I knew I would not enjoy a moment's peace, sleeping or waking, until the Committee had issued its final decision in my case.
Several months had passed since the interview, during which time I had fallen prey to shifting moods of hope and despair. I would awake mornings absolutely certain the Committee would decide in my favor. Within hours doubt would begin to gnaw at me, and I would relive every moment of the interview. Then, giving up altogether, I would slide into complete hopelessness.
There was no way to find out where the Committee stood concerning me or where its deliberations would lead. It even occurred to me to try to see that single woman on the Committee, but I couldn't imagine she'd be so foolish as to come right out and tell me what I wanted to know. To get this information I'd have to go too far, and remembering her sallow face, I lost all desire to meet her. Although I had been involved in several things at odds with my principles in one way or another, such as submitting to the humiliation I had suffered at the "hand" of the Committee, I hadn't sunk quite so low as to lead a woman on with false flattery. It wasn't a matter of a reasoned decision, as much as a psychological bent. Even if I could do such a thing, what would save me from having to go all the way? In view of my past history, which the Committee had ridiculed, that would surely turn into a disaster.
There was nothing to do but wait. I hung around the house, rarely going out in case the Committee sent me its decision, whether yea or nay, or summoned me.
I was about to eat dinner one evening, when I received a confusing telegram. Instead of a summons or a brief notification of the final decision, it contained these words, "We await a study on the greatest contemporary Arab luminary."
My slight knowledge of the Committee's methods indicated that I faced unique, unprecedented procedures. The Committee's custom was to determine in one and only one interview the fate of anyone whose luck had led him before it.
This strange reversal of tradition could only be explained by assuming there was a split decision in my case. The new assignment must have been motivated by the strength of my position. The Committee undoubtedly intended it to persuade my opponents (among them, certainly, the ugly Stubby) and to give me a fresh opportunity to display my talents.
This interpretation raised my morale only until I realized here was another side to the coin. On the contrary, why couldn't it be the weakness of my position that made the Committee grant me a second opportunity in order to satisfy those holding out on my behalf? Based on this, the assignment probably wouldn't be particularly worthwhile, being merely a pretext to stall the decision that had already been reached.
Before I despaired completely, a third likelihood occurred to me: that the Committee had incorporated some change in its procedures. I hadn't heard of it, of course, since newspapers give the Committee a wide berth.
I was inclined to accept this explanation, because the reques_ed study would be presented in writing and so would show how well I knew the Committee's language. The Committee had not previously been interested is this aspect of its interviewees' talents.
After that I examined the telegram, looking for the traps for which the Committee was notorious. I found plenty of them. First, the study didn't have a set time or length. Did they want a quick sketch such as is published in the newspapers, or an academic study hundreds of pages long? Likewise, "luminary" was not defined. Could it mean fame, or specific achievements, and if so, what type? And at what level: personal or public, and in what field?
It wasn't possible to consult the Committee. Even if it were possible, it would only make me look inept and ruin my chances, since the Committee puts so much emphasis on the way its questions are interpreted. Better to rely on myself.
I consulted a dictionary and found that in the Committee's language, "luminary" has one meaning: having the characteristic of reflecting light. But in Arabic, it has multiple meanings. It is used to mean lighting and lightning; to mean theft, as in "light fingered." Likewise they say of a pregnant woman: "She glows," and also for someone with exceptional intelligence: "He's brilliant." But the most "luminous" can be the one most given to lying. Apparently the current popular expression "the original shine" is derived form this latter meaning. This phrase first became famous as the brand name of a new shoe polish and then over time evolved into an epithet for anyone addicted to deception, exaggeration, and pretense.
You can imagine my confusion, for the Committee could intend any of these meanings. Which should I look for among the hundreds of personalities who make an incessant racket either in a particular Arab country or throughout the whole Arab world?
I mulled this over for a while, without getting anywhere. Finally, I decided to consider some well-known local names in various fields, without setting standards for a decision. By eliminating one after another I would pare down the search to a limited number of names and criteria. Then I could make up my mind as to the final standards of selection.
I began with political leaders and rulers. No one makes as much noise as they do. But I soon saw the problems that would result from selecting any of them. As is well known, they are subject to controversy. In a study like mine, I must assess the personality and I might take a point of view contrary to the Committee's. I could avoid this by choosing another topic.
I decided to eliminate leaders and rulers. When I could not bring to mind the name of one military leader, I rejected them too. Then I cut out the poets, because, perhaps mistakenly, I didn't like their high-flown language and obfuscation. Thus, I was prejudiced against them from the start and lacked the complete objectivity such a study required.
I jotted down the names of a number of prominent writers. But when I began to analyze each one's standing, I found it arose out of the ideas and principles they had espoused at some time. After much analysis, I perceived that these writers fell into two groups: one, whether out of intimidation or fear, maintained silence, even though knowing full well what was going on; the other backed off conveniently and smoothly from its previous causes to the point of disowning them.
I searched in vain for one judge whose name was linked with an honorable stance. On this basis, I also threw out journalists, union leaders, and "representatives of the people."
I discovered that most scientists, doctors, artists, engineers, teachers, and university professors were so busy amassing fortunes that they didn't contribute a thing to their professions. It's true that some emigrants are world famous for their discoveries or inventions. (Although I suspect that in most cases, this is nothing more than a trumped-up claim.) But this happened abroad, after they had grown up and been educated in our midst. Their inventions and discoveries were placed at the service of the foreign country and its people. How then are they tied to their birthplace?
Next I contemplated several singers who enjoy a wide popularity. All Arabs listen to them passionately, whether on a mountaintop, in the trackless desert, or in the heart of a city. But I find the hackneyed words and sentimental tunes they din out distasteful.
I did have a soft spot for the voice of one of the greatest, who had a special genius for staying at the top of the charts. In fact, for more than half a century, he remained there, untouched by the stormy events that shook this country. But by chance, I knew the source of most of the melodies for which he took credit, just as I knew that he paid a number of public relations men something like a monthly salary to keep his name in lights, and that he would mercilessly fight the least sign of a new competitive voice.
I spent a comparable amount of time studying the status of those puppets who fill the barren movie and television screens, but I couldn't get enthused about studying any of them in detail. In spite of the precariousness of my position, and my extreme need to gain the Committee's approval, I resolved that in all my affairs, I would only undertake projects that strike a chord in me or that draw a response from something profound or pure within me.
Only the dancers pictured daily in the newspapers remained. Thousands of individuals thirsty f
or knowledge come from all corners of the Arab world for the pleasure of seeing them in the nightclubs scattered at the foot of the pyramids.
There is something attractive about studying them. By that I mean their remoteness from ideological and political affairs, which in and of itself ensures that I would not aggravate the Committee.
One of them who was constantly in the news flashed across my mind. I had seen her in person only once, by chance, at a nightclub where she was dancing. Even though her movements were not sensuous, I was fascinated by the fleeting glimpses of her lithe, statuesque body, revealed under her shiny, flowing costume. Gifts were showered upon her, and I noticed she had trouble depositing them between her ample breasts. Her costume obviously didn't have room for many of the tenpound notes the gifts consisted of. The state finally recognized this problem when it issued new onehundred-pound notes in small, appropriate sizes, thus demonstrating this woman's influence.
I thought about this for a long time. Spending some time alone with her to gather facts for the study appealed to me. She might even allow me to explore the much-used places of her great "art."
Nevertheless, I had to give up this idea, although regretfully. I would meet fierce resistance from the Committee's female members, which would in turn undoubtedly win me some support, at least outwardly, from the other members.
At that point, I felt deeply frustrated and impotent. I saw I was heading for moral bankruptcy and failure. I blamed myself for being led along right from the beginning by a will-o'-the-wisp of ambition developing out of my exaggerated confidence in my abilities and setting me up for an encounter with the Committee as well as for further ordeals.
One morning I thought about this. I was nonchalantly looking over the headlines, stopping at some of them to read the details, with a feeling of bitterness welling up in me as usual.
A full-page ad on the last page caught my eye. It showed a scene from the opening ceremonies of a new American-Arab bank, attended by a number of its senior founders, the majority of whom are prominent personalities.
What caught my attention, to be exact, was the shiny suit of one man. I hadn't recognized him at first, because of the distortion typical in newspaper pictures. I only picked him out after reading the names of those pictured.
His full name sounded strange, because he was known to me and to most others solely by the title "the Doctor." Though our countries swarm with thousands bearing this very scholarly title, its mere mention is enough to indicate him and no other.
Both his name and title, as well as the shiny suit and some old memories, kept surfacing in my mind all day. I had seen him once in person, about five years ago, when my taxi stopped at a traffic light in Ramses Square. I saw everyone looking at a magnificent, latemodel Mercedes, with our friend seated in the back talking on a telephone. It was odd at the time, because we were still in the aftermath of the October War and weren't yet open to the West. Moreover, how do you suppose a mobile phone could possibly work when most phones in the country were out of order?
A year of so after this, circumstances took me to Baghdad. I had set out with an Iraqi friend through the quiet streets near the city center when I noticed a twostory house across the street, surrounded by a small garden. It was guarded by a number of soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms and armed with automatic weapons. I asked my friend about its owner. He scolded me in a faint voice, looking at the ground, "Look straight ahead, not over there!" I did as he asked and when we were out of range he said to me, "Do you want to do us in? That's the Doctor's house!" I didn't dare pump him at that moment, but I still didn't know whether he meant my well-known countryman or another person, an Iraqi, who contended with him for the title.
Seriously considering this now, I see that it makes no difference whether it's one or the other. Having a rival in every Arab capital doesn't detract from my countryman. On the contrary, this rivalry brings to mind other simi larities, if in fact this isn't just one person, and confirms once again the importance of this man and his affairs.
Perhaps you have noticed my interest in this matter. Once I had seen the connections between these memories and impressions, I became increasingly convinced that I had finally found exactly what I had been searching for. The Doctor might not be as well known as the singers or dancers, but he is certainly more powerful and influential than they are, not only within my country but throughout the whole Arab world. Clearly he very much has a hand in shaping the present and the future. How can there be anyone more illustrious than that?
I took matters in hand and made him the subject of the requested study.
I devised a brilliant plan, which was, in short, to read everything written on him: studies and newspaper and magazine articles. Then I would interview him. I would ask a number of clever questions carefully phrased so as to fill the gaps in my reading and complete his personality profile. I intended to describe him accurately and precisely.
I was forced to amend my plan when I couldn't find a single book about him. Apparently no one else had noticed his importance, or found him a gripping subject, or perhaps writers were waiting for his death so his biography would be complete.
As happy as I was to broach a subject no one had dealt with, I knew the difficulties that would result. So I decided to start by interviewing him. He might point out an article that had eluded me, or perhaps might not object if I examined whatever personal papers he might have.
I put on my best clothes and took my Samsonite briefcase. Inside it were a small Japanese tape recorder, a new notebook, some pens, and a slip of paper with the main points I wanted to raise with him.
I hurried to one of the foundations linked with his name, having obtained its address from the phone books. At the information desk I learned that the Doctor didn't keep a regular schedule. When I explained I urgently needed to meet with him, naturally without revealing the real reason, the clerk searched my briefcase for weapons and explosives, then referred me to one of the secretaries.
The secretary gave me the cold shoulder. She told me in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't be able to interview the Doctor in the near future. In the first place, he rarely comes to his office because he constantly shuttles between the Arab capitals on business. Second, there is a long list of people waiting for appointments. Third, I would have to explain my request in full, flawlessly written, so she could forward it to the office manager. I learned from her that he was one of those well-known university professors who had been in the limelight during the '60s and whose names were linked with ambitious projects for heavy industrialization.
I was completely at a loss. I couldn't mention my connection with the Committee. In spite of its importance and the extent of its authority, from an official standpoint it didn't exist. Any attempt to link my request with it would be received with surprise and scorn. While it was possible to bring up the subject with the Doctor himself, it was impossible to allude to it in a memo .he secretary would bring to the office manager's attention. If I were to omit the Committee's role, what other reason could I give? "An unknown amateur writer seeks to write a book about your eminence." What would assure him that I was not just some deceitful imposter trying to get a foot in the door to ask for a job or charity?
I lef_, depressed, to study the matter. Time seemed to fly by without my getting anywhere. Trying to get an appointment with the Doctor could take days or maybe weeks, and might in the end come to nothing. Because of this. I altered my plan a second time and decided to put my nose to the grindstone immediately by beginning tD collect everything published about him in the newspapers.
I went along to the huge building that houses the offices of the most important and widely circulated daily newspaper. Since I considered an appropriate point for tracing the Doctor's eventful career to be twenty-five years ago, I asked to see the issues published from that date.
I sat at one of the tables in the reading room and took an empty notebook and a pen out of my briefcase. Meanwhile, the attendant brought me s
everal dust-covered volumes of the newspaper. I picked up the first volume, opened the cover, and began to turn the pages.
I plunged at once into a strange world that came alive in my mind: exciting events, famous men and women, and their boundless ambitions. The images of the past absorbed me, until, with difficulty, I tore my eyes away from the dusty pages and reminded myself of my goal. I turned the next pages slowly and unwillingly. I was like someone recalling his childhood and youth, who despairs when reflecting on the hopes and dreams that had once beguiled him, especially considering how things had turned out.
I got dizzy from turning the pages, shifting my eyes between the headlines and the pictures and inhaling the dust. I realized the enormity of the task I had imposed on myself when, after three hours, I hadn't examined more than ten issues. A familiar sinking feeling came over me. I craved a cup of coffee or a glass of beer, but I couldn't muster enough energy to order anything from the tea boy who peered in regularly to check for customers.
The attendant settled the matter by informing me that it was closing time. I sighed in relief, returned my papers to my briefcase, having written nothing, then picked up my briefcase and left the reading room.
I calculated that if I read the issues I wanted from just this newspaper, there would be 265 x 25 years = 9125 issues. If I worked a normal shift every day without interruption, and without falling ill, or being stuck in traffic, or having the electricity or water go off, or other typical surprises, I would need about one thousand days. That would be three years for just one newspaper.
I couldn't bring myself to rely entirely on one newspaper. Although the national newspapers constantly print the same news and commentary, and even the same pictures, the social and entertainment sections have some diversity. I pinned my hopes on these sections. After all, since he wasn't a political figure or movie star, news about the Doctor wouldn't be in the front-page section.
The Committee (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 3
