Chapter 1: A Quiet Street and a Secret Feeling

North Richmond Street was a quiet street. It was a “blind” street, which means it ended with a wall and had no way out. The houses all looked the same—square, brown, and serious. Only one house was empty. It stood alone at the end of the street. No one lived there, and it looked darker than the others.
I lived in one of the houses with my uncle and aunt. Before us, an old priest lived in the house. He had died in the back room. The air in the house still smelled old and musty. In the back room behind the kitchen, I found dusty papers and old books. Some of the books had yellow pages. I liked one book best: The Memoirs of Vidocq. There was also a wild garden behind the house, with an apple tree and messy bushes. Under one bush, I found the priest’s old bicycle pump. He had been a kind man. He gave his money to charity and his furniture to his sister.
When winter came, the days became short. It got dark before we finished dinner. My friends and I played in the cold streets. The sky turned dark violet, and the street lamps gave only a little light. The air was cold and made our faces sting, but we shouted and ran until we were warm.
We played in the back lanes and dirty alleys behind the houses. We ran past wet stables and smelly yards. Sometimes we hid in the shadows and watched people from far away. One evening, I saw her—Mangan’s sister.
She stood at the doorway of her house. Her body was framed by the soft light from the open door. Her hair moved gently as she stood there. I always waited to see her. Sometimes I followed her at a distance when she walked outside. I never dared to speak to her—only a few short words. Still, she stayed in my mind every day.
Every morning, I lay on the floor in our front room and watched her door. The blind on the window was almost closed, so no one could see me. When she came out, my heart jumped. I quickly ran to get my books and followed her. Her image stayed in my head like a dream. I watched her morning after morning. I never really spoke to her, but her name was like magic in my mind.

Chapter 2: The Promise of Araby

Even in the busiest places, I could not stop thinking about Mangan’s sister. Her face and voice stayed in my mind like music. On Saturday evenings, I had to go shopping with my aunt in loud, crowded streets. I hated it. The streets were full of shouting boys, drunk men, and women bargaining for cheap things. People sang sad songs or shouted about problems in our country. But I didn’t listen to them. I only thought about her.
I imagined I was carrying something precious, like a golden cup through a crowd of enemies. I felt proud and nervous at the same time. My eyes were often full of tears, and my heart felt too full. I did not understand these feelings, but I liked them. I did not know how to speak to her or tell her how I felt. But her voice and movements were like a song playing inside me.
One evening, I stood in the dark drawing-room where the priest had died. The wind blew outside, and I could hear the rain falling on the ground. It was a cold, lonely night. I thought about her, and my heart filled with strong feelings. I whispered, “O love! O love!” again and again.
Finally, she spoke to me. One day, as we stood at the garden railings, she asked, “Are you going to Araby?”
I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say. Araby was a special bazaar—a market with lights, music, and interesting things to buy. I didn’t know how to answer her. She said it would be a wonderful place and that she would love to go.
“Why can’t you go?” I asked.
She said she couldn’t because that weekend, there was a retreat at her school. Her brother and some other boys were playing, but she stayed close to the railing and spoke softly. The light from across the street shone on her neck and her hand.
I looked at her and said, “If I go, I will bring you something.”
After that day, I couldn’t think of anything else. I wanted time to move faster so I could go to Araby. I hated school and homework. In class, I could barely pay attention. The word Araby echoed in my mind like a spell. I dreamed of the bazaar and of buying something beautiful for her.
My aunt was happy that I wanted to go, but she wondered if the bazaar was connected to something strange like a secret group. My uncle was less serious. On Saturday morning, I told him I wanted to go in the evening.
He said, “Yes, boy, I know.”
But I was already worried. Would he forget?

Chapter 3: The Journey to Araby

All day Saturday, I waited for the evening. I kept thinking about the gift I would buy for Mangan’s sister. I believed it would show her how I felt. I reminded my uncle in the morning that I wanted to go to the bazaar. He said, “Yes, boy, I know,” but his voice wasn’t serious.
Later, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I walked through the cold streets toward school with a heavy heart. The air was icy, and I felt both nervous and excited. That evening, when I came home, my uncle was still not back. I waited and watched the clock. Time passed slowly, and my heart grew impatient.
To pass the time, I went upstairs and looked out of the front window. The house was cold and empty. Outside, I saw my friends still playing in the street. I looked at the dark house where Mangan’s sister lived and imagined her standing there again. Her image made my heart ache.
When I came downstairs, an old woman named Mrs. Mercer was sitting by the fire. She often came to visit and collect old stamps for charity. I had to sit with her and listen to her boring stories. Time passed slowly, and still my uncle didn’t come. Mrs. Mercer got tired of waiting and left. It was already after 8 o’clock, and I was afraid the bazaar would close.
At last, I heard my uncle’s key in the door. He came in, talking to himself, tired and slow. I asked him for the money to go. At first, he forgot why I needed it. Then my aunt said, “Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him waiting long enough!”
My uncle laughed and gave me a coin. He also quoted a line from a poem: “The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed.” I didn’t listen. I just ran.
I held the coin tightly in my hand and hurried through the streets to the train station. The station was full of people coming and going. I found a place in a train and waited. The train moved slowly through the city, past old houses and dark streets. Finally, it reached the bazaar.
When I arrived, it was late. I paid the entrance fee and walked inside. The hall was large but mostly empty. Many of the stalls were closed. The lights were dim, and only a few people were left. It felt more like a church after service than a magical market.
I walked to one of the few open stalls. A young woman was talking and laughing with two boys. They all had English accents. I looked at some porcelain vases and tea sets, but I wasn’t really interested. I just stood there, feeling awkward.
The young woman asked me politely if I wanted to buy anything. Her voice was kind but not warm. It felt like she was just doing her job. I said, “No, thank you,” in a quiet voice.
She went back to her conversation. I stood for a few seconds, then turned and walked away. I let the coins fall from my hand into my pocket. There was nothing left to see. The lights were going out, and the hall was turning dark.
As I walked out into the night, I felt deeply ashamed. I had come all this way with dreams and hope—but for what? I had thought I was on a great mission of love. But now I understood it was only a foolish dream.
Gazing up into the darkness, I saw myself as a person full of pride, laughed at by the world. My eyes burned with sadness and anger.