The Penguin's Song by Hassan Daoud, Translated by Marilyn Booth

remembering the roads for himself, and meanwhile from behind him my mother gestured to me not to pay him any heed. At one point it seemed he had fallen into the trap of his own maze and no longer knew how to get out of it; probably, in any case, he said to me, they have made many changes to the streets. He no longer knew what was there beyond the intersecting streets that defined the entrance to the sand track. I told him I would ask the passersby and get directions from them. Leave him alone . . . let him go, my mother began saying to him—my mother whose enthusiasm for visits and outings had given her a new love for risks and ventures out. He won’t get lost, she said, turning away as she tossed me a playful, slightly challenging look—as if she were giving me a little hint that she had some particular and special bit of knowledge about me.
    Getting to the street at the end of the sand track was easy. But as soon as I stepped onto it I knew I had come out a bit too early. The shops on either side of the street held no one but their proprietors, busy readying them to receive customers. I wasn’t forced to walk among the crowds; the residents of the apartments, or so I guessed, were still at home. I had come out early and this was better for me since it meant that only a handful of people would see me. On either side of the narrow street—the first one after the sand track—I got the feeling that the only reason anyone had come down to their shop so early was to seek a little distraction. Despite the lack of crowds I didn’t slow my pace or glance into a single shop, or when I got near a shop, I did not look directly at the man inside. I could only look from a distance, three or four shops ahead, for instance at that man whom I could see bent over his crates. Moving forward, I needed to preserve a similar distance, always gazing three or four shops ahead.
    That way my eyes would never meet the gaze of others I happened to encounter on the street or in the shops, and so my eyes could wander over them when they were not looking at me. And that way, I could leave someone behind when I was still walking by his shop. It was best for me to stare straight ahead, three or four shops in front of me. A passing glance, never a stare, and thus I would seem occupied with matters my head was busily turning over and not with what I saw. It was just as crucial to maintain this demeanor when glancing at the banners and signs above their shops. I did not want to seem as though I was searching for any particular shop. When I told my father that I would get directions by asking passersby, he responded that the signs might help me as well. Every shop sign will have its name and the owner’s name on it, he said to me as my mother, standing behind him, added her own commentary, saying that the signs would steer me only to their shops when I needed to be guided to others. She spoke as if her playful mood were furnishing her with a cleverness she didn’t usually possess, an adroitness of the sort that allowed her to show a widening gulf between herself and my father: the more mischievous she appeared, the more decrepit he looked. He seemed to confirm it by growing quiet or brooding over what he’d heard, not ready to respond. He looked like an old man whose mind was slowed by age, weakened and defenseless, with little recourse against whatever went on around him.
    The few men I saw in that first street were occupied with their own business, their gazes remote, and they paid no attention to my intrusion. They seemed to have filled their shops with only the provisions that the apartment dwellers would need. I knew that what I was out here seeking would be some distance away, since those who might need what would fulfill my need were so few and so widely scattered. I would not find a trace of it here in this first street, nor in the street that began where this one turned, to which my father had bade me go. It was