Nile Like Holy Water
A creative translation of Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants”
by Reem Hazboun Taşyakan
The waters of the Nile near Aswan were shining and swirling. On this side of the river, there was no shade or palm trees and the port was between a small island and a rocky cut bank covered in sunlight. A warm shadow fell against the side of the café and the patio beside it, and a curtain made of strings and blue glass eye beads hung across the open door to the café.
The couple sat at a table in the shade. It was a balmy day and the boat from Aswan was arriving within the hour. It would stop at this port for mere minutes, then go on to Luxor.
“What should we drink?” the man asked.
“I don’t know. It’s too hot for coffee,” Dunya said. She removed a silver ankh choker from her neck and put it on the table.
“Let’s get something cold. And sweet. That karkade stuff maybe.”
“kubayteen karkade1,” she called to the server.
“kubar2?” a server asked from the doorway”
“aywa, kubar3.”
The server brought out two frosty glasses of sweetened hibiscus tea and two coasters with faded imprints of the Pyramids. She placed them on the table and left. Dunya was watching the Nile. It was bright blue in the sun, and it was rippling and sparkling.
“It’s like holy water,” she said.
The man sipped his karkade, then pointed toward the beaded curtain. “What do those mean again?”
“It’s that evil eye superstition thing.”
“Do they really think it works?”
Dunya spoke in the direction of the curtain and the server came back out.
“ra’yik ‘eeh filcayn4?”
“’asdik ‘eeh5?”
“What do you want to know exactly?” she asked the man.
“I don’t know. Does she really think they ward off evil?”
“I’m sure she wishes they did,” she said, nudging him.
The man snickered. “I bet she does.” He poked back.
“macleesh6,” she said to the server.
The man finished his karkade. “No one needs superstitions, yet everyone has them.”
“Especially everyone you want to dislike.”
“Oh stop.”
“You started it,” she said. “I was just relaxing. You had to start prying.”
“How about we both try and relax.”
“I will, but I was already. I said the Nile was like holy water. It was poetic.”
“It was.”
“That’s all we have in common, isn’t it–poetry?”
“That’s not all.”
Dunya looked at the Nile again. “It’s lovely. But I guess it doesn’t really look like holy water. I just meant the way it’s moving all frenetic in the sunlight. Holy water during an exorcism maybe.
“Let’s order more karkade,” he said.
A warm breeze blew strands of beads against the table.
“So many eyes moving,” she teased.
“So creepy.”
*
“It’s a simple operation,” the man said. “It’s not even an operation really.”
Dunya looked at the ground where the table legs pressed into it. They were adorned with gold and blue stripes—like the nemes headdresses worn by pharaohs.
“You’ll be fine. It’s really nothing.”
She didn’t respond, but instead imagined the earth opening up and burying them, ankh, table, and all—only to be excavated one day by people like them.
“And I’ll be with you the whole time,” he added.
“Then what?” she asked.
“What do you mean? Everything will be like it was before.”
“How do you know?”
“This is the only thing that’s ever come between us. The only thing that’s ever made us unhappy.”
She looked at the beads, reached her hand out, and clasped onto a few.
“So you believe we were happy?”
“I know we were. So do you. You just don’t want to give it up. You’re not thinking.”
“I’m thinking that I’d rather not be forced to give her up.”
“If you don’t want to do it, don’t. I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to.”
“Clearly you want me to.”
“I think it’s best. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to.”
“If I do, will things get better?”
“Of course. We love each other. They have to.”
“So if I do it, when I compare things to holy water, you’ll like it again?”
“I will. I love it now. I just can’t focus. You know how it is when I’m anxious.”
“If I do it, you’ll stop being anxious?”
“I will. It’s that simple.”
“So it’s save her or save us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Nevermind. I don’t really give a fuck.”
“Well, I do. And so do you.”
“I don’t, that’s why I’ll go ahead and do it.”
“I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.”
She stood up and walked to the edge of the patio. Fields of grain and palms hugged the edges of the river. In the distance, beyond the river, were hills. Clouds moved across the sky and she saw the river differently now without the sun illuminating it.
“We could keep her,” she said. “And we could enjoy it. Yet when we talk like this, we make all that less possible.”
“How?”
“We just keep her.”
“We can’t. Not while we’re here.”
“We can get help. I have family here.”
“We can have one later.”
“Why put it off?” she asked.
“Our work. We’re committed.”
“But we can’t do it later. Not if we do this now.”
“We can. Especially if we do this.”
“No. It’ll all be taken away with her.”
“Nothing will be taken away.”
“It all will.”
“Come back and sit,” he said. “You shouldn’t think like that.”
“I don’t think,” she said. “I know.”
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do—”
“Or do anything that’s bad for you,” she mumbled. “God damnit, let’s have a real drink.”
“I’m down. But are you sure you can—”
“Stop,” she said. “Let’s stop talking and drink.”
*
They sat at the table and Dunya looked toward the Nile, or past it really, in the direction of the hills. The man stared at her, then down at the table.
“You should know,” he said, “that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’d be willing to keep her if that’s the only way for you. Just not here.”
“But do you want to?”
“Not like you do. But I don’t want anybody but you. So I’m willing.”
“Yea, you mentioned that.”
“Well, I am.”
“Are you willing to do something else for me?”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“Okay, then. Please please please please please stop talking.”
He didn’t respond, just looked at their suitcases stacked at the edge of the patio and pictured them worn and weathered after all the digs they’d go on together.
“Don’t do it then,” he said. “I won’t care.”
“I’m gonna freak out,” she said.
The server came through the curtain with two glasses of Sakara, placing them on the coasters, uttering, “il markib gayy bacd cashara da’ayi’.”
“What did she say?” asked the man.
“The boat will be here in ten minutes.”
“shukran,” Dunya said.
“I should carry our bags down to the water,” the man said.
“Fine. Then come back so we can finish.”
“Finish talking? Or the beer?”
“Just finish.”
He picked up the suitcases and carried them around the café and down to the dock. He looked, but couldn’t see the boat coming. On his way back, he walked through the bar where others were drinking. He had a pour of araq and watched as everyone waited around calmly.
He returned to the patio and found Dunya lying on the ground between the legs of the table, eyes closed, ankh choker in hand, blue beads strewn across her face.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, touching her stomach. “We’ll get out there on the water and everything will be fine.”
_______________________
1 “Two glasses of karkade.”
2 “Large?”
3 “Yes, large.”
4 “What’s your opinion about the evil eye?”
5 “What do you mean?”
6 “Nevermind.”
Hills Like White Elephants
by Ernest Hemingway
The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.
“What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
“It’s pretty hot,” the man said.
“Let’s drink beer.”
“Dos cervezas,” the man said into the curtain.
“Big ones?” a woman asked from the doorway.
“Yes. Two big ones.”
The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.
“They look like white elephants,” she said.
“I’ve never seen one,” the man drank his beer.
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“I might have,” the man said. “Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.”
The girl looked at the bead curtain. “They’ve painted something on it,” she said. “What does it say?”
“Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.”
“Could we try it?”
The man called “Listen” through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.
“Four reales.”
We want two Anis del Toro.”
“With water?”
“Do you want it with water?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Is it good with water?”
“It’s all right.”
“You want them with water?” asked the woman.
“Yes, with water.”
“It tastes like licorice,” the girl said and put the glass down.
“That’s the way with everything.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”
“Oh, cut it out.”
“You started it,” the girl said. “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.”
“Well, let’s try and have a fine time.”
“All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?”
“That was bright.”
“I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it – look at things and try new drinks?”
“I guess so.”
The girl looked across at the hills.
“They’re lovely hills,” she said. “They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees.”
“Should we have another drink?”
“All right.”
The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.
“The beer’s nice and cool,” the man said.
“It’s lovely,” the girl said.
“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”
The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.
“I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.”
The girl did not say anything.
“I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”
“Then what will we do afterwards?”
“We’ll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.”
“What makes you think so?”
“That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.”
The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.
“And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.”
“I know we will. Yon don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.”
“So have I,” said the girl. “And afterwards they were all so happy.”
“Well,” the man said, “if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.”
“And you really want to?”
“I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.”
“And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?”
“I love you now. You know I love you.”
“I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?”
“I”ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.”
“If I do it you won’t ever worry?”
“I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.”
“Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t care about me.”
“Well, I care about you.”
“Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.”
“I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.”
The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.
“And we could have all this,” she said. “And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.”
“What did you say?”
“I said we could have everything.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can have the whole world.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can go everywhere.”
“No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.”
“It’s ours.”
“No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.”
“But they haven’t taken it away.”
“We’ll wait and see.”
“Come on back in the shade,” he said. “You mustn’t feel that way.”
“I don’t feel any way,” the girl said. “I just know things.”
“I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do -”
“Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said. “I know. Could we have another beer?”
“All right. But you’ve got to realize – “
“I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.
“You’ve got to realize,” he said, “ that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.”
“Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want anyone else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.”
“Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.”
“It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.”
“Would you do something for me now?”
“I’d do anything for you.”
“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”
He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.
“But I don’t want you to,” he said, “I don’t care anything about it.”
“I’ll scream,” the girl said.
The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. “The train comes in five minutes,” she said.
“What did she say?” asked the girl.
“That the train is coming in five minutes.”
The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.
“I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,” the man said. She smiled at him.
“All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.”
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”
Reem Hazboun Taşyakan is a PhD candidate in the Literature Department at University of California, San Diego. She conducts research on 21st century Arab American novels. She obtained her BA in Creative Writing and her MA in Near Eastern Studies from University of Arizona. Reem’s fiction has appeared in Eclectica and Kweli, and her poetry has appeared in Other People and is forthcoming in Grist and The Tiny Mag.
Ernest Hemingway was an American fiction writer who published numerous works throughout his life, including the novels The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. He received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1953 and the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954. He is considered a modernist author whose understated prose style stands apart from the elaborate 19th century styles that came before him.
Translator’s Note:
This creative translation reconfigures outdated expressions of gender, language, and culture, while also acknowledging their persistence in our world. Ancient symbols are included to build on the commentary about societal changes throughout time. The text suggests that those symbols have mystical qualities to complicate the realist nature of the original work. Many thanks to Sally Abed and Martha Schulte-Nafeh for your advice on cultural and linguistic elements.