Classic Short Fiction: al-Irani’s The Last Bullet

The Last Bullet

By Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani

Translated by Amr El-Zawawy

“It required a great jolt—indeed, an all-over tremor shaking us from head to foot—before we could wake from the slumber of centuries.” So the man said. I do not know where I saw him. Did I really see him at all? Such people resembled one another: the expensive, brand-new suit; the perfectly knotted tie; the spotless white shirt; the meticulously combed hair; the measured pace; and the words released with deliberate composure. Words that drifted slowly through the smoke that emerged from his cigarette as they rose into the air…

These words were always spoken to companions and to guests in the lounges of some grand hotel or some elegant café. And the others, too, blow out words—words with their cigarette smoke. Words upon words. It was expected… everything foretold the setback… the catastrophe… the nakba… Words, words… and sometimes the strangest of smiles along with them. I could never understand everything, and their words bewildered me. More still their smiles.

The man resumed, with solemnity: “It required a jolt… indeed, a great tremor before…”

But I was already holding the tray of drinks, the empty glasses upon it. I had to turn my back and walk away.

They’re all the same on the terraces and in the halls of hotels—here in Amman, and back then in Jerusalem, when Jerusalem was ours.

“You should be happy.” That’s what they told me. A man like those others said it—perhaps he was fifty, or a little younger, or even older. Their ages are hard to guess; only the fine suits are always the same, the costly ties, the smooth hair, those words… The smiles, and the occasional nod of the head.

Why should I be happy?

He said it calmly, feeling the weight of his own importance and wisdom: “You’re fortunate to have found work after you were displaced.”

Believe me, he was a good man, dignified, his words ringed with gold—no doubt about that. But why should I be happy? Because I lost my home there, in Jerusalem? I loved the little garden at that house. It and the house were mine. I inherited them from my father, who had inherited them from his father, and he from his own father and grandfather.

My mother used to tend the garden. She would give the ends of her days generously to that greenhouse and its dewy flowers. Our house laughed—yes, laughed—with every plant and bloom. And my good, elderly mother would laugh, too, sitting every afternoon at the edge of the garden, the hose of her water pipe between her lips, its water bubbling and gurgling, the rose petals within rising and falling with each breath. My mother laughed, and I laughed, and my children laughed, and the whole house laughed with us.

One of those children—Ahmad—was killed by a bomb shrapnel there at the edge of the garden, when the Jewish forces entered Jerusalem. When we fled, Ahmad was not with us. He had died and been buried in haste, as though he were something forbidden. And my mother was not with us, either; she died before she could see any of what happened. Before the house was lost, and the garden…

I worked for long years as a servant in cafés—Jerusalem’s cafés, its quarters, its alleys, its countless rising and descending paths. I would climb and descend the steps of the Christian Quarter many times each day. I always saw monks and nuns, always heard the ringing of bells. Often my pockets overflowed with coins—tips from customers. With time, I became a waiter in the hotels: once in the Orient, once in the Ambassador, once in the National. And still I saw those gentlemen, heard their golden words, carried their orders, and returned with the emptied glasses—emptied completely. Emptiness was so vivid I could almost touch it.

How, do you think, did I leave my city? Who could believe I would ever do such a thing? I always imagined myself a stone, ancient and immovable, in its very walls.

My father’s shop was very small, very cramped—barely enough for him and his little stall of greens and fruits, and always a basket of eggs in a corner. He took pride—may he rest in peace—that he sold fresh eggs, large, unlike any other. From that little shop, you could walk left and find more shops like his. More stalls, more baskets of eggs. Then the coppersmiths’ and upholsterers’ shops. After that came the offal market where heads, tripe, spleen, and trotters were sold. When my father returned at dusk bringing a head and trotters, I would leap with joy, imagining in advance the small pond of broth and meat—the fetteh, so delicious! I would lick my fingers afterwards and smack my lips for a long time.

To the right of the shop, a few steps led to the broad road that ended at a small, low gate. This gate opened onto the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Tourists passed by there more than anywhere else, buying souvenirs: rosaries, icons, crosses, caravans of tiny camels, holy books inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and many things fashioned in Jerusalem and Bethlehem of olive wood, shell, and sometimes silver.

How many times I wished to tell those gentlemen how I had spent my childhood, wandering barefoot and disheveled through Jerusalem’s quarters and alleys, wearing a tattered Palestinian qimbaz or a faded nightshirt. How many times I wished to set the empty glasses aside for a moment and tell them what I had felt in those sacred courtyards—the courtyards of al-Aqsa Mosque, the pools and fountains, the lofty Dome of the Rock, the echoes of leisurely Qur’anic recitation, the murmur of worshippers, the call of muezzins, the chanting of priests in the Sepulchre, the glow of candles, the tolling of bells, the crowds of pilgrims and visitors from every land and race. How I longed to tell them of my companions—the boys of Jerusalem: Mahmoud, Yusuf, Ali, and Salih… of our games, our running, our laughter, our noise, our belief that Jerusalem—with its domes and minarets, its mosques and churches, its houses, alleys, paths, and walls—belonged to us, was our home.

But every time, I cringed, silenced and cautious. Their words—exhaled with their cigarette smoke—would choke me, cut off the path to their hearts. So, I would turn away, hopeless, and return with the empty glasses. Empty completely.

That man said I should be happy.

Once I dared to ask him:

—“And why should I be happy, sir?”
—“Because you escaped with your life, and you found work.”
—“But my son Ahmad died… he was killed there.”
—“And you lived. That is happiness.”
—“And I left my home and my garden, and the flowers my mother planted.”
—“No matter. Your house will return to you.”
—“When, sir?”
—“One day.”
—“God willing… may God hear you.”
—“It needed a jolt… a great tremor before…”

I did not stay to hear the rest of the phrase. I walked on with the empty glasses. Empty. Completely.

I longed to tell him a story I had lived. But when he began uttering the same words, blowing them into the air with the smoke of his cigarette, I fell silent and locked my tale inside my chest.

I wanted to tell him that it was last June, on a day like this one—the day the Jewish forces entered Jerusalem. That day, bomb shrapnel killed Ahmad at the edge of the garden. Never mind speaking of myself. That day, I fought alongside my comrades for hours. We managed to kill some of them. We fired bullets and hurled grenades, repeatedly facing death. But when they poured in with their infernal machines, we withdrew, leaving behind our weapons and ammunition. We could not continue fighting. It was over quickly.

A few of our soldiers remained in their positions atop the walls—no more than three or four. I wished to tell the dignified gentleman how, from where I hid, I witnessed that battle. Many saw it as I did. Those few poured bullets and grenades upon the intruders—one hundred Israeli soldiers, perhaps more. I saw them terrified, some fleeing, some killed, some left behind. Reinforcements came to them, yet the bullets from those three or four youths roared and whistled and struck their targets. And the invaders unleashed their machine guns, their rockets, all their fire upon the boys’ few positions. Their screams and groans rose to the heavens; by God, they begged for mercy in our own language.

Three or four of our soldiers had kindled that terrible battle, blotched the ground with the blood of the intruders. Suddenly, I saw one of them—one of our boys—raise his rifle to his head and fire a single shot. He collapsed against the wall. I understood at once: it was his last bullet, saved for that moment, so he would not fall alive into the invaders’ hands.

I covered my face with both palms and wept, biting my fingers. I wept like a little child. I have never cried for anyone as I cried in that moment. Ah, those hours… etched forever in my memory.

When the storm finally died down, I understood what had happened to his comrades. They might have been from Karak, Tafila, Jenin, Nablus—God knows. Each had saved a single last bullet.

I wished to tell this tale to the gentleman who spoke grand words, blowing them with his cigarette smoke into the air, as he crossed one leg over the other and sank into the soft, comfortable chair, saying: I should be happy.

Whenever I tried to speak, his words pushed me back. So, I would return to the empty glasses—empty, completely—twist my steps aside, and walk away.

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).

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

Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani’s ‘My Secret Picture’

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’