Heading towards the Grand Museum, Salwa was crossing the street, holding on to a brilliant hope for a job as a tour guide. She had just earned a degree in Foreign Languages from the National University, but the words of all the languages she had learned seemed to vanish, like bubbles touching the land of reality.

There, just few meters away from the museum, a tall handsome tourist appeared in her sight, a dream that had lost its way home. He was beaming like a sun, and she too was beautiful like a fairytale; it seemed that, together, they portrayed what looked like the masterpiece of a legendary painter.

He asked her, in broken Arabic that sounded like the first words of a joyful child, to show him the way to the Museum. Captivated by his spell, and swept off her feet by his charm, she told him she was going in the same direction. She thanked her degree that had come in handy as she hastened to add that he needed not to struggle with words, she could fluently speak his native language.

And they walked together…

Jonathan, who made heads turn in awe, in every country he toured, with his natural elegance, streaming blonde hair like ribbons of gold, and superior culture, had stunned her, and she wrote in her diary that day: I think God is still on my side.

She carried the same first name with two of her cousins, and shared with them the same family name, and a similar fate. She would later be known as Salwa of the Museum, just to tell her apart from her cousins, for, simply, it would not be appropriate to call her limping Salwa. She distanced herself from those around her when she realized that there were people living freely as they pleased in this strange world. Despite her astonishingly beautiful eyes and classic features, so many others wished for, all they could see was her slight limp.

Jonathan was the only one who looked into her eyes, and did not seem to notice or wonder much about her short leg. He did not care if it was polio or an old accident; he showed no sympathy, and certainly no displeasure. He just walked with her like two old friends, reliving shared memories, and minding their sprouting moment.

That day, it was only reasonable for her to write atop a fresh page in her diary: is my dream finally coming alive!

In college, Salwa was an accomplished student, and languages came easy to her. She answered those critical about her passion for languages, that a new language gives a person a new life. She was very talkative, but her eyes were always fixed on a point somewhere, visible to no one but her, looking beyond the seen, and dreaming.

After years in college and meeting different people, it was not likely for her to marry her Libyan cousin, the knight on a chronically disabled white horse. Nor could she settle for her military cousin, although she liked him, for the smell of his uniform reminded her of the associated backwardness. And definitely, she could not revive old friendships with her male colleagues from school time; after all, she used to look down her nose at them.

This time, she weaved her nostalgic words onto the fragile fabric of her heart: Jonathan my love, where are you?

With him, she had the time of her life. They walked together, trying to discover whether their forefathers were distantly related. He too was good with words, simply because he was free as a dream, and no problems could keep him on a tight rein. He talked with the sweetness of running through open and wide prairies, feeling her eyes on him the entire time. He told her he liked her, as he was preparing to leave. She was aware of the subtle difference between like and love, but still, his words felt just as good as love in her dictionary of dreams. She asked him to return back for her, and he said while kissing her, in the street, I will. Yet, somehow, she felt certain it was goodbye.

She was hired as an assistant museum curator, a job she hated right from the start. She kept to herself and away from people, savoring her first kiss, going through that moment in her daydreams, and rehearsing the promising scenarios of his return to her. Her body was screaming for him, but her moves were becoming as monotonous as the dull statues that resided in the museum, with their stony eyes staring at the tourists with chilling emptiness.

Day by day, her colorful flowery dresses withered and gray prevailed to suit the coldness of the place. She invented a game as a pastime, although the game itself was boring. She would simply stand next to a statue and strike a conversation with it, or just mimic its posture, attempting to enact its feelings as well. She tried that for a few minutes in the beginning, but soon she started to get real good at it, and sometimes she forgot herself in the game for longer periods. Reaching the mastery level, she was able to stand for hours just like a statue, while the tourists passed her by. One day, she was very astounded when a tourist turned around, suddenly, and flashed his camera in her face. That day, Salwa became very sad and scared. Alone in her bed at night, she cried her heart out on her diary, and wrote with it:

Jonathan, my dream, please come back. I am slowly turning to stone.


May 2008