Papa Sartre: A Modern Arabic Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (22 page)

I thought to myself, “what’s wrong with giving him this copy? I have another one. I can discover his intentions from the historical corrections he wants to make.” I told him, “All right Hanna, take these papers with you on condition that you return them to me tomorrow with the money.” He could hardly contain himself. He snatched up the manuscript and fairly flew out of the apartment.

I began straightening up my apartment and placing the documents in their place in the cupboard. I discovered that some documents related to Ismail Hadoub’s life had disappeared. Frantic, I looked for them everywhere—under my papers, between the magazines and newspapers, under the bed. I was looking among my clothes when I heard a knock. Sadeq Zadeh and Nunu Behar were at the door. Sadeq pushed me inside and asked, “What did you give Hanna?”

“Nothing,” I said, fully aware of my lie. Sadeq was furious and his eyes were spewing flame.

“Where is the biography?” asked Nunu. I opened my cupboard and gave them the second copy. They leafed through it while I watched, seated beside my dog.

Nunu Behar sat on a chair holding her purse while Sadeq Zadeh read through the philosopher’s biography, commenting volubly. “Not true. I never said that! Liar, liar.” He was swearing and whistling his fury, then turned to me, “Where did you get these documents?”

“Which documents,” I asked, frightened by the tone of his voice.

“The documents related to Ismail Hadoub.” I was silent and nervous. I had never expected Ismail Hadoub’s story to be more important than the philosopher’s. I was commissioned to write a biography of the philosopher not of Ismail Hadoub, and if I included information about him it was because he augmented the image of the philosopher. I said to Sadeq, “But you
told me that the most important thing was to write about the philosopher’s life. I don’t understand this sudden interest in Ismail Hadoub.”

Sadeq couldn’t restrain himself. He jumped nervously from his seat, grabbed me by the neck with one hand, and held a gun to my head with the other. Fuming, he growled, “You wrote the biography of the philosopher because we paid you to do so, but who asked you to write about Ismail Hadoub? What obscene person induced you to do it? Tell me!”

I defended myself, “No one told me to do it, but I found that Ismail was important for understanding the personality of the philosopher, believe me.”

Nunu Behar tried to calm him down. “Leave him, Ismail. Let him be.” Until this second I had not realized that Sadeq was Ismail Hadoub. I hadn’t written about him to expose him, and if he had told me the truth I would have embellished his image. If only to spare myself his wrath and to get my money I would have avoided reporting the information in the documents literally. I freed myself from his grip and ran headlong without looking back. Two bullets whistled through the air.

I didn’t go back to my apartment, but I inquired about Hanna Yusif’s new address—the coward had changed lodging. Someone I knew told me that he was living in a small place called Hotel Hamameh at the end of al-Rashid Street. When I arrived there I found it to be a miserable one-star hotel with a small reception hall and an aged Egyptian receptionist guarding a bunch of keys. Hanna was in room thirteen, on the second floor. I climbed the stairs, two steps at a time, ignoring the receptionist’s protests, “Sir! If you please. Sir!”

I arrived in front of Hanna’s room determined to enter without knocking, to force my way in if need be. The door was broken however, and I had no trouble opening it, and pulled off
the door handle in the process. Hanna was just coming out of the restroom and buttoning his trousers, a cigarette between his lips. He could see in my eyes how upset and angry I was. He squeezed the cigarette between his teeth and said in a low voice, “How wonderful it is to be able to answer the call of nature, it is such a relief!” I jumped at him, grabbed him by his necktie, pushed him to the floor with my left hand, and fell onto him. He managed to wriggle out of my grasp like a louse, but I held him down by putting my knee on his belly and throttling him by the neck with my hand. I held my shoe in my other hand and whacked him on the head and face, “Son of a bitch, where’s the money? I’ll smash your head with this shoe”

He was pleading with me, his mouth foaming, lips turning blue, neck stiffening, eyes white. I hit him and threatened him further, “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” He smiled when he heard those words, then began laughing loudly and tried to free his neck. I couldn’t understand why he was laughing as I was still threatening to pound him with my shoe. Unable to control himself, he said “I’m laughing at your curses. I have never heard those words before,
ibn al-‘arida.”

I started laughing too and gradually released my grip. We sat on the floor and laughed. He jockeyed to gain the advantage, but I threatened again to kill him and said, “You won’t walk through this door without paying me.” He kept repeating, “I will, I will, just calm down.” I repeated, “I won’t calm down. You conned me, you didn’t tell me that Ismail Hadoub was Sadeq Zadeh.”

“I thought you knew,” he said.

“How could I?” I said.

He found more excuses, “You’re an intelligent man. You could have found out. You uncovered many secrets.”

But I insisted, “What about the money? Are you trying to get out of paying me?” Finally, he told the truth, “I don’t have the money.” The blood rushed to my head.

I stood up and advised him, “I am going to cut off your nose and hand it over to you, do you understand? If you don’t pay me right now, I’ll stick each piece of furniture in this room up you know where.” He chortled loudly. The arms holding his torso relaxed suddenly, and he jerked backward and hit his head on the floor. Hanna was pleading, “Oh, God, don’t make me laugh. You’re so funny. Just looking at you amuses me. When I hear those swear words I can’t control myself.”

I replied angrily, “My curses are not meant for your amusement, you rotten shoe. Do you understand?”

I searched his pockets for money. He helped me go through his clothes, showing me the secret pockets in his suit. There was nothing in them but a few Iraqi banknotes, two sexually explicit pictures, a small notebook, and a lighter. I noticed a small briefcase on the bed. I opened it and dumped out its contents: an old worn-out book, a fake Yves Saint Laurent perfume box, and a counterfeit identity card issued by Yaacub Saleh Yaacub’s travel agency.

“Take this book as security until I bring you the money tomorrow at ten o’clock. Wait for me here at this hotel,” said Hanna.

“Which book?” I asked.

“This book. It is an original manuscript that dates back to the tenth century.” I examined the book and could see that its well-worn cover and its paper resembled old manuscripts, but I was still suspicious.

“You’re lying, this is not an authentic ancient manuscript, it’s a counterfeit.”

He was adamant, “By Christ, it’s not a counterfeit! Look, there’s even the stamp of Hajji Khalifeh. I went to Father Anastas al-Karmali, and he helped me buy it from a priest who works in the convent. I paid a very high price for it.” I was not convinced and told him so but he swore again by Christ.

I finally said, “I’ll break your neck if it’s not authentic.” He reconfirmed the time and the place to deliver my money, “I’ll wait for you here tomorrow. You should know that no amount of money can compensate me for the value of this book, in case you decide to take it and ran away with it.”

I defended myself. “I’m not a thief like you.” His face expressed his disapproval.

I took the manuscript as Hanna was repacking his case. I left still wondering whether the manuscript was really worth the amount he had agreed to give me for writing the al-Sadriya philosopher’s biography. I decided to confirm its authenticity before Hanna ran off completely. I went directly to the Iraqi Manuscript Center across the Tigris, an old house built in the thirties. It was a cold and windy day despite the shining sun. I knocked nervously at the door and waited for a few minutes, but no one came. I started banging very hard and shook the door, shouting loudly, “Open the door! Open the door.”

Now I realized my mistake. In my haste to verify the authenticity of the manuscript, I had behaved in a way that made the people of the house suspicious. They looked at me distrustfully from an upper-floor window. I begged them to check the manuscript right away. Two guards took hold of me and led me inside. They snatched away the manuscript and passed it to a thin, graying man who looked like Pasteur. He examined it with the help of a magnifying glass and said, smiling, “It’s a counterfeit.”

I went back to the hotel immediately, but the Egyptian receptionist told me that Hanna had checked out. I looked for him everywhere but found no trace of him. A few days later I learned that he had gone to Jordan. He blackmailed Sadeq Zadeh with the manuscript he had taken from my apartment and received a significant sum of money. He was cooling his heels in Amman waiting for an immigration visa to
Canada. And that’s where it all ended. I couldn’t ask Sadeq Zadeh or Nunu Behar for money; my stupidities could have destroyed them.

All my efforts went to naught. I started looking for a job but soon realized that I was too lazy for any work that required physical effort. The only job that really suited me was writing. One day with a friend I went to a concert by the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra at the Abbasid Palace overlooking the river. Men and women were dressed in their best clothes, and the place was bustling. It was a cosmopolitan crowd.

When my friend went to drink a cup of tea in the garden, I stood alone, leaning against a column and smoking. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Nunu Behar—a transformed Nunu wearing tight trousers and a long white chemise to her hips. She wore no makeup. I was a little concerned when she greeted me because I knew deep inside that Sadeq could never forgive me, and the documents that Hanna took from my apartment could well have destroyed him. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him that Hanna had stolen them; he’d think that I had sold them to him for a tidy sum. He might even think that I had plotted with Hanna against him. Then I heard Nunu tell me that Michel wanted to see me. I was surprised and asked, admiring her beautiful face, “Michel? Who is Michel?”

“You don’t know? I’ll give you the address. We’ll expect you tomorrow,” she said coquettishly, smiling in her seductive manner. She searched in her purse and gave me a visiting card with the address. “We have a job for you, better than the other one. This time you’ll make a lot of money.”

The garden emptied of people, and the concert resumed. My friend returned and suggested we go back in. She looked in amazement at Nunu, mistaking her for a man. Nunu said to her, “We’re old friends. I’ll leave you now. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late. Michel is expecting you.”

My friend asked me, “Who is he?” As the conductor raised the baton I replied, “I don’t know anymore.”

The following morning I went to the address listed on the card. It was in the Waziriya district. I crossed the British cemetery, entered Turkish Embassy Street, and came out right in front of an old house with a white fence and a brown-tiled roof. The garden was full of high trees and had a large iron gate. The servant led me into the living room. The place was tastefully furnished with a small piano and an aquarium. The walls were decorated with pastel Impressionist paintings, signed in English by Khuder Jerjis, an Iraqi painter. There were also two photographs, one of Sartre and one of Michel Foucault, one hand covering his mouth, the other on the back of an armchair.

“Welcome,” said Nunu and led me by the hand to a small table near the window overlooking the garden. She had undergone a total change. Her hair was cut very short, like a boy’s. She was wearing men’s trousers and a large blouse that hid her big breasts, and she smoked a cigar. She offered me one but I told her that I smoked a different kind. She asked why, so I said, “This is a strong cigar, fit for a strong man like you.” She laughed heartily then announced Michel’s arrival.

To my surprise, Michel turned out to be the same Ismail Hadoub or Sadeq Zadeh. He had shaved his head completely and wore gold-framed glasses that resembled Foucault’s. With his height, thin body, white shirt, shaven head, and foxy eyes he looked very much like the Foucault in the photograph on the wall. He greeted me in a philosophical manner and donned an inquisitive look, sat down, and placed one hand over his mouth and the other on the back of the armchair where Nunu was sitting. He was smiling while he looked me over. Nunu got down to business. “Michel has a huge project. You can make a lot of money from it and give Michel a chance to serve Arabic culture.” I asked, my voice slightly choking, “What is this project?”

“A book,” said Nunu.

Michel turned his shaven head in my direction; he looked like a cat considering a piece of red meat. He had lost his edginess, however, and spoke eloquently to impress me with his superior intellect. “I found Sartre useless for Arabic culture, as nihilism and nausea didn’t manage to solve our problems, but I read Michel Foucault and discovered that structuralism is the one approach that will work for us. I want to write a book that explains this idea. What do you think?”

I was overcome with an oppressive feeling. I asked him with little interest, “I don’t understand, who will write the book?”

“You,” he said hesitantly, blushing.

Nunu intervened, “You’ll get the money, and Michel will put his name on the book.”

“He will put Michel Foucault’s name on the cover?” I asked in an obviously sarcastic tone.

“No, he will use his new name, the Structuralist of Waziriya. After the death of the Existentialist of al-Sadriya, we have to invent a new philosopher for Baghdad, and this will be none other than the Structuralist of Waziriya,” Nunu clarified. The new, would-be philosopher continued sitting in the same manner as the Foucault who hung on the wall.

“Well, what is that book? What kind of book?” I asked.

He explained, “You know that Foucault wrote a book about the madness of the classical period and used it to denounce western culture. We’d like a similar book in which you would denounce Arabic culture. We’ll write a book about the madness of the Islamic period.”