The Jacket
It is said that all Russian literature came out of Gogol's coat... the famous novel written by Nikolai Gogol, about Akai Akakiyevich, a legal employee, who for a long time dreamed of wearing a luxurious fur coat. After he succeeds in saving the price of the coat, and the tailor tailors it for him, he puts it on and goes out into the stormy and frosty night, having reached the peak of ecstasy and pleasure. Here, armed thieves attack him, beat him, and steal the coat. The result is that he returns to his mother’s house, where he suffers from a fever for several days, and then becomes delirious. He dies! My story was not this tragic. I had seen a picture of a famous international singer standing on stage wearing an elegant outfit, a black pullover and an apricot-colored jacket. He seemed very elegant to me, and I kept the picture for several years, and then the day came when my savings allowed it. I bought a cheap jacket that I found in a clothing store. I bought a black overcoat, and I knew that I had obtained what I wanted from the Lord of the Worlds...but I never found the courage to wear this set...it seemed to me more luxurious and elegant than people's eyes were accustomed to it. I will wear it once and they will be amazed. I will wear it again and they will be amazed. Then a third time and they will smile. After that they will not notice at all. This is a very cruel thing. That is why I put the suit in the wardrobe and filled the pockets with naphthalene so that insects would not find their way into it, and I decided to There is an important occasion in my life that will inevitably come... an invitation to an Oscar party... an invitation to receive the Nobel Prize... marriage to Marilyn Monroe... this occasion will require me to remove this marvel from its place. Two years later, Aida came to college. The delicate, charming girl. I knew from the first moment that I loved her. I knew that she would not escape me. This is how I began to court her, and she accepted my courtship with a mixture of cunning and innocence. I was saving the few dollars I had to buy her a small gift or a delicate trinket. She would accept or refuse. Here this handsome young teaching assistant appeared. His name was Zakaria. He was very tall, blond-haired, and had blue eyes. He was a really nice lecturer, brilliant at the science he taught. The truth is that all the girls in the batch tried to win his admiration or attention, but he seemed to be floating in Indonesian worlds that we do not know. I learned from my companions that his father was one of the notables before the revolution...an old pasha, a cotton owner, who had left him a considerable fortune and a magnificent palace...all of this despite the nationalization that cut off a lot...I felt a lump in my throat, and the only thing stopping me from hating him madly was He was polite and kind to me. I began to pray to God that he would not see her. Let him not see her, Lord. Here the disaster happened. Aida fell into a problem with one of the physics devices in the laboratory and asked him for help, so he came to help her and joke with her. This is how the relationship between them was strengthened. Then came that trip to Al-Qanater Al-Khayriyah, where she decided to go, so the handsome Zakaria went with us, and he started singing, joking, and leading the fun on the bus. He even dared to approach her and started singing while looking into her eyes... as if we were in one of the old little Najat movies. I knew that the time had come. The moment of danger was very close. Within a day or two, she will return brandishing the ring on her finger. It is now or never, forever. Whoever owns the apricot jacket and does not use it at a moment like this is a traitor. Like the general who owns powerful missiles and then does not use them and leaves his country occupied. The time has come. It's time for the jacket.. I will wear it and go to college tomorrow, and I will dazzle the eyes of everyone who sees me.. I will be breathless.. and Aida will be mine.. I wore a wonderful black pullover. I looked at myself in the mirror and began to see the image of Aida next to me. I went to the wardrobe and took out The jacket.. I put it on and stood looking at myself in amazement.. Then I realized that something was wrong.. these stains on the pockets. The mothballs have melted, ruining all the pockets...and they obviously can't be cleaned. The jacket was gone, and with it I was finished, and my chance for happiness was over.. From that day on, I became a desperate writer who wrote bitter stories. All Russian literature emerged from Gogol's coat, while my literature emerged from an apricot jacket whose pockets were ruined by mothballs. who knows?. Maybe this was better... I just hope that Aida does not read these lines while sitting next to her husband, Zakaria, if he were still alive.
Dr. Ahmed Khaled Tawfiq
