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My Plight محنة
الغراب
الإسم :
الدكتور نادر القنة
البريد الإلكتروني :
[email-masked]
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أنت الزائر
رقم:

The daily Jordan
Times (24/3/2005)
:

The following
article by Dr. Omnia
Amin as it
appeared.

WORD/
books . literature .
ideas

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

Nazmi and
the improbable burdens of life

Dr. Omnia
Amin

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.

An idea, Two Drunkards
and A Door (One short story in 5
parts,by Tayseer Nazmi . Translated by Dr. Omnia
Amin)

At Night without the
Night

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.

The Importance of Getting
Married

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.

Sun

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 Idea

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

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.

Translated by Dr. Omnia Amin

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T.Nazmi
Elza

OUR DONKEY DESIRES
NOT YOURS

BY TAYSEER NAZMI
(IN ARABIC)

حمارنا لا يرغب
حمارتكم

قصة: تيسير
نظمي

1-
المقدمة

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".

2-
المؤخرة

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.

3-الوسط

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.

4- خاتمة
الخواتم

قال محدثي الساهر من فرط
عواء الليل والمعدة:

وما علاقة  صاحب
الكلب بالمسألة؟

فقلت بعد أن انتهت
الحكاية: فتش عن البغل

قال: وما علاقة
البغل؟

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
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في اختفاء سعيد أبي النحس المتشائل"

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أنت الزائر
رقم:

كاتبة
من فلسطين

الكتاب:
«الصندوقة» مجموعة قصصية

الكاتب:
رجاء بكرية

الناشر: المؤسسة
العربية للدراسات والنشر
صندوقة
رجاء بكرية  القصصية

الذاكرة
التاريخية والبعد الجسدي

باريس -
النور

«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».

لوحات قصصية
وتشكيلية

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.

استرجاع
الذاكرة

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.

اللغة
الغامضة

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.

OUR
DONKEY DESIRES NOT YOURS

BY TAYSEER NAZMI (IN
ARABIC)

"The
Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin

The Enormous
Radio

John
Cheever

HILLS
LIKE WHITE
ELEPHANTS

by Ernest
Hemingway

The Lottery By

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

ARABY
by James Joyce

كاتب
جنت عليه السياسة

... وليمة و حرير و عش عصافير للفلسطيني
تيسير نظمي
عمان: عبد الستار ناصر كل أديب في العالم يتمنى لو
أنه كتب عملاً ...

www.aawsat.com/details.asp?section=19&article=291498&issue=9623

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page

الحقيبة
الثقافية

... لندن: «الشرق الأوسط» للكاتب الفلسطيني
تيسير نظمي
صدرت مجموعة قصصية بعنوان «وليمة وحرير وعش
عصافير» في 75 صفحة ...

www.asharqalawsat.com/details.asp?section=19&article=271629&issue=9516

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page

9/27/2005

لم
أقصد أن أكون كاتبا

... هل صحيح أن عصر النفط انتهى؟ لم أقصد أن
أكون كاتبا تيسير
نظمي لم أكن أقصد أن أكون
كاتباً، أو أديباً، عندما طلب مني ...

www.asharqalawsat.com/details.asp?section=28&article=260811&issue=9455

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page

9/27/2005

"The
Story of an Hour"
by
Kate Chopin
(1894)

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!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept
whispering.

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.

But Richards was too late.

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

The Enormous
Radio

John
Cheever

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.

The maid had given the children their
suppers and was supervising their baths

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.

"Did you hear
that?" Irene asked.

"What?" Jim was
eating his dessert.

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

something dirty."

"It's probably a
play."

"I don't think
it is a play," Irene said.

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."

"These were all
his worldly goods," the British voice continued.

"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-"

"Please, Jim,"
she said. "Please. They'll hear us."

"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?"

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