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

so narrow and twisting that I could not tell how long it was. The establishments lining its sides differed not at all from what I had just left behind me. The shop owners here had added nothing to what the previous ones had on offer, again displaying only the foodstuffs apartment dwellers would want. The shops here set these goods out exactly as the shops back there had done. And the merchants here, too, were still getting their shops ready for an onrush of customers who had not yet descended from the apartment blocks. It was from this second street—or from a junction here—that my father would begin every one of his beginnings, describing the streets and byways I must follow next. The intersection . . . a bit more than halfway down the street, I thought I must have missed it, because I could not distinguish one intersection from another, could not see anything I knew would precede it or would tell me I had gone too far. But my father hadn’t been able to give me any landmarks as his hands sketched routes in the air, his eyes closed all the while; the map of tangled roads he made for me had no fixed points.
    From there, or from here; from these intersections coming one after another, I would have to rely on instinct. Then, entering one of these crossroads, I suddenly realized that my father had not been guiding me to what I was after. He could not guide me, after all, because he’d never had occasion to know where it was or to happen upon it. He had remembered the streets only for what they held that was his. Or perhaps he was directing me to a point that he knew would lead to places he did not know. The street off this one was narrow too; in fact, it was narrower than the street leading me to it. Walking along it, what dawned on me was that I had made no progress, for the merchandise sold here did not offer anything more than what I had seen back there. But I didn’t retrace my steps to the head of the street so as to take a different way. I figured I would have to arrive at something. When I reached the end, I would be somewhere.
    Yes, I had certainly come out early. Likely, they would not be making themselves into a crowd before I was at least halfway to where I was going. They were still in their apartments in these narrow, hemmed in, jammed-together buildings that faced each other at such close proximity. They were still in their apartments: indeed, as I was reaching the end of the street, bisected by another narrow street, I was guessing that there was something—there must be something—that hindered or delayed their descent. To stop my father’s continuous, circular charting of the streets, I had told him I would get directions from the people here—just like that, I’d told him despite my certainty that (even if I did try getting directions) it would be useless. They would no doubt give me names of places I didn’t know. It would not help me at all, since they would not (I knew) start me off from a particular street and give me directions from there. I had no reference point from which to be guided. They would begin waving their hands just as my father does, and exactly like him they would sketch maps in the air for the sake of divulging what they knew, for themselves and not for me.
    From there, from this next narrow street where I stop briefly to see if I can make out which direction to go, I decide that I had better begin by marking mental signposts that will help me to memorize the return route. Soon I’ll have been down many streets, and it won’t be simple to return, traversing street after street and taking one intersection after another. Coming back will be especially difficult because they’re sure to have formed a crowd by then, and this will be one way that I’ll miss the signs I have memorized.
    Nevertheless, I must keep going along these streets that will inevitably take me to what I’m seeking out here. When he began wandering the streets,