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

by Ali Bader

  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.”

  Before I could utter a single word, Nunu spoke up, “This time you’ll get your money in installments.”

  The philosopher added in an accent that resembled that of a notable Iraqi man, “We’ll give you the royalties we make from the book as well.”

  Lighting a cigarette, I interjected, “Well, we’ll face a problem you may not have thought about.” Nunu rushed to light my cigarette.

  “What’s that?” The philosopher asked.

  “Who said that Islamic culture marginalizes madness? I don’t think it does. A mad person has a respectable place in society, and the proof is you.”

  Both exploded in laughter, “Are you sure?” asked the philosopher, smiling.

  “Do you have any doubt?” I asked.

  Nunu chimed in, ready to light up another thick cigar, “Please, no mockery.”

  The philosopher approved, “Don’t you see that Islamic philosophy did not marginalize madness and as a result fell victim to illogical thinking. Otherwise where in our culture could it have come from? It must have come to us from within our civilization, which did not marginalize madness as western culture did.”

  “Sound idea,” I concurred, trying to avoid getting sucked into the project.

  Michel explained, “All right. We’ll write a book condemning Islamic civilization because it did not marginalize madness. Had reason prevailed in our civilization, madness would have been marginalized, and because madness has not been marginalized our civilization has became illogical.”

  “Great, great,” shouted Nunu and almost sat on Michel’s lap. He laughed loudly, stood up, clapped, and went to the bar. Nunu got up as well. They danced and swayed for joy, holding up their whiskey glasses and drinking to structuralism and the death of existentialism. This crazy man was dreaming of changing the viewpoint of the whole Arab population, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Arabian Gulf, by having them adopt structuralism. Men would shave their heads and wear gold-framed glasses. Women would cut their hair short like boys and wear pants. I didn’t know how to get out of my predicament. I stood up and began dancing with them, drinking to the health of the newborn structuralism. I was shouting, dancing, and rocking back and forth. The chairs in the living room were overturned, and the servants looked on in shock. When both Nunu and Michel fell to the floor, I opened the door and ran as fast as I could.

  One day I was walking down the street and saw a black and white stork land on the
Turkish embassy. I crossed the street under a soft sun. Traffic was moving smoothly, and I heard the voices of the newspaper salesmen and cigarette merchants and the car horns all around me. A man in white headgear was walking in front of me. He was holding a string of prayer beads, and a woman wrapped totally in black walked behind him. Someone shouted, “Sheikh Jamal, Sheikh Jamal.” I don’t know why, but at this exact moment I thought of Jamal al-Din al-Afghani and how Ismail Hadoub might have been influenced by him. Guided by this philosopher he would likely be wearing a white turban and holding prayer beads, while Nunu would be walking behind him wrapped in black from head to toe.

  Modern Arabic Literature

  from the American University in Cairo Press

  IbrahimAbdel Meguid Birds of Amber • Distant Train

  No One Sleeps in Alexandria • The Other Place

  Yahya Taher Abdullah The Collar and the Bracelet • The Mountain of Green Tea

  Leila Abouzeid The Last Chapter

  Hamdi Abu Golayyel A Dog with No Tail • Thieves in Retirement

  Yusuf Abu Rayya Wedding Night

  Ahmed Alaidy Being Abbas el Abd

  Idris Ali Dongola • Poor

  Radwa Ashour Granada

  IbrahimAslan The Heron • Nile Sparrows

  Alaa Al Aswany Chicago • Friendly Fire • The Yacoubian Building

  Fadhil al-Azzawi Cell Block Five • The Last of the Angels

  Ali Bader Papa Sartre

  Liana Badr The Eye of the Mirror

  Hala El Badry A Certain Woman • Muntaha

  Salwa Bakr The Golden Chariot • The Man from Bashmour

  The Wiles of Men

  Halim Barakat The Crane

  Hoda Barakat Disciples of Passion • The Tiller of Waters

  Mourid Barghouti I Saw Ramallah

  Mohamed Berrada Like a Summer Never to Be Repeated

  Mohamed El-Bisatie Clamor of the Lake

  Houses Behind the Trees • Hunger

  A Last Glass of Tea • Over the Bridge

  Mahmoud Darwish The Butterfly’s Burden

  Tarek Eltayeb Cities without Palms

  Mansoura Ez Eldin Maryam’s Maze

  Ibrahim Farghali The Smiles of the Saints

  Hamdy el-Gazzar Black Magic

  Fathy Ghanem The Man Who Lost His Shadow

  Randa Ghazy Dreaming of Palestine

  Gamal al-Ghitani Pyramid Texts • The Zafarani Files • Zayni Barakat

  Tawfiq al-Hakim The Essential Tawfiq al-Hakim

  Yahya Hakki The Lamp of Umm Hashim

  Abdelilah Hamdouchi The Final Bet

  Bensalem Himmich The Polymath • The Theocrat

  Taha Hussein The Days • A Man of Letters • The Sufferers

  Sonallah Ibrahim Cairo: From Edge to Edge • The Committee • Zaat

  Yusuf Idris City of Love and Ashes • The Essential Yusuf Idris

  Denys Johnson-Davies The AUC Press Book of Modern Arabic Literature

  In a Fertile Desert: Modern Writing from the United Arab Emirates

  Under the Naked Sky: Short Stories from the Arab World

  Said al-Kafrawi The Hill of Gypsies

  Sahar Khalifeh The End of Spring

  The Image, the Icon, and the Covenant • The Inheritance

  Edwar al-Kharrat Rama and the Dragon • Stones of Bobello

  Betool Khedairi Absent

  Mohammed Khudayyir Basrayatha

  Ibrahim al-Koni Anubis • Gold Dust • The Seven Veils of Seth

  Naguib Mahfouz Adrift on the Nile • Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth

  Arabian Nights and Days • Autumn Quail • Before the Throne • The Beggar

  The Beginning and the End • Cairo Modern

  The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street

  Children of the Alley • The Day the Leader Was Killed

  The Dreams • Dreams of Departure • Echoes of an Autobiography

  The Harafish • The Journey of Ibn Fattouma • Karnak Café

  Khan al-Khalili • Khufu’s Wisdom • Life’s Wisdom • Midaq Alley

  The Mirage • Miramar • Mirrors • Morning and Evening Talk

  Naguib Mahfouz at Sidi Gaber • Respected Sir • Rhadopis of Nubia

  The Search • The Seventh Heaven • Thebes at War

  The Thief and the Dogs • The Time and the Place

  Voices from the Other World • Wedding Song

  Mohamed Makhzangi Memories of a Meltdown

  Alia Mamdouh The Loved Ones • Naphtalene

  Selim Matar The Woman of the Flask

  Ibrahim al-Mazini Ten Again

  Yousef Al-Mohaimeed Wolves of the Crescent Moon

  Ahlam Mosteghanemi Chaos of the Senses • Memory in the Flesh

  Shakir Mustafa Contemporary Iraqi Fiction: An Anthology

  Mohamed Mustagab Tales from Dayrut

  Buthaina Al Nasiri Final Night

  Ibrahim Nasrallah Inside the Night

  Haggag Hassan Oddoul Nights of Musk

  Mohamed Mansi Qandil Moon over Samarqand

  Abd al-Hakim Qasim Rites of Assent

  Somaya Ramadan Leaves of Narcissus

  Lenin El-Ramly In Plain Arabic

  Mekkawi Said Cairo Swan Song

  Ghada Samman The Night of the First Billion

  Mahdi Issa al-Saqr East Winds, West Winds

  Rafik Schami Damascus Nights • The Dark Side of Love

  Khairy Shalaby The Hashish Waiter • The Lodging House

  Miral al-Tahawy Blue Aubergine • Gazelle Tracks • The Tent

  Bahaa Taher As Doha Said • Love in Exile

  Fuad al-Takarli The Long Way Back

  Zakaria Tamer The Hedgehog

  M.M. Tawfik Murder in the Tower of Happiness

  Mahmoud Al-Wardani Heads Ripe for Plucking

  Latifa al-Zayyat The Open Door

  Table of Contents

  Halftitle Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Research Trip

  The Writing Journey

  The Philosopher’s Journey