A sudden flash of light blinded him momentarily before he caught a glimpse of a menacing dark shadow swiftly sliding towards him before it came to a screeching halt a hair's width away from his waist. He jumped out of the road, held on tightly to the post of the traffic lights at the corner of Sloane Street and looked back. Still in shock at his failure to notice the speeding car until it was almost too late, he stepped back on the road, lowered his head level with the window and apologized. The cab driver was no less shocked but he was angry too. As blood rushed upwards to accentuate the colour of his red face, he grabbed the steering-wheel like it was the neck of the intruder. He then stretched a hand out of the half-opened window and raised his index and middle fingers. It was no sign of victory that he made. He mumbled things that touched London’s entire non-red-faced population and sped off.

Hisham followed the taxi with his eyes until at a similarly very sharp angle it swerved right. He shook his head in dismay. Had fate been less cruel, his body would have been now a mangled heap. Had this happened, life would have ceased but so too would the pain, the remorse, the anxieties, the guilt and the mysterious human affliction of remembering. Fate has spared him this time probably for something worse. What would it be? He asked himself. He wasn't sure but he was certain it must be so.

He shook his head again, this time to hasten a coming promise and cautioned against delays, shut off his brains and turned back. To reach the Grand Store it would only take five minutes, even in a congested Brompton Road. But he was neither looking forward to, nor certain he was capable of covering the short distance. Around him, people’s faces shone with delight and anticipation as they emerged from Knightsbridge Tube Station and looked West to the grand store’s dome shimmering towards a sky whose gloomy texture could not be softened by the myriad or so light bulbs that glowed on the building’s brownish exterior.

By habit, he stopped in the station’s left corner in front of the evening newspaper vendor. He stood by the green metallic barrier, glanced at his watch and looked up as if in anticipation of her emerging any moment. She would disembark at the underground station, climb the twenty-six steps of the stairway, emerge from the entrance and wave to him. She would wait impatiently and, once a gap opened through the crowd, run to him. She would lift her face and print a light kiss on his lips but hasten to take refuge at his side to shield from the onlookers a face that had betrayed her longings. She would then wrap her arm around him and whisper away any impatience he might have felt for her being a little more late than usual. She would then pull him by the arm anxious to race to the Grand Store before the daylight faded.

His memory no longer retains the exact number of times they met at the station's entrance at this time of year. They always met. They could have met today, just as they could have met this time last year. But, alas! the meeting of last year did not take place and he knows now that this year’s will not happen either even if the dials of all the watches spin forever or come to a sudden halt. Knowing and certain, yet he closed his eyes hoping that he could visualize her racing up the stairway. But he reopened them quickly, before his wish had a fair chance to materialize. He looked at the building hesitantly. This is Harrods, the saying goes that it made more communists than Marx did, so what would it make of him today? Would his memories show some compassion, or would they self-ignite to consume the leftovers of a huge fire?

His mind did not respond, his eyes volunteered an answer. He reached under his spectacles to the edge of his right eye and wiped. He wasn't quick enough. A teardrop escaped him. It fell on his finger. In an environment where the temperature had slipped below zero, the tear droplet radiated a chill and touched a heart already living in emotions not much warmer than the weather. Inside of him, something popped up, questioned the purpose of coming to the tube station, reminded him how he returned from the last trip a candle blown out by a sudden puff of wind and how he lamented the young flame turning into a line of white smoke that thinned, stretched and faded out before it could leave a trace in the memory. That was a year ago, what is likely to happen now? Is he to go back home and close the door behind him softly lest Wissam hears him, weep calmly so that he does not hear himself, and remember delicately so that she does stir in anguish at the memory's knock wherever she is? Will he find something that could strengthen his forbearance, or will he himself fade out like the puffed candle light?

Fade out? That’s what happens when one passes away, isn’t it? One lives a while in the memory of those who love him until they too fade out becoming memories for others who love them, and so on. That’s life, is it not? Memories bequeathed by one to the next and by the next to another until a day comes when all fade out and become memories no more to anyone. That’s the end. But before the end comes it’s a different story. In the beginning the mind and heart reject the nightmarish bereavement. They erect a tall wall between themselves and death, hoping it would go away. But, like the persevering prying neighbour, death sticks out its forehead to remind them that the only option available is for them to open the door. They ignore him. They shut windows and close shutters every time the wind blew their way impregnated with recollections and memories. All to no avail. Death is always there for them to see, that’s until they are finally overtaken by despair and a will to finally  follow.

This happens to a few who escape memories to a harsh, dreary existence. Others are less successful, or less fortunate!. For them the mind eventually awakens, concedes, throws up his hands to the heart, and looks at the road ahead, reluctant to take the first step, but once taken, begins to accept a new reality no less miserable. Time brings him around, he resumes his life and, in living, forgets. One cannot always mix living with other kinds of perceptions. The mind might be able to do that, but the heart is something else, something totally different. It does not concede or forget, nor does it permit anyone to concede or forget. It does not care to live. It doesn’t think rationally, nor does it want to do so or have anything to do with the rational. Why? It is the heart, is it not? What does it have to do with the mind and what does the mind have to do with it? Give it Harrods and all its treasures, but it won't accept. Isn’t it a heart? One would think that it’s just an organ with nothing to do but pump blood around. Well, it’s a lot more than that: it feels, thinks, jumps and sings; when unacceptable things do happen, it gets broken, ravaged, and it does to the body what no disease can. Why not? It’s created for that purpose, is it not?

And what’s the secret of this memory which is almost an entity all of itself? Why does it breathe life into things and death into others? Why does it open up to some things but not others? Why does it curl up quietly like the grass serpent and suddenly jump on the oblivious to danger to bite him in the brain? Whence does it get the steel-drill strength with which it engraves its record in the brain though it is made of mist, or something far more weaker? Why has it retained this particular smile but not the myriad of others that he had seen on her face? Why this particular whisper? Why does it teem with thousands of images at one moment and turns into a total void at another? When does it rest? That’s the important thing, when does it rest? Who’s the moron who theorized that forgetting starts twelve weeks after a devastating bereavement? If meeting this moron was possible here and now, he would grab him by the collar of his coat and alert him to his mistake. He would give him the living example that obliterates the foundations of his theory. Grinding his teeth, hissing he would say to him:" Here am I, son of a bitch, it’s already seventy weeks since she died and yet I am not only unable to forget but I am retrieving memories I never thought existed in the twenty-four years I spent close to her. How could that be?

Oh! if only he could, he would raise his fist and punch his forehead demanding an answer from the brain enclosed therein. He would scream, why? But he can’t do such a thing in front of all these souls who flocked from all corners of the world in pursuit of a measure of happiness, whose only fault is that they happened to be in the same place as he is. And what good would come from punching one’s brain just because it doesn’t know? There are millions of brains that do not know. Is it that every time a brain fails to give an answer an angry fist will rise and punch it? But why him, of all the people, gets punched in the dead of the night? Why him? Where’s the justice in all that has befallen him? Oh! What’s justice got to do with death or death with life? This is the life that was accepted by fifty billion souls before him and will be accepted by fifty billion more after him. The wheel will keep spinning until God inherits the earth if we leave anything behind to inherit, so why complain? Did life invite us to her or were we as infants forced ourselves on her? We live life for moments while death takes hold of us for eternity. Life has all the mortal limitations but death has none. Man expends most of his effort trying to subdue life, whence is he to get the strength to subdue death - the ultimate winner of all and the final victor?

Hisham stood by the green barrier waiting for no-one or anticipating anything in particular. Nor did he want what the others around him wanted. A youthful chap elbowed his way through the crowd and stood nearby in a waiting posture. One day will come and this young man will stand there waiting for nothing, just like himself, so he and his love better grab as much happiness as they could before the ultimate winner arrives to collect another prize. The train may break down and delay the ultimate winner, or he may stop to collect a windfall prize from a person who embraced the trembling rails in a moment of mortal sanity, but he will resume his trip and arrive at his destination come what may. He will, will he not? He always arrives carrying two shrouds, the first for the lover who passed away, the second for the lover who was spared for a while. It must be the biggest sale ever, and no body should rush - it is there for perpetuity! Two for the price of one! He brings death to the one and denies life to the other. Prior to arrival, the colleague in waiting would think he knew something about the ultimate winner, but when all is said and done, nothing is actually known. Has anyone returned from death to tell? Orpheus, the Greek of ancient times, did once descend to the under world in search of his other half of life only to find life afterwards more deadly. Not much of a help, was it?

Standing at the entrance of the tube station, it occurred to Hisham he could be experiencing somehow the longing the Greek enchanter had while standing at the gate of the under world. A deadly serpent had just fatally bitten the Greek’s beloved Eurydice, as a malignant cancer had just struck his wife in the brain, not allowing her to ever regain say another word. If he had the lyre of the ancient Greek, he’d go where nobody dared to go, gladly venture into the very abode of death and never stop searching until he finds her. To prove his love to her, he’d do all that and more. But, alas! he doesn’t know the route to death. Death does see him, surreptitiously approached and, like the black taxi, stops at a hair’s width from him - his time not arrived yet so, reluctantly, he has to wait again.

If the youthful chap standing near him were the Orpheus that had just emerged from the underworld, they’d share the grief, talk about death and longing and raise their voices so that they could hear each other in the blaring noise of traffic behind them. If they were to meet each other, the handsome Greek would put the lyre under his arm -- like this -- and would swear that he didn’t look back except to investigate a soft groan he thought had come from Eurydice as she tripped on her way up. If Orpheus were with him, he’d pull the lyre’s left string until blood clogged his veins and confide to him that the gods of Olympus had planned it all along and didn’t want to allow such a dangerous precedent to take place. What did they say to him when he asked for a second visit? They said:" You shan’t return to see her as long as you live." Imbeciles! Who wants to go on living with her dead? Where’s this more true than in the case of Orpheus? Alive he descended to her in the abode of the dead and later found himself dead in the abode of the living. What’s the difference between the two worlds then? If that’s what happened to the fosterling of the gods of Olympus and the son of a king and a muse, who’s he, Hisham, that worse will not befall him?

Oh! If the bereaved Greek were to open his heart to him, he’d let his heart melt with his. He’d assure him of his complete understanding. In turn, he’d recount to him what happened in the last minutes of a dear life, how she raised a trembling hand under the pale light and begged of him to keep her company lest she passes away with him not around, or is alone when the ultimate winner arrives carrying his Egyptian linen. If the Greek stopped at the entrance to the tube station to catch his breath, he’d recount to him how she awoke as night spread its veil, nodded through the window for Wissam to approach, then opened his clinched fingers one by one, rested his hand on her cheek , pursed her lips, and squeezed her eyes. Peace and serenity engulfed her suddenly, she wiped her tears off, smiled and passed away. Just like that, not a single word uttered: wiped her tears, smiled and passed away. How does a person die smiling? How can you say good by to a smiling face that doesn't want to go away?

Having heard his story, the Greek would reach to his lyre and play tunes that break the strings of the hearts of those who hear them. He’d play other tunes and the shopper's would gather around him, empty their pockets of change and move on feeling sorry for his wife, but more so for him. As shoppers dispersed, he’d collect the change and build it into a heap which promptly rises to his enchanting tunes just as his beloved Eurydice had done. To the amazement of those around, the heap would then follow him to the stairway. But before descending into the tube station, the Greek stops all of a sudden, turns back to him that is waiting by the green barrier and says: So long, stranger. Beware your heart, like a deadly serpent it too is a great killer. Then he disappears.

Hisham knew who the Greek longed to be with when darkness reigned. But aware he will not find her, he will sit in a corner, dimly lit as his heart is, and play the lyre until sleep carried him to another nightmare. Eurydice will not come to him and he will not go to her. But the Greek has his lyre. With a tune played artfully, memories are relived, with another, memories are forgotten. In both cases loneliness is less painful. Where could he get that kind of magical lyre? Who’d teach him the art of playing music with the better part of his life already gone? What could he do to evade this satanic whisper with its incessant nightly attacks that render him unable to sleep? And how.. how tonight too could he carry himself back home where he’s sure to face the image of his failure to help her rise in her deathbed for a drop of water to quench her thirst?

To the entrance of the tube station came a girl whom Orpheus, and all the titans of Olympus who betrayed him into hell, would gladly abandon their mountain top and pursue. As she stopped briefly, she sparkled with life and radiated charm all around. Soon a young man appeared in the vicinity. She immediately rushed to him, threw herself in his arms, closed her eyes and allowed his kisses unlimited access. She then pulled him from the arm towards the grand store and he obliged wrapping his long overcoat around his body. From a back tube station exist giving on Sloane street, surfaced an old, fully-built woman. Forging ahead in a trot, she repeatedly turned back to signal to her husband her impatience with his slow pace. The old fellow prepared to shift into a higher gear but, seeing the evening newspaper vendor, shouted : Just a minute, I’ll buy a paper. She stopped, blamed, scolded and resumed her trotting. He threw his arms in the air and followed but not before he looked at the vendor apologetically as if to say: "I know, I know, she can be pain but I still love her."

Loneliness suddenly hit as Hisham was joined in his corner by a woman who is more likely than not to trot alone to paradise. He moved spontaneously, left the corner to pass through a secret tunnel to the past. Near Charles Jordan, he came across a bunch of round rosy faces who raised their tiny eyes towards him, covered their little mouths and laughs with their hands and hurried to catch up with their mothers. Behind the little round rosy faces came another round face. Having involuntary blocked her way, he smiled, begged for her pardon and stepped aside. She smiled back, excused herself, thanked him and resumed her way heading towards the tube station. As she passed him, the air filled with an exquisite fragrance and the smell of Christmas, roasted chestnut and humidity. The sweet combination rushed into his chest which held firmly on to it, preventing it from leaving.

His feet carried him at the pace of the shoppers, passers-by and tourists. Having no particular destination to head to, he walked along with the others, stopped when they did, felt their excitement, saw their eyes canvassing all the illuminated displays at once, and noticed how their fingers longed to touch and fill in bags of bright colours. He stopped in front of Russell & Bromley’s. This is where she once bought a pair of tall boots she never used, or was it a handbag that met the same fate? He’s not quite sure. At Watches of Switzerland’s she bought a ring, or maybe a bracelet. He isn’t sure either. Did she buy something at Mapping & Webb’s? He recollects that they both entered the store several times. During a lengthily session she inspected most of what was in the windows but she didn’t buy a thing at the end. That's not true. She did buy a battery for her brother for a watch he had been presented by the Emir of Qatar, or was it the Sheikh of Bahrain? He doesn’t remember. He no longer remembers anything, nor does he see anything. All those watches, rings and bracelets he used to stumble on under the bed, on the bathroom window or in the pen box, where have they gone? He doesn’t know and he does not care. The person to whom the stuff meant something has gone carrying nothing, so why should he care? He won't be carrying anything with him either. Nobody will.

Oh! Here it is, Kutchnisky. He knows this store well and what she had bought from it. But he doesn’t know why the manufacturer of the store sign choose to put two dots on the letter 'i' instead of one. No sweat. Who bothers to raise his head to study sign letters when the displays teem with eye-catching novelties, besides him? It was a habit of his to read store signs, but in that particular instance he waited for more than the two minutes she had promised to spend in the store and there was nothing else for him to do. Of course he didn’t buy in this two-minute story, the smallest time unit for the best of wives is the quarter of an hour. But she did come out, eventually. She approached him dangling a wristwatch whose metal sparkled under a lone street lights.

"For Wissam?" he asked, admiring the watch.

She laughed. "Not this time. For his dad."

"My birthday? I'm sorry. I've totally forgotten."

She laughed again. "I'll remind you of your birthday when it comes but it's not today."

"What’s the occasion, then?"

"Presents don't have to wait for specific occasions. You're getting this one  because you are a good man."

This is what she always says when he gives her housekeeping money at the beginning of each month, but it wasn't the beginning of the month then. Besides what's this 'good' thing? "Good! Is this the only status I’ve earned after all these years?" he complained, "Good!"

"All right. For being a good lover, then."

She uttered the last sentence discreetly but her longing gave her whisper an echo that reached the ears of an old American or Canadian tourist who happened to be standing nearby. The latter sighed and applauded softly, arousing in the process the curiosity of his wife who, upon learning of the explosive whisper, turned to Hisham and his wife and released a sigh of gratitude for having rekindled her memory.

He smiled to the tourist couple, turned and, whispering into her ears, said: "How do you know if I were a good lover or a bad one?"

"I know."

"How?"

"You don’t give me a chance to think of another man."

"Maybe you too won't give me a chance tonight to think of another woman?"

"Maybe," she said as her eyes glowed. She quickly screened the glowing with a giggle and pulled him by the arm through a side-street to the grand store.

He searched in all displays at Kutchinsky for a wristwatch like the one she bought but soon forgot what he was looking for. He saw an emerald-studded lady’s watch, felt his back-pocket for his wallet and entered the store.

"A gift, Sir?" Proposed an alert young salesman.

Pulling out his wallet, he gave a description of the watch he wanted.

"Excellent choice, Sir," the salesman said, adding with a smile, "for Madame or mistress?"

"For both."

"Two birds with one stone - a precious stone may I add," he remarked with the same smile.

The words rang and echoed in his memory just as they did in the caves that the lyre player visited in the under world. Two birds with one stone. Two shrouds for the price of one. The first for the one who passed away, the second for the one who stayed behind.

His eyes filled up with tears but he opened them as wide as he could to deny them any possibility of escape or release. He waited.

The salesman put the warrantee inside the case which he wrapped and presented with the same smile.

It was too late to consider but the salesman took note. "You don’t like it? You could choose another gift if you so please.".

He shook his head, thanked him and handed him a brown card.

"Could I tempt you to another gift?"

Again he shook his head but suddenly remembered something. "Do you have a lyre,?" He asked.

"No, Sir. Sorry."

"In that case, nothing is tempting, for now."

He signed the invoice and left.

He threw the watch case in the air and when it descended to the level of his arm opened his palm nonchalantly and grabbed it. Wow! He blurted as the watch landed in his hand. Its metal had soaked enough of the chill of a day on the verge of a night that as sure to come as the shroud carrier is. Here he is at Knightsbridge, standing in front of Kutchinsky, not knowing if he’s to turn left in the direction of the grand store, or right in the direction of his flat on Kings Road. He could as well head north or south, he could also criss-cross all four directions. But he will not find her no matter where he headed. In his hand rests the emerald-studded watch. It is wrapped in Christmas paper, has a brand new battery and even traces of the odours of the Swiss plant which manufactured it. It is all ready with nothing missing except finding its new owner. But where’s this new owner to be found? At the grand store? In the hundreds of galleries in there a good number of males is paying, carrying, grumbling and dragging feet. In their company is no less than a battalion of females, how could she not be one of them? There’re over six billion living souls in the world, half of them females, but she is not one of them, why so? The gift that has no owner is hardly a hundred grams in weight but it is heavy and large as the bell of Notre Dame. This doesn’t go well with the laws of physics. It’s happening nonetheless, and why not?

In his gloves his fingers swelled and each single one of them burned with prickling. His feet also itched, anxious to walk. Where to? He felt a strong urge to discard the miserable gift, or give it away. Is it possible to approach a lady and hand her the emerald-studded watch? What would he say when asked to explain why he thought she wanted a watch from him? Wouldn’t she think he wanted something in return, threw the gift in his face and scream for help? The police arrived, how would he convince them of what he cannot convince himself? He could give it to a gentleman, except that the reaction would be bad if it was refused and worse if accepted.

"Interested in a lady’s watch, sir?" A young man who popped up from nowhere, said to him in a heavy foreign accent. Pushing an open watch case, he added, Cartier, I assure you. Genuine. Willing to sell half-price, only five-hundred pounds. Yes?"

He opted not to inspect the watch, only to evaluate the seller.

"I say: where are you from?"

"Brazil," he claimed, adding promptly, "the watch I bought it a gift for my wife, but lost air ticket and must return immediately. My wife’s been hit by a car bringing our only son home from school. She’s been hospitalised for critical surgery. Our situation is dire. Would you buy my watch? Buy it, please!"

"In your country there is a proverb that says: the happiest two days in a man’s life are the day he weds and the day his wife dies. Right?"

"What?"

He repeated the saying. The peddler twitched his lower lip, raised his shoulders and tried a second time. To no avail, though this time Hisham, certain he’s been the victim of a swindler, made a counteroffer.

"I, too, have a watch. Care to buy it. Half-price?"

The peddler closed his watch case and went about his business. Fishing for an easier victim? Maybe. Maybe he will stumble upon the old man still trotting and dreaming of a newspaper to end his evening with. Making sure the contemptuous wife is inattentive, he’ll take him aside and whisper into his ears the Brazilian proverb, seeking to assure him that there is some hope in a future without trotting. But the trotter will not be assured, nor will he be fooled. Damn the miserable swindler, he might say to himself, damn the stolen watch and all the thieves. The peddler might meet other foreigners, like himself, to try to sell them the watch and the other stuff clattering in his pockets, all the time dancing and singing the misfortune of a hospitalised wife. He may indeed be lucky in finding somebody willing to buy. But his true victim tonight will most probably be a tourist oblivious to all the bad in the world - just like the one standing with her daughter over there on the right side of Brampton street, browsing the displays of Laura Ashley’s.

"Wow! The mother of all sales is inviting this daughter to buy," Hisham had overheard the girl say to her mother with her eyes canvassing half a dozen garments made of light black velvet, "would her mother oblige, please?"

"Come along, girl," her mum said. "This mother has money only for a gift for your uncle."

He wondered if they were Syrians or Egyptians. Or could they be a Damascene mother and an Egyptian daughter? He wondered without thinking. Hearing them talking, the peddler will recognise a prey. But he will draw closer to test their vulnerability. He will conclude quickly that the mother was the right target, she doesn’t lodge the handbag under her arm and hold the coat collar tight as the British women do. He will take a sweeping look around then advance slowly but steadily to give the impression of a person on an innocent quest of browsing. Once standing beside his potential victim, he will linger for a while to increase her sense of security. Eventually he will snatch the handbag forcefully, slide it under his black leather jacket and disappear in the midst of the shoppers. As for the lady tourist, it’s only after overcoming the mugging lag that she pushes out the first scream, and that will be in her native tongue, even if she spoke English. For the people around, the screams will be heard but not understood, reaction will come too late. In the natural order of things, nobody will move. Someone may, however, volunteer to pursue the mugger, unaware that a colleague will be lurking somewhere down the street so that in case a pursuit developed he will be ready to intervene. How serious the intervention will depend on the pursuer. The lurking colleague will first try to obstruct the way, but if the pursuer showed determination, he will inconspicuously draw a knife and jerk it skilfully leaving the pursuer immobilised with a slight wound. That’s it. The gathering crowd will have a wounded volunteer to look after, thus increasing the mugger’s chance to get away with his miserable booty. Hisham wondered what will he do for the distraught tourist? He will do all he can. He will give her the watch he had bought for nobody, comfort her and suggest that the next time she would do better if she held her handbag under her arm, not on her side. He will also direct her to the police station and…Hisham stopped himself. What business has he now got with other people? Should he care about them? Do they care about him? What does the old singer from Meknes say as he walked the streets of the old city: what business do I have with other people, and what business other people have with me?

He pulled on his gloves until the flow of blood into his fingers was totally obstructed and the prickling stopped. He released slowly. This heart better behave and know its boundaries or go after Eurydice and forget about returning. It is decreed and it shall be. Nothing tears man’s heart apart like longing for his woman. He knows that. He also knows that nothing is more destructive to manhood than loneliness. But the means to reach her have been cut, completely. This heart must know that. There is an abode for the dead, but he doesn’t know where. Some day he will, but not now. He has grieved her death to the top limit of his chest, what more can he do? And why the rush? The ultimate winner will come to him one day carrying the well known. He’ll be told to rise from his bed quietly and to quickly put on his shoes and jacket He’ll then be grabbed by the hand and led away in the middle of the night. That happens, doesn’t it? It’s happened to fifty billion persons before him and will happen to another fifty billion, what’s the hurry? Hasn’t she had enough of laundry, cooking, shopping and putting up with him and all the roughness of life for so many years? Let it be a vacation for her, a long vacation at the end of which she can meet him and he can meet her as if she had never cried or departed. Did she fear that he might enjoy life after her? May he never have a desiring soul, a beating heart, or ears that hear even if the signing came from the Greek enchanter and his magical lyre. He wants noting to do with either of them, nor with the country that begot them.

He had a last look at the grand store to his left. Frustration and the creeping darkness quickly moved his head away. Four months after her departure, he broke through all the barriers that his self-pity had erected before him and entered the building. He roamed all seven floors and left hardly able to see the world around him. For weeks afterwards, he locked himself in his apartment. But tonight, enough is enough. If it is not himself, there’s his son to look after. This heart is not pumping a single drop of blood without pumping a drop of the grief of all griefs. What more can happen? Is he to drop for the people to gather around him and say: Lo! He’s probably! Well, may he go ahead, drop and let people gather around him and say: Lo! He’s dropped dead at last… To hell.

His feet moved again in step with the crowd. His determination and desire to pull himself away from the past pushed him in the direction of the station. From his place, he saw the tourist mother and daughter browsing the right-side display of Laura Ashley’s. They must have visited other stores and returned to the light black velvet garments. There was nothing in their browsing to attract the attention. His attention was caught by something else. From his last place, he saw the Brazilian heading towards the women. He saw him raise his and hand massage his hair three times in a row. After closing in on them with the agility and aggressiveness of a tiger, he saw him maneuver to position himself right in front of them, look back for potential obstacles, and plan an exist to the right. He held his breath. He visualized him jumping on the mother’s handbag and pulling forcefully and, as the strap snaps violently, sliding it under his black leather jacket and retreating. He visualized the woman open her mouth in total shock then take control and start screaming.

As he visualized the entire sequence of potential events, his breath stopped, his feet froze. But what he visualized did not fully materialize. He now saw him stop to the right of the woman and forcefully pull at the handbag, but the strap was stronger than he had expected, forcing the woman to scream in pain and rush her left hand to protect her right shoulder. Undeterred by the screams, he pulled again and this time the strap snapped, leaving him with the handbag. But as the mugger tried to run away, the daughter, driven to extreme by her mother’s distress, sprang at him trying to retrieve the handbag. A terrible shock awaited her. With a fully-opened right hand he hit her in the chest, violently rocking her entire body. With a muffled scream, she retreated staggering before her ankles gave in. As if she still could take more, collapsing bottom first on the solid floor shocked her body anew and sent her head banging on the edge of the display glass.

The mother had attempted to pursue the mugger while all the time shouting in Arabic and waving her arms frantically, froze as she her daughter fell to the ground. She rushed to her, knelt down and gently held her head in her hands to protect her from the glass. Soon a crowd gathered around the stricken women. They exchanged inquisitive looks. None had answers, except for a woman who witnessed everything from a vantage point by the left- side display. She covered her mouth with her palm and struggled with a muted gasp as she sighted the mugger running in the direction of the traffic lights. Pointing her finger, she cried at the top of her voice: Thief! Thief! Instantly, all eyes focused the escaping mugger, including those whose cars waited at the traffic lights. As usual there was no policeman to be seen in the vicinity. Luckily, a passer-by spotted the Brazilian coming straight at him. He opened his arms to block the way but reversed and retreated as he saw the mugger draw a knife and slash the air aggressively.

Hisham, too, witnessed all, including the blade flashing in the near-darkness. He heard calls for alerting the police and the ambulance service. He watched the crowed building around the target women. But he didn’t think of pursuing the mugger. The entire episode lasted for fifteen seconds. He shock his head and puffed. He knew the Brazilian had a colleague ready for intervention at the right moment. He was also now sure that they wouldn’t hesitate to use a knife to paralyze their pursuer. Still, something moved inside him. He found himself overcoming his shock and rushing through the crowd. He crossed the road section leading to Hyde Park, then ran to the opposite street and from there through the median towards Rafael alley opposite Seignior Sassy’s. There he stopped. He wanted to enter the street from under the building that stood above it like a bridge, but all he saw ahead was darkness. Another look at the short street. He hesitated. The mugger could have escaped in any direction and disappeared under the cover of darkness. This is the good possibility, though by no means the good news. The bad possibility is that he might be behind the first curb ahead. Knife in hand, breathing silenced in the chest, he could be lurking for whoever risked a pursuit. Hisham imagined the blade tearing through the skin, the flesh then the very bones of the chest. All that for a handbag? He controlled himself firmly. He attempted to retrieve the stolen handbag but the risk has become too great. Satisfied that he would not waver from doing what he can, he thought he should first attend to the stricken women.

Translated by Mohammed Khaled