Whispers in the Rain

He raised his head to the dark sky, resisting a small blasphemy that almost slipped from his tongue. He could feel the black clouds crowding like basalt pieces, merging, and then tearing apart. This rain wouldn't end tonight; it meant he wouldn't sleep. Instead, he would remain hunched over, digging a path to divert the muddy water away from the tent pegs. His back was on the verge of getting used to the cold rain's beating, and the chill gave him a delightful numbness.

He caught a whiff of smoke; his husband had lit a fire to bake flour. How he wished to finish this trench, enter the tent, and thrust his cold hands into the fire until they burned. Surely, he could grasp the flame with his fingers, transferring it from hand to hand until the numbness vanished. But he hesitated, pondering, "Do you want me to steal, Abdul Rahman, to solve problems?"

He erected his weary figure, then soon returned, leaning on the broken shovel. He stared at the dark tent with deep concern, asking himself, "What if I stole?" The warehouses of the International Relief Agency were close to the tents. If he decided to start, he could easily slip to where the flour and rice were stacked. Then again, money wasn't anyone's rightful possession; it came from there, from people the school teacher called "those who kill for pleasure." With a determined resolve, he continued digging the trench around the tent, wondering why not start his adventure now. The rain was intense, and the guard was more occupied with the cold than with the concerns of the International Relief Agency. Why not start now?

"What are you doing, Aba Al-Abd?" The voice came from the darkness, and he raised his head in the direction of the sound, distinguishing the ghostly figure of Abi Samir emerging from the endless shadows between the planted rows of tents.

"I'm digging flour."

"Digging what?"

"Digging... digging... a trench."

He heard the laughter of Abi Samir, the refined laughter that quickly disappeared in his chatter:

"It seems you're thinking about flour. The distribution will be delayed until after the first ten days of next month, about fifteen days from now. So, don't think about it unless you plan to borrow a bag or two from the storage."

He saw Abi Samir's arm pointing towards the warehouses, and a faint shadow of a malicious smile played on his thick lips. He felt the difficulty of the situation, then returned to striking the ground with his broken shovel.

"Take this cigarette... No, you won't benefit from it; the rain is annoying. Forgot that the sky is raining, mind full of flour... like stone."

He felt a tightness in his chest; he had disliked Abi Samir for a long time, this malicious chatterer.

"What brought you out in this rain?"

"I came out... came out to ask if you need help."

"No... thanks."

"Will you dig for long?"

"Most of the night."

"Didn't I tell you to dig your trench during the day? You always go off to I-don't-know-where and leave the tent. Are you searching for Solomon's ring?"

"No... for work."

He raised his head from the shovel, panting.

"Why don't you go to sleep and leave me alone?"

Abu Samir approached him calmly, placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking it slowly, and said in a choked voice:

"Listen, Abu Al-Abd, if you see a bag of flour walking in front of you now, don't tell anyone!"

"How?"

Abu Al-Abd said, his chest pounding, smelling the tobacco from Abi Samir's mouth as he whispered with wide-open eyes:

"There are bags of flour that walk at night and go there."

"To where?"

"There."

Abu Al-Abd tried to see where Abi Samir was pointing, but found his arms hanging by his sides. Meanwhile, he heard Abi Samir whisper with a deep hoarseness:

"You'll get your share."

"Is there a hole they come out of?"

Abi Samir raised his head, denying and wiggling his tongue playfully, then whispered with a half-muffled voice:

"The bags of flour come out on their own... they walk!"

"You're crazy."

"No, you're the poor one... Listen, let's get straight to the point. What we need to do is take the flour bags from the storage and bring them here. The guard will prepare everything for us, as always. The one in charge of selling isn't me or you; it's the blond American employee in the agency. No, don't be surprised. Abu Al-Abd felt that the situation was more complicated than stealing one or two bags, or ten. Dealing with this man gave him a sticky feeling of disgust, heavy-hearted as they had known him throughout the camp. But at the same time, he longed to return one day to his tent holding a new shirt for Abdul Rahman and small items for his mother. Why not leave this cursed trench and start before the sunrise?

Yes, why not leave the trench? Abdul Rahman was shivering from the cold at the edge of the tent, feeling his breaths hit his cold forehead. How he wished to pull Abdul Rahman from his frailty and fear. The rain was almost stopping, and the moon began tearing through the sky.

Abu Samir, still standing in front of him like a black ghost, planted his large feet in the mud, raising the collar of his old coat above his ears. He was still waiting, this man standing in front of him, carrying with him a new mysterious pot, negotiating to lift the bags from the storage to somewhere. The order came - since when have you been dealing with this guard and that employee?

"Do you want to investigate with me, or do you take the price of the flour and go buy demons? Listen, this American is my friend, a man who loves organized work. He always asks me to put time at the forefront. He doesn't like delays in appointments. We have to start now. Hurry."

And the American imagined, standing in front of the bags of flour, laughing with narrow blue eyes, rubbing his clean hands with joy and satisfaction. Abu Al-Abd felt a strange tightness and feared that the American was selling flour at the same time he was telling the camp men and women that the relief distribution would be delayed until the end of the forgiveness days. In every tent of the displaced village, disappointed eyes gazed at the same disappointment. Every child in the camp had to wait ten days to eat bread. This, then, was the reason for the delay. Abu Samir, standing in front of him like a black ghost, with his feet stuck in the mud, anxious about the fate of his negotiations. He and the American, who was rubbing his hands with delight, didn't know how he lifted the shovel above his head and fiercely struck it on Abu Samir's head, shouting in her face that the flour distribution would not be delayed this month. He still wished to see him smiling for a new shirt.

So, he began to cry.