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.
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