The Funeral of the Machine
By Fouad Elshayeb
Translated by Amr M. El-Zawawy
The wife spoke after a long silence, nervously running her fingers through the hair of her child:
“So you are still determined to sell the three mules?”
The husband, lying half-reclined, replied:
“It’s settled… finished.” Then he added in a resolute tone: “You’re crazy. Why shouldn’t I sell them? Don’t you know that anyone traveling to Damascus in a camion spends an entire long day on the road—from morning until evening—while by motorcar he arrives in an hour and a half? What am I supposed to do with the mules after that? Leave it alone, woman. Their only destination now is the house of decay…”
Suddenly the outer door—leading to the single-room house, the stable, and the attached yard—burst open. Two boys rushed in shouting in amazement and delight:
“A motorcar! A motorcar!”
One of them ran back the way he had come, still leaping and dancing. The second lingered a moment, pulling his brother from his mother’s arms and dragging him outside while shouting:
“Aziz’s motorcar… Aziz’s motorcar has come!”
Jum‘a cast a look of contempt at his wife for her stubborn persistence, as though the boys’ joyful excitement were proof enough that everyone shared his opinion—even children. He merely uttered:
“Hah!”
He tightened the broad leather belt around his waist and stood in the doorway overlooking the village square.
As for the wife, who never ceased defending the camion and the mules, she could scarcely digest this new surprise: automobiles had now reached their village. Was it because, like many women, she felt events only belatedly?
The husband leaned wearily against the doorframe and said:
“It’s finished… done… my livelihood is gone. I’ll have to look for another . I’ll begin by selling the mules after this journey.”
The wife could no longer remain silent. She adopted a tone of gentle reproach while sewing patched on her husband’s vest:
“Madman… madman. Does your heart really allow you to sell Sabih?”
The husband replied, his interest returning:
“Sabih… Sabih… And will this animal save us from hunger? Welcome, Sabih! Though he is the cause of your happiness, you infidel. What a fine omen he once was for you, you fool. How fortunate his coming was for us!”
Sumayya began to sob loudly, as women often do when the last means they possess to prevail over men slips from their grasp. Meanwhile the husband continued speaking:
“I will travel. I will sell the mules in Damascus. Curse the hour!”
“You’re mad,” he said. “Are you crying over Sabih… over an animal? Is he your father… your brother?”
“You’re the only madman here, son of madmen,” she replied angrily. “Do you think the price of three mules would be enough to buy even one wheel of a motorcar? Don’t you know that a single hair from Sabih’s tail is worth all the automobiles in Damascus?”
The husband calmed somewhat before the woman’s outburst and said:
“It doesn’t matter… it doesn’t matter. I will never again be a driver—neither of a motorcar nor of a camion. I will open a shop. Strange feet, woman, have begun to tread the soil of this land in growing numbers. What use to me is the white star on Sabih’s forehead, or the thick hair of his long tail? You’re mad.”
“Of course,” she replied. “You want to make yourself into an effendi. What bad news!”
This time the husband deliberately tried to provoke her. Pushing her lightly in the back with his foot, he said:
“Get up… get up… and look at that herd of gazelles.”
“Gazelles? What do you mean?”
“Women… girls… legs… the world… people… By God, Damascus!”
“Of course,” she said bitterly. “You want to open a shop—and all you lacked, you one-eyed dog, was to keep company with the girls of Damascus!”
*
Meanwhile the inhabitants of the village had all flocked toward the square and gathered around the automobile, speaking of the wonders of the age and the nearness of the world’s end. The children danced as though at a wedding. The women whispered and exchanged glances, each secretly wishing she were Aziz’s wife.
That very evening Jum‘a’s camion, with its white sail raised, departed toward the city.
Aziz’s automobile sped off the following morning.
In the city Jum‘a tried in vain to sell his mules. Their price had suddenly dropped so drastically that the sum of their value did not equal—as his wife had said—even the price of one wheel of a motorcar.
So, he postponed the final sale until another journey and prepared to return to the village.
What he hated most was the thought of returning once more in his miserable camion.
Early on the morning of the fourth day of his absence Jum‘a raised the white canopy over his cart and repaired what had come loose in the wooden crate behind it. Only one customer boarded with him from the khan, where travelers usually lodged: old Abu Samaha, who had come down to the city a month earlier seeking treatment. His son, a laborer, had spent money on him in vain; and when he despaired of his recovery he left him in the khan and arranged with Jum‘a to carry him back to the village for a price—provided he arrived safely.
Alongside Abu Samaha the camion carried a lame camel, a single duck, and three goats.
The caravan moved slowly and solemnly, swaying to the right and to the left. From time to time one could hear the groaning of the injured camel and the moaning of the sick old man.
As for Sabih, he had been tied to the rear of the camion, since he was no longer needed.
He was not pleased with this arrangement.
His face looked humiliated, and his long tail drooped miserably. He would rather have led the caravan bravely than be tied to the back like a lame donkey.
The cart advanced slowly and heavily through plains and valleys for three-quarters of the day and three-quarters of the road. As the sun began to decline from the dome of the sky, a whirlwind of dust rose behind the camion. Soon it cleared to reveal Aziz’s motorcar devouring the road and filling the wilderness with its roaring.
When it drew near the cart and the villagers inside the automobile recognized their old camion, strange emotions surged in their hearts. They leaned out of the windows, seized by a sudden exhilaration, intoxicated by triumph, and began shouting and singing.
Their excitement mounted until they felt a fierce urge to take revenge on Jum‘a, on Jum‘a’s cart, and on everything connected with Jum‘a. As the car passed alongside the cart, they began pelting him with whatever they held in their hands—clusters of grapes, melon rinds—laughing loudly as they did so.
Then the automobile sped ahead, stirring behind it mountains of dust through which the eye could barely see.
Jum‘a was forced to stop. Pulling at the reins of the frightened mules, he cursed automobiles, their inventors, and everyone who bought them.
When he recovered from his stupor a moment later and the clouds of dust began to disperse, he turned toward the belly of the cart while wiping his dust-covered moustache with his sleeve.
There was no movement.
The duck had fled. One of the goats had disappeared. The camel had battered its head violently against the sides of the cart until its skull was bloodied; now it lay stretched across the whole space.
Old Abu Samaha slept heavily—as though he were already dead. Jum‘a would have liked to know what had happened to his sick passenger, but he disliked interfering in matters that did not concern him, especially in situations as awkward as this one.
As for Sabih, who had been stirred by the strange sight of the motorcar, he had tried to break free but failed. Instead he lashed the air with his hind legs.
Jum‘a turned his head sadly and shouted at the mules, waving the long whip. His face was streaked with blood and dust as the cart resumed its grinding movement over the stones of the road.
“It’s finished… it’s over,” Jum‘a mumbled. “That infernal machine has killed eight lives at once—besides the chickens and donkeys it has run over since it entered the village and carried us away to the city… Eight lives: a husband and a wife, three mules, and three children.”
A wave of hatred surged within him. He grew furious, cursing wildly, almost raving:
“It’s finished… my livelihood is gone. The owners of this machine wish us harm—they plot against us. They have killed us… they have killed me!”
He began striking the two animals savagely with the whip—on their heads, on their backs, wherever it happened to fall. Maddened by pain, they leaped forward violently, and the cart behind them rocked and swayed like the mast of a sailing ship tossed by heavy waves in mid-sea.
The sun descended toward the horizon of sunset as the cart approached the last valley—the valley whose slope climbed toward the village before the road curved downward into it. The mules quickened their pace; a new energy entered them. It was the sign that the village was near. The tired animals had caught the scent of the stable, the hay, and the rest awaiting them.
Sabih raised his head to look through the white dome of the canopy toward his master sitting in the front seat. The fire of anger had long since died in the man. He sat hunched over, as though weeping.
In the bottom of the valley Jum‘a saw Aziz’s automobile standing still.
His astonishment was great when he noticed the passengers scattered around it. From afar they resembled a shattered hive from which the bees had fled.
He stood upright on the seat and shouted at the mules to hurry. No sooner had he advanced a little than two men separated from the group and walked toward him.
What had happened? What was the news?
His heart began pounding violently.
The bandits had attacked them…
Foaud Elshayeb (1911-1970) is considered the second pioneer of the short story after Ali Khalqi, who published his only collection, Spring and Autumn, in 1931. Al-Shayeb’s first story, The Widow’s Son, appeared in the Lebanese magazine Al-Duhur after winning first prize in a short story competition held to mark the magazine’s launch on January 1, 1934. In the same year, another story of his, Maktoub, was published in two parts in the November and December issues. This story, however, was overlooked by all references discussing al-Shayeb and was not included in his collected works. In 1943, the Lebanese magazine Al-Adib published his story The Spinster in its December issue. A year later, his only collection, The History of a Wound, was released by Dar al-Makshouf in Beirut, featuring ten stories. He also wrote fourteen unpublished stories later included in his complete works issued posthumously by the Ministry of Culture.
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 Psycholinguistic Research, 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), Selections from Arabic Poetry (Kindle, Amazon), and English-Arabic Dictionary of Rare and Difficult Words (Lincom).
Other stories in the Classic Short Fiction series, curated by Amr El-Zawawy:
Ameen Rihani’s ‘The Crown of Disgrace’
Mohammed Hussein Heikal’s ‘The Atonement of Love’
Mohammed Hussein Heikal’s ‘The Second Family’
Ibrahim Abdelkader Al-Mazni’s ‘On New Year’s Eve’
Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani‘s ‘The Last Bullet’
Mahmoud Saif al-Din al-Irani’s ‘My Secret Picture’
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’