الأمين و حسب على قرميتنا بل أبو الأمين طيب الله ثراه، فقالت لنفسها، ما دام الأمر هكذا في بلداننا ، ضاحك و مضحوك عليه، و بائع و مبيوع، و حمار و حمارة، و ليست خمارة. و خاسر و خسارة، فلا بد لعلاج سوء الحال و المآل أن تتصرف بشطارة فتجد سبيلاً لأن تحمل الحمارة من حمار و تلد قراً أو قرة أو قرار. و لما كان حمارنا شديد البأس شبق أيما شبق و ربيان بين صهيل الخيول حيث نقول نحن في قرانا عن أنثى الحصان فرس فقد كان يناغي رغم حمرنته الفرسات البيض و الحمر في مغارة أجدادنا الأوائل لا يفرق في إشهار سلاحه بين لون أو جنس أو عرق . بل و حتى ذكور الخيل التي كانت تقمعه و تحد من تطلعاته نحو إناثها تم بيعها أو التضحية بها في الميادين و الساحات. و لم يبق في بيت أجدادنا الأوائل سوى حمارنا ذكراً بين ما تبقى من الخيل و صوناً لسمعة الخيل التاريخية لم تلد لنا أية فرس بغلاً لا سمح الله و لذلك قصدتنا تلك المرأة الغلبانة لحل مشكلتها حسب الاختصاص. يوم ذاك ادعى كبير البيت عندما أسرت له زوجته بالأمر أن حمارة المرأة الغلبانة عطشى و جائعة، و هي كذلك على أية حال، و أن حمارنا كذلك ، و هو كذلك في كل الأحوال لأن خيولنا تأكل زاده و زواده، و إن علينا نحن الفتية المراهقين أن نسوقهما سوياً للخلاء، ففهمنا رغم صغر السن في الستينيات من القرن الماضي المسألة. و بزهو عشائري قبل أن يتحول إلى زهو تنظيمي ربتنا على ظهر حمارنا و ربتنا على ظهر حمارتها بتشف عشائري أن حمارنا هو الراكب و حمارة حمولتها هي التي ستحمل قرار الود و المصالحة بين حمولتين من حمائل البلد، أي بين الحارة الشرقية و الحارة الغربية أو بين عائلتين طالما سمعنا أن ثمة ثارات قديمة بينهما و أنه لولا الغلب الذي حل بالمرأة الغلبانة و الكبرياء الذي كان له معنى غامض لدى حمولة المرأة بأن لا تقع علاقة غير متكافئة بين الحمولتين حتى في ما تمتلكانه من ماشية أو دواب و الزهو كذلك بالنفس لدى عشيرتنا التي ما أن خطت المرأة خطوتها الأولى بحمارتها نحونا حتى خطونا معها و لما تطلبه عشرات الخطوات نحو السهوب والبراري.

لكن الأمر لم يسر حسب النوايا الطيبة و صفاء السريرة والطوية الذي أشك بوجودها حتى اليوم، فالحمار بعد أن شرب و أكل وكذلك الحمارة، لم ينشأ أي ود بينهما أو إثارة. بل أن حمارنا شنّك أذنيه لدى سماعه غزل النهيق لحمارة بعيدة لم تكن في متناول يديه، و كان في طريقه أيضاً قبل أن يشرب أو يأكل يشمشم روث حمارات أخرى كلما صادف واحدة منها في الطريق الترابي المزدان بأزهار و ورود ربيع ما قبل النكسة، نكستنا، و قد خيبّ ظننا و خاب معه رجاء المرأة و توسلها. و حينذاك أخذتنا الحمية و الفزعة لامرأة استجارت بنا فقطعنا المطاريق أنا و أخوتي و أبناء عمومتي و بقوة الشقاء رحنا نضرب حمارنا دون أن يستجيب. و نقربه منها، من مقدمتها و من مؤخرتها فلا يستجيب. أما هي فقد كانت خائفة مطواعة و لم تكن بحاجة لأية لكزة من جانبنا لتقترب من حمارنا. قال كبيرنا أيام ذاك: إنها حردانة، و كفى. و قال آخر: لا يريد و الأمر ليس بالقوة. و قال ثالث: دعونا نبتعد عنهما فلربما يخجلان أو يتهيبان منا. و قال رابع و خامس و سادس أيام ذاك. آه من أيام ذاك و من الخامس و من السادس. انتكسنا يا سادة فماذا نفعل نحن الفتية الذين كانت أعمارنا لا تتجاوز الخامسة عشرة؟ و ما العمل؟ جربنا كل الوسائل، و لم تجد نفعاً. حمارنا غير راغب بحمارتهم. و الأقاويل في عموم البلد شاعت و انتشرت أن حمارنا شوهد يسير جنباً إلى جنب مع حمارتهم. و حمولتهم شرعت حتى قبل العودة تتوعد و تهدد باغتيال الجحش و الخيل و ربما ذبحي أنا، إذ كانوا يعتبرونني مثال حمار جدي رحمه الله و بالاً على ورود القرية و نوارها منذ أن عدت مع أسرتي من بلاد برة ممشط الشعر حسن الهندام و معطر الملابس و عامل تسريحة " كوكو" منذ صغري. ما العمل يا شباب؟ تساءلت. فقال المتمرسون بالسمعة العشائرية أكثر مني من أبناء العمومة: علينا بحمار آخر لأن حمارنا مقتول مقتول لا محالة. فقلت مدافعاً: لكنه لم يفعل شيئاً يستفز الحمولة الأخرى؟ فقال: حتى و لو.. فالسمعة شاعت في البلد عنه و عنها. و شرف الحمولة الأخرى أصبح مهاناً و المرأة أورطتنا. قلت أيضاً مدافعاً: لكن الحمارة لن تعشّر و هذا دليل براءة حمارنا مما قد ينسب إليه. فقال محتملاً براءتي و تحضري قليلاً: قد تحمل من حمار آخر و التهمة يأكلها حمارنا. و عدنا بخفي حنين ممطرين حمارنا باللكمات و المطاريق و العصي و الرفس كأننا أصبحنا نحن الحميرالذين لم يفهموا لماذا خذلنا حمار لنا هو حمارنا. و في طريق العودة كان أبناء الحمولة الأخرى قد نصبوا لنا كميناً بعصي أشد بأساً مما نحمله من عصي ومطاريق. و هكذا يا سادة أسفرت المعركة التي خضناها أيام ذاك عن كسر في إحدى قوائم حمارنا و عن رضوض في المؤخرة.

السيد صاحب الكلب لم يفهم حتى الآن أن الحمارة مريضة، و لا السيدة صاحبة الحمارة كانت صريحة بما يكفي لتقول لنا أن حمارتها مريضة و ليس لديها ثمناً لعلاجها، فقد كان العلاج مفتقداً حتى للبني آدميين أمثالنا أيا م ذاك و لم تكن البلاد قد تطورت لدرجة أن عيادة خاصة تم إنشاؤها لعلاج الكلاب و القطط والحمير و ما شابه في مدينة الفحيص الأردنية ترتادها كلاب الصويفية وعبدون و الجبيهة وإن كانت مناطق أخرى مثل طبربور سائرة على طريق النهوض والتطورواللحاق. الحمارة كانت مريضة و لذلك ماتت بعد أيام قليلة من خروج الحمار مكسوراً من تلك المعركة. و المسألة باختصار أن الحمار فهم ذلك ، أي كونها مريضة، قبلنا و لم يغادر مثلنا، بل ظل وفياً لما يشم ولما يحس ويفهم لوطنه، أجل، كان يمكن تلخيص الحكاية و باختصار دون نباح و دون عواء و دون تشويه سمعته على أمر لم يقترفه. لكن الحقيقة شيء و وسائل الإعلام التي تطورت شيء آخر. كان يمكن اختصار المسألة بكلمات قليلة:" حمارنا غير راغب بحمارتكم" يا سادة.

قلت: إذا كانت الحكاية بكل هذا الوضوح ولا توجد بغلة أو بغل فلا وجود أساساً لصاحب الكلب. وما دمت لم تفهم العلاقات بين الناس وبين الكلاب وبين الخيول وبين الحمير فإن وجود البغل هو الذي يجعل الأمور غامضة لأننا غائبون عن الحقيقة إن كان في عصرنا من أب أم من أم مارس أحدهما الخطيئة وكان البغل نتيجة. فما بالك والحكاية فيها ما فيها من الوطن السليب ومن السياسة والتياسة والكياسة والساسة؟

للقصة مرجعياتها في الأدب الفلسطيني مثل مجموعة " حال الدنيا " القصصية لتوفيق زياد ورواية إميل حبيبي " الوقائع الغريبة في اختفاء سعيد أبي النحس المتشائل"

الناشر: المؤسسة العربية للدراسات والنشر
صندوقة رجاء بكرية القصصية

«الصندوقة» مجموعة قصصية صدرت في بيروت، عن المؤسسة العربية للدراسات والنشر، للكاتبة والفنانة الفلسطينية رجاء بكرية.تقع المجموعة في مئة وصفحتين، وتحتوي على عشر قصص، تتراوح بين الذاكرة التاريخية والشخصية والحاضر المتحول والمتغير، والمستقبل المتخيل الهش أحيانا والمبني على معطيات متحولة أحيانا أخرى، تربط هذه المراحل العملية الإبداعية المزدوجة: الكتابة والرسم، الذاكرة: التأرجح بين الماضي والحاضر، التجارب ونار الواقع..إضافة إلى استحضار أمكنة تاريخية عربية وأجنبية، فلسطين، العالم العربي، الغرب، تتقاطع مع شخصيات نسوية لعبت دورا مهما في الحياة الفكرية والسياسية وأثرت في حياة الساردة كفيكتوريا، التي تتمنى الساردة أحيانا أن تتقمص شخصيتها لأنها مولعة بها كثيرا، وربما الساردة هي فيكتوريا أو العكس، حتى أنها عنونت إحدى قصصها باسم الملكة فيكتوريا، فبطلة «سعدة العاهرة» التي أغلقت كل الأبواب دونها بعد سن اليأس فراحت تبحث عن أشياء تذكرها بأنوثتها المهددة، وكأنها تتشبث بآخر ما يصلها في الحياة التي «أصبحت في عينيها الفاقعتين وذوقها الرخيص تشبه ملابسها المستوردة البالية وخوفا من هذا الماضي المتسرب بين أصابعها تخرج سعدة فجأة من هذا الصمت المقبع كالظل الثقيل بحثا عن فحولة ذكورية من خلال ملابسه. لقد توقف دوني عند قميص النوم الأخير بألوانه الزهرية الفاقعة الذي أقنعتني أم صبري بأنه من مخلفات الملكة فيكتوريا، حصلت عليه من السوق السوداء، ذات الصيت لا يتفاعل إلا مع مخلفات الملوك والفقراء».إنه البحث عن ماض بدأ يتبدد، وعن مستقبل مرتقب يقلق الساردة وينقص حياتها لذلك امتدت يدها إلى تلك المخلفات علها تنجيها من قدر محتوم يصيب كل النساء قالت «لي خذيه ربما يجلب لك السعد يا سعدة».

جمعت الكاتبة والقاصة رجاء بكرية بين الإبداع القصصي والفن التشكيلي، فامتزجت التجربتان في تشكيل لوحات فنية رائعة ضمن مجموعتها التي نالت جائزة القصة النسائية في حوض المتوسط/ مرسيليا، فرنسا، العام 1997، ولرجاء أعمال أخرى، «لمزامير أيلول»، مجموعة قصصية، الصادرة سنة 1991، و«عواء ذاكرة» وهي رواية صدرت عام 1995.وبما أنه يتعذر علينا في إطار هذه المقالة تناول تجربة رجاء القصصية كاملة، نركز على الخصوصية الفنية التي تلخص تجربة الفنانة مع عنف الجسد، وثقافة الكتابة الأدبية، حيث تمنح القاصة تجربتها الإبداعية من ذاكرة الجسد.وفي سبيل ذلك توظف رجاء عددا من الأشياء كالصندوقة والمفاتيح، والسرير، والأصابع، وتجمع بينها في لوحة تبدو لأول وهلة مبعثرة في فوضى حركة دؤوبة لا تستقر، وهي الخصوصية التي تطبع باقي قصص المجموعة. فكيف تصوغ رجاء هذه العناصر المتباينة، الغريبة، وإلام يشي العالم الذي تنتجه في سياق قصة الصندوقة؟لم تلجأ القاصة إلى سرد الأحداث، غير أنها ركزت كثيرا على تفاصيل مقاومة الراوية التي تبقى بلا اسم، ولا هوية إلا أنها تسخر بمرارة من هذا الوهم الذي يسكنها ويجعلها أسيرة ذاكرة لا تعرف كيفية الخلاص منها.

يتبدد هذا الوهم رويدا رويدا، وتتجلى أولى خيوط القصة حيث يبدو العنوان دالا ومثيرا وموحيا بالعقدة التي ستتشكل حول العنوان.من يقرأ المجموعة القصصية لرجاء بكرية الصندوقة يلاحظ كيف وظفت الكاتبة تقنية التذكر في إثراء أسلوبها السردي، لقد لجأت إلى التذكر المتميز بتجاوز قضية الزمن أولا، ذلك أن عملية التذكر عندها لا تخضع لأي منطق بل أن الذكريات نقلت من عقالها «يذكرني بجنونه ومجون أصابعه الطويلة الرشيقة التي لا أذكر أنها يئست وهو في أقصى لحظات نشوته أن تذكرني بأنوثتي».يكثر الاسترجاع والتداعي في قصة الصندوقة ونشأ خطاب استيهامي لا يخضع لقاعدة متفق عليها مسبقا، ويرقى هذا الخطاب إلى أجواء لحظات الخطاب العجائبي: «لم أدر كيف ولم يكن يعنيني أن أعرف إذ كنت منساقة لغرائبية تلك العلاقة التي انبثقت تحت لامبة كهرباء، ..جاء يكشف عن عطبها فعطبني أنا بناره واشتعل بدخاني» ويشكل التذكر مفتاحا أساسيا للقصة، إنه قوة حتمية طاغية تسيطر على الراوية، يحصل انزعاج نفسي فتنتقل الراوية من إهابها حيث عاشت أكثر من اللازم في الوهم والخيال إلى إهاب شخصية أخرى تنتبه إلى أنها تورطت في قضية قذرة، لذلك تقرر بعد فترة مطاردة شاهر الذي سكنها مثل الوجع إلى أن تضاعفت يقظتها، وأن تحتفظ باعتبارها امرأة بأوراق اللعب كلها للخروج من هذه التجربة بشعور مشرف، وتنهي رجاء قصة الصندوقة بتناغم غريب بين الأشياء، فالضغط على فرامل السيارة بقسوة وعنف يحيلان على الانزياح في الحالة النفسية التي عبرت عنها الراوية، والوقوف عند سيارة شاهر والتمكن من التركيز على ملامحه يكشف مرحلة التجلي الذي اشتغل عليه السرد حيث تتم عملية التخلي عن موقف العنف.والانسياق وراء وهم أحلام سكن في كل مكان من حياة الساردة، حيث صار ..جزءا من الوسادة، والملاءة، والضوء الأحمر. وتمثل الصندوقة التي تبقى أيقونا قابلا لتأويلات كثيرة، دالا مميزا لهوية المرأة التي تسعى القاصة من خلال السرد إلى إخفاء دلالاتها، وسر الوصول إلى امتلاك مفاتيح ألغازها، غير أنها تومئ إلى مفتاح معلق بعنق الساردة يجمل كلمة السر، ثم تتماهى كلمة السر، في انسياب لغوي رائع.. ينم عن تحكم الكاتبة في أساليب اللغة العربية، وتقنيات الكتابة القصصية..التي تتحول مع رجاء إلى فضاء جميل له شحناته ونكهاته الخاصة به.

لا شك أن العمل الإبداعي الذي تقوم به رجاء بكرية وهي بعد في ريعان شبابها يفتح لها مستقبلا واعدا ليس في مجال القصة والرواية فقط، بل حتى في مجال النقد السينمائي وفي الفن التشكيلي التي عرفت به منذ نعومة أظافرها، والذي من قوى التعلق به، أصبح مخزونا يفرض نفسه حتى في أعمالها الإبداعية كما رأينا، فتعامل رجاء مع الألوان والأماكن والأشياء هو تعاملها نفسه مع اللغة التي تتسم بالغموض أحيانا لدرجة أن قارئ أعمالها يجب أن يعيدها عدة مرات ليعرف آو يكتشف الخيط الرفيع الذي لا يستطيع القارئ اكتشافه بسهولة لو لم يكن ملما بلعبة القصة، فالحبكة الكلاسيكية عند رجاء مفقودة أو تكاد تكون مفقودة، لكن هذا الخيط هو الذي يكوّن أو يعوض الحبكة.هذا بالإضافة إلى لغتها الجميلة التي تزيد فنيتها باطراد غموض أعمالها، لأن اختيارها للكلمات ولبنية الجملة أو الجمل تكون حقولا دلالية شبيهة ببعض كتابات أميركا اللاتينية، أو خليل النعيمي، أو رشيد بوجدرة..فهي كتابة فلسفية في شكل روائي..الثابت فيها هو هذا الغموض المقصود أو غير المقصود، والمتحول هو تنوع موضوعات الأعمال الإبداعية لديهما.فلو استطاعت رجاء أن تنزل من برجها العاجي، هذا إن أرادت أن تكون كاتبة مقروءة لدى جمهور عريض من القراء، فعليها أن تراعي هذا الجانب، الذي ربما يبعدها حاليا عن هذا الجمهور الكبير، فأعمال رجاء لا تقرأ على شاطئ البحر أو في القطار، بل في فضاء يسوده الصمت والتجلي..وربما هذا ما تريده بكرية من قارئها؟؟ وهي في هذه الحالة كما يقول الفلسطينيون لعينة لأنها تريد أن تربط قارئها بمكان ما ، كما ارتبطت هي بمدينة حيفا، التي ذيلت كامل المجموعة بها، حيث أبدعت وكتبت قصصها.

John Cheever

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND by Flannery O'Connor

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.

When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills.

Jim and Irene Westcott were the kind of people who seem to strike that
satisfactory average of income, endeavor, and respectability that is reached by
the statistical reports in college alumni bulletins. They were the parents of two
young children, they had been married nine years, they lived on the twelfth floor
of an apartment house near Sutton Place, they went to the theatre on an average
of 10.3 times a year, and they hoped some day to live in Westchester. Irene
Westcott was a pleasant, rather plain girl with soft brown hair and a wide, fine
forehead upon which nothing at all had been written and in the cold weather she
wore a coat of fitch skins dyed to resemble mink. You could not say that Jim
Westcott looked younger than he was, but you could at least say of him that he
seemed to feel younger. He wore his graying hair cut very short, he dressed in
the kind of clothes his class had worn at Andover and his manner was earnest,
vehement, and intentionally naive. The Westcotts differed from their friends, their
classmates, and their neighbors only in an interest they shared in serious music.
They went to a great many concerts — although they seldom mentioned this to
anyone — and they spent a good deal of time listening to music on the radio.

Their radio was an old instrument, sensitive, unpredictable, and beyond repair.
Neither of them understood the mechanics of radio — or of any of the other
appliances that surrounded them — and when the instrument faltered, Jim would
strike the side of the cabinet with his hand. This sometimes helped. One Sunday
afternoon, in the middle of a Schubert quartet, the music faded away altogether.
Jim struck the cabinet repeatedly, but there was no response; the Schubert was
lost to them forever. He promised to buy Irene a new radio, and on Monday when
he came home from work he told her that he had got one. He refused to describe
it, and said it would be a surprise for her when it came.

The radio was delivered at the kitchen door the following afternoon, and with the
assistance of her maid and the handyman Irene uncrated it and brought it into
the living room. She was struck at once with the physical ugliness of the large
gumwood cabinet. Irene was proud of her living room, she had chosen its
furnishings and colours as carefully as she chose her clothes, and now it seemed
to her that the new radio stood among her intimate possessions like an
aggressive intruder. She was confounded by the number of dials and switches on
the instrument panel, and she studied them thoroughly before she put the plug
into a wall socket and turned the radio on. The dials flooded with a malevolent
green light, and in the distance she heard the music of a piano quintet. The
quintet was in the distance for only an instant; it bore down upon her with a
speed greater than light and filled the apartment with the noise of music amplified
so mightily that it knocked a china ornament from a table to the floor. She rushed
to the instrument and reduced the volume. The violent forces that were snared in
the ugly gumwood cabinet made her uneasy. Her children came home from
school then, and she took them to the Park. It was not until later in the afternoon
that she was able to return to the radio.

when Irene turned on the radio, reduced the volume, and sat down to listen to a
Mozart quintet that she knew and enjoyed. The music came through clearly. The
new instrument had a much purer tone, she thought, than the old one. She
decided that tone was most important and that she could conceal the cabinet
behind a sofa. But as soon as she had made her peace with the radio, the
interference began. A crackling sound like the noise of a burning powder fuse
began to accompany the singing of the strings. Beyond the music, there was a
rustling that reminded Irene unpleasantly of the sea, and as the quintet
progressed, these noises were joined by many others. She tried all the dials and
switches but nothing dimmed the interference, and she sat down, disappointed
and bewildered, and tried to trace the flight of the melody. The elevator shaft in
her building ran beside the living room wall, and it was the noise of the elevator
that gave her a clue to the character of the static. The rattling of the elevator
cables and the opening and closing of the elevator doors were reproduced in her
loudspeaker, and realizing that the radio was sensitive to electrical currents of all
sort, she began to discern through the Mozart the ringing of telephone bells, the
dialing of phones, and the lamentation of a vacuum cleaner. By listening more
carefully, she was able to distinguish doorbells, elevator bells, electric razors,
and Waring mixers, whose sounds had been picked up from the apartments that
surrounded hers and transmitted through her loudspeaker. The powerful and ugly
instrument, with its mistaken sensitivity to discord, was more than she could hope
to master, so she turned the thing off and went into the nursery to see her
children.

When Jim Westcott came home that night, he went to the radio confidently and
worked the controls. He had the same sort of experience Irene had had. A man
was speaking on the station Jim had chosen, and his voice swung instantly from
the distance into a force so powerful that it shook the apartment. Jim turned the
volume control and reduced the voice. Then, a minute or two later, the
interference began, The ringing of telephones and doorbells set in, joined by the
rasp of the elevator doors and the whir of cooking appliances. The character of
the noise had changed since Irene had tried the radio earlier; the last of the
electric razors was being unplugged, the vacuum cleaners had all been returned
to their closets, and the static reflected that change in pace that overtakes the
city after the sun goes down. He fiddled with the knobs but couldn't get rid of the
noises, so he turned the radio off and told Irene that in the morning he'd call the
people who had sold it to him and give them hell.
The following afternoon, when Irene returned to the apartment from a luncheon
date, the maid told her that a man had come and fixed the radio. Irene went into
the living room before she took off her hat or her furs and tried the instrument.
From the loudspeaker came a recording of the "Missouri Waltz". It reminded her
of the thin, scratchy music from an old-fashioned phonograph that she
sometimes heard across the lake where she spent her summers. She waited
until the waltz had finished, expecting an explanation of the recording, but there
was none. The music was followed by silence, and then the plaintive and
scratchy record was repeated. She turned the dial and got a satisfactory burst of
Caucasian music — the thump of bare feet in the dust and the rattle of coin
jewelry — but in the background she could hear the ringing bells and a confusion

of voices. Her children came home from school then, and she turned off the radio
and went to the nursery. When Jim came home that night, he was tired, and he
took a bath and changed his clothes. Then he joined Irene in the living room. He
had just turned on the radio when the maid announced dinner, so he left it on,
and he and Irene went to the table.

Jim was too tired to make even a pretense of sociability, and there was nothing
about the dinner to hold Irene's interest, so her attention wandered from the food
to the deposits of silver polish on the candlesticks and from there to the music in
the other room. She listened for a few moments to a Chopin prelude and then
was surprised to hear a man's voice break in. "For Christ's sake, Kathy," he said,
"do you always have to play the piano when I get home?" The music stopped
abruptly. "It's the only chance I have," a woman said. "I'm at the office all day."
"So am I," the man said. He added something obscene about an upright piano,
and slammed a door. The passionate and melancholy music began again.

"The radio. A man said something while the music was still going on —
something dirty."

They left the table and took their coffee into the living room. Irene asked Jim to
try another station. He turned the knob. "Have you seen my garters?" a man my
garters?" the man said again. "Just button me up and I'll find your garters," the
woman said. Jim shifted to another station. "I wish you wouldn't leave apple
cores in the ash-trays," a man said. "I hate the smell."

"This is strange," Jim said. "Isn't it?" Irene said.Jim turned the knob again. "On the coast of Coromandel where the early
pumpkins blow," a woman with a pronounced English accent said, "in the middle
of the woods lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo: Two old chairs, and half a candle,
one old jug without a handle..." "My God!" Irene cried. "That's the Sweeneys' nurse."

"Turn that thing off," Irene said. "Maybe they can hear us." Jim switched the radio off. "That was Miss Armstrong, the Sweeneys' nurse,"
Irene said. "She must be reading to the little girl. They live in 17-B. I've talked
with Miss Armstrong in the Park. I know her voice very well. We must be getting
other people's apartments." "That's impossible," Jim said. "Well, that was the Sweeneys' nurse," Irene said hotly. "I know her voice. I know
it very well. I'm wondering if they can hear us."

Jim turned the switch. First from a distance and then nearer, nearer, as if borne
on the wind, came the pure accents of the Sweeneys' nurse again:"Lady Jingly'.
Lady Jingly!" she said, "Sitting where the pumpkins blow, will you come and be
my wife, said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo..."

Jim went over to the radio and said "Hello" loudly into the speaker.
"I am tired of living singly," the nurse went on, "On this coast so wild and shingly,
I'm a-weary of my life; if you'll come and be my wife, quite serene would be my
life..." "I guess she can't hear us," Irene said. "Try something else."

Jim turned to another station, and the living room was filled with the uproar of a
cocktail party that had overshot its mark. Someone was playing the piano and
singing the Whiffenpoof Song, and the voices that surrounded the piano were
vehement and happy. "Eat some more sandwiches," a woman shrieked. There
were screams of laughter and a dish of some sort crashed to the floor.

"Those must be the Fullers, in II-E," Irene said. "I knew they were giving a party
this afternoon. I saw her in the liquor store. Isn't this too divine? Try something
else. See if you can get those people in 18-C."

The Westcotts overheard that evening a monologue on salmon fishing in
Canada, a bridge game, running comments on home movies of what had
apparently been a fortnight at Sea Island, and a bitter family quarrel about an
overdraft at the bank. They turned off their radio at midnight and went to bed,
weak with laughter. Sometimes in the night, their son began to call for a glass of
water and Irene got one and took it to his room. It was very early. All the lights in
the neighbourhood were extinguished, and from the boy's window she could see
the empty street. She went into the living room and tried the radio. There was
some faint coughing, a moan, and then a man spoke. "Are you all right, darling?"
he asked. "Yes," a woman said wearily. "Yes, I'm all right, I guess," and then she
added with great feeling, "but, you know, Charlie, I don't feel like myself any
more. Sometimes there are about fifteen or twenty minutes in the week when I
feel like myself. I don't like to go to another doctor, because the doctor's bills are
so awful already, but I just don't feel like myself, Charlie. I just never feel like
myself." They were not young, Irene thought. She guessed from the timbre of
their voices that they were middle-aged. The restrained melancholy of the
dialogue and the draft from the bedroom window made her shiver, and she went
back to bed.

The following morning, Irene cooked breakfast for the family — the maid didn't
come up from her room in the basement — until she braided her daughter's hair,
and waited at the door until her children and her husband had been carried away
in the elevator. Then she went into the living room and tried the radio. "I don't
want to go to school," a child screamed. "I hate school. I won't go to school. I
hate school." "You will go to school," an enraged woman said. "We paid eight
hundred dollars to get you into that school and you'll go if it kills you". The next
number on the dial produced the worn record of the "Missouri Waltz". Irene
shifted the control and invaded the privacy of several breakfast tables. She
overheard demonstrations of indigestion, carnal love, abysmal vanity, faith, and
despair. Irene's life was nearly as simple and sheltered as it appeared to be, and
the forthright and sometimes brutal language that came from the loudspeaker
that morning astonished and troubled her. She continued to listen until her maid
came in. Then she turned off the radio quickly, since this insight, she realized,
was a furtive one. Irene had a luncheon date with a friend that day, and she left
her apartment at a little after twelve. There were a number of women in the
elevator when it stopped at her floor. She stared at their handsome and
impassive faces, their furs, and the cloth flowers in their hats. Which one of them
had been to Sea Island, she wondered. Which one had overdrawn her bank
account? The elevator stopped at the tenth floor and a woman with a pair of Skye
terriers joined them. Her hair was rigged high on her head and she wore a mink
cape. She was humming the "Missouri Waltz". Irene had two Martinis at lunch,
and she looked searchingly at her friend and wondered what her secrets were.
They had intended to go shopping after lunch, but Irene excused herself and
went home. She told the maid that she was not to be disturbed; then she went
into the living room, closed the doors, and switched on the radio. She heard, in
the course of the afternoon, the halting conversation of a woman entertaining her
aunt, the hysterical conclusion of a luncheon party, and a hostess briefing her
maid about some cocktail guests. "Don't give the best Scotch to anyone who
hasn't white hair," the hostess said. "See if you can get rid of that liver paste
before you pass those hot things, and could you lend me five dollars? I want to
tip the elevator man."

As the afternoon waned, the conversation increased in intensity. From where
Irene sat, she could see the open sky above the East River. There were
hundreds of clouds in the sky, as though the south wind had broken the winter
into pieces and were blowing it north, and on her radio she could hear the arrival
of cocktail guests and the re turn of children and businessmen from their schools
and offices. "I found a good-sized diamond on the bathroom floor this morning," a
woman said. "It must have fallen out of that bracelet Mrs Dunston was wearing
last night." "We'll sell it," a man said. "Take it down to the jeweller on Madison
Avenue and sell it. Mrs Dunston won't know the difference, and we could use a
couple of hundred bucks..." "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St.
Clement's," the Sweeneys' nurse sang. "Half-pence and farthings, say the bells
of St. Martin's. When will you pay me? say the bells at Old Bailey..." "It's not a
hat," a woman cried, and at her back roared a cocktail party. "It's not a hat, it's a
love affair. That's what Walter Florell said. He said it's not a hat, it's a love affair,"
and then, in a lower voice, the same woman added, "Talk to somebody, for
Christ's sake, honey, talk to somebody. If she catches you standing here not
talking to anybody, she'll take us off her invitation list, and I love these parties."

The Westcotts were going out for dinner that night, and when Jim came home,
Irene was dressing. She seemed sad and vague, and he brought her a drink.

They were dining with friends in the neighbourhood, and they walked to where
they were going. The sky was broad and filled with light. It was one of those
splendid spring evenings that excite memory and desire, and the air that touched
their hands and faces felt very soft. A Salvation Army band was on the corner
playing "Jesus Is Sweeter" Irene drew on her husband's arm and held him there
for a minute, to hear the music. "They're really such nice people, aren't they?"
she said. "They have such nice faces. Actually, they're so much nicer than a lot
of the people we know." She took a bill from her purse and walked over and
dropped it into the tambourine. There was in her face, when she returned to her
husband, a look of radiant melancholy that he was not familiar with. And her
conduct at the dinner party that night seemed strange to him, too. She
interrupted her hostess rudely and stared at the people across the table from her
with an intensity for which she would have punished her children.

It was still mild when they walked home from the party, and Irene looked up at
the spring stars. "How far that little candle throws its beams," she exclaimed. "So
shines a good deed in a naughty world." She waited that night until Jim had fallen
asleep, and then went into the living room and turned on the radio.

Jim came home at about six the next night. Emma, the maid, let him in, and he
had taken off his hat and was taking off his coat when Irene ran into the hall. Her
face was shining with tears and her hair was disordered. "Go up to 16-C, Jim."
she screamed. "Don't take off your coat. Go up to 16-C. Mr Osborn's beating his
wife. They've been quarrelling since four o'clock, and now he's hitting her. Go up
and stop him."

From the radio in the living room, Jim heard screams, obscenities, and thuds.
"You know you don't have to listen to this sort of thing," he said. He strode into
the living room and turned the switch. "It's indecent," he said. "It's like looking in
windows. You know you don't have to listen to this sort of thing. You can turn it
off."

"Oh, it's so horrible, it's so dreadful," Irene was sobbing. "I've been listening all
day, and it's so depressing."

"Weil, if it's so depressing, why do you listen to it? I bought this damned radio to
give you some pleasure," he said. "I paid a great deal of money for it. I thought it
might make you happy. I wanted to make you happy."

"Don't, don't, don't, don't quarrel with me," she moaned, and laid her head on his
shoulder. "All the others have been quarrelling all day. Everybody's been
quarrelling. They're all worried about money. Mrs Hutchinson's mother is dying of
cancer in Florida and they don't have enough money to send her to the Mayo
Clinic. At least, Mr Hutchinson says they don't have enough money. And some
woman in this building is having an affair with the handyman- with that hideous
handyman. It's too disgusting. And Mrs Melville has heart trouble and Mr
Hendricks is going to lose his job in April and Mrs Hendricks is horrid about the
whole thing and that girl who plays the "Missouri Waltz" is a whore, a common

whore, and the elevator man has tuberculosis and Mr Osborn has been beating
Mrs Osborn." She wailed, she trembled with grief and checked the stream of
tears down her face with the heel of her palm.

"Well, why do you have to listen?" Jim asked again. "Why do you have to listen to
this stuff if it makes you so miserable?"

"Oh, don't, don't, don't," she cried. "Life is too terrible, too sordid and awful. But
we've never been like that, have we, darling? Have we? I mean we've always
been good and decent and loving to one another, haven't we? And we have two
children, two beautiful children. Our lives aren't sordid, are they, darling? Are
they?" She flung her arms around his neck and drew his face down to hers.
"We're happy, aren't we, darling? We are happy, aren't we?""Of course we're happy," he said tiredly. He began to surrender his resentment.
"Of course we're happy. I'll have that damned radio fixed or taken away
tomorrow." He stroked her soft hair. "My poor girl," he said.
"You love me, don't you?" she asked. "And we're not hypocritical or worried
about money or dishonest, are we?" "No, darling," he said.

A man came in the morning and fixed the radio. Irene turned it on cautiously and
was happy to hear a California-wine commercial and a recording of Beethoven' s
Ninth Symphony, including Schiller's "Ode to Joy". She kept the radio on all day
and nothing untoward came from the speaker.
A Spanish suite was being played when Jim came home. "Is everything all right?"
he asked. His face was pale, she thought. They had some cocktails and went in
to dinner to the "Anvil Chorus" from "Il Trovatore." This was followed by
Debussy's "La Mer.""I paid the bill for the radio today," Jim said. "It cost four hundred dollars. I hope
you'll get some enjoyment out of it." "Oh, I'm sure I will," Irene said.

"Four hundred dollars is a good deal more than I can afford," he went on. "I
wanted to get something that you'd enjoy. It's the last extravagance we'll be able
to indulge in this year. I see that you haven't paid your clothing bills yet. I saw
them on your dressing table." He looked directly at her. "Why did you tell me
you'd paid them? Why did you lie to me?" "I just didn't want you to worry, Jim," she said. She drank some water. "I'll be able
to pay my bills out of this month's allowance. There were the slip-covers last
month, and that party." "You've got to learn to handle the money I give you a little more intelligently,
Irene," he said. "You've got to understand that we won't have as much money

this year as we had last. I had a very sobering talk with Mitchell today. No one is
buying anything. We are spending all our time promoting new issues, and you
know how long that takes. I'm not getting any younger, you know. I'm thirty-
seven. My hair will be gray next year. I haven't done as well as I'd hoped to do.
And I don't suppose things will get any better."

"Yes, dear," she said. "We've got to start cutting down," Jim said. "We've got to think of the children. To
be perfectly frank with you, I worry about money a great deal. I'm not at all sure
of the future. No one is. If anything should happen to me, there's the insurance,
but that wouldn't go very far today. I've worked awfully hard to give you and the
children a comfortable life," he said bitterly. "I don't like to see all of my energies,
all of my youth, wasted on fur coats and radios and slipcovers and-"

"Who'll hear us? Emma can't hear us." "The radio.""Oh, I'm sick!" he shouted. "I'm sick to death of your apprehensiveness. The
radio can't hear us. Nobody can hear us. And what if they can hear us? Who cares?"

Short Story

John Cheever

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND by Flannery O'Connor

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