The Stranger and the Old Lady by Noura Bensaad

“What do you know?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you hear?”

“Silence.”

“What do you see?”

“Transparency.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where my feet take me.”

The stranger walks through the city. He comes across an old lady. In her quivering gaze, childhood flows like a river in reverse. She smiles, grabs him by the arm, and whispers in his ear:

“Do you know where I’m going?”

“No, I don’t.”

She murmurs, even lower, so low that her voice is no more than a sigh:

“I’m going where she won’t be able to get me.”

“Who?”

“Her, of course!”

And the old lady turns, indicating with her finger a point in empty space.

“But there’s no one there!”

“There is. She’s there. She’s evil, she scares me.”

And he understands.

“Yesterday she got my husband, but she won’t get me.”

In her eyes there smiles the child she once was. She continues on her way, hunched over her shadow as if gathering it. He watches her draw away. Perhaps he should help her carry it. The shadow has grown heavy with the weight of years. He counts the lampposts separating her from the end of the street: one, two, three, four, five, six. A bicycle passes, ridden by a man bundled in his overcoat.

Ding, ding, ding! he proclaims gaily, but nobody hears him. With night fallen, everyone has tumbled over to the other side of life, their minds drawn on by dream.

The stranger looks to the old lady again: she’s made it past two more lampposts. A cat leaps out, as if from the very wall, its tail stuck in the air. It pads toward her and sits on her shadow. She stops. He hears her cry out:

“Shoo! Shoo!”

But the cat doesn’t move and continues to cadge a caress:

“Meow, meow, meowwww!”

So she yells:

“Let me go!” and the understanding cat moves just enough to let her pass with her shadow.

She continues walking, taking small, hesitant steps. When you’re that old, each step is a struggle, one more moment snatched from life. She bears so many years on her broken back, but in her mind she is a child again, running to hide.

The stranger decides to follow her. He’d like to ask where she’s running to for sanctuary. Eight lampposts separate him from her. He doesn’t rush, he’s got plenty of time to catch up. The old lady only has three left to reach the end of the street.

A man and woman approach, a couple intertwined, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. As they reach the old lady, she straightens as much as she can, and looks at them, but they don’t see her. In the wan light of urban night, her hand rises and extends—it’s a slow gesture. An abyss separates them, but just when she believes that she can touch them, the man and the woman are already distant. And so the thin, wrinkled hand falls back alongside the body that seems to slump even more. The stranger stops and moves aside. The two beings clutched to each other appear to form a single whole: enormous head and body stuck on four legs. They don’t see him either, for love is blind to everything that isn’t it. The stranger notices the tears running from the woman’s eyes that the man collects with his lips.

The old lady has reached the end of the street, which she must cross in order to proceed upon her way. She stops beneath the semaphore. A little man, blood-red color, indicates that one mustn’t cross—danger! Then he turns to green—danger passed. With small, hesitant steps, she begins her long crossing, dragging with her her shadow that sticks to her like glue—sole remaining companion of a life worn out. Her face is lit by the lampposts on the opposite side of the roadway; her shadow lengthens behind her, stretches out, as if ready to detach itself, to flee? but she sees nothing other than the white lines beneath her feet still separating her from the life-saving sidewalk. Suddenly the blinding light of two headlights approaching at full speed. The stranger would like to cry out instead he tells himself that the old lady won’t have the time to dodge. Then the infernal squealing of braking wheels. In the night, the impact of a car violently hitting a body reverberates like an expected ending.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you hear?”

“Silence.”

“What do you see?”

“Transparency.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where my feet take me.”

The stranger walks through the city. He comes across an old lady. In her quivering gaze, childhood flows like a river in reverse. She smiles, grabs him by the arm, and whispers in his ear:

“Do you know where I’m going?”

“No, I don’t.”

She murmurs, even lower, so low that her voice is no more than a sigh:

“I’m going where she won’t be able to get me.”

“Who?”

“Her, of course!”

And the old lady turns, indicating with her finger a point in empty space.

“But there’s no one there!”

“There is. She’s there. She’s evil, she scares me.”

And he understands.

“Yesterday she got my husband, but she won’t get me.”

In her eyes there smiles the child she once was. She continues on her way, hunched over her shadow as if gathering it. He watches her draw away. Perhaps he should help her carry it. The shadow has grown heavy with the weight of years. He counts the lampposts separating her from the end of the street: one, two, three, four, five, six. A bicycle passes, ridden by a man bundled in his overcoat.

Ding, ding, ding! he proclaims gaily, but nobody hears him. With night fallen, everyone has tumbled over to the other side of life, their minds drawn on by dream.

The stranger looks to the old lady again: she’s made it past two more lampposts. A cat leaps out, as if from the very wall, its tail stuck in the air. It pads toward her and sits on her shadow. She stops. He hears her cry out:

“Shoo! Shoo!”

But the cat doesn’t move and continues to cadge a caress:

“Meow, meow, meowwww!”

So she yells:

“Let me go!” and the understanding cat moves just enough to let her pass with her shadow.

She continues walking, taking small, hesitant steps. When you’re that old, each step is a struggle, one more moment snatched from life. She bears so many years on her broken back, but in her mind she is a child again, running to hide.

The stranger decides to follow her. He’d like to ask where she’s running to for sanctuary. Eight lampposts separate him from her. He doesn’t rush, he’s got plenty of time to catch up. The old lady only has three left to reach the end of the street.

A man and woman approach, a couple intertwined, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. As they reach the old lady, she straightens as much as she can, and looks at them, but they don’t see her. In the wan light of urban night, her hand rises and extends—it’s a slow gesture. An abyss separates them, but just when she believes that she can touch them, the man and the woman are already distant. And so the thin, wrinkled hand falls back alongside the body that seems to slump even more. The stranger stops and moves aside. The two beings clutched to each other appear to form a single whole: enormous head and body stuck on four legs. They don’t see him either, for love is blind to everything that isn’t it. The stranger notices the tears running from the woman’s eyes that the man collects with his lips.

The old lady has reached the end of the street, which she must cross in order to proceed upon her way. She stops beneath the semaphore. A little man, blood-red color, indicates that one mustn’t cross—danger! Then he turns to green—danger passed. With small, hesitant steps, she begins her long crossing, dragging with her her shadow that sticks to her like glue—sole remaining companion of a life worn out. Her face is lit by the lampposts on the opposite side of the roadway; her shadow lengthens behind her, stretches out, as if ready to detach itself, to flee? but she sees nothing other than the white lines beneath her feet still separating her from the life-saving sidewalk. Suddenly the blinding light of two headlights approaching at full speed. The stranger would like to cry out instead he tells himself that the old lady won’t have the time to dodge. Then the infernal squealing of braking wheels. In the night, the impact of a car violently hitting a body reverberates like an expected ending.

L’étranger et la vieille dame

″ Que sais-tu ? ″

″ Rien. ″

″ Qu’entends-tu ? ″

″ Le silence.″

″ Que vois-tu ?″

″ La transparence. ″

″ Où vas-tu ? ″

″ Là où mes pas me portent. ″

L’étranger traverse la ville. Une vieille dame le croise, dans son regard tremblotant l’enfance coule comme une rivière à l’envers. Elle lui sourit, saisit son bras et chuchote à son oreille :

″ Sais-tu où je vais ? ″

″ Non, je ne le sais pas. ″

Plus bas encore, si bas que sa voix n’est plus qu’un soupir elle murmure :

″ Je vais là où elle ne pourra pas m’avoir. ″

″ Qui ? ″

″ Elle bien sûr ! ″

Et la vieille dame se retourne en indiquant de son doigt un point dans l’espace vide.

″ Mais il n’y a personne ! ″

″ Si, elle est là, elle est méchante, elle me fait peur. ″

Alors il comprend.

″ Hier, elle a eu mon mari mais moi elle ne m’aura pas. ″

Dans ses yeux sourit l’enfant qu’elle a été, elle reprend son chemin courbée sur son ombre comme pour la ramasser. Il la regarde s’éloigner. Peut-être devrait-il l’aider à la porter, l’ombre devient lourde sous le poids des années. Il compte les réverbères qui la séparent du bout de la rue : un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. Un vélo passe conduit par un homme engoncé dans son pardessus.

Dring, dring, dring ! clame-t-il enjoué, mais personne ne l’entend, avec la nuit tombée chacun a basculé de l’autre côté de sa vie, là où le rêve entraine les esprits.

L’étranger porte à nouveau son regard vers la vieille dame, elle a progressé de deux réverbères. Comme s’il sortait du mur un chat surgit la queue dressée, s’avance vers elle et s’assied sur son ombre. Elle s’arrête, il l’entend s’exclamer :

″ Va-t-en ! va-t-en ! ″

Mais le chat ne bouge pas et continue de quémander une caresse :

″ Miaou, miaou, miaaaaaou ! ″

Alors elle s’écrie :

″ Laisse-moi repartir ! ″ et le chat compatissant se pousse juste ce qu’il faut pour les laisser passer, elle et son ombre.

Elle se remet à marcher, à pas menus et hésitants. Quand on est si vieille chaque pas est un combat, un instant de plus arraché à la vie. Elle porte tant d’années sur son dos cassé, mais dans sa tête elle est redevenue une enfant qui court se cacher.

L’étranger se décide à la suivre, il aimerait lui demander où elle court se réfugier. Huit réverbères la séparent d’elle, il ne se presse pas, il a tout le temps de la rattraper, il n’en reste plus que trois à la vieille dame pour atteindre le bout de la rue.

Un homme et une femme approchent, un couple enlacé, lui la tenant par l’épaule, elle le tenant par la taille. Arrivés à sa hauteur la vieille dame se redresse autant qu’elle peut, les regarde mais eux ne la voient pas. Dans la lumière blafarde de la nuit citadine sa main se lève et se tend, le geste est lent, un abime les sépare, mais au moment où elle croit les toucher, l’homme et la femme sont déjà loin. Alors la main maigre et ridée retombe le long du corps qui semble s’affaisser davantage. L’étranger s’arrête et s’écarte. Les deux êtres accrochés l’un à l’autre paraissent n’en faire qu’un seul : tête et corps énorme planté sur quatre jambes. Ils ne le voient pas lui non plus, l’amour est aveugle à tout ce qui n’est pas lui. L’étranger remarque des larmes qui coulent des yeux de la femme que l’homme aspire avec ses lèvres.

La vieille dame est arrivée au bout de la rue, il lui faut la traverser pour continuer son chemin. Elle s’arrête en dessous du sémaphore, un petit bonhomme couleur sang indique qu’il ne faut pas passer, attention danger ! puis il vire au vert, danger passé. A pas menus et hésitants elle commence sa longue traversée, trainant avec elle son ombre qui ne la quitte pas d’une semelle, unique et dernière compagne d’une vie usée. Son visage est éclairé par les réverbères maintenant face à elle de l’autre côté de la chaussée ; derrière elle son ombre s’allonge, s’étire, comme prête à se détacher − s’enfuir ? mais elle ne voit rien d’autre que les bandes blanches sous ses pieds qui la séparent encore du trottoir salvateur. Soudain la lumière aveuglante de deux phares qui se rapprochent à toute vitesse. L’étranger voudrait crier, au lieu de cela il se dit que la vieille dame n’aura plus le temps de se cacher. Puis le crissement infernal de roues qui freinent. Dans la nuit le choc d’une voiture heurtant violemment un corps résonne comme une fin attendue.