One morning I climbed a fig tree, and through its branches I saw Asiya, the daughter of the man who owned the orchard. She was coming along slowly towards the tank. Bad luck, I thought. She's going to see me up here, and tell that father of hers. He's like my father; he never smiles. She looked this way and that, stopped walking, and listened to the sounds around her. Then she continued hesitantly, looking in every direction as she went, taking her steps with great care. She untied the sash of her pyjamas and pulled off the jacket like a bird getting ready to fly. The whiteness of her skin burst forth. Again she turns and looks around. She is not in a hurry. She seems to be listening for something. I am overcome by anxiety. One fig falls out of my hand, and the one in my mouth suddenly goes down my throat. The basket leans to one side, and half the figs fall out.

The sun has already appeared. The circle of red on the shining white mist of the sky was like an egg that had been broken onto a blue plate. The animals and birds and insects have begun their morning praise of Allah. When a donkey brays, its sound drowns out the songbirds, doves and roosters. She is undressing. Asiya, she is taking everything off. Her pyjamas slide down like a curtain falling. She's all undressed. Asiya, she's naked. Asiya's naked. How bright she is! Full breasts, their points protruding. Below, black hairs outline a triangle.

My trousers are too tight. They hurt in front. She takes two slow steps towards the tank. My discomfort in front grows worse and worse. Her long hair covers her from behind. She stoops over, and I am afraid she may break in two. Now her hair falls forward over her shoulders and no longer hides her back. Below the point where her white flesh divides there is a slight darkness. My mouth tastes as though I had been eating honey, and every part of me itches. My nipples ache and my trousers hurt. A sweet seizure, a feeling of release, and then delicious relaxation. I'm going to fall out of the tree. I almost fell.

She still hesitates, then she steps into the water. The stone steps are slippery. I am afraid she may fall. I worry. She looks at the water and all around at the orchard. She scoops up water to her armpits and lets it run down. She lets it run over her breasts, and splashes a little between her thighs. Then she pours it over her head and jumps in.

I climb down from the tree and creep along the ground until I reach the pyjamas, which I seize and quickly hide among the bushes. Then I crawl again to the tree and climb back up, waiting and grinning. I devour the figs greedily, delighted with my game. She swims beautifully. The way she plunges beneath the surface and bobs up again reminds me of a wild duck. I had heard about the swimming prowess of mermaids, and it seemed to me that she was like one of them. She is on her belly, her back, now on one side, now the other. She pushes to the bottom of the pool, and comes up dancing like an empty bottle on top of the water. What a delight it is that she should not know I am here, that she should imagine herself completely alone!

She climbs out shivering, stares in astonishment, and begins to search wildly for her pyjamas, darting this way and that distractedly. When she sights them, she puts them on and dashes through the orchard. I am left laughing in the tree, but once again a donkey covers all sounds with his braying.

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Last modified on September 5, 2011  | © Telegram 2005