THOMAS L. CHIU

HE CALLED HER


THE HALF PIECE OF CHOCOLATE

Ahmed's life had a certain seasonal touch to it. It was now the time to greet people from other lands. They wanted to explore Petra, the magical Rose City, tucked away by time and natural forces, yet still undergoing changes.

Ahmed had to hasten or he would lose the pounds and dollars. He wanted to please and serve the many types of tourists, who invariably would ask him to guide them through the large crevices and winding stony paths within the city. Ahmed could guide them blindfolded! He thought sometimes that his horse was the leader of these trips, carrying the tourists on its back, with a piece of material from an old carpet as the saddle. Indeed, for the past three years, Ahmed proudly boasted that he never had a tourist fall from his horse.

That he had to reiterate this fact again and again to the tourists became a ritual of sorts. He also took pains to explain the competence and the extraordinary breeding of his horse. He had faith in Little Leh, short for Saleh.

It was no surprise one day for Ahmed to proclaim his opening trade words, "Good morning, sir, would you like my horse to ride. We go, to Pink City . . ." This particular tourist appeared cheerful and exuberant. Younger looking than Ahmed, Cornelius had wandered off from the rest of the group that he arrived with earlier. Perhaps he was looking for something forbidden in this most exotic and difficult-to-reach region-an artifact of an ancient king or a bone fragment from an extinct bird.

As if jolted by the sudden silence upon entering the portals of the city, Cornelius was stopped by the rambling voice in accented English. Startled, he gleefully agreed to mount Little Leh. Off they trekked. Ahmed, of course, walked only by the side of the horse. From time to time he would point to a rock formation that he thought might interest Cornelius. As mutual trust evolved, Cornelius began to ask about the unusual shapes of stones and the terrain. There were myriad eerie tombs and caves, all magnificent challenges.

Although Cornelius studied beforehand the many facets of the city, he gave Ahmed the opportunity to narrate and expound, whenever possible.

Indeed, Cornelius was more delighted to learn the many details that the books from his library omitted. The journey was a most revealing one.

Cornelius wondered if Ahmed found it worthwhile to absorb everything he said. After all, Ahmed could be doing this for the ninety-ninth time. Cornelius wished Ahmed shared his every minute excitement, from the yellowish purple flowers jotting proudly from the rock to the fantastic dancing shadows formed by the elegant boulders and limestones. Maybe Ahmed saw things differently, maybe not.

As much as Cornelius wanted to stay on in the vicinity of antiquity, time had become shortened, and the day for discoveries darkened to a halt.

Returning to the point of origin, Ahmed assisted Cornelius in dismounting. After paying for the required services, Cornelius, on impulse, searched for something more immediate than money. From his knapsack he brought out a bar of chocolate; but when he offered this to Ahmed, a half piece fell and melted in the sand-baked pebbles. With a sullen grin, he placed the other half in Ahmed's hand and abruptly departed, leaving his name card.

Beyond a mile from the entrance of Petra, in the outskirts, somewhat hidden behind another group of awesome rocks, Ahmed arrived at the tent he shared with his mother.

With unusual exuberance this evening, he put down the day's earnings and, for his mother, the half piece of chocolate. "Have some, too," his mother said.

"No, Mother, you take it. It was from an Englishman."

The subsequent days did not seem peculiar for Ahmed. He continued his daily routine. But for his mother, things began to change. She was told she had high sugar in her blood when she was younger. Now, years on, she was facing the uncomfortable effects of the ailment. Her condition was beginning to alter for the worse. She felt weaker. She thought her grip on life was loosening. Each day for her came with even more somber clouds.

One day, weeks later, Ahmed noticed a significant change. His mother was becoming a different person. She went from one fit of temper to another. There were days she remained mute with no sign of vivacity. Ahmed could not break her silence. Deep down, he knew his mother wanted to convey something to him but, for some reason, he was not receiving it.

Soon after these confounding episodes, Ahmed lost his mother. The toll upon him was insidious. His existence in the wilds of the desert took the manner of a hermit. While he carried on his task of guiding tourists, Ahmed began experiencing a sense of futility. The tent he had occupied and lived in all his life suddenly magnified, like a black cloud over his head. His world became very large. Ahmed felt small. He began to wonder why his mother's life was abruptly ended. For him it was most cruel. Why?

The painful inquiry meandered in his dreams and waking moments. It was to engulf him the next ten years.

Going over his mother's belongings, Ahmed found the calling card left by Cornelius. Yes, the Englishman, the stranger who gave him the half piece of chocolate during their brief encounter. His memories were rekindled. Did he not give the same chocolate to his mother? Was it the chocolate that lured his mother to her death? Was she not well just before then?

What an absurd idea to consider! This was a chilling thought. He was frightened. Ahmed was a mostly rational man. Now he was beginning to falter.

His quest for an answer was turning into an obsession. It seemed as if the answer would erase his boredom and, indeed, his grief. Months turned to years. He did not notice the passing of time as the erosion of his life began to gnaw at him.

Mustering some courage and energy he finally began to write a letter to Cornelius. Ahmed never had written in his life. This was going to be a task. How and what was he to say? His English was rudimentary. He printed each word.

Dear Sir Cornwall.

I am tourist guide. You come before 10 years. I bring with you the Petra. You gave chocolat. My mother she sick and die. You help understand me why she die. She die many years.

Ahmed was unsure what else to put down. He read the letter aloud. It sounded clear but what was his motive? Did he wish for a miracle from this Mr. Cornwall? Was it an apology he wished for? Was it simply to establish some kind of contact? Or was it something more sinister and evil? Without further rumination, he posted the letter.

Ahmed's thoughts wandered to the days when he was nurtured. Ah, those Bedouin days! Mother and he, together, in the wilds of the desert sand. It was harsh and merciless during winter, but when spring came, it was endless bliss.

He remembered his mother fiercely knitting woolen mittens and sweaters for him-from early morning to the time the wicks burned out in the oil lamps. He could almost hear the crisscrossing of the two needles rushing to transform a single strand into whole piece of clothing. Ahmed still wore one made years ago, now torn on the right shoulder. He remembered how his mother used to say how happy she was when, in the silence of the desert nights, she would listen to the laughter both of them dared make, piercing the skies. He had asked whether their voices were ever heard.

"No, my son. No one. Only by you and me," she told him reassuringly. These kinds of enchanting reveries floated in his mind interminably.

When Cornelius received the peculiarly written letter addressed to him, it was like seeing a sudden burst of sun rays through a mist. He had always thought Petra was special, and regretted he did not spend more time there before. He, like the soothsayers, however, had faith in destiny. This was his calling at last, he thought.

More confident of himself now, he did not feel anxious going. That the letter was nebulous and somewhat cryptic had not caused need for reconsideration. Without replying to the letter, he left.

The rendezvous at nearly the same place ten years ago between Cornelius and Ahmed, was like the first meeting between a group of autumn school children and their mentors-both groups not knowing what to expect, yet each having a vague need to reach the other.

They both had reached the forty second year of their lives. Ahmed, with his self-same demeanor, polite and at times obsequious, asked how Cornelius's trip was. The latter was solicitous and asked how life had been for Ahmed.

Limiting his tour-guiding activities that day, Ahmed walked with Cornelius the mile long road across the sands and boulders. The horse was cared for by a friend. Ahmed offered his guest coffee, dates, pita bread and some smoked lamb.

Cornelius wondered how to begin. He, of course, gave his initial condolence, and then asked if Ahmed would like to assist him in exploring Petra further, for an upcoming report on the effects of pollution on the ancient sites.

What Ahmed wanted to say was, "I lost my mother and I think you are responsible." It was not an absurd accusation. This thinking was logical for him. Ahmed gradually began to believe that now was the time to avenge his mother's death. Should he act upon his rage which now appeared to be crystallizing? He was clearly tormented by the notion that here was a God-given chance to carry out the inevitable. Should he?

Days passed. Cornelius, not getting an affirmative answer, stayed on, interviewing elderly Arab men sitting around in shaded areas. He entertained the idea of speaking to Arab women, but realized this was not appropriate.

A week after Cornelius's arrival, Ahmed found a Cadbury candy wrapper in his mother's lambskin pouch. It was the same one that had held the chocolate. Yes, the half piece of chocolate he received from Cornelius, and which he subsequently had given to his mother. Also inside the pouch was a tiny brown paper with Arabic words written. Translated they read:

My son Ahmed, you have been my only joy all these years. I thank Allah. I have not given you much throughout your life. Instead you have given me an abundance of everything. Here in this outpost where no one comes we breathe the same air like the crickets breathe. We eat with our hands, our only tools. We have everything. I have time given to me which I cherish. I did not know what to do with it in the beginning. True, the only thing I know is to raise you. This is my time-giving you life. I have now completed my mission. This is the moment to give back. I hope you understand, Ahmed. I bid you farewell. I keep this wrapper to remind you that whoever gave you that chocolate, even though only half a piece, has a kind heart. Maybe you will reach him and establish goodwill between our nomadic bloods and the others who may see us differently. I have never left this Bedouin land of ours and know nothing about the rest of the world. Ahmed my dearest, you must remember I do not regret coming to the crossroad. Allah has been generous. May you continue to heed and listen. The desert sands have hearts, you know.

Your mother,

Fatimah

They were certainly the most profound words he had ever read. Ahmed wondered how this woman, in such primitive circumstances, could speak this loudly to him. He fell to his knees and cursed himself for harboring such vicious thoughts.

When the winds blew toward the black tents that protected Ahmed all those years, he sometimes could hear his mother's voice. No longer was he bitter. He accepted Cornelius' offer. But to tell Cornelius why would take another lifetime. For the moment, he was at peace.


Home PageTable of ContentsAbout The AuthorOrder The Book


Customized Book Publishing & Manuscript Services




Questions or Comments? Click Here