أحمد الأقطش
15/09/2007, 01:46 AM
SCRATCHING
A short story by
Abdel-Hamid Gharbaoui
Translated by
Ahmed Aktash; Samir Shenawy
http://www.nevblog.com/images/lotto/Small/mini-CIMG2886.JPG
Eventually, I managed to have an appointment with the official in charge of the Department of Employment.
I knocked on the door and opened it even without waiting for permission. I drew near him with steps I tried to make steady but I failed. At the same time, I managed to draw a dull smile on my lips.0
He pointed at a chair before him. Before I sat, I bowed slightly putting a green file containing documents that speak on my behalf on the glass surface of his desk. He opened the file running over the papers with his automated hairy fat white fingers. Then he closed and slammed it.0
He compressed his lips and sent me some meaningless looks from behind his glasses—looks that could have a meaning I did not figure out. He said to me with a smile, "Are you lucky?" The question put me dead to silence. I remained silent all the time not because I was afraid of him or because of wisdom, but because I was convinced that speech would be useless.0
The question made me confused and found no answer. What did he mean by that? He repeated the question in other words, "Do you see yourself lucky?" But how could I know! Most lucky people in this life have no need for luck. My conditions make me call myself an ill-fated man and give myself this matchless title, ' the leader of ill-fated people.' I am indeed unlucky and need a bit of luck.0
Two answers came to my mind: The first one was, "If I were lucky, would you see me here now before you, guy?" The second one was, "I think so." I kept the first answer in myself. The second answer was evasive in order to know his thoughts and make a maneuver to win his confidence.0
All institutions seek success and honestly wish their employees would be lucky in everything they do. I said, "I think I'm one of those lucky people." He said quickly, "That's enough. I must be sure of that practically—I mean, clearly and materially sooner."0
He stopped talking for a while, gazing at me. Then he added, "Do you have money?" "Excuse me!" I answered. "A few dirhams?" "I have." I said. "Then go to the nearest shop and buy a scratch-and-win coupon. Get back quickly and you will find me waiting for you." He added, "Take care! A scratchable one!"0
This sounded odd to me. However, possessed by human weakness at that moment, I had no choice but to submit to his request. I rushed to the nearest shop that sells cigarettes, gums, candies, postal stamps, and of course the scratch-and-win coupons, which I used to see many people flocking to buy, but I had never paid attention. Actually, I detested them.0
I dashed back into the office with sweat running down my forehead and armpit. I was afraid that it would turn disgusting. I smelled my armpit; the smell was nascent. This interview, I guessed, would not take long, and the smell would not announce itself plainly and bluntly except in the street and in the spacious areas.0
Without knocking, I pushed the door open and stepped in. I placed before him a small coupon decorated with coral lines, drawings and colors. While sitting, I noticed he was avoiding looking at it, as if he was afraid it would inflict harm on him, or he would inflict harm on it. 0
He handed me a silver coin, and asked me to scratch the grey strip in the coupon. This was no surprise; the coupon should have been scratched anyway. He was observing me while I was scratching. A brilliant thought crossed my mind: "Could the way I'm scratching the coupon be another test to see how skilled and competent I was? Could it determine my success?"0
Not dwelling so much on attempting to know the answer, I continued scratching carefully. My way of doing this was neither a hard nor light scratching. It was something in between. And to achieve the task, I scratched beginning once with the top corners and another with the ones at bottom, coming up with a rectangular strip. Finally , in one scratch, accurate and light, I removed the grey layer, revealing the numbers.0
I did not know how I was haunted at that moment by a strong desire to scratch my scalp. Soon I was swarmed by a burning craze to scratch my whole body. Something was eating me up. I felt that I was about to be devoured. It was as if a colony of ants had been invading me from head to toe, and biting me off!0
I did not care about the figures that had obviously appeared. The ferocious desire for scratching kept me busy from thinking about the outcome of this interview. On his part, upon seeing the figures and the coupon before him, his eyes grew open , his face turned red and yellow, and his mouth opened wide.0
He swallowed with difficulty disclosing what these figures had done to him. But he soon managed to mask his surprise by a touch of artificial tranquility and balance. I was, in the meantime, resisting. I found pleasure and comfort in scratching.0
With a dexterity that revealed long experience, he slipped the coupon into the drawer of his desk. He said "Lucky! lucky! We will consider your file in this evening meeting." He extended his hand to me for a goodbye shake. I extended mine, while the other was busy scratching. His bulky fingers pressed strongly on mine. The pressure was hurting, but the agony of being devoured was more painful.0
I walked out to the street, without stopping scratching. I walked along the sidewalk with a head filled with white spots. Like a lightening flash, and in a momentary lapse of consciousness that strove to bring me back to reality, it seemed to me that the scratching, which reached its peak, was stripping off a layer of my skin and placing instead just numbers!0
A short story by
Abdel-Hamid Gharbaoui
Translated by
Ahmed Aktash; Samir Shenawy
http://www.nevblog.com/images/lotto/Small/mini-CIMG2886.JPG
Eventually, I managed to have an appointment with the official in charge of the Department of Employment.
I knocked on the door and opened it even without waiting for permission. I drew near him with steps I tried to make steady but I failed. At the same time, I managed to draw a dull smile on my lips.0
He pointed at a chair before him. Before I sat, I bowed slightly putting a green file containing documents that speak on my behalf on the glass surface of his desk. He opened the file running over the papers with his automated hairy fat white fingers. Then he closed and slammed it.0
He compressed his lips and sent me some meaningless looks from behind his glasses—looks that could have a meaning I did not figure out. He said to me with a smile, "Are you lucky?" The question put me dead to silence. I remained silent all the time not because I was afraid of him or because of wisdom, but because I was convinced that speech would be useless.0
The question made me confused and found no answer. What did he mean by that? He repeated the question in other words, "Do you see yourself lucky?" But how could I know! Most lucky people in this life have no need for luck. My conditions make me call myself an ill-fated man and give myself this matchless title, ' the leader of ill-fated people.' I am indeed unlucky and need a bit of luck.0
Two answers came to my mind: The first one was, "If I were lucky, would you see me here now before you, guy?" The second one was, "I think so." I kept the first answer in myself. The second answer was evasive in order to know his thoughts and make a maneuver to win his confidence.0
All institutions seek success and honestly wish their employees would be lucky in everything they do. I said, "I think I'm one of those lucky people." He said quickly, "That's enough. I must be sure of that practically—I mean, clearly and materially sooner."0
He stopped talking for a while, gazing at me. Then he added, "Do you have money?" "Excuse me!" I answered. "A few dirhams?" "I have." I said. "Then go to the nearest shop and buy a scratch-and-win coupon. Get back quickly and you will find me waiting for you." He added, "Take care! A scratchable one!"0
This sounded odd to me. However, possessed by human weakness at that moment, I had no choice but to submit to his request. I rushed to the nearest shop that sells cigarettes, gums, candies, postal stamps, and of course the scratch-and-win coupons, which I used to see many people flocking to buy, but I had never paid attention. Actually, I detested them.0
I dashed back into the office with sweat running down my forehead and armpit. I was afraid that it would turn disgusting. I smelled my armpit; the smell was nascent. This interview, I guessed, would not take long, and the smell would not announce itself plainly and bluntly except in the street and in the spacious areas.0
Without knocking, I pushed the door open and stepped in. I placed before him a small coupon decorated with coral lines, drawings and colors. While sitting, I noticed he was avoiding looking at it, as if he was afraid it would inflict harm on him, or he would inflict harm on it. 0
He handed me a silver coin, and asked me to scratch the grey strip in the coupon. This was no surprise; the coupon should have been scratched anyway. He was observing me while I was scratching. A brilliant thought crossed my mind: "Could the way I'm scratching the coupon be another test to see how skilled and competent I was? Could it determine my success?"0
Not dwelling so much on attempting to know the answer, I continued scratching carefully. My way of doing this was neither a hard nor light scratching. It was something in between. And to achieve the task, I scratched beginning once with the top corners and another with the ones at bottom, coming up with a rectangular strip. Finally , in one scratch, accurate and light, I removed the grey layer, revealing the numbers.0
I did not know how I was haunted at that moment by a strong desire to scratch my scalp. Soon I was swarmed by a burning craze to scratch my whole body. Something was eating me up. I felt that I was about to be devoured. It was as if a colony of ants had been invading me from head to toe, and biting me off!0
I did not care about the figures that had obviously appeared. The ferocious desire for scratching kept me busy from thinking about the outcome of this interview. On his part, upon seeing the figures and the coupon before him, his eyes grew open , his face turned red and yellow, and his mouth opened wide.0
He swallowed with difficulty disclosing what these figures had done to him. But he soon managed to mask his surprise by a touch of artificial tranquility and balance. I was, in the meantime, resisting. I found pleasure and comfort in scratching.0
With a dexterity that revealed long experience, he slipped the coupon into the drawer of his desk. He said "Lucky! lucky! We will consider your file in this evening meeting." He extended his hand to me for a goodbye shake. I extended mine, while the other was busy scratching. His bulky fingers pressed strongly on mine. The pressure was hurting, but the agony of being devoured was more painful.0
I walked out to the street, without stopping scratching. I walked along the sidewalk with a head filled with white spots. Like a lightening flash, and in a momentary lapse of consciousness that strove to bring me back to reality, it seemed to me that the scratching, which reached its peak, was stripping off a layer of my skin and placing instead just numbers!0