Pleasure, ephemeral, will take flight toward the horizon

Like a sylph making a hasty exit to the wings;

Each instant gnaws a piece of the delight

Given each man for all his life.

Three thousand six hundred times every hour, the second

Whispers: Remember! In an insect voice,

The Instant says: I am the Past,

I’ve sucked out your life with my loathsome proboscis!

……………….

Soon the hour will strike when.

Everything will tell you: Die, you old coward! It’s too late!”

She admired his performance and his recklessness, with his half-closed, perpetually sad eyes, his fragility in the midst of the great, green space, that very tender being who could be carried away like a feather in the wind, never to return. And yet it was to that same being that all the open space and all the greenery submitted. He was the master that the gods had made, not knowing that he would be rebellious, always aiming to play their role. That also would be the cause of his perennial anguish.

He reached out and held her hand, and she left her bag next to his and stood up. He leaned her against the trunk of the tree. Three egrets flew from the tree when he started kissing her neck, as she made faint gestures of resistance.

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m speaking about death today,” he said.

“Enough,” she said as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He had gotten used to her doing that, and she had gotten used to his backing down. She took his hand in hers as they walked along the edge of the field.

“I liked that a poet should write about a wall clock,” he said. “The poem is by Baudelaire and is called “L’Horloge.” I didn’t realize it’s tone was so dark until I had worked on it and I did not stop. Next time I’ll translate cheerful poems for you — I’ll translate crazy poems by Rimbaud and Verlaine.”

She did not say am thing. They walked in silence. A peasant, his wife, and two children emerged from a cottage and watched them in surprise; they had never seen anyone so clean, young, and beautiful.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t talk to them,” he said and gripped her hand. When they reached the peasant and his family he said, “May peace be upon you,” and they quickly replied, “And upon you peace, Please come in.”

He smiled and she smiled, and they headed back to the tree as the peasant and his family continued to watch them in surprise. The clear day and the gentle breeze had added to their glowing looks. They heard the peasant woman saying, “City folks are so pretty!” They laughed and hurried to the tree. They must have rowed a great distance, if the woman spoke of them as city folk. They had gone deep into the countryside, or so they thought. Rushdi raised his head toward the sky and looked at the sun overhead. He said to himself, “The clock, alwavs the clock,” and took her by the hand to the rowboat, still where they had left it. They sat facing each other, with the oars between them. He started rowing and as soon as he got to the middle of the canal, she placed her hands on his and said, “I’ll help you.”

She smiled and the world looked even more brilliantly beautiful. What happiness! Where did he get the courage that day the two schools had the contest, and how did his daring bring him to this point beyond reality? His body was shaking. He wanted to enter her to the point of no return. He needed to tear her up every which way, to lose himself completely in her, and she in him. Who would believe this was his first love experience? It began at an incredible speed, with an incredible girl in her simplicity, beauty, and religion. Who remembered religions now? She was laughing as the sun behind her lit the world around her delicate body. Next time, he would choose a spot farther away. He would not listen to her gentle appeal to stop as her body shook. He would go further.

“She is a beautiful girl with a magnificent neck who lets her hair drift languidly in the wine of her complexion. She walks like-kings and sits like sultans. Her eves invite humanity to explode, to dissolve in her open arms and her full breasts. The beauty of her flesh is a heavenly gift.”

“What did you say?”

“I was remembering some beautiful poetry. But unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I’ll get to see France.”

“I was making a lot of progress in French until you came along and slowed everything down.”

“Were you going to continue?”

“Yes. You’ve made me fall in love with France.”

“But unfortunately we won’t see it.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist. The war will surely end soon. We’ve got enough time.”

He fell silent for a moment then asked, “You really think so?”

She smiled and did not answer. In the distance, there were some sailboats coming toward them, filled with sacks and some southern sailors in their blue and gray gallabiyas.

“They make a long voyage from south to north,” he said.

She smiled more broadly.

“Did you know I was from the south?” she asked him.

“A white southerner! You must be a southerner from heaven. Do you know the song that says, ‘You’re a houri from heaven/You sneaked in and opened heaven’s gate’?”

“I listen to it a lot and laugh. I also listen to Abd al-Wahhab and Sayyid Darwish. I love them. Last night they were playing Sayyid Darwish’s songs and I cried.”

He looked at her for a while.

“Was it when he sang, ‘You deserve it, my heart. Why did you ever fall in love?’“

“How did you know?” “I heard it. Listen.”

He began to sing to her, and she laughed at his husky voice. A sailboat had come alongside them, and one of the sailors was standing there watching them and smiling. When he heard Rushdí’s singing he sang to them:

O Captain of the sea, take me with you

To learn a trade before I shame myself,

To leave my land and live far away.

I send my greetings morn and night

To one whose love has brought me woe.

I looked up and saw the sail in the wind

And I said, Maybe I’ll stay on land instead.

Rushdi smiled and shouted to ask him if he wanted to hear him make up a mawwal, an Alexandrian rhyme song. The southern sailor said that would be great. So Rushdi thought for a moment, as Camilla smiled, not believing what was happening, feeling elated at her lover’s beautiful madness. Rushdi sang:

My eyes saw a galleon adrift on the sea,

Its captain valiant but his rudder, alas, lost

His eyes could not see, the water swept him.

Even his sail was broken, what was left was tossed.

Camilla nudged him gently in the shoulder, impressed, then applauded in admiration. The sailor sang again:

Two gazelles riding a came!

Have smitten me.

She, the sun; he, the moon

The abode is the heart; the door, the eye.

Rushdi laughed and began to row away as he said to the sailor, “But we’re riding a boat!”

“And the abode is the boat,” the sailor sang back.

Rushdi understood, and he began to explain to Camilla, who was surprised that the sailor could handle such concepts. The last thing the sailor said to them as he sailed away was, “Blame not the wounded one if he groans.”

Suddenly her face turned ashen. She pointed to the water and stood up, screaming. The boat shook and almost capsized. Rushdi stood up quickly and held her arms as she screamed hysterically.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes. Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes. He went closer to her, and took her in his arms as the boat shook. Then he sat on one side and made her sit on the side of the boat close to the bank of the canal. He grabbed the oars and began to row at a frenzied speed.

“Don’t look at the water. Look at the bank.”