Classic Short Fiction: Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani’s ‘My Secret Picture’

Palestinian short-story writer, publisher and translator Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani (1914-1974) writes about love, loyalty, and gender expectations in the early twentieth century.

My Secret Picture

By Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani

Translated by Amr El-Zawawy

If you happen to take a walk through the Ashrafiyya district, and find yourself flummoxed by that strange, teeming crowd—jostling people chock-a-block, the clamor of life and its deafening uproar, which strikes your ears with the stentorian sound of the horns on trucks laden with sacks of rice, sugar, and fine white flour—if your eye is caught, here and there, by long files of stately camels, plodding patiently beneath their heavy burdens—and if you marvel to see flowing cloaks and twisted headbands and elegant red fezzes mingling with proud Circassian caps, and, every now and then, a foreigner’s hat stealing timidly between them, unable, for all its shyness and soft stealth, to hide itself completely— and if you linger a while to feast your gaze upon the rich arrays of goods displayed by the shopkeepers, which include striped silken robes, white and brocaded cloaks, bright garments, camel saddles, horse trappings, copper vessels, shoes, slippers, and more—

And if you are dazzled by the frenzied expansion of building and urbanization in this great quarter, spreading into new streets and markets—then, despite all this, and though you may be swept unwillingly along by the tide of that ceaseless activity, you will soon notice one great granary and  scales-selling store that seems to impose itself upon the whole bazaar like a powerful man who claims the foremost seat among his peers, or a grand edifice that dominates its surroundings and commands every gaze.

And just as you might never suspect that this great man was once of humble origin, lifted by fortune and social upheaval to his eminence—or that this proud structure once stood as mere ruins—just so, it would never occur to you that the wealthy merchant Sayyid Hamdan, in his fine European suit, his fluttering silk shirt and richly patterned tie, his shining British shoes, his elegant fez, his gold and diamond rings glinting on many fingers, and his large gold watch with its heavy chain circling his wrist—all flashing a brilliance that blinds the eyes and boggles the mind—was, only a few years ago, a poor man lost in the crowds.

Yes, Sayyid Hamdan once kept a small, dim shop right here in Ashrafiyya. There, he sold a few Turkish brooms, some clay jugs and pitchers, and some grain—mostly barley and wheat. In those days, he was content with how modestly life had treated him. Back then, his greatest happiness was to afford, on the two great Eids, a cheap and colorful cotton robe, a thick pair of shoes from his neighboring cobbler, Abu Farhud, and a worn jacket from the Armenian second-hand dealer Jaqmaqyan, whose dark little shop hid in a narrow alley off al-Rida Street.

But his wife, Aisha, was his ill-fate—a quarrelsome, sharp-tongued virago whose sonorous voice rang out in their home from dawn to dusk. She met him every evening with a frowning face, round eyes searching for squabbles, disheveled hair, and lashing tongue. Yet Sayyid Hamdan could never deny that she possessed one virtue that pleased him: she was shrewd and frugal, instinctively knowing how to save “the white coin for the black day,” as she always reminded him, while scolding and snapping at him.

Then came the Second World War—and Sayyid Hamdan’s heart sank to his shoes. He had heard of such wars and feared he would again face hunger, nakedness, and ruin, as he had in the first great war. But fortune smiled where he had expected calamity. Instead of losing it all, he found that one coin now yielded ten. He could not tell how it happened; it was as if everything he touched turned to gold. “This is no war, woman,” he would say to Aisha in moments of good humor. “It’s a treasure—an open treasure!” She would curse the devil and reply sharply, “Bless the Prophet, man!” “Peace be upon him,” he would hasten to say. “Imagine—one coin for ten! Who could dream of that?” “Hush, hush,” she would mutter. “May God protect us from your evil eye. Be grateful! Remember the Quranic verse: ‘If ye give thanks, I shall increase you.’” He would sometimes tease her, and she would say, “What a silly man you are! These earnings are for our children!” He would never get mad at her, but would kiss her head and go to sleep undisturbed, such that his snoring was heard all over the house!

And so the days rolled by. The narrow, ever-muddy streets of Ashrafiyya widened; the old, dim adobe shops gave way to great stores of fine white clean stone. And, before long, the once uneven ground with all its potholes was leveled and paved with gleaming black tarmac. With every turn of the war’s wheel, commerce flourished in the district. Wagons, camels, donkeys, and men of all kinds thronged the streets, buying, selling, and dealing in an unending stream of money.

The humble broom-seller became a merchant of rice, sugar, and grain. Hundreds of swollen sacks came and went through his great warehouse in ceaseless motion. Sayyid Hamdan seemed the very barometer of the district’s prosperity. As his wealth grew, Ashrafiyya expanded with it, as if his fortune and the neighborhood were bound by a single destiny. The old Sayyid Hamdan—with his soiled robe, drooping mustache, neglected beard, weary eyes, and hunched back—was gone. The years had wrapped him in a long period of oblivion. Now, in his place stood a new Sayyid Hamdan: prosperous and sleek, his face full and fresh, his eyes bright with health, his back straight and proud, his mustache curled once more in dignity. He had become a man of standing. He was wealthy, influential, and widely respected, a “pillar of commerce,” as a hungry journalist once described him in a flimsy newspaper, after sharing a cup of coffee and securing a “delightful interview.”

Yet in the midst of all his comfort and opulence, Aisha remained his burden, just as she had been in the days of hardship. This shrewish, unlovely woman—this crone of his past—was she to remain his wife forever? No. He would avenge himself for the long years of deprivation and emptiness. He deserved another wife—a houri from paradise, fair and golden-haired, with blue eyes, who was soft and playful. And from Damascus she came, this living dream, this bride of his desire. When she entered his house, he felt, for a time, that he had truly entered heaven.

On that very day, however, another newcomer entered his great warehouse. It was a small oil painting sent to him in payment of an old debt by a poor Turkish artist, Ziya al-Din Bey. A painting—what was he to do with it? What was it worth? Where to put it? Best to get rid of it, he thought. He had accepted it reluctantly, this jot of color on rough canvas. What value could such trifles hold? What drives people to waste their entire lives mixing these meaningless hues? Yet at last, he decided to hang it on the wall behind his desk, so that his back might be to it when he sat in his fine office.

Everything in his warehouse spoke of harmony. Sacks, scales, and measures were all in their proper places. Only that painting broke the order. What business had it there? And his new wife, Hanaa—white, fair, with rosy cheeks and blue eyes—was she not also made of colors? The fire of passion had faded, yet her smile—ah, that smile!—still played endlessly upon her lips. What did it mean? Hanaa too was color and mystery, something beyond his grasp. Her silence, her calm, her faintly mocking smile. All of it filled him with a sense of smallness and defeat. What secret lay behind it all?

The painting and the woman became twin puzzles haunting his mind. Then one day, the painter himself dropped by. Sayyid Hamdan welcomed him eagerly, offered him coffee and a fine cigarette, and asked him to reveal the secret of the picture.

“This picture, my dear sir,” the painter said, “is not in its proper place. It does not belong here—it is alien to its surroundings.”

“Never mind that,” Hamdan said, impatiently. “Tell me its secret. It seems like more than just a woman’s portrait.”

“You must learn first how to look at it,” the painter said. “Some things cannot be understood when you’re too close. Come—step back a few paces.”

They moved two meters away.

“Now look,” said the painter softly. “Do you not see her beauty? The velvet of her skin, the roses on her cheeks, the blue of the sea in her eyes, the gold gleaming in her hair? Is that not beautiful?”

“Yes… yes indeed,” Hamdan murmured.

“But look deeper—beyond the colors. The blue eyes—don’t you see the sadness in their lids, how the gaze turns inward, into the soul, not out to the world? And that faint smile—it is not joy. It is the smile of resignation, silent and sorrowful. This is a woman whose hopes life has betrayed. Do you understand now?”

“I do not,” Hamdan said blankly.

“Then it would be better,” said the painter, rising, “to be rid of it.” He bowed slightly. “Peace be upon you.” And he left.

Sayyid Hamdan sat at his desk again, going through his account books, but his mind drifted. He thought of Aisha—ugly, loud, unkempt Aisha—and realized that, despite it all, she was nearer to his heart than Hanaa with her golden hair, blue eyes, and secret smile. He turned to the picture behind him, stared at it a while, then shook his head in despair and went back to his figures.

The painter’s final words echoed faintly in his mind, like something whispered from the depths of his own being:

“Then it would be better… to be rid of the picture.”

And slowly—almost as if in a dream—he began to understand.

Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani (1914-1974) was a Palestinian writer regarded as one of the pioneers of the short story form. He inaugurated his literary career with a collection called The Start of the Race (1937). He was an eminent author and scholar of modern Palestinian fiction, with all his literary works written in prose. Al-Irani possessed remarkable mastery of Arabic, Persian, French, and English. In 1935, he founded and owned Al-Fajr, a weekly magazine published in Jaffa. Fluent in French and proficient in English, he began his career as a teacher before serving in various positions at UNESCO offices in Amman. Beyond his pioneering contributions to the short story, al-Irani was a distinguished intellectual and journalist whose literary journey began amid the cultural vibrancy of the Mediterranean world.

Amr El-Zawawy is Professor of Linguistics and Translation, Faculty of Education, Alexandria University, Alexandria, Egypt. He has also practiced written and simultaneous translation for more than 20 years now. He contributed important articles to different international scholarly journals, including but not limited to Babel (John Benjamins), Journal of Psycholinguistics, California Linguistic Notes and Advances in Language and Literary Studies. He published a number of books and translations, including Studies in Contrastive Linguistics and Stylistics (Novika, USA), Exploring the Cognitive Processes of Simultaneous Interpreting (Lexington Books, USA), Seminal Studies in Linguistics and Translation (Cambridge Scholars, UK), and Selections from Arabic Poetry (Kindle, Amazon).

Image: Georges Seurat – Seated Woman with a Parasol.

Other stories in the Classic Short Fiction series, curated by Amr El-Zawawy:

Shehata Ebeid’s ‘Fidelity’

Ibrahim Al-Mazni’s ‘Eve and the Viper’

Muhammed Taymour’s ‘The Eid Whistle’

Muhammad Taymour’s ‘A Boy Who Became a Man’

Marouan Abboud’s ‘Among the Problems of the Village’

Mahmud Taymour’s ‘The Grand Funeral’

Ibrahim Abdelkader Al-Mazni’s ‘Mimi’

Issa Ebeid’s ‘Lady Ihsan’