The most entrancing of them all is the almond-tree

August 17th, 2006

Have you ever taken the time to listen to a tree, once in your life?

You have to be fine of hearing, because such beings do not speak loudly. It’s all in the wind. The leaves are moving, then the branches, and it even happens that the entire tree is swaying. And after the passing of the wind, there comes the sun. Leaves that filter the sunlight. Shadows that are cast and shadows that are not. Greens that play with blues and browns. It is the dance of the colours, in every nuance. Picasso’s palette blushes with shame, with jealousy and with envy. The painter has gone mad. Vincent has flayed off his ear!

The most entrancing of them all is the almond-tree.

He is the first one to set forth his white flowers, his flowers with a heart of pink. The tree of my childhood is still there, down the road which leads to the village. He is old and solitary, and he knows all our secrets. He is a witness to our fortunes and misfortunes. He has seen the passing of the elders, and he has seen the arrival of those who have fallen in love. He has heard the children grow, and he has heard all their secrets.

The most entrancing of them all is the almond-tree.

At Easter time, I recall, we would cut a few twigs heavy with green almonds, and we would arrange them in a bouquet together with poppies. I could hear the tree laughing with delight. What he told me was: "Go ahead, child, take as many as you like... I know your sweetheart too!"

I’d just listen to him teasing me.

"You’re jealous, aren’t you?"

His laughter was all tenderness, and the warm wind of spring would inebriate us both, me with love and him with green almonds.

I would run toward the village, the green, red and black bouquet in my hand. Mass must be said. My bouquet must be blessed, before I offered it, in secret, to the one I loved.

At the moment, she is sitting here, close to me. Narjas, our little daughter, is sleeping in her arms. Is she is dreaming, maybe? Perhaps she isn’t!

It has been a long road. We arrive at the village. All the houses lay in ruins, the church too. The little square stands gutted. The roads are in chaos and disarray.

I take the road leading home. I leave the village.

At the turn, I feel that a great misfortune has occurred. I look at my beloved, she looks at me as well. She senses my despair and seizes me by the arm.

"Come on, go ahead!" she seems to tell me.

I walk up the narrow path, very slowly. Somehow, I am holding back, as if with respect, as if I was approaching a graveyard.

I look straight ahead... I see my old friend all burned.

They have even set the almond-tree on fire.

Narjas is still asleep. Is she is dreaming, maybe? Perhaps she isn’t!

French original by Al Faraby,
– http://www.aloufok.net/article.php3...

Dedicated to Lina et Narjas Fakih, from Aytaroun