Najma plunged into the lecturer’s biography and enumerated his various forms of expertise, all his successes, and the numerous trips. He had treated an Arab leader for savage migraine headaches that the Americans with all their facilities had been unable to cure. He had treated Africans who were dogged in their countries by psychological complexes and cured Communists who still believed in Lenin and Marx of their ingrained beliefs. He had practiced this profession for the love of God in countries that could not offer him even a loaf of bread and in areas that electricity still hadn’t reached, whereas his theories of reflexology were studied in the most advanced institutes in the world.
The man was very short and very thin, but his fingers were as long and graceful as a pianist’s. Although his face was relatively free of wrinkles, he was definitely over seventy.
The lecturer launched into his speech right away in a large voice that belied his small stature. “Reflexology is a concept that relies on exciting certain points on the hands and feet by massaging them in a special way. This provides an excellent treatment for many health problems. It is not a new science, even though people have not heard much about it till now. Most probably its origins date back more than 5,000 years when the Chinese knew about it and used it to remedy health problems. Ancient Egyptian drawings of it have been found, proving that they knew about it as well. Each of their kings had reflexology physicians who supervised his care. For this treatment to provide the hoped-for results, the body has been divided into ten vertical regions, with five on each side of the body, starting from an imaginary line bisecting the body vertically. Treatment must be provided by a specialist’s hand; it cannot be something haphazard performed by a person without the requisite skill.
“But what happens when the regions we have referred to are massaged?
“There are actually numerous theories about this, but most probably reflexology treatment influences the body’s blood flow, just as massage assists relaxation, and thereby helps the body perform its functions in a better way. By this method, we undertake treatment of numerous diseases like anxiety, insomnia, puerperal fever, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic back pain, the menstrual problems of some women, sterility, frigidity, premature ejaculation, even various types of cancer, inflammation of the liver, joints, and prostate, and . . .”
I suddenly felt bored and envied Professor Hazaz his effusive vigor and blazing mind. He would pause occasionally, breathe deeply, wet his throat with a sip of water from the full glass in front of him, or cast a brief glance at a folded piece of paper that a member of the audience had certainly submitted to inquire about some ailment or to request some clarification.
I needed to move a little, to smoke a cigarette, or to flee from the place to return to my draft. I didn’t feel at all absorbed in this lecture. I was not enjoying it and had never thought I needed reflexology treatment. To date, I have had a limited number of pains that I have loved and lived on friendly terms with for a long time: nervous tension while writing, bloating of the colon, acid reflux, insomnia on some occasions, mood swings – but nothing else. If I required treatment in the future, Sabir Hazaz would certainly not be the person I sought out. I decided to rise from my seat while the professor was enumerating the dangers of treatment conducted by a non-specialist. These included torn tendons, an increased need to urinate, and thickened discharge of the body’s morphine, leading to something akin to insanity. Najma looked bored too. Her expression was reserved and her eyes almost closed. Her diaphanous white headscarf had slipped, but she had not lifted a hand to adjust it.
Even though the audience was small, people had begun to slip away without embarrassment. A young woman whose name I don’t remember, although I see her occasionally at cultural events, was taking notes on a piece of paper as if she were a pupil in an important lesson.
It seemed to me that Mahatma Abd al-Rahman wanted the professor to stretch him out right then and massage the map of his feet, because he was holding them out in front of him and kept pressing them together. The seat of Sonia al-Zuwainy, the hair stylist, was empty, and the isolated youth remained alone. The swimming coach, Shushu, was shaking his long hair rapturously, and my middle-aged neighbor, the woman with the embroidered green dress and heavy gold earrings, leaned toward me again the moment I started to rise. She whispered, “Now I recognize you. You courted me when we were in secondary school. You’ve matured a lot, but I know you with a woman’s memory. How are you, dear? Are you married?”
I didn’t reply and quickly shot outside.
I stood in a rather dark corner of the outer hall of the club building, smoking my cigarette deliberately while I tensely revisited my Asian memories, hoping they would speak again quickly so I could record them the moment I returned home.
The hall, unlike the inside chamber where the lecture was held, was very crowded. At a number of tables people of different ages were eagerly playing dominoes and cards. People were speaking shrilly about the current political situation, the faltering national economy, and local football matches. A few people were gathered around an old table-football board situated in the opposite corner, waiting impatiently for their turn.
It was a run-of-the-mill hall in an ordinary club where the presence of a novelist, even a stellar one, would definitely not attract anyone’s attention. The people there were far removed from the paths of reading. All the same, something unusual happened at that moment. I suddenly saw Ranim’s troubled lover emerge from an inner room. He was wearing his same traditional garb – thobe, turban, and goatskin shoes – and heading rapidly toward me. In his right hand was a copy of Hunger’s Hopes and in the left was what in my alarm I imagined to be a lethal dagger.
I quickly tossed my cigarette on the floor and hurried toward the exit, fighting a painful urge to scream and summon the people busy playing to protect me as if I were attacked by a lunatic. Scenes and memories raced through my mind: what I had and hadn’t produced during my lifetime, what had been really happy and what painful. I thought about the curse that writing is and told myself that it is the greatest curse that could afflict a math teacher who otherwise might today have become Minister of Education or at least a noteworthy educational adviser.
For the most part, my writing has been a mix of reality and imagination – something inspired by my surroundings and something I invent. But even when I find inspiration from reality, I don’t write it down the way it is but rather change it so that it won’t wound anyone; I don’t allow reality the chance to assert its dominion. Friends, family members, neighbors, acquaintances, activists and recluses in the world have found their way into my writing, yet no one has ever said, “That character’s me.” No protagonist of a scene I borrowed has ever repeated that this was his scene and that he would kill me for writing about him. I don’t even use the real names of cities for fear a city will come forward one day to claim I have depicted it. Even though I have described in many passages the liveliness of my street, not one of its residents has ever reproached me.
When the man stood before me, to my intense astonishment, I flashed through all of Hunger’s Hopes and called to mind all its characters, cul-de-sacs, alleys, paved streets, and rocky paths. I pondered its inspired and uninspired parts, what I considered brilliant in it and what I thought was flavorless and vile. I finished my review without finding anything that resembled this man or that would cause him to pursue me this way.
The novel was in his right hand; what I had imagined to be a lethal dagger was a figment of my imagination, because his left hand was empty.
Shaken, I tried to relax, fearing that he would run away from me. I asked the man, “What do you want from me? Why are you pursuing me?”
He smiled or perhaps laughed – I couldn’t tell which. All I could discern was that his wide mouth opened somewhat and his teeth confronted me, although tobacco had marred them so much that none of them could really be called a tooth. I thought I heard a sound that might have been the clearing of a throat prior to a laugh.<
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He said, “I brought my copy of Hunger’s Hopes so you could sign it for me. I told you before you traveled that I would bring it to you one day. Do you remember me? Do you remember the copy you signed for my sweetheart, Ranim?”
“Yes, your sweetheart Ranim; who could forget something like that?”
I didn’t ask him how he knew that I had returned from my trip and had been conned into attending this lecture. It seemed to me he was stalking me or could predict my movements – I didn’t know for certain which.
I took the copy he was holding out to me as my shaken resolve to flee grew. I searched my pocket for a pen but didn’t find one. Then I saw the man dig into the pocket of his thobe and pull out an old blue pen without a cap.
“Take this,” he said in a harsh tone, offering me the pen.
“Your name, sir, so I can write the dedication. You didn’t mention it last time.”
With calm, deadly firmness, he replied, “Nishan Hamza Nishan.”
“Who?”
I suspect that I was quite agitated. No, I was only upset momentarily. I pulled myself together as best I could. Here was a crazy man who was trying to provoke me, but I wasn’t going to fall for his provocation.
No one has a rare name like this, at least not in the combination I had struggled hard to concoct to avoid any possible repercussions. No one is named Nishan Hamza Nishan except the lunatic who dwells inside the pages of Hunger’s Hopes and whose fate I sealed, feeling no remorse and leaving him no further options, when I gave him glandular cancer and wrote that there was no hope for a cure. Had the man said his name was Muhammad Hamza or Hamza Ahmad or any familiar name in common circulation in the world, I would have believed him. If he had said Nishan Abd al-Mutallib, for example, or Abd al-Ghani Nishan, I would also have believed him. Even if he had said he was Nishan George or Mark Nishan, I might have believed him. But for him to claim the full three-part name, just as it appeared in my text, was totally incredible.
I grasped the book with uncharacteristic braggadocio, which I feign occasionally in fleeting moments of weakness in the hope that the person challenging me will feel he is confronting a mountain. I opened the book to the first page and wrote, with the pen the man had loaned me, “To Dear Nishan Hamza Nishan, in memory of a profound and stirring encounter during a chance meeting. With my love.”
Then I signed my name the way I always do, wrote the date and place clearly, and handed the book and pen back to the man. I searched for my cigarettes to smoke a new one to make up for the one I had tossed away when he appeared. But the story, unfortunately, did not end here. Instead, it became even more unsettling. This surprising novel was about to have a new beginning – one I had never anticipated or included in my calculations.
Ranim’s shaky lover, aka Nishan Hamza Nishan, as he called himself, accepted the signed copy and his old pen but then, unexpectedly, pulled his identity card which was dated more than six years earlier, from his pocket. He held it before my eyes, which were wide open, long enough for me to read all the seals and signatures and even to see the grease spot on one edge, not to mention the web of tiny cracks on the side of the photo, in which he wore an open, dark green shirt. With thick black hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he looked a more appropriate suitor for a woman named Ranim and therefore more like the Nishan Hamza Nishan I had written about.
I was obliged now to accept my moment of weakness and to respect the snare that neither the man standing before me nor I had endeavored to construct.
I had used his full name in one of my novels. That was certain. I had not known that anyone in the world possessed this precise name. Just two minutes earlier I had felt contempt for him when I wrote his name on the dedication page. A deep-seated certainty had been prancing around inside me then that I had encountered the rare reader who had not been content merely to read a book but had borrowed the hero’s name as his own. I had previously wondered how my hero’s name had come to me. Now, after this surprise, I suspected that I would never reach a conclusion.
I knew a little about theories of telepathy and extrasensory perception – how a person tens of thousands of kilometers away might be able to transmit a message to you. A man in an extreme crisis might send out an SOS and the woman he loved might rush to his rescue. A soldier in a ruinous war caught in an ambush or an oppressed prisoner striving to terminate his persecution, and so forth, might also send out a telepathic SOS.
Why, though, would Nishan Hamza Nishan send me his name telepathically and how could I have received this name when I claim no gift for receiving telepathic messages – unless perhaps I have this talent but hadn’t discovered it yet? Besides, were such theories actually true or were they just speculations that lacked powerful supporting arguments, although they had infiltrated people’s minds?
I have mentioned writing Hunger’s Hopes faster than any previous novel, driven by powerful inspiration, as one road block after another vanished. I had not suffered from any writer’s block worth mentioning, and the events had seemed to form an organic chain that created its own links. In an isolated corner of the lobby of a mid-range hotel, where I felt at home and where I have written most of my books, a splendid Ethiopian waitress named Hasanat kept bringing me black coffee, the way I drink it; but she was forced to remind me frequently that my coffee had gone cold, because I hadn’t even noticed the cup on my table or the charming Ethiopian waitress who brought it. Given all this, perhaps I should not have been surprised to discover now that Ranim’s lover dictated the novel to me, without my realizing it.
Hunger’s Hopes definitely contained many lackluster passages together with flashes of inspiration, powerful scenes and weaker ones, fates that were harsh and unfair, and others that were totally predictable. What I hoped for most now was that its plot would differ from this man’s life story.
“What do you say now?” he asked. His hands had begun to tremble, and his voice acquired a tremolo as he spoke.
“I need more clarification, please,” I replied, or tried to reply. I’m not actually sure, because my voice sounded quite distant.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he offered. His face looked clouded – I could see him but not clearly. The cigarette in his hand had burned down to a stub, but he still grasped it.
The lecture on reflexology ended then, and Najma came out of the lecture hall looking as if she had just been liberated from a long, boring period of incarceration. Professor Hazaz, who was beside her, seemed even livelier than before. He was walking elatedly, handing out his business cards to everyone – even to the people who were busy playing dominoes or who were talking excitedly about racquetball matches.
Najma approached us and greeted me vivaciously, touching me on the left shoulder. She extended her right hand languidly to Nishan Hamza, who told me in a brief aside that he would wait for me outside. The professor greeted me quickly and then departed. Najma chatted for several minutes, but I didn’t retain much of her chatter. As she left, she asked me to comment on what she was going to write on her Facebook page: “Your comment is important, Master.”
I didn’t feel she was captivating just then and felt no desire to read her post about a lecture that had quickly bored me. All I wanted was to find the solution to the puzzle that had suddenly popped up before me. If this suggestion of telepathy had surfaced while I was writing Hunger’s Hopes, I definitely wouldn’t have published a novel by this name.
– 5 –
It was a little past ten p.m., and I was extremely tense as I drove my jalopy through the virtually empty streets of the capital, not knowing where I was going.
The car radio was tuned to the national broadcasting station, and a politician from the ruling party was talking about the great revolution awaiting the nation after gold was discovered in numerous regions and the great economic progress, encompassing all citizens, that would soon occur. I scarcely heard him. Nishan Hamza sat silently next to me, staring at the road without focusing on it. He returned from time to time
to the same folded page of Hunger’s Hopes. He would read a little and then close the book.
He had felt it necessary to speak to me, and I needed that conversation even more than he did. He wanted to share a secret with me. I wished his secret could be broadcast now on the radio instead of forming part of a conversation studded with useless small talk.
I couldn’t sit with him in some coffeehouse, whether one I frequented or one I didn’t, because by this rather late hour all the coffeehouses had closed. I couldn’t go with him to my house, because I was afraid of taking a lunatic there – and that’s what I thought he was. He might become enraged and kill me in a frenzied moment, and I would die pointlessly. Even if he weren’t a lunatic and didn’t harm me, I didn’t want anyone to know how to find my house, which I mentioned I have fortified carefully to protect my seclusion. I couldn’t just drive around like this expecting him to talk, because I don’t absorb things when I’m driving. Besides, I was perturbed and definitely needed a place where we could sit and talk while trying to relax so I could calm down.
The shameless politician concluded his radio interview. Now they were broadcasting “The Migratory Bird” by the genius Mohammed Wardi, and I sensed the song’s brilliance for the first time.
Observing that my companion had suddenly put his hand in his pocket to search for something, I was alarmed. An acid reflux attack ensued and my breathing almost stopped. His hand finally emerged, however, grasping the old pen without a cap, and he wrote some type of note at the bottom of the page with the folded corner.
Two weeks before my trip, my brother Muzaffar had visited me, although as I have mentioned his visits don’t involve me much, because he doesn’t spend a lot of time with me. He would not return for six months, but now I wished he would show up so I could forcibly enlist him in my predicament. I would oblige him to shield me or at least volunteer some sensible opinion. Naturally I could have informed one of my close friends – I actually thought about that. I scratched this notion, though, at least until I fully understood what sort of crisis I faced, because perhaps there was really no crisis whatsoever. It might have been one of those pranks we encounter from time to time. I might have endured something much worse than this before but couldn’t remember now.
Telepathy Page 3
