New Short Fiction in Translation: ‘The Man Who Was Killed’
This story originally appeared in Luay Hamza Abbas’s collection حامل المظلة (The Umbrella Holder).
The Man Who Was Killed
By Luay Hamza Abbas
Translated by Hend Saeed
There was a man who left his house around six or half past six every morning, after he had shaved and put drops of a thick, golden cologne onto both palms and patted it into his cheeks, breathing in its light, tangy lemon scent, which makes him feel as though he were passing by a fruit orchard, the scent of which filled the air.
Then he put on his clean shoes, which he had cleaned with a brush as a final task before going to sleep. He went out with quiet steps. In the winter, the sun met him in the first moments of its rise, and in summer, it brightened everything. He’d pick up a pebble from the nearby sidewalk. He would select a specific pebble after looking through several of them. He would turn them over in his hands, choosing one that called out to him, one that was comforting. He’d put it in his pants pocket and feel it from time to time. Its muted touch would give him comfort, and its solid curves would give him the feeling that he was carrying something precious and unique, not just a pebble that he had picked up from a nearby sidewalk.
The man crossed a short bridge with an iron railing to reach a patch of land where the scent of lemon faded away, as did the shine of his shoes. He continued his quiet stroll along its dirt pathway until he approached a stand-alone two-story house with a wide, rounded balcony and wide windows with dark wooden awnings. He had always imagined it as an abandoned summer home that belonged to the owner of a large farm, back in the days when the land had been filled with tall green trees.
He stood close to the house’s stone fence, gazing at its veranda with its tall, rusty pillars.
He took the pebble from his pocket and felt it one last time, twirling it between his fingers before leaning back to throw it, along with all the heavy loneliness he held within him. He threw it at a specific window, the glass of which he’d broken long ago.
He often hits his target and would hear the faint sound of the pebble falling inside the room. Other times, he would miss. His hand would tremble or his strength would fail him, for some reason, and the pebble would strike the edge of the window or the wall. This would not change his feeling at all; his morning task had been completed.
A pebble falling into the room, or hitting the edge of the window or the wall, was the final point in his morning walk, after which he’d return, and his entire day and night’s burden would be lightened, and all he could think about was the moment when he threw his pebble at the window.
This particular morning, as soon as he turned around, he heard a sound in the distance. This was not the sound of the wind carrying its scents, but the sound of a car engine. He listened and was sure; yes, it was a car engine. He noted to himself that it was a truck, perhaps a medium-sized truck.
He often saw some of them driving by in the distance.
On the bridge, the truck faced him, each of them on one side of the bridge. He moved to the side as soon as he got on the bridge, leaning on the iron railing to let the truck go past. In the truck’s window, he saw a woman gazing at him, her head turning toward him as the truck went by, her eyes wide, as if they had been open for a long time. Under each of them was a pale gray arc like an inverted crescent, and her hair was pulled back. The woman turned away, as though she’d had enough of seeing him, and now the face of the driver appeared, a man with a thick mustache and a thick white beard. This man was looking at him.
The man in the truck was surprised to see a man walking on the bridge this early in the morning. He hadn’t agreed to live in the house until he’d felt assured that his only condition had been met: that the house was far from any noise. However, seeing the man leaning against the bridge’s railing was a sign that he might see other people, whose voices could be raised at all hours.
The next morning, the man went out as usual, at around six in the morning, trailed by the scent of lemon. He had the same feeling, that he was passing by a fruit orchard. He headed out, with his quiet steps and clean shoes, toward the nearby sidewalk. He picked up a pebble that called him and that made him feel comfortable. He put it in his pants pocket and proceeded to walk across the bridge.
The man with the thick mustache and white beard had not slept; since his wife had fallen ill, he could not sleep. He’d drowse for a few moments before he went to look at his wife, hoping she had closed her eyes. He would approach, barefoot, with steps that could scarcely be heard.
He looked at her face, which was getting paler every day. Ever since she had fallen ill, she had not closed her eyes for a single moment. At first, he thought that fatigue alone would be enough to throw her into the pits of sleep, but she never slept. Time passed, and her eyes hardened into little stones. That was what he’d told the doctor.
The doctor turned to the woman, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“Become stones? No, no, they’re just open.”
That was what the doctor had said before advising them to stay away from every sound. Any sound, no matter how low, could disturb a woman and increase her illness and insomnia. The husband agreed to move to this house once he’d made sure—visiting the house more than once—that it was isolated and far from any sound.
In the room, he opened the window with broken glass. This was a room that he’d entered many times before. He wondered why there were pebbles scattered on its floor. At night, he’d brought his rifle into the room, unable to believe how many pebbles were inside it. He moved in the darkness as though he were walking on a dirt path. He approached the window and then retreated as soon as he saw the man from the bridge near the house’s stone wall, watching him from afar. He saw the man take his hand out of his pants pocket, rub his fingers, and then lean back and throw something toward the window.
Oh my God, it was a pebble! A clean, black pebble flew through the window and fell on the floor of the room. He turned to pick up his rifle, which was leaning against the wall, repeating a movement to which he’d long been accustomed: bending down and picking up his rifle. Perhaps he was an professional hunter, or a night watchman, or an military officer who had served in a long, cruel war that he’d imagine would never end. He might be all those who are familiar with bending slightly to pick up a rifle that’s leaning against a wall.
The noise of the rifle being picked up was enough to attract the attention of the pebble man. He looked up again toward the window of the room, astonished by the sound that broke the house’s silence. And at the very moment when he tried to turn around, having convinced himself that he had not heard anything, nothing at all, the other man fired his rifle, and the bullet struck, with a smart hit, exactly above the eyebrow of his left eye, leaving a small, scarcely noticeable hole.
A few moments passed, after which the three closed their eyes: the sick woman lying on her bed, her eyelids trembling for the first time in a long time; the pebble man, who had not yet thought about completing his morning task; and the rifleman.
Luay Hamza Abbas is a renowned Iraqi novelist, literary critic, and short story writer from the southern city of Basra. He received his MA (1996) and PhD (2002) in Arabic Literature from the University of Basra, where he currently teaches. In addition to his works of fiction, he has published four texts of literary and cultural criticism. Abbas’s talent as a storyteller has been acknowledged through numerous national and international awards and recognitions, including the Creative Short Story Award from the Iraqi Ministry of Culture (2009) and Kikah Best Short Story Award from London (2006).
Hend Saeed is a writer, translator, moderator & founder of the Bridge Literary & Cultural Consultancy. She is also our Iraq editor.