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THE SHORT STORIES OF ZAKARIA TAMER hand, and set to staring at my surroundings. My gaze settled on a miserable looking man sitting at a nearby table. He was nursing his drink, taking a tiny sip from time to time then staring into space. Suddenly he’d burst into a laugh more depressing than any sobbing could be. I felt a strange fear when my eyes met his submissive look. He’s smiling at me. I’m going to get up and talk to him. I said: “I’m a poor worker. I don’t smile.” He said: “I am a day textile vendor, and an adventurous sailor at night.” I said: “I love the sea. It’s big and mysterious.” Front cover of The Neighing of the White Horse He said: “After midnight, when I surrender my head to my pillow, my ship sails away. Ahhh – there is nothing in the world more beautiful than the sea and travelling and constant movement. The sails flutter, you stand ramrod straight, head high, the wet wind teases your hair, the smell of salt and the roar of the waves, penetrate the deepest part of your being. You’ll laugh with wild pleasure when all sadness is left behind you. Soon you will reach a port you have never set foot in. There you will meet strangers. You’ll sit in a bar slowly sipping a stiff drink. You’ll listen to wonderous music, which will recreate you anew and give you back your stolen childhood. Maybe you’ll dance with a girl, maddening desire neighing in the depths of her big eyes . Ahhh – How incredible is the new and unknown!” I said: “Travelling frightens me. I love my city madly. And once I almost cried when I caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent wafting from a street during a downpour that was drenching its buildings and pavements and trees.” He said: “Only idiots prefer quiet.” 62 BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015
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THE NEIGHING OF THE WHITE HORSE I said: “Sometimes I dream of a wife and kids and a home. And I hope this dream comes true.” He said: “You’re crazy. You’ll slowly turn into a tired, bored worm that can’t escape from its steel cage. The sea is the only thing that makes me happy. Will you travel with me tonight?” I lifted my glass again to my mouth. The liquid stung my throat, and I laughed sarcastically at my imaginations – the miserable looking man was still sitting at his table drinking and staring into space, laughing his laugh, more depressing than crying, and I was still stuck to my chair – I had not left it even for a second. The bar was closing its doors, and I had to leave. The pale hour was approaching like a sharp knife slowly penetrating my flesh. The harshest of the sick hours draws nigh, while the street brings back its staggering drunk. Listen, you drunkard, to the long, joyful, trembling whistle coming from the mouth of the young man who is walking in front of you with a firm step filled with surprising vigour. Perhaps he is a happy person. You, also, were like him years ago. You had a girl, a city of joy and pleasure. You had her purple lips opening to your parched desert the secret of treasures to ignite the fire sleeping in your blood. You had her breasts, the ice that contains the heat of a summer sun. You had her eyes, with their mysterious secrets. You had her black hair, the dark cloud flowing down over her shoulders with enchanting sadness. You had a girl, a city of joy and pleasure. Stolen from you. Here you are now, a drunk on a desolate street – a pile of mud, a cloud with no rain. Alone like a mangy stray in the market, living like a mangy stray in the market. You’ll get up in the morning at a certain time. You’ll stretch lazily and yawn. You’ll wash your face and comb your hair and get dressed. You’ll spit like a sloppy old man and walk in a street bathed in the sunlight of a new day. Then the factory buries you, swallowing you into its vicious belly. Exhaustion exhaustion exhaustion. Can you forget the smell of the worker’s flesh that burned when the molten steel fell on him, pouring out of the crucible that fell suddenly from the hands that were carrying it? That smell is the entire world. Why are you alive, drunkard? Why don’t I die? What would I do if I ruled cities of gold? If a woman loved me, what would I do? I think that I would stare at the shine of my new shoes and say wearily: “Oh, everything is meaningless and stupid.” I will die. One step forward, and I escape from the fatigue of the BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015 63

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THE NEIGHING OF THE WHITE HORSE

I said: “Sometimes I dream of a wife and kids and a home. And I hope this dream comes true.”

He said: “You’re crazy. You’ll slowly turn into a tired, bored worm that can’t escape from its steel cage. The sea is the only thing that makes me happy. Will you travel with me tonight?”

I lifted my glass again to my mouth. The liquid stung my throat, and I laughed sarcastically at my imaginations – the miserable looking man was still sitting at his table drinking and staring into space, laughing his laugh, more depressing than crying, and I was still stuck to my chair – I had not left it even for a second.

The bar was closing its doors, and I had to leave. The pale hour was approaching like a sharp knife slowly penetrating my flesh. The harshest of the sick hours draws nigh, while the street brings back its staggering drunk. Listen, you drunkard, to the long, joyful, trembling whistle coming from the mouth of the young man who is walking in front of you with a firm step filled with surprising vigour. Perhaps he is a happy person. You, also, were like him years ago. You had a girl, a city of joy and pleasure. You had her purple lips opening to your parched desert the secret of treasures to ignite the fire sleeping in your blood. You had her breasts, the ice that contains the heat of a summer sun. You had her eyes, with their mysterious secrets. You had her black hair, the dark cloud flowing down over her shoulders with enchanting sadness. You had a girl, a city of joy and pleasure. Stolen from you. Here you are now, a drunk on a desolate street – a pile of mud, a cloud with no rain. Alone like a mangy stray in the market, living like a mangy stray in the market. You’ll get up in the morning at a certain time. You’ll stretch lazily and yawn. You’ll wash your face and comb your hair and get dressed. You’ll spit like a sloppy old man and walk in a street bathed in the sunlight of a new day. Then the factory buries you, swallowing you into its vicious belly. Exhaustion exhaustion exhaustion. Can you forget the smell of the worker’s flesh that burned when the molten steel fell on him, pouring out of the crucible that fell suddenly from the hands that were carrying it? That smell is the entire world. Why are you alive, drunkard? Why don’t I die? What would I do if I ruled cities of gold? If a woman loved me, what would I do? I think that I would stare at the shine of my new shoes and say wearily: “Oh, everything is meaningless and stupid.”

I will die. One step forward, and I escape from the fatigue of the

BANIPAL 53 – SUMMER 2015 63

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