Classic Short Fiction by Ali Al-Douagi
The first time this short story, by Tunisian author Ali Al-Douagi (1909–1949) was collected in a book was in 1969, published posthumously.
My Neighbor
By Ali Al-Douagi
Translated by Amr El-Zawawy
The apartment next to mine stood vacant. A group of students had lived in it, and on the day I heard they intended to leave the house to its owner, I thanked God both openly and secretly. Ah, how immense my delight when I saw the moving cart piled high with carpets, lamps, and sacks of every size and color!
At last, praise be to God, we were rid of the student neighbors. The alley fell silent after their shouting, their quarrels, their endless recitations—recitations so uniformly loud that no matter how acute a person’s hearing, he could scarcely distinguish one from another.
I was waiting for my new neighbors with eager anticipation. The landlord had informed me that they were “a family”: people who neither shouted nor studied, and who kept no dogs.
My wait wasn’t long. A messenger arrived carrying a letter from my friend S., informing me that he was in the throes of something. He didn’t make it clear whether he meant a death struggle or a quarrel, but he added that he was waiting for me with the utmost impatience.
There was nothing for it but to reread the letter and resolve to visit this afflicted friend. Mr. S. lived in the city of Bizerte, and travelling there was easy enough once I had chosen to go by car. The only difficulty that remained was getting the fare.
So, I abandoned the house, abandoned my vigil for the new neighbors, abandoned the prospect of seeing the ladies descend from the carriage beneath the watchful eye of a jealous paterfamilias.
I left all that behind and set out in search of a kind-hearted man, generous enough to lend me forty francs—peanuts, as you can see. In due course, I found my benefactor in the person of a Jewish elder who rescued the distressed for a modest surplus of fifty percent.
Imagine my astonishment when I discovered my friend S. treating himself for his throes—or rather for his cold—in one of the bars of Bizerte!
I told him about the money and the hopes I had sacrificed on the altar of his feigned affliction. He laughed at my foolishness and clapped for the waiter, who remained in our service for a night and two days.
Thus Fate—by which I mean Fate and Providence together—deprived me of the spectacle of watching the family descend from the carriage under the jealous supervision of its head.
The landlord, lifting his eyebrows toward his white turban, said:
“Either you pay, or you leave the house!”
“Yes,” I replied. “God willing, I’ll pay.”
“God willing! God willing!” he retorted. “You failed to pay the first installment three months ago, claiming that the students disturbed Your Excellency’s peace! And now, what disturbs you?”
“Something I’d rather not tell you,” I answered. “Paying money!”
“Of course. That troubles you. And intend to acquire the house by the simple method of never paying the rent?”
“I have no desire to own such a crumbling ruin. Praise be to God, I possess enough palaces in Paradise everlasting.”
“And now?”
“Listen, sir. Now that you have delivered us from the students’ uproar and blessed us with this charming woman as a neighbor, I’ll pay what is due. Meanwhile, please keep this receipt, the value of which I shall settle within three months at most.”
I forgot to mention that the neighbor who moved into the apartment during my absence from the capital was, according to the landlord, a Swiss woman. She was about thirty years old and fair-haired.
And she hadn’t descended from the carriage under the eye of a jealous husband, since she was divorced, in love, and utterly enthralled by the African sun.
12 May
Yesterday, I learned from my neighbor that she wasn’t Swiss at all. The truth was simply that she had once accompanied a wealthy Swiss gentleman, who accustomed her to a life of luxury, to skiing on the snow, and to speaking with a German accent.
As for herself, she was Portuguese through and through.
She greatly admired my sun-browned complexion and my dark curly hair. What’s more, she wanted to have a fur coat that cost seventy-five francs.
So, this very morning, I purchased the splendid garment for her after persuading the shopkeeper to reduce the price by two percent. I considered this a profitable transaction—as the lady herself declared when she received the coat.
How sweet the word merci sounds when pronounced with a Portuguese accent—or rather a German one!
I should very much like to buy my neighbor another coat, provided she repeats that enchanting merci in the same tender manner.
15 May
I invited the lady to lunch at my home, and she accepted with Swiss amiability.
She was enchanted by the dish of ʿuṣbān, the stuffed belly of a sheep, and I felt a little jealous. She was equally fascinated by the old brass kettle, after I had expatiated at length upon its historical significance.
I told her:
“This was fashioned one hundred and twenty years ago for one of the kings of Kairouan!”
And I thank God that my mother knew no French; otherwise, she would never have forgiven me for adding so extravagantly to the age of her humble kettle.
The landlord:
“Money! The money!”
Me:
“The money?”
The landlord:
“Pay, or I will seize your possessions!”
Me:
“And upon what, precisely, will your seizure fall?”
The landlord:
“Upon the furniture, naturally.”
Me:
“Be my guest.”
The landlord:
“What do you mean? All right, I’ll seize it.”
Me:
“I told you. Go ahead, go ahead, go ahead! Seize what remains. Seize the brazier and the water heater. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The landlord:
“So, this is the impudence people speak of! This is impudence indeed, if impudence exists anywhere in the world! The first installment wasn’t paid because the students disturbed the gentleman’s tranquility. The second because His Excellency was absent from the capital. As for the third—I shall take you to court. By God’s will, you’re going to leave this house humiliated after I’ve attached your property. I said I’ll sue you—and sue you I shall!”
Me:
“No. Don’t do that.”
The landlord:
“And why not? You’ll see!”
Me:
“It would be in your own best interest not to. If you sue me, I’ll demand compensation from you.”
The landlord:
“What? Compensation? Has a wall collapsed on top of you?”
Me:
“A serpent collapsed on top of me! Do you understand? A Swiss serpent—or perhaps a Portuguese one—which has sucked me dry of everything I possess. And you’re responsible!”
The landlord stared in alarm.
Encouraged by his alarm, I continued:
“Yes, you! Didn’t you tell me she was the widow of a Dutch marquis? Didn’t you tell me, when I asked about her, that she was the daughter and sole heiress of the King of Nails? Didn’t you say all this, when the truth—as has now become apparent—is that she’s half-mad and owns nothing but a frosty face and a toiletry case?
The daughter of the King of Nails indeed!
She’s left me nothing in the house except a single nail manufactured in the factories of her esteemed father. And on that solitary nail now hangs a sieve.
Please keep your receipts. I’ll settle its value after another three months have passed—provided, of course, that no charming neighbor of the same caliber takes up residence in the apartment next door.”
Image: Old Port of Bizerte, Tunisia, circa 1930.
Ali Al-Douagi (1909–1949) was a pioneering Tunisian writer, poet, journalist, playwright, caricaturist, and leading figure of modern Tunisian humorous literature. Born in Tunis into a modest bourgeois family, he lost his father at an early age and left formal education at twelve. Through extensive self-education and engagement with literary circles, he developed into one of Tunisia’s most influential literary figures. As a member of the literary group Taht Essour (“Under the Wall”), he contributed to the emergence of a modern Tunisian cultural identity and used satire to criticize colonialism, social injustice, and hypocrisy. In 1936, he founded the satirical newspaper Al-Surur. Douagi wrote short stories, plays, radio dramas, songs, poems, and caricatures, often portraying the lives of ordinary and marginalized people. His works frequently explored encounters between Eastern and Western cultures, advocating coexistence and mutual understanding. Although he died of tuberculosis at the age of forty, his literary legacy endured through collections such as Sahirt Minhu al-Layali (Sleepless Nights Overtook Him). Today, he is widely regarded as a foundational figure in modern Tunisian and Arabic literature.
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:
Fouad Elshayeb’s “East Is East (Inspired by Paris)”
Fouad Elshayeb’s “The Funeral of the Machine”
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’