Although I resigned from my post as a middle school math teacher a long time ago and haven’t practiced any other occupation since, I have managed to eke out a living, one way or another. It’s true that the furnishings of my house are very modest, but I respect that and love their modesty. I do not possess the latest car like those that brokers and social parasites drive, but my cranky old car, a Toyota Corolla, performs its duties on most days admirably and satisfies my limited transportation needs.
The next morning, entranced by the Eastern writing spices I had brought back, I was busily attempting to drag them onto paper when my cell phone rang. The call was from Najma – a presumptuous girl whom I had known for two years and whose arrogance still made me grumble occasionally. She felt so superior to the world that she seemed even to breathe sparingly. She felt superior to the nation and its inhabitants and was fully convinced that the distant stars in the sky had been named for her – not the other way round.
Najma dressed traditionally and didn’t follow modern styles, because she didn’t care to be swayed by the fashions of this age or any other. Her perfumes were a mix of local and foreign scents so she wouldn’t feel confined to one fragrance, as she explained. Her opinion of men could be summarized in just one sentence, and it wasn’t favorable.
I met her one day at an out-of-the-way coffeehouse where she read me her story “The Neighbor’s Goat”. The idea was imaginative and remarkable. One of the writer’s neighbors owned a kid that could forecast the weather, volatility in prices, illness, and death. When the goat raged violently through the house, its owner knew that a military coup, a destructive earthquake, or some similar catastrophe would occur that day. Although the story showed a fertile imagination, it was poorly written.
I told the girl frankly what I thought and that she should rewrite it after she read more authors and acquired more literary skill. She did not like that at all. She quarreled with me and broke off contact with me for a number of months. She returned again, however, when she found herself in a quandary that she wanted to implicate me in – not to resolve it, because she would be able to resolve it on her own, at the appropriate time, as she put it – but for me to transform it into a novel.
During that period, she had moved with her family to an old district that was inhabited in the main by people with limited incomes, because her father had retired from a government post in the tax bureau and his resources had shrunk considerably. There, a young man who drafted legal documents in front of the Shari’a Court and who lived in that district, saw her and fell madly in love with her.
At first the young petition writer, named Hamid Abbas but known in the neighborhood as Hamid Tulumba (or “the Pump”), displayed his affection merely in swift, breathless looks at her face and trim body whenever he chanced upon her in the street. This display of affection evolved into the release of ill-phrased exclamations, when he found her waiting for a bus or taxi at the district’s public transport station, and finally became thick letters with long, convoluted sentences. She would find these along the district’s dusty roads, at the publicity and advertising agency where she worked, or tossed over the garden wall of her house. Sometimes one of her little brothers would bring a letter to her when he returned from playing in the street.
Laughing, Najma informed me with her extraordinary arrogance that she loved this situation immensely and wanted it to simmer for as long as possible so that it could serve as a splendid literary plot in the future. She had devised for the poor petition drafter all types of mud for him to sink in up to his hair. She had plied him with colorful smiles, carefully traced on her lips. She had provided him with glimpses of facial features that could easily be described as those of a dazzling, agreeable girl. Once, she dropped a white piece of paper in front of him with only a question mark on it. One day she wore a screaming red dress and misted her body with a powerful jasmine perfume, because Tulumba had once written she was a red rose that emitted its scent incessantly.
Her dilemma, when I encountered her that day, had apparently reached a climax, and her lover, Tulumba, had informed her in the last of twenty letters that had reached her by various means, that he was preparing a house of love to embrace both of them, building a ceiling over it with a trellis of affection, and furnishing it with soft pillows of love that would never fray.
“Ah! Isn’t this a splendid novel, Master? Isn’t it a plot concept worth putting into words?”
In fact, it was by no means a splendid plot idea for a novel that contemporary writing would embrace. Stories of unrequited love, of requited love, or even of love between one hundred different partners have become so shopworn in all the literatures of the world that I believe they no longer attract mature readers. Moreover, even though I didn’t know that unfortunate petition writer and never expected to meet him, I sympathized intensely with him and hoped that he really wouldn’t need to pull his heart out of the muck and that his true-life ordeal would end. Besides, even if I had found the story concept convincing, I wouldn’t write it, quite simply because I don’t write from experiences that don’t involve me at all. I have never written a novel based on an experience that some random person had and that I happened to hear about. I have my own loose-fitting storytelling shirt that never feels too tight on the body of my writing. I have my imagination, my taste, my perfumes, my spices, and my paved and rocky roads that I traverse when I ride forth on writing’s back.
That day I didn’t laugh, even though I wanted to laugh till I died. I asked the sadistic, supercilious girl, trying not to anger her, “Why don’t you write it? Aren’t you a writer?”
She replied calmly as her right hand tapped her chest gently, “Of course I could write it, but it wouldn’t enjoy a large circulation, and that’s destined to happen when an established author publishes it. I want you to write it and delegate to me the task of enjoying reading and promoting it.”
“No . . . ” I said without thinking, as if the computer on which I write my manuscripts had spoken. “No . . . no, I don’t write stories like this.”
That day, when Najma assumed a variety of colorings – primarily anger, indignation, and nervous tension – it seemed to me that she might actually be really captivating and attract many crazed admirers in addition to Tulumba, if her heart were to become more like those of ordinary people and if feelings were inserted into her – not lofty ones – just ordinary emotions.
I watched her hands. Their movements reminded me of a defeated person still struggling valiantly for victory. I observed her eyes a little and discovered that they lacked the limpidity of normal eyes. They seemed to be fitted with contact lenses to shield dark secrets that shouldn’t have light shed on them. She didn’t move from her place but adjusted her posture. She struggled till the hint of a smile found her mouth.
She said with a suavity I did not expect, “You will write it for my sake. Isn’t that so? Every writer offers gifts to girls who are his fans. This will be my gift from you.”
I remembered that she had read me her story “The Neighbors’ Goat” in a corner she had chosen in a noisy coffeehouse that I did not frequent often and that none of my friends patronized. She had paid for my coffee and my cigarettes that day, had listened to my negative opinion of her story, and had left angry, only to return with a dilemma that was hers and not mine.
In my first meeting with her I had probed a lot into her character, more than I should have, but had found no trace of admiration that would prompt me to offer her a text that I could not write. I was certain now that she, even if she had never read a book by me, would understand from my approach to writing that if I did actually write her dilemma as a novel, I wouldn’t elevate her a single centimeter. I would make her the worst heroine ever. Her “lover,” on the other hand, the petition writer Tulumba, I might transform into a crazed lover who would not accept defeat easily. He would bring her to dwell in a house trellised overhead with vipers and furnished with daggers and knives. He would kill her time and again so that
he could survive as a firebrand of love, eternally aflame.
Annoyed with her and her insistence on creating a victim, I sided strongly with her suitor just as I had sided previously with numerous individuals I considered victims of an unjust life. I remember that in my novel The Course of Events on the final two pages I saved the hero – Sufyan, an embezzling bank employee – from serving many years in prison because I considered him a victim of a lengthy chain of malfeasance, in which he was merely a minor link, while much more robust links were watching his tragedy and laughing.
In the novel Tortoise, published five years ago, I watched Salma, a cruel, perverted public security officer who devised innovative forms of sexual torture, die on the last page; but then I invented an effective remedy that extended her life long enough to give her time to apologize repeatedly to her victims before she expired.
I said to Najma, “My dear, I don’t owe anyone anything. I’m a free writer and write only what I want and what I can. The experiences of other people don’t appeal to me or excite me.”
I think I was rude, because I felt wasted and had a bitter taste in my throat. I saw the supercilious girl vanquished this time so decisively that she made no attempt to inch toward victory.
She plucked her classic gray handbag from the table, opened it forcefully, and took out a strip of aspirins. She popped two pills from the strip and swallowed them without water. Then she rose and turned away from me.
She departed with quick steps, much faster than a girl’s ordinary gait. The adolescent waiter, whose smile revealed teeth corroded by sweets, had, I suspect, a different scenario – involving love and the flight of the beloved – playing in his mind at that moment. When I returned to my house that day, I sat brooding deeply about the petition writer Hamid Abbas, reflecting on his nickname Tulumba – “the Pump” – and how he had acquired it. This chain of thought was far removed from Najma’s dilemma and was a line of reasoning that might introduce this crazed lover to a different text far removed from his actual life.
Najma did not meet with me again for a long time after that – just as she hadn’t after I criticized “The Neighbors’ Goat”. So I was surprised to receive, approximately a year later, on Facebook, a request to be her friend. I responded quickly and did not resist my desire to check out her wall to learn what types of projects she was working on, whether she was still writing short stories, and whether her skills had improved.
I found the story “The Neighbors’ Goat” plastered across the page, with all its linguistic and technical flaws. There were hundreds of comments and expressions of admiration surrounding it, promoting its flaws.
I discovered another story by her, called “Espionage Report on My Grandmother”. The idea was excellent, but the writing wasn’t. The best thing about the story was its title. There were also other brief phrases that did not match her personality, like: “My heart burgeoned in your flank. Straying in your feelings, it rises, soaring . . . I beg you,” or “If my desire to meet you dies, don’t forget to visit its grave.”
I placed a “like” sign on a picture of her in dark clothing and without accessories, leaning against a mud-brick wall, apparently in some village or country estate, even though I didn’t actually like the picture. This “like” opened a passageway in the wall of our quarrel and we met once again.
When we met, I intended to ask her about Tulumba, the wretched petition writer – whether he still was madly in love with her and was creating scenes for her immortal novel. But I didn’t, for fear of becoming involved in her crisis again. She, for her part, gave me no information about what had happened. She also did not refer on her page to that dilemma, which she had said she was trying her hardest to drag out as long as possible.
I answered Najma’s phone call after a number of insistent rings.
She spoke in a very low voice, as if she were too good for the line and did not want to release her voice full force. She apologized for not attending the book launch for Hunger’s Hopes, citing an unexpected illness of her normally healthy grandmother, who was over ninety, and enthusiastically invited me to attend an enlightening debate to be held the next evening at the Social Harmony Club, where she would introduce the speaker. The lecture would be devoted to something called “reflexology medicine”, about which there was currently a lot of talk. “People have a right to understand its reality from the experts, in person, and the degree to which it can alleviate pains and treat chronic illnesses,” she said.
Despite my serious efforts to acquire information and despite the fact that I have expended endless hours reading books of every type, all I knew about reflexology was the name, and it had never occurred to me to learn about it firsthand. The topic had never interested me much, and I had no wish to seek treatment, should I get sick, from any alternative form of medicine. The invitation was delivered persistently, however, by a girl who had been humiliated by me often; I had to go, to humor her.
– 4 –
I was a little late arriving at the Social Harmony Club – which was near my house – because when I had already dressed to go out and was ready to leave, I was suddenly overwhelmed by some literary passages that I considered extremely important. I wrote down the title of a possible novel, part of the plot idea, and some random scenes that might make it into the final text or that might be torn up straightaway. I was inspired to think that this novel might include some characters from Kuala Lumpur such as Master Tuli and Anania Faruq and some other local characters that I wouldn’t need to research, since I had them squirreled away in my memory. I wished I hadn’t become ensnared in this invitation from Najma so I could continue writing all night long, because I had a strange feeling that the writing would flow and not peter out until I became exhausted.
It was after seven-thirty when I found a parking spot near the venue, parked, and entered the hall. Luckily the lecture hadn’t started yet.
The place wasn’t as crowded as I had expected it to be. I noticed a number of individuals I knew, sitting in front, their eyes focused on the dais. Among these was the elderly trade-unionist Abd al-Rahman, who used to head the main labor union. He had called himself “Mahatma”, even though he did not go barefoot, wear a loincloth of cheap fabric, or harangue people in the streets – as he should have done to earn that title. Since he used to complain of chronic back pain, he was no doubt searching for relief through reflexology. I also noticed Sonia al-Zuwainy, who owned a successful chain of hair salons. She was of Moroccan origin and had been married and divorced many times. She must have been searching in reflexology for a way to moderate her temperament so she could stick with one man. I noticed the swim coach Shawqi, who was called Shushu by his swimmers. A fourteen-year-old boy sat alone on an isolated chair with his eyes glued on the stage; I didn’t understand why, unless he was hoping the lecture would provide a laudable way to attract girls.
I plopped down in the first empty chair I found. This was next to a middle-aged woman wearing heavy gold earrings and an attractive, green thobe embroidered with gold thread. I hoped that my presence would not be noticed by anyone I knew or by any of my readers and that the evening would pass uneventfully and I could continue writing afterwards without any burdens or encumbrances. The woman, however, noticed my presence, although fortunately she did not have a clue who I was. She leaned slightly toward me and asked in a whisper, “I think I’ve seen you before. Do you give the weather report on TV?”
Without hesitation, I replied, “Yes, occasionally.”
I glanced at the stage, where Najma was sitting. She wore an ordinary white outfit like a nurse’s uniform. The speaker, who was beside her, was elegant in a black striped suit and a yellow necktie. Behind them was a large poster on which was written in broad, blue letters: “Reflexology Medicine: Pros and Cons: A Lecture by Dr Sabir Hazaz.”
Najma introduced her guest, using the title “professor”, which wasn’t by any means an outstanding title in a country that addresses in this way office boys, vagrants who sniff
gasoline, guys who sell newspapers on the street, and electricity meter readers. I used to know a parking concierge at one of the big hotels who bore this title. The credentials that earned him this sobriquet included his ability, no matter how many cars there were, to find a parking place for a driver. I have a cousin who is a carpenter in a small shop and who two years ago produced by himself all the doors and windows for a merchant’s house of several stories. Then he awarded himself the title of professor; he wouldn’t saw a wooden plank or tighten a screw on a wardrobe that was coming apart unless the client addressed him by this title. Even Steven Riek, the Southerner who sits in a wheelchair in front of the old Church of the Virgin in the center of the city and draws amateur pastel portraits he sells to passers-by for two pounds is known as Professor Steven Riek. The Ethiopian woman Dama’ir, who used to work as a maid for one of my acquaintances and who occasionally came up with totally novel recipes, was called Professor Dama’ir. At a panel where I spoke on the state of youth writing, I was accorded the title professor but immediately scrapped the idea and explained that I was just an ordinary novelist and possessed none of the qualifications for a title like this.
Telepathy Page 2
