Papa Sartre: A Modern Arabic Novel (Modern Arabic Literature)

by Ali Bader

This response liberated Abd al-Rahman, who started laughing loudly. His eyes twinkled, and he felt joyful and relieved. His heart was beating fast, and his cheeks were hot from emotion. He asked Ahmad, “Is he as elegant as I am?”

  “That would be impossible. He wears rags, like the Paris clochards. People say he is a drug addict and spends his time with users, pickpockets, and all the lazy guys.” Abd al-Rahman shouted joyfully, “That’s great!”

  The philosopher adopted an affected walk, he was proud of his virility, his youth, his strength, and he made fun of effeminate young Frenchmen. The two friends stopped at a nearby café and were served by a plump waitress wearing country clothes under her red sweater. Her smile revealed a gold tooth. They ordered two beers. The place had a nostalgic ambiance, and Abd al-Rahman felt an inclination for jokes, wisdom, and lust.When Ahmad broached the subject, he was certain of the effect his words would have on his friend. He said, “There’s only one thing.” Abd al-Rahman asked what it was. Ahmad explained, “People say he is an existentialist.”

  “Existentialist!” echoed Abd al-Rahman. He put down the glass of beer he had begun to drink. Ahmad’s revelation hit the philosopher like a thunderbolt. After a short silence he wondered, “Is it true, does he understand existentialism? How?” Ahmad wore a smile of compassion and looked for a way to lessen the shock on his friend. He felt the concern of the philosopher, his anxiety. “I don’t know much. They say he holds long discussions and describes himself as an existentialist.”

  Abd al-Rahman was seriously worried. His expression betrayed deep hatred for this Algerian, but he was not crushed. He wet his dry lips with sips of beer. The philosopher was not convinced that Si Muammar could do anything except memorize a dictionary of existentialist terms. Whatever the existentialism of this man with the cognac-bottle-shaped face, it would be easy for Abd al-Rahman to best him, or so he thought. As soon as they met face-to-face he would inundate him with a series of philosophical definitions, even disconnected ones, then confuse him, surprise him, and overpower him verbally. Si Muammar wouldn’t be able to say a word.

  The surprise would muzzle him. The waitress of Café de Flore would be stunned and overjoyed. She’d look at Abd al-Rahman with affectionate eyes, rush to his side, and tell him, “You are truly a philosopher, your abstruse words are magical!” She’d recognize the difference between a philosopher and a clochard, a true philosopher and an imposter. She would notice for the first time the richness of his soul, his calm, and poise. She would fall in love with his dreamy eyes, which resembled the eyes of prophets. She would listen to his prophetic voice, the voice of a messenger. She would become aware of his sensual side, his love of food, and earthly pleasures. She would note his handsome appearance, his lust, his sexual proclivities, and his philosophical personality.

  “What more could a waitress want?” he shouted and hit the table with his hand, scaring his friend, whose neck had sunk into his coat. Ahmad regained his self-control quickly and said, “Don’t think of her as your significant other, yet.”

  Teary-eyed, his cheeks burning red from emotion and the heat of love, Abd al-Rahman made a solemn declaration, “I will make her my significant other, believe me. I’ll be her gift.” Ahmad commented on his friend’s words saying, “This is real generosity. You are truly generous.” He resumed drinking his beer.

  25

  Ahmad managed to convince the philosopher of the soundness of his ideas. He was a gifted talker and persuasive speaker who used flattery to accomplish his aims and never defied his friend. His heavy drinking helped endear him to people. It gave him a hoarse voice that was comforting and friendly. His conversation was histrionic, but his tone was warm and reassuring. Presented in an agreeable way, his most insignificant ideas acquired importance.

  The philosopher, on the other hand, was a practical man, and alcohol emboldened him. He asked Ahmad whether the meeting with the waitress would be easy, and Ahmad reassured him it would be. The philosopher was convinced of his ability to assert himself and his power over others. He held tight to this imaginary victory out of need for a relationship, and he was ready to conquer the waitress at Café de Flore to show her a pure image of himself, an unadulterated image free of scandal and sarcasm. He intended to reach his target by crushing his debaters and was intent on revenge to expunge the humiliation he had endured at her hands. He was bent on revenge at any cost to advance the image of a very proud man and to conceal his delicate, wounded soul.

  Abd al-Rahman thought to himself, “Si Muammar will swallow the bait. Our friendship will be a mere device to reach the waitress of Café de Flore.”

  He laughed noisily, and the whiskey vapors escaped from his mouth. He didn’t feel guilty, because he didn’t have a normal conscience. He had a philosopher’s conscience, a conscience that philosophy had killed. He didn’t think like normal human beings, who are considerate of others. His tyranny overpowered any benign feelings he had. He wanted to impose his will on those around him, and he found great pleasure in using his might. Thinking aloud he said, “No, he’ll not be my friend,” then fell silent.

  “Of course not,” agreed Ahmad.

  Abd al-Rahman explained his intentions to his friend, “I’m not trying to get to know him because of his black eyes. Rather I’m doing it for her eyes. I want to know him for a specific purpose. My aim is the waitress, not some beggar whose head looks like a cognac bottle. This isn’t a clochard’s friendship.” He spoke those words and bent his head over his chest.

  26

  They left the bar totally drunk and were met at the door by a Filipino prostitute. When the philosopher smiled at her, she turned to him and opened her coat, revealing a short skirt, dark thighs, and provocative breasts. He asked if she would accompany him to his apartment, and she said yes. She walked with the two men until Ahmad went off on his own. The two friends agreed to meet the following day at noon.

  27

  Abd al-Rahman and the prostitute returned to his apartment under a heavy rain that was soaking into Paris. The rain didn’t stop all night, and the streets filled with puddles that shone like pieces of glass under cars’ headlights. The philosopher was in the habit of going home drunk every night after spending hours in bars drinking and talking, eventually leaving with a different prostitute each night. This was his way of fighting his loneliness and isolation. His anger at others and his swearing were not deliberate insults but an expression of noble desperation. He was suffering, and in his condition his only consolation was his belief that philosophy can be attained only through suffering, pain, and tragedy.

  The afternoons passed quickly during the Parisian winters, but the nights were like a wet and icy nightmare. To overcome his anguish Abd al-Rahman had nowhere to go but the bars and bordellos. Every now and then he spent time quarreling with his friend Ahmad, an Iraqi who had come to Paris to study engineering but never got a degree. He survived in the French capital through the largesse of rich Iraqis, for whom he did small favors in exchange for cigarettes, a drink, or a sandwich. He would always return drunk to his hotel room in Porte d’Italie, enter his cold room, lie down on his bed, cover himself with a damp blanket, and drop off to sleep.

  28

  The following morning the sun made its appearance between the clouds, warming up a wet Paris day that was still filled with the previous night’s rain. Ahmad pushed at the door of Apartment 13 in one of Gay-Lussac’s buildings just as the Filipino prostitute was rushing out without makeup and carrying her evening clothes. He gave his friend, who was still in bed, the morning papers: Le Monde, Le Figaro, and Libération. This ritual was followed by breakfast, which Ahmad habitually prepared for the two of them.

  After skimming the papers, the philosopher took a shower and prepared himself for the activities of the new day. He wanted to know what plans had been laid for meeting Si Muammar, a scheme that would protect his pride and dignity as a philosopher. Ahmad pressed for an informal encounter, explaining that the matter was not worth formalities. He spent a g
reat deal of time with the Algerians and knew them well, so he advised Abd al-Rahman simply to ask Si Muammar about conditions in Algeria as an overture to their conversation. The philosopher objected, clearly unhappy with Ahmad’s suggestion. He insisted on meeting him in a “philosophical manner.”

  “I’ve learned that he has an Algerian girlfriend and an Iraqi friend named Nader,” explained Ahmad.

  “He’s a crook then—an Algerian girlfriend. He’s a crook,” commented Abd al-Rahman, laughing victoriously and clapping. He continued, “Despite all this I want to meet him in a special way. I want to humiliate him, to crush him from the first moment. You want me to go and tell him that I wish to become acquainted with him? Impossible!”

  He fell into a reflective mood, trying to think. In truth, the philosopher was unable to think during crucial moments; instead he dreamed in his own philosophical way. He wondered aloud why his friend wasn’t thinking like he was, in a philosophical manner. Surprised, Ahmad was quick to explain, “Because you’re the philosopher, not me.”

  Abd al-Rahman was trying to think of a dignified way to meet his rival, an arrangement worthy of his social and philosophical rank. He didn’t want to stoop to the level of the common people and the pseudo-philosophers to reach his aim. After some deliberation he came up with an approach that Ahmad had suggested previously but which he had rejected. He presented the same idea in a slightly different way so as not to appear to contradict himself: “We can go to the Latin Quarter and have you ask the Iraqi philosopher to discuss some of Sartre’s ideas with Si Muammar.”

  Ahmad expressed his huge admiration for the suggestion. He knew the philosopher could not stand to have anyone contradict him, even in simple matters, like many young people of his generation. As far as Abd al-Rahman was concerned, disagreeing with him meant failing to recognize his genius. This would lead the philosopher to cross that friend off his list, insult him, and even resort to physical assault. Ahmad, however, could not afford to lose the friendship and approval of a supporter. He was neither a philosopher nor a politician and barely a human being. All he wanted was to stay alive, even if it meant surviving, like cats and dogs, on the master’s scraps. He was willing to go along with Abd al-Rahman’s mistakes, accept them without argument, and humbly accept blame for the philosopher’s failures, and beg for forgiveness.

  The two men left the Gay-Lussac apartment around noon in search of Si Muammar. The philosopher now considered Muammar a disturbed man and a drug addict, who was loose, adventurous, lustful, and destructive. Making his way through the crowds, Abd al-Rahman felt distant and alone, a sentiment that provided him with a sense of strength. He walked firmly and forcefully, his face pale and his nose red from the cold. A light wind teased women’s hair as they walked laughing, carrying their books. He overheard snatches of love stories, philosophical discussions, and political debates as he moved between the patrons of sidewalk cafés and restaurants. He heard music, noticed the window displays of bookstores, and saw the huge selection of flowers arrayed in beautiful containers. They passed cigarette and newspaper kiosks, telephone booths, and souvenir shops along the way.

  Abd al-Rahman followed behind Ahmad, who was searching for Si Muammar in the cafés along their route until they found him sitting with some of his Algerian friends and Nader, the Iraqi. Relieved, he pointed him out to Abd al-Rahman. Si Muammar’s profile looked like that of a typical Algerian—thin, pug-nosed, with a skillfully shaped mustache over a delicate mouth. He had curly hair with some graying and was balding slightly.

  The two friends sat at a nearby table. As soon as the philosopher looked closely at Si Muammar he panicked. His heart began pounding and his hands trembled, his eyes turned red and teary and he started panting. He whispered to Ahmad, “What are we doing here?” Nonplussed, Ahmad didn’t know what to say and looked at the philosopher with his mouth agape. When he heard him say, “Let’s go,” Ahmad objected, “After coming all this way?!” The philosopher grew confused and fearful, but agreed to stay in order “to rest a little.”

  The situation revealed Abd al-Rahman’s weak character, but why would a philosopher need a strong personality? It’s his mental acuity, strong philosophical background, and vision that count. A personality is shaped by external factors and social and economic conditions. Philosophy needs an inner hunch, a certain premonition about the destruction of the external world that causes the philosopher to shun the outside world, despise it, and ignore it. Abd al-Rahman’s personality was shaped from the inside, and from this inner structure came the strength of his ideas and concepts, but it also made him more fearful of others. His introverted nature hindered his interaction with women, yet he was grateful for a weakness that protected him from acting foolishly, like the homeless sleeping in metro stations, the drunkards in the bars, and the beggars on the sidewalks who were adventurous and paid the price for it. Sudden bouts of courage often placed him in ridiculous situations that he greatly regretted.

  Ahmad was surprised to hear him declare, “Who is this clochard who intimidates me?!” Ahmad agreed with him, somewhat concerned by his reaction, and asked whether he should go talk to Si Muammar. Abd al-Rahman asked him to wait a little. While Ahmad was waiting for an answer, the philosopher pretended to be reading a newspaper to give himself time to regain his courage and come to a decision. Abd al-Rahman instructed Ahmad, “Go to him and tell him that the Iraqi existential philosopher wants to discuss with him topics related to existentialism in Algeria.” Ahmad rushed over to Si Muammar’s table, approached the man, and whispered a few words in his ear, causing both Si Muammar and Nader to burst out laughing. Abd al-Rahman watched closely, his heart racing.

  Ahmad returned to his friend in a state of confusion, not knowing what to tell him, and at a loss as to what should be their next step. “Let’s run.”

  “What?!” asked a surprised Abd al-Rahman.

  “I am telling you, let’s get out of here.” The philosopher didn’t understand.

  “Why? What did he tell you?”

  Ahmad explained, “He made fun of me. He told me, ‘let him go to Sartre and discuss the subject with him.’”

  Ahmad was shaking and ready to bolt. Abd al-Rahman was deeply humiliated and saddened, not only because this Algerian clochard had made fun of him and insulted him, but also because he had missed an opportunity to fulfill his aim. This turn of events meant that he would never be able to reach the waitress of Café de Flore. He was furious because Ahmad had failed to find the right words in French to accomplish his mission; he probably hadn’t expressed himself properly. Though innocent of all those accusations, Ahmad accepted responsibility for his failure, “Yes, it’s my fault. Please forgive me.”

  While Ahmad was absorbed in his mea culpa, Si Muammar and Nader approached the philosopher and asked if both men were Iraqis. Ahmad confirmed their origins. Abd al-Rahman remained very calm as Nader and his friend sat down at their table. Abd al-Rahman eyed Si Muammar rather anxiously, and to break the ice Si Muammar asked him how long he had been in Paris.

  “I arrived three years ago,” said Abd al-Rahman.

  The philosopher did not feel like engaging in a philosophical discussion with Si Muammar while Nader was present. He wanted to do that another day in the presence of the waitress, in order to impress her and to show Si Muammar what it meant to be a philosopher. He engaged in casual conversation, reluctant to reveal his true intentions. Nader, a simple, goodhearted young man, soon turned the conversation to the direction of philosophy, asking Abd al-Rahman whether he was an existentialist.

  “Yes, I am an existentialist. What about you two?”

  Nader said no, and Si Muammar said, smiling, “This depends on one’s understanding of existentialism.” He then lit a cigarette without offering any to the others. Abd al-Rahman quickly took his pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and offered one to Nader, who declined, explaining that he was not a smoker.

  Si Muammar turned to Abd al-Rahman and asked, “What does existentialis
m mean to you?”

  Abd al-Rahman’s answer was ready, in French, one that he had memorized from one of the most famous philosophy encyclopedias of his time. Without hesitation or embarrassment he launched into a comprehensive and complete definition of existentialism. He sat back, eyes half closed, moistened his lips with his long red tongue, took a deep breath, and said, “Existentialism is a tendency hostile to the absolute outlook that represses cases of differences and absence of continuity in practical life. This enmity,” he took a deep puff from his cigarette, “takes the form of profound self-analysis and calls for the priority of existence over essence. Therefore, it takes a biased position in favor of the partial,” he took a light puff, “and the material against any effort meant to reach a complete doctrine under which all actions can be classified. This is where the existential philosopher finds sympathy for a doctrine that confirms the superiority of the active mind over the theoretical mind.”

  He hardly had time to catch his breath after delivering this amazing definition of existentialism than Si Muammar and Nader burst out laughing noisily. They cried laughing, and Nader couldn’t contain himself. Ahmad and Abd al-Rahman were silent in their total disbelief of the reaction of the two men. They could not understand why these two stupid men would laugh at a definition available in the greatest and most expensive encyclopedia of philosophy in France, Larousse Encyclopedia.

  Si Muammar explained apologetically that he wasn’t very familiar with philosophy. “Pardon me, my friend. I don’t understand this philosophy stuff at all. I’m a down-to-earth fellow, fun-loving and pleasure-seeking. I like drugs, I’m lazy—this is my philosophy.”

  Upon hearing his explanation Abd al-Rahman and Ahmad burst out laughing, perhaps a little artificially. Abd al-Rahman said, “Excuse me, Si Muammar, but do you call those insignificant inclinations a philosophy? Those are things anyone can do. Even Ahmad, who understands nothing, can do them.”