After many years of being tormented, a man finally seeks revenge against past aggressors who have long since vanished. Or have they?
Eman Al Yousuf
Translated from Arabic by Rana Asfour
He approaches, dragging his foot behind him, clouds of dust and dirt swirling along the road. When he stops in front of the store with its narrow entrance, the dust storms also appear to settle. He grips the rusty iron door tightly with both hands, and as he lifts the handle, his slender frame appears to lift with it, as if his body is poised to take off into the air.
Each morning, the familiar ritual brings a smile to his face and sets the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, although he isn’t known to be a jovial man or one easily amused. Just like the store’s small, narrow doorway, many in the town imagined he was born with a mouth that was made neither to eat or speak, let alone smile.
“Animals,” he murmured, then cleared his throat, trying to dislodge some phlegm.
On this warm dawn, he lit a cigarette and settled onto the doorstep of his store, contemplating a way to tackle his problem. It was the third time neighborhood teens had vandalized the freshly painted walls of the store before the paint had even dried. The splattered hues mingled with the carefully applied layers, forming a mixture that he described as “utterly disgusting.”
This time, he could barely stand to look at the defaced walls for very long. The loud colors clashed sharply with the calm, muted tone he had chosen for the store. This was neither graffiti nor the typical drawings of half-hearts pierced by arrows that decorated the walls of the rest of the neighborhood. These markings were nothing more than streaky, uneven lines of paint.
He ran his hand over the unruly stubble on his chin and cheeks. He took one final drag from his cigarette before quickly lighting a second, hardly allowing the first one to completely burn out. With both of his hands, he drew in his foot. His gaze locked onto the street outside the store. In sharp contrast to his own life, the street — lined with yellow dirt and crumbling stores — seemed hardly changed in fifty years.
The images of the day and the people who changed his life forever flooded his mind, vividly alive in his memory, and in this street where he sits, even though they have all moved away.
That day his classmates from the local school had gathered outside his uncle’s store. They had tugged at his spindly leg, teasing him with their words: “Why is this foot so much thinner than the other one?” They called it a goat’s foot, and said that his mother must have been part animal to give birth to such a deformed creature. They would rid him of it, they threatened. His vision had clouded over as dirt and dust swirled around them, eventually turning into mud, which caked his face as it mingled with the tears that pooled in his eyes. Dozens of blows rained down on him, his emaciated foot violently wrenched. Someone hurled spit. He wept, quietly.
His father and uncle came to his rescue, but word spread among his classmates that they had seen him wet his pants. This marked the end of his school days and the beginning of his time working at the store. Fifty years ago, he was born in this very place, and it is where he spends each day, his emaciated foot resting against the swirls of dust on the run-down, yellow street. While everyone else has moved on, he remains.
He tosses the two cigarette butts onto the sidewalk in front of the store before straightening up to get a hold of the painters. Yes, he would give the shop a fresh coat for the fourth time. One final attempt, and then he’d be done for good.
He patted his foot and smiled. The time to finally exact his revenge on the pesky neighborhood teens had come at long last. He informed store owners in the market that he planned to repaint his place the following day. He complained profusely about the substantial financial losses he’d incurred, playing his part to ensure no one would suspect his hidden motives and the strategy up his sleeve.
“Impulsive youth,” some nearby shop owners said, to console him. He nodded in acknowledgement. Others handed him cigarettes.
On two prior occasions, he’d lodged a complaint with the police. However, when the neighborhood patrol dismissed the issue as “trivial,” he set animal traps on the store floor. This method also proved ineffective; the traps remained untouched, while the walls were vandalized yet again.
He breathes in the intoxicating aroma of fresh paint on the walls. He takes one last glance around the shop before he closes the rusty iron door behind him. He smiles and ambles slowly back to his house. That night, in bed, he tosses and turns. As soon as the first rays of sunlight stream through the windows, he hurries to get dressed, eager to head out to the store, skipping his morning coffee. Today, he will claim his long-awaited revenge. Today, victory will be his at last.
On the way, he experiences the familiar sensation that washes over him when he takes the first puff of a cigarette after a long abstinence — the warmth of the embers suffuses his limbs. It feels as though life fills him once more, and a sense of youth has returned to his spirit.
Just as suddenly, he turns on his heel and rushes back to the house, his lame foot hobbling. He goes into the bathroom, washes up, and shaves his beard. He dons the same shirt and pants he wore five years ago on Eid al-Kabir when they visited his wife’s family in the south. After combing his white-peppered hair, he steps back onto the yellow street, with the dust swirling around his emaciated feet, this time feeling properly kitted out for his moment of vengeance.
He steps forward and tries to lift the store’s rusted iron door, but it won’t budge. Summoning all his strength, he tries again, but it feels jammed from the inside by something heavy. His heart races, and his mouth goes dry. He catches sight of a silhouette against which the rays of the hot sun have momentarily disappeared, but he does not raise his gaze to see who it might be.
“Haven’t you heard? This time, the police have shut down all the stores in this market until they can track down those responsible. God suffices me, and He is the best disposer of affairs.*”
As the shadow fades into the distance, the sun’s rays strike his eyes, blinding him momentarily. He hadn’t recognized the man. Confusion washes over him; he has no idea what has just taken place. All he’s caught are the man’s murmurs echoing in his ears.
“May God watch over us … Without a doubt, the folly of youth.”
While from inside his closed shop, he thought he could hear the faint sound of a bleating goat.
*This phrase is a supplication found in the Quran, specifically in Surah Al-Imran (3:173)
**Read Eman Al Yousuf’s story in Arabic HERE.
