EMMANUEL'S DOOR by Estabraq Ahmad, translated by Fatima ElKalay

The door: unique, austere, never once failing to inspire awe. Known as the wonder of Emmanuel the Iraqi, a man consumed with a passion for precision. He oiled the door and reinforced its frame, carefully sanding it until every detail gleamed.

Emmanuel had chosen his daughter’s favorite type of wood, certain she would appreciate it, and perhaps even be moved by the pride he poured into his craft.

 He whispered his daughter’s passion to the door – her love of the oak trees from which the door was carved, and her fondness for Mann Al-Sama sweets.

The door shuddered. He spoke of her marriage to an outsider, of the years of cold estrangement that settled into his being, and the joyous tidings just months ago, when she had reached out with a sincere desire for reconciliation.

The door: Emmanuel told it how she had discarded her faith and left, how he no longer crafted doors for the Hussainiyas and mosques – not out of opposition, but as a consequence of the deep wound within him. Instead, he confined his craftsmanship to the churches of the wealthy and the homes of those who could afford his masterpieces.

The door: in its ink-black solitude, it would not allow Emmanuel to slip away into his workshop. When he swayed and leaned against it, it pulled his soul into its hollow wooden core, absorbing him entirely. And in that moment, the door-maker came face-to-face with the ugly rumor that had followed the tree from which the door was made.

The door: in the warehouse, it stirred with curiosity as someone wiped the dust from its face – it had believed itself forgotten. But now it was being lifted with careful deliberation, the workers grumbling under its weight, burdened by both the door and its maker, calling out in supplication “O Hussein!”

Emmanuel and his door arrived at the home of Mr. Abdel Raouf, a friend Emmanuel immediately recognized. He was pleased to hear him mourn his absence, admire the craftsmanship, and issue precise instructions for its cleaning. He understood then that a powerful go-between must have intervened to ensure Abdel Raouf would oversee its transport to its final resting place. Yet, only weeks later, Abdel Raouf’s memory of the door was shattered by the terror of unfamiliar rockets, leveling his home…

The door:  it came to the port, heavy with Emmanuel, in a climate thick with threats from all sides – factions clashing over the safety of ships in the Gulf, its waters churning with suspicion. Shipping it aboard a locally flagged vessel was seen as too great a risk. The captain made the arrangements, all the while cursing the door. Had he not waited for it, he wouldn’t have been caught in the wave of strict maritime bans, losing far more than he could afford. He prayed to the Virgin for relief. When the political clamor finally died down, though the air was still ripe with fear, the ship set sail under an international flag – one the captain paid a heavy price for.

But fate had marked this voyage as his last. No sooner had his feet touched land than he was killed in error, the victim of a petty brawl whose cause remained forever unknown.

The door: a cassette blaring the fiery sermons of a sheikh, his voice ceaseless in threats and warnings, was swapped for one playing Quranic recitation – yet still no blessing came. The truck kept breaking down despite the short distance, potholes gaped wider, tugging at its wheels until it lurched to a halt. The stubborn driver did not cease whispering prayers for strength and forgiveness. At last, he completed his task, delivering the door. But on his return journey, he never had the chance to count his bundle of notes – an hour past the border crossing he was abducted.

The door: it didn’t place much trust in the winds of change. The daughter’s house, radiant in its uniqueness among others, later turned envious, so that day after day, it needled the door, mocking it, calling it mute. Meanwhile, the gentle tree overlooking them from the fence chattered incessantly, insisting the door was made from Juniper or pine – only to dismiss it entirely upon realizing it had no ties to the desert.

The door: unlike Emmanuel, it cared little for the uprooting of the tree, the mounting cost of the house’s constant ruin and repair, or even the neighbor’s severe foot fracture when she kicked it in envy. But it was deeply unsettled, trembling at the news of Mr. Abdel Raouf, and the death of Emmanuel son-in-law, who had never liked this wooden masterpiece – his life ending in a horrific traffic accident.

The night was quiet.

Emmanuel, lost in thought, remembered how – while measuring out the door’s proportions – it had spoken to him:

“Do not complete me. I am afflicted.”

And the door recalled the moment a murderer’s bloodied neck hung from a branch, strung up by one of the extremist factions. As furious bullets riddled his body, an impenetrable ring of vengeance formed around the tree, marking the door with a curse.  For the murderer was buried beneath the tree from which the door was hewn, and his rancid blood seeped into its roots.

Emmanuel and his door –  two fates bound together. Nothing could bring them solace, but the touch of the daughter or the affection of the granddaughter – only then would the circle of fear, anger, and hatred begin to fade. And the kind granddaughter – on the final day of mourning – refused to be calmed until she had poured a pungent substance over them both, then set it alight, and the fire had consumed the door and its maker without pain.

Author and translator bios:

Estabraq Ahmad writes short stories, children’s books, and young adult literature, as well as hybrids. Her work has been awarded multiple literary prizes, including the Laila Al-Othman Literary Award and the Kuwait State Award for Short Stories. Ahmad’s work has been translated into several languages, including English, Chinese, Farsi, and Spanish.

Fatima ElKalay is a British-born Egyptian translator, poet, and short fiction writer. Her writing has appeared in ANMLY, ArabiLit Quarterly, Rusted Radishes, Asymptote, and The Markaz Review. She is also the co-author of a hybrid collection of short stories and memoirs, and was short listed for the inaugural ArabLit Story Prize for fiction in translation. She serves as Managing Editor and Poetry Editor at Rowayat.

© Estabraq Ahmad. Translation © by Fatima ElKalay. All rights reserved.

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