Translated by Arua Al Adl
Chapter One
11:30 AM
“Come.”
I remember the first time I heard the sea beckoning to me. I was perhaps five years old, sitting on the doorstep of our old house in Sharq, a small dirt path separating the house from the seashore. I never tired of gazing at the ships, lazily leaning their sides against the sand, the sea behind them. A curious question drifted within my heart: What magic does the sea have that makes large ships appear so small?
The sea keeps calling to me, “Come.”
The weary sun descends for a rest on the seabed, allowing the sky to sprinkle ashes of darkness onto the walls of our courtyard and into its rooms. My sister, Mariam, sits in the hall overlooking the courtyard, absorbed in cleaning the glass lanterns, removing soot and grime. Next to her sits my mother, Fatima, who seems absentminded but is attentive to my sister’s handiwork. I leave them and go to my sister, Latifa, in the kitchen yard; I love the warm, thin flatbread that she makes. She peels the delicate loaf from the piping-hot griddle and waves it in the air to cool it down before she hands it to me. She notices me and smiles, “Come back soon and you’ll get your small loaf.”
I have never told anyone about the sea calling to me, and while my mother and sisters are distracted, I sneak out of the house.
Upon hearing the sound of the muezzin’s call to the dusk prayer, darkness descends from the skies. And because men fear it, they relinquish their work and hurry to the mosque to pray and supplicate. The road empties in front of our house, except for a few young boys running to the mosque.
I do not fear darkness, and as soon as I cross the dirt path, my bare feet sink into the sands of the beach. Then I hear the sea calling, ever so distinctly, “Come.”
I sit on the wet sand and gaze into the horizon, where sea meets sky. Oh, how I wish to walk on this expanse of water. I imagine myself walking far away until I enter a space between the sky and the sea, where clouds caress my cheek, and the water is steady beneath my feet. I linger on the wet sand, and I do not know how drowsiness overcomes me and darkness closes my eyes.
“Ali! Hey, Ali!”
Incessant calls pry into the comfort of my sleep, and I feel the coldness of wet sand in my bones.
“Ali!”
I open my eyes to the darkness, the sound of roaring waves comes gushing to fill my ears. Sleep escapes me.
“Ali!” I recognize my father’s voice, calling me.
“Yes.”
Two ghosts, I see, dancing in the darkness; my father holding a lantern and next to him, my eldest brother, Ibrahim.
“Are you kidding me?!” exclaims Ibrahim, “We have been looking for you for hours!”
When they both draw nearer, I leap to hide behind my father who hands over the lantern to Ibrahim and gathers me to his chest and holds me tightly, “My boy!”
At that moment, I become afraid. I realize that I have made a mistake.
“It’s all thanks to our neighbors, Al Fithalah, who saw you heading towards the sea,” says Ibrahim.
“Never do that again!” warns my father and he adds, “The sea will swallow you and you’ll drown.”
“I won’t drown!”
My father pauses, next to him Ibrahim, holding the lantern. I eye him proudly and announce, “The sea is my friend.”
Behind me, the waves echo words that I do not understand.
“The sea knows no friend,” my father utters, his tone shrouded in sorrow.
I hold myself back from asking why the sea knows no friend.
Memories flood my thoughts. I was five years old then, and it has been more than sixty-five years since that night. May you rest in peace, Father! If only you could have lived and seen for yourself that your son has indeed offered friendship to the sea, and that the sea in return accepted that friendship and gave him a lifetime of fame and glory. Yet, Father, I am still entranced by that secret voice that keeps calling. Your son, oh Father, was destined to be a seaman whose life can only be guided by the sea.
Oh Father, from the moment I was born, I was already a seaman and a sea captain, a ‘Nokhitha’. The very first time I sailed the sea, I sailed on your ship, right beside you, and you were the captain. I became a captain at a young age and so it was common for the sailors and Kuwait’s townspeople to call me Al Nokhitha.
Oh Father, I am a whale shark that perishes the moment it parts with the sea. Ever since I left the sea, life left me. Two beasts; my wistful yearning and the waterless lands, never cease to devour my soul and so I turn to the warmth of the sea. It calls for me and I, hypnotized, go to it. I lived for years in its boundless abode. In spite of the countless times it treated me harshly, it never forsook me.
Oh Father, have you ever imagined a friendship between a man and the sea? Between the sea and a droplet? Oh Father, I am a droplet swimming in the vastness of the sea.
I will quit reading “Sons of Sinbad”, which was authored by my friend, the Australian Captain Alan Villiers. A book in which he chronicled his journey with me atop my ship Boom Bayan. For two days, I have leafed through its pages. I have read it and I have studied the pictures he took of me, my crew, parts of the Boom, and the seaports.
More than ten years ago, a friend of mine gifted it to me, “It was published by Dar Al Kitab Al Arabi in Beirut.” he had said.
When nostalgia overwhelms me, I go back to this book. I flip through its pages and with it, I revisit different chapters of my life. I relive the most beautiful moments of my existence. Surely, that is an unforgettable excursion.
I sit with my wife, and I begin, “Noura,” and she turns to me. I continue, “Listen to what Captain Alan wrote about your husband the first time we met at the merchant Ali Abdullatif Al Hamad’s office in Aden.” I read, “‘I saw a short, slender man …,’”
“You’re not short!” Noura interrupts.
“Alan was rather tall, which makes me short in his eyes. He says ‘. . . with a stern face,’”
“You do not have a stern face!”
I smile at her and read on, “‘Regardless of that, he was, in his own way, rather good-looking. He had an oval face adorned with a thick, black mustache; a daunting nose; a well-structured pointed chin; and in spite of his small frame, he was visibly muscular.’”
“Now, that is true,” Noura laughingly comments.
“Listen, listen. ‘His appearance, in general, emitted strength and goodness. His facial features expressed the necessary caution and vigilance to command a ship. These features revealed his self-confidence and firmness towards any form of deception.’”
“That’s good,” comments Noura, pleased.
I look at her. A deceptive silence slips between us.
The sea appears before me.
Yesterday and at our usual late-night get-together, I decided with Abdulwahab and Suleiman, “We’ll go fishing tomorrow.”
This is not the first time. Hardly a week goes by without us going fishing together.
“Before the noon prayer, we’ll gather here,” said Abdulwahab.
“Good. I’ll be waiting,”
“Noura!” I call. She turns to me, and I continue, “Abdulwahab and his brother Suleiman will be stopping by,”
My words surprise her. She understands that I intend to go sailing.
“The sea,” her loving tone, displeased, reprimands me, “The sea has bewitched you!”
“It’s been a long time; a lifetime, Noura.”
Despair slightly overshadows her face.
“Stay with us today,”
Strange, comes out her request. A broken plea fills her voice, “Don’t go.”
The melody of her words kindles a mysterious feeling that tugs at my heart. I wish I could answer her plea. I say, “I already made plans with the boys,”
“Cancel the plans. It’s cold outside.”
“I can’t. They’re on their way right now. They could be here any minute.”
“It’s no use. You are as stubborn as ever, never going back on your words.” ]
“A man is his word, Noura.”
Her eyes measure my features.
“We agreed yesterday.”
She stays silent, her loud gaze restless. I smile at her and urge, “What is it?”
“I’m worried about you. May you have a long life! You’re past seventy years old.”
“The sea rejuvenates my soul,”
“Fine,” her voice surrenders, then she asks, “When will you be back?”
I have not thought about that, nor have I talked about it with Abdulwahab and Suleiman, “I don’t know.”
She waits for a specification.
“We’ll be back tonight,”
“This attachment of yours to the sea troubles me,”
“It’s my second home,” I do not tell her: the sea calls to me.
I remember the words I told my friend Al Nokhitha Abdullah Al Qitami, “I will meet my end at sea.”
I fear for Noura, hearing such words.
I think I hear the sea calling to me, “Come.”
“Would you like me to pack you some food?” Noura asks.
“It’s fine. I got it all covered with Abdulwahab and Suleiman … I’ll go get changed before they get here.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I’ll try.”
I get up, holding the book. Noura’s eyes follow me. I smile at her and say, “Listen, I’ll read to you what Alan Villiers wrote about Kuwaiti sailors after he got to know them, so that you can excuse their love for the sea,”
I flip through the pages, “Listen, ‘I was growing fond of these Arabs, especially those ‘Sinbads’ riding on the bow, because Sinbad himself, if there was ever one, cannot endure the adventures these sailors have.’”
Noura stares at me.
“Alan’s book title refers to the Kuwaiti sailors,”
“I know that, Bu Hussein. You already mentioned this before,”
I smile at her, excusing myself, “I’ll go get changed.”
In my cabinet, Noura fixed a special drawer for clean sailing wear.
A few days ago, my eldest grandchild Nassir told me, “One of the sons of Al Rabbah sends his greetings to you.”
I looked at him, and he added, “He sees you when you visit his grandfather’s store, Ahmed Al Rabbah.”
An image of the store and the young man flashed through my mind. Nassir smiled, “He really admires your sense of style. He once said, ‘Your grandfather always radiates in his cleanliness and neatness, his clothes are always ironed; his traditional cloak, sandals, the scent of incense, and Agarwood oil.’”
“Your friend is flirting with me,”
Nassir chuckled, “Oh, come on, Grandpa. Everybody knows how fashionable you are and how meticulous you are towards your appearance.”
He became silent for a few seconds before adding, “My friend says: ‘Your grandfather’s fragrance precedes him.’”
I wear my winter sailing gown and headcloth. I stop by Noura, looking at her in farewell.
“Godspeed. Have a safe return,”
I step outside.
My house is situated in Kaifan, right across Al Shamiya. There is nothing but the white noise of passing cars. The amiable dirt path separating my house from the sea is gone. My eyes no longer gaze upon the water every time I open the door. Its dewy scent used to rush to me, greeting me; it used to cling to me, accompanying me.
The weather is cold, it is February. You have become old, Ali. Now you have to account for the weather.
Two days ago, when I began flipping through the pages of Alan’s book, the photographs taken stoked a yearning blaze in my heart. I saw my ship and my Captain’s chair. I saw myself standing beside the helmsman. Before me appeared the mast, the sail, the sailors, the songs, and the ports. I recall Yousif Al Shirazi’s words, “You are the greatest mast, oh Nokhitha,”
My youth, my travels, and my desire to explore port after port, and city after city with my friend Al Nokhitha Abdullah Al Qitami when business called on me. I reminisced about my good relations, my presents to my friends the Sheikhs and the tribes’ dignitaries across the beaches of the southern Arabian peninsula.
Abdullah used to say, “As much a spendthrift as ever!”
I would smile at him and answer, “Public relations is a trade,”
He would stare at me still, and so I would continue, “Giving brings joy to man.”
These photographs awakened in me memories of days long past. I saw numerous faces. I didn’t know where they came from. I saw the mainsail being hoisted into a favorable wind, the jib raised right after, accompanied by the cries of the sailors’ prayers:
Oh God
Oh God
Oh God
Here we go
On You, we rely
Oh God
On You, I rely
My soul is a chest for these memories.
I was seven years old the day I finished memorizing chapter A’amma and chapter Tabaraka of the Holy Quran. I studied under my father’s friend, the Mullah, for a year. I used to walk to his house every morning with the neighborhood kids and sit on a palm frond mat. He used to sit in front of us, with his long cane, his hennaed beard, and his resonant voice. He taught us how to read and write and do math.
I remember a particular incident, when he told me, “You have a good memory. If God wills, you’ll be an Imam one day.”
“I am going to be a Nokhitha.” I replied.
“An Imam is better than a Nokhitha.” I fell silent. His voice emitted irritation and I did not understand why he became angry.
“My father is a Nokhitha, and I will be just like him,” I repeated.
He suddenly raised his voice, yelling reproachingly at me, “Silence! Do not talk back to me!” He pointed to the place where mischievous children get bastinadoed, “This will be the punishment for loud mouths!”
I resented his yelling at me, and I was irritated by his threatening. I imagined myself put on my back, while two kids raised my wicker rope wrapped ankles. I pictured his long cane fall upon my feet. I detested sitting in front of him. Quietly, I stood up after a while, leaving the kids and the frond mat under the hot sunshade. He yelled at me, “Sit down!”
I ignored him, and thus he grew louder, “You boy!”
One kid got up to hold me down and so I kicked him before he got his hands on me. I left the Mullah behind me, the place where we gathered, the kids, his long cane, and his bastinado. Barefoot, I returned home.
“Your friend the Mullah shouted at me and threatened me with foot whipping! I will not go tomorrow!” I complained to my father.
“What happened?”
My father asked me to continue my studies with the Mullah: “After you finish with the Mullah, you will be admitted to Al Mubarakiya School.”
“I won’t go to the Mullah, nor Al Mubarakiya!”
He looked at me as if waiting for me to make up my mind and measure my resolution. I announced, “I have learnt how to read and write. Now, I’ll sail.”
Suleiman’s car is approaching. It draws nearer … it stops. Abdulwahab gets out. Suleiman’s voice coming from the vehicle, “Good morning, oh Nokhitha!”
The mention of that word makes my heart flutter. I reply, “Good morning to you. Are you ready?”
“We bought everything we need,” Abdulwahab answers. Then he points to the front seat, “Please.”
He always insists that I sit in the front, next to his brother Suleiman, who is driving. He says, “You are Al Nokhitha and Kaifan’s mayor.”
The ride from Kaifan to Al Sha’ab Sea Club, where the anchorage is, takes less than half an hour.
“It is cold today,” Suleiman tells me.
“The sea will be warm,” I answer him.
“If there were any fish,” comments Abdulwahab jokingly, then he adds, “Last time …”
“Be a bit positive!”
“God is kind.”
I sit next to Suleiman. He turns the steering wheel, and we rush towards the harbor.
Taleb al-Refai is a Kuwaiti novelist and short story writer, born in 1958. He is the author of a number of works including The Shade of the Sun(1998), Petty Thefts (2011) and The Dress (2009). In 2002, he won the Kuwaiti State Prize for Literature for his novel Scent of the Sea. Between 2003 and 2008, he worked for the Kuwaiti National Council of Culture, Arts and Literature and edited the monthly arts review, Jaridat Al Funoon. He is the head of the Al Multaqa Prize for the Arabic short story, founded in 2015 and run in partnership with the American University in Kuwait, where he teaches creative writing. In addition to writing fiction, he has published several literary and historical studies. He was Chair of Judges for the 2010 International Prize for Arabic Fiction and his novel Here was longlisted for the 2016 Prize.
Arua Al Adl is an English teacher with an MA in translation studies. Her interest in translation began to bloom when she was 15, reading a copy of The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Now, years later, that passion has never subsided. Although she is currently busy with teaching her students, when it’s translation time, she’ll be happy as a clam.