The Calligrapher's Widow of Damascus | أَرْمَلَةُ الخَطّاطِ في دِمَشْق
"A tale of forbidden desire where a master calligrapher's voluptuous widow finds unexpected passion with his former student who returns to claim both his teacher's art and his wife."
أَرْمَلَةُ الخَطّاطِ في دِمَشْق
The Calligrapher's Widow of Damascus
الفصل الأول: الحِبْرُ وَالوَرَق
Chapter One: Ink and Paper
في حَيِّ السَّراجينَ بِدِمَشْقَ، حَيْثُ تَفوحُ رائِحَةُ المِسْكِ وَالعَنْبَرِ مِنْ دَكاكينِ العَطّارينَ، عاشَتْ فاطِمَةُ بِنْتُ الوَزيرِ في بَيْتِ زَوْجِها الرّاحِلِ. كانَتْ في الخامِسَةِ وَالثَّلاثينَ، أَرْمَلَةً مُنْذُ عامٍ، جَسَدُها مُمْتَلِئٌ كَثِمارِ التّينِ النّاضِجَةِ، وَعَيْناها خَضْراوانِ كَمِياهِ بَرَدى.
In the Sarrajin quarter of Damascus, where the scent of musk and ambergris wafted from perfume shops, Fatima bint al-Wazir lived in her late husband's house. She was thirty-five, a widow for one year, her body full like ripe figs, and her eyes green as the waters of the Barada.
زَوْجُها، الخَطّاطُ الأَعْظَمُ أَحْمَدُ بنُ سَعيدٍ، كانَ قَدْ عَلَّمَها فَنَّ الخَطِّ العَرَبِيِّ قَبْلَ أَنْ يَأْخُذَهُ المَوْتُ. لكِنَّهُ لَمْ يُعَلِّمْها كَيْفَ تُطْفِئُ نارَ الشَّوْقِ في جَسَدِها.
Her husband, the great calligrapher Ahmad ibn Said, had taught her the art of Arabic calligraphy before death took him. But he never taught her how to extinguish the fire of longing in her body.
"أَيُّها الزَّوْجُ الرّاحِلُ،" كانَتْ تَهْمِسُ لِصورَتِهِ، "تَرَكْتَني وَحيدَةً مَعَ الحِبْرِ وَالوَرَقِ، بَيْنَما جَسَدي يَحْتَرِقُ."
"O departed husband," she would whisper to his portrait, "you left me alone with ink and paper, while my body burns."
الفصل الثاني: عَوْدَةُ التِّلْميذ
Chapter Two: The Student's Return
في يَوْمٍ مِنْ أَيّامِ الرَّبيعِ، طُرِقَ بابُها. فَتَحَتْهُ لِتَجِدَ شابّاً في الثّامِنَةِ وَالعِشْرينَ، طَويلاً كَنَخْلَةٍ، بِلِحْيَةٍ سَوْداءَ قَصيرَةٍ وَعَيْنَيْنِ عَسَلِيَّتَيْنِ.
One spring day, her door was knocked. She opened it to find a young man of twenty-eight, tall as a palm tree, with a short black beard and honey-colored eyes.
"أَنا طارِقُ بنُ عُمَرَ، تِلْميذُ زَوْجِكِ الرّاحِلِ. عُدْتُ مِنْ بَغْدادَ."
"I am Tariq ibn Umar, your late husband's student. I have returned from Baghdad."
تَذَكَّرَتْهُ فاطِمَةُ. كانَ فَتىً نَحيلاً حينَ غادَرَ قَبْلَ خَمْسِ سَنَواتٍ. أَمّا الآنَ فَقَدْ صارَ رَجُلاً، كَتِفاهُ عَريضَتانِ وَذِراعاهُ قَوِيَّتانِ.
Fatima remembered him. He was a thin boy when he left five years ago. But now he had become a man, his shoulders broad and his arms strong.
"اُدْخُلْ، يا طارِقُ. البَيْتُ بَيْتُكَ."
"Enter, O Tariq. The house is your house."
الفصل الثالث: الدَّرْسُ الأَوَّل
Chapter Three: The First Lesson
جَلَسَ طارِقُ في مَرْسَمِ أُسْتاذِهِ الرّاحِلِ، يَتَأَمَّلُ الأَعْمالَ المُعَلَّقَةَ عَلى الجُدْرانِ. لكِنَّ عَيْنَيْهِ كانَتا تَعودانِ دائِماً إلى فاطِمَةَ.
Tariq sat in his late master's studio, contemplating the works hanging on the walls. But his eyes kept returning to Fatima.
"سَمِعْتُ أَنَّكِ تُتْقِنينَ الخَطَّ الآنَ،" قالَ. "هَلْ تُعَلِّمينَني ما تَعَلَّمْتِ؟"
"I heard you have mastered calligraphy now," he said. "Will you teach me what you learned?"
ضَحِكَتْ. "أَنْتَ تِلْميذُ أُسْتاذي. ماذا أُعَلِّمُكَ أَنا؟"
She laughed. "You are my master's student. What can I teach you?"
"عَلِّميني كَيْفَ تَرْتَجِفُ يَدُكِ حينَ تَكْتُبينَ حَرْفَ النّونِ. رَأَيْتُ أَعْمالَكِ. فيها شَيْءٌ لَمْ أَرَهُ في أَعْمالِ أَحَدٍ."
"Teach me how your hand trembles when you write the letter nun. I saw your works. There is something in them I have not seen in anyone's work."
احْمَرَّ وَجْهُها. "تَقولُ هذا لِتُسْعِدَني."
Her face reddened. "You say this to please me."
"أَقولُهُ لِأَنَّهُ الحَقيقَةُ."
"I say it because it is the truth."
الفصل الرابع: الحِبْرُ عَلى الجِلْد
Chapter Four: Ink on Skin
مَرَّتِ الأَيّامُ، وَكانَ طارِقُ يَزورُها كُلَّ مَساءٍ. يَجْلِسانِ مَعاً، يَكْتُبانِ، يَتَحَدَّثانِ. وَفي كُلِّ مَرَّةٍ، كانَتِ المَسافَةُ بَيْنَهُما تَصْغُرُ.
Days passed, and Tariq visited her every evening. They sat together, writing, talking. And each time, the distance between them grew smaller.
ذاتَ لَيْلَةٍ، سَقَطَتْ قَطْرَةُ حِبْرٍ عَلى يَدِها. مَدَّ طارِقُ يَدَهُ لِيَمْسَحَها، فَتَلامَسَتْ أَصابِعُهُما.
One night, a drop of ink fell on her hand. Tariq reached out to wipe it, and their fingers touched.
تَوَقَّفَ الزَّمَنُ.
Time stopped.
"يا سَيِّدَتي..." بَدَأَ.
"My lady..." he began.
"فاطِمَةُ. اِسْمي فاطِمَةُ."
"Fatima. My name is Fatima."
"يا فاطِمَةُ، مُنْذُ عُدْتُ لا أَسْتَطيعُ التَّفْكيرَ في شَيْءٍ سِواكِ. الحِبْرُ يَتَحَوَّلُ إلى صورَتِكِ، وَالوَرَقُ يَحْمِلُ عِطْرَكِ."
"O Fatima, since I returned I cannot think of anything but you. The ink transforms into your image, and the paper carries your perfume."
"هذا حَرامٌ. كُنْتَ تِلْميذَ زَوْجي."
"This is forbidden. You were my husband's student."
"كُنْتُ. وَالآنَ أَنا رَجُلٌ، وَأَنْتِ امْرَأَةٌ حُرَّةٌ."
"I was. And now I am a man, and you are a free woman."
الفصل الخامس: القُبْلَةُ الأولى
Chapter Five: The First Kiss
مَدَّتْ يَدَها وَلَمَسَتْ وَجْهَهُ. كانَتْ بَشَرَتُهُ دافِئَةً تَحْتَ أَصابِعِها.
She reached out and touched his face. His skin was warm under her fingers.
"خَمْسُ سَنَواتٍ وَأَنا أَحْلُمُ بِهذِهِ اللَّحْظَةِ،" هَمَسَ. "حينَ كُنْتُ فَتىً، كُنْتُ أُراقِبُكِ مِنْ بَعيدٍ. وَحينَ غادَرْتُ إلى بَغْدادَ، حَمَلْتُ صورَتَكِ في قَلْبي."
"Five years I have dreamed of this moment," he whispered. "When I was a boy, I watched you from afar. And when I left for Baghdad, I carried your image in my heart."
"لِماذا لَمْ تَقُلْ شَيْئاً؟"
"Why did you say nothing?"
"كانَ أُسْتاذي حَيّاً. وَكُنْتُ أَحْتَرِمُهُ."
"My master was alive. And I respected him."
انْحَنى وَقَبَّلَها. شَفَتاهُ ناعِمَتانِ وَحارَّتانِ. فَتَحَتْ فَمَها لَهُ، وَلِسانُها يَتَراقَصُ مَعَ لِسانِهِ.
He leaned down and kissed her. His lips were soft and hot. She opened her mouth to him, her tongue dancing with his.
"طارِقُ..." أَنَّتْ.
"Tariq..." she moaned.
"دَعيني أَكْتُبُ عَلى جَسَدِكِ بِشَفَتَيَّ."
"Let me write on your body with my lips."
الفصل السادس: الحَريرُ وَاللَّحْم
Chapter Six: Silk and Flesh
حَمَلَها إلى غُرْفَةِ النَّوْمِ. أَنْزَلَ ثَوْبَها الحَريرِيَّ عَنْ كَتِفَيْها، فَظَهَرَ نَهْداها الكَبيرانِ، مُمْتَلِئانِ كَالبَدْرِ لَيْلَةَ اكْتِمالِهِ.
He carried her to the bedroom. He slid her silk gown from her shoulders, revealing her large breasts, full as the moon on the night of its completion.
"يا إلهي،" هَمَسَ. "أَنْتِ أَجْمَلُ مِمّا تَخَيَّلْتُ."
"My God," he whispered. "You are more beautiful than I imagined."
قَبَّلَ رَقَبَتَها، نازِلاً بِبُطْءٍ. لِسانُهُ يَرْسُمُ حُروفاً عَلى جِلْدِها.
He kissed her neck, descending slowly. His tongue drew letters on her skin.
"ماذا تَكْتُبُ؟" سَأَلَتْ بِصَوْتٍ مُرْتَجِفٍ.
"What are you writing?" she asked with a trembling voice.
"أَكْتُبُ اسْمي عَلى قَلْبِكِ."
"I am writing my name on your heart."
وَصَلَ إلى نَهْدَيْها. لَفَّ لِسانَهُ حَوْلَ حَلَمَتِها، فَأَنَّتْ بِصَوْتٍ عالٍ.
He reached her breasts. He wrapped his tongue around her nipple, and she moaned loudly.
"لَمْ يَلْمِسْني أَحَدٌ هكَذا مِنْ سَنَواتٍ!"
"No one has touched me like this for years!"
"سَأُعَوِّضُكِ عَنْ كُلِّ لَيْلَةٍ وَحيدَةٍ."
"I will compensate you for every lonely night."
الفصل السابع: الخَطُّ الأَعْظَم
Chapter Seven: The Greatest Calligraphy
نَزَعَ ثِيابَهُ وَوَقَفَ أَمامَها عارِياً. جَسَدُهُ رَشيقٌ وَقَوِيٌّ، وَذَكَرُهُ مُنْتَصِبٌ بِفَخْرٍ.
He removed his clothes and stood before her naked. His body was lean and strong, and his member stood erect with pride.
"أَرَيْتُكِ أَجْمَلَ خَطٍّ عَرَفَهُ العَرَبُ؟" سَأَلَها.
"Have you seen the most beautiful calligraphy known to the Arabs?" he asked her.
"وَما هُوَ؟"
"And what is it?"
"خَطُّ جَسَدٍ عَلى جَسَدٍ."
"The calligraphy of a body on a body."
اسْتَلْقى فَوْقَها، بَطْنُهُ عَلى بَطْنِها المُمْتَلِئَةِ. دَفَعَ نَفْسَهُ داخِلَها بِرِفْقٍ.
He lay above her, his belly on her full belly. He pushed himself inside her gently.
"آهٍ يا طارِقُ!" صَرَخَتْ. "اِمْلَأْني!"
"Ah, Tariq!" she cried. "Fill me!"
بَدَأَ يَتَحَرَّكُ بِإيقاعٍ بَطيءٍ، يَدْخُلُها عَميقاً ثُمَّ يَخْرُجُ لِيَدْخُلَ مِنْ جَديدٍ. كَأَنَّهُ يَكْتُبُ قَصيدَةً بِجَسَدِهِ.
He began to move with a slow rhythm, entering her deeply then withdrawing to enter again. As if he were writing a poem with his body.
الفصل الثامن: ذُرْوَةُ الإِبْداع
Chapter Eight: The Peak of Creation
زادَتْ سُرْعَتُهُ. نَهْداها يَهْتَزّانِ تَحْتَهُ، وَأَرْدافُها المُمْتَلِئَةُ تَصْطَدِمُ بِوِرْكَيْهِ.
His speed increased. Her breasts swayed beneath him, and her full buttocks collided with his hips.
"أَنا قَريبَةٌ!" صَرَخَتْ فاطِمَةُ. "لا تَتَوَقَّفْ، أَتَوَسَّلُ إلَيْكَ!"
"I am close!" Fatima cried. "Don't stop, I beg you!"
"سَنَكْتُبُ الذُّرْوَةَ مَعاً!"
"We will write the climax together!"
رَفَعَ ساقَيْها عَلى كَتِفَيْهِ وَدَفَعَ بِقُوَّةٍ أَكْبَرَ. صَرَخَتْ صَرْخَةً طَويلَةً وَهِيَ تَصِلُ إلى ذُرْوَتِها، جَسَدُها يَرْتَجِفُ تَحْتَهُ.
He lifted her legs onto his shoulders and pushed with greater force. She let out a long cry as she reached her peak, her body trembling beneath him.
"فاطِمَةُ!" صَرَخَ وَهُوَ يُفْرِغُ نَفْسَهُ داخِلَها، حَرارَتُهُ تَمْلَأُ رَحِمَها.
"Fatima!" he cried as he emptied himself inside her, his heat filling her womb.
اِنْهارَ فَوْقَها، أَنْفاسُهُ ثَقيلَةٌ، قَلْبُهُ يَدُقُّ بِعُنْفٍ.
He collapsed above her, his breaths heavy, his heart pounding violently.
الخاتِمَة
Epilogue
مِنْ تِلْكَ اللَّيْلَةِ، صارَ طارِقُ زَوْجاً لِفاطِمَةَ. وَرِثَ مَرْسَمَ أُسْتاذِهِ، لكِنَّ أَعْظَمَ ما وَرِثَهُ كانَ قَلْبَ أَرْمَلَتِهِ.
From that night, Tariq became Fatima's husband. He inherited his master's studio, but the greatest thing he inherited was his widow's heart.
وَيُقالُ إنَّهُما أَبْدَعا مَعاً خَطّاً جَديداً، سَمَّياهُ "خَطَّ العُشّاقِ"، حُروفُهُ مُتَشابِكَةٌ كَأَجْسادِ المُحِبّينَ.
And it is said that together they created a new calligraphy, which they called "Lovers' Script," its letters intertwined like the bodies of lovers.
انْتَهَتِ القِصَّة | The End