“By God, Najeeb is a gentleman! A prince! If only he didn’t have a drug habit!”
Here comes another attack, thought Luqman. But less fierce because coming from a kid wearing striped pajamas that made him look like a zebra escaped from the zoo.
This other guy offered Luqman a cigarette, which he gratefully took after sitting down next to him in the reception hall.
“You’re a car dealer, you say? Nice to meet you! I’m in the same business. Was, actually. My father is the one who put up the money. Hey, do you have any snow on you? Just a quick sniff, or are you...No, it’s clear you’re not a user. What’s new on the outside?”
To avoid similar questions requiring answers, Luqman fired back, “And what are you doing in this state institution, given that your father is a big car dealer and financier?”
“No, don’t get me wrong,” the young man responded. “You are in the rich ward here! The ward of those who pay big bucks to call the shots in this country! Don’t you see the comfort we are in? A television, a reception hall, smoking, playing cards, respect...To tell the truth, the only thing missing are some cooing doves—you know what I’m saying? And a cute, plump nurse or two. Just to enjoy ourselves.”
“You mean to say there are two wings, one for the wealthy addicts and another for the poor?” Luqman asked in jest.
The young man clapped his hands together. “God Almighty! Here you go making the same mistake! According to the law, this department isn’t supposed to discriminate between the poor and the rich, especially in anything connected to addiction. We’re in a state-run sanatorium, aren’t we? Listen, do you know what happens when the state arrests an addict?”
“It throws him in prison?” Luqman replied.
“You’ve seen the light! Exactly,” the kid exclaimed. “It stuffs him in prison immediately. No doctors, and no one gets out. That’s when they separate the wheat from the chaff. Anyone who has someone watching his back, or whose family has plenty of greenbacks—I’m talking about dollars—they sit at the right hand of the state and are transferred here with all due respect and reverence. The rest are thrown off to the left and rot in prison, trampled under the feet of the guards and the inmates, waiting for trials that will confirm their sentence of months or years. Now do you understand, buddy?”
Luqman laughed. Of course, he understood. That’s how Najeeb got out of prison then. That’s how he persuaded the director to keep him there, and why she gave him permission to leave. And that’s how he spent all the money he had amassed.
Najeeb had never been addicted to drugs a day in his life. Luqman had always known that about him, and Najeeb had confirmed it when they met by chance during the previous visit. For who was like Najeeb in that profession? He had worked for years as a sniper, picking off dozens of men—hundreds. Yet he practiced his art in full clarity of mind and never, ever needed medicine or drugs.
“Okay, I leave you in God’s hands. It’s time for dinner. If you come back to visit, think about us a little, and you’ll get something delightful that blows your mind...Here I come!” called the young man dressed in striped pajamas like a zebra as he set off in the direction of the attendant waiting for him in the door.
Luqman looked at his watch, wondering what in the world could be keeping Najeeb. Oh, well. He’d pass the time watching TV after the patients went off to dinner and the reception hall emptied out.
“...All such people ought to be isolated and to receive the harshest punishment. Otherwise, they’ll corrupt society and future generations, completely ruining the morals of young people...”
“And how wonderful morals are, Madame Nidal!” shouted one of the inmates behind Luqman. “Indeed, and we are a people who cannot live without morals! We are a people with a true passion for morals!”
Luqman didn’t turn around to identify where the voice was coming from or to make the acquaintance of the speaker. He had no desire for more conversation, so he kept his eyes fixed on the television screen.
The broadcaster, “Madame Nidal,” continued her discussion of the topic of homosexuality and sexual perversion. A legal scholar was agreeing with her, clarifying that “the law knows very well how to deal with these degenerate, depraved, and dissolute perverts, and how to bring upon their heads the most severe penalties.”
A young doctor was nodding his head enthusiastically while the views of the Madame President of the Council for Thought exceeded all expectations: “Life in prison, forced labor, the diseases that come with sexual perversion and deviancy...”
“We have a Council for Thought, people,” proclaimed the voice, “and it has a president who proves that humans are descended from monkeys!”
Why the racket, fucker? Luqman was thinking. Where did this madman come from? And why didn’t he go have dinner with the others? Whew! The program finally finished, and here is Nidal signing off and introducing the news broadcast.
“A young man and his sister, in the prime of their youth, were found dead...” said the news anchor.
“A new type of corpse, made in our era of peace,” echoed the voice.
“God! This day is not going to end well,” whispered Luqman.
The newscaster continued, “They were coming home after visiting their sick father in the hospital. When they entered the house, they surprised a thief who was startled and swung around with his pistol and...
“Bam, bam!” barked the voice, completing the sentence.
“Goddamn your father to hell this very night!” thought Luqman.
“We’ll be right back after a short commercial break,” said the anchor.
A rising male star with slicked hair appeared, standing on stage, rocking and swaying, at a party that took place every Saturday night until dawn, at some restaurant...
“Yes, these are morals, you cunts!” commented the voice. “Parties costing enormous sums in restaurants that are transformed into brothels. And why? To listen to singers singing like I shit and piss...”
Luqman remained silent, listening to a second commercial, in which the television promised viewers that the building standing proudly on the seashore was a unique creation, the likes of which had never been seen before: “...we can bring our yacht into its marina and leave it there. Then we go right up in our swimming suits, if we want, to our magnificent apartment that is bigger than a palace...”
“Oh, yes! These are morals, you whore!” roared the voice, as though still talking to Madame Nidal. “A building where we park ‘our yacht.’ We, who still, in war or in peace, carry drinking water from the bottom of our buildings up to the top floor since our faucets squeak but nothing comes out. These are morals, you dogs—petty thefts, murders, and general decline. God! The cock of the biggest queer in the world has more honor than your pretty faces, you lowlifes, you criminals!”
Luqman burst out in laughter. He couldn’t hold it in. A queer, maybe, but tough! Yes, shout aloud! Raise your voice! Wipe them all out, every single one! Indeed, they deserve much more than that. They—
Najeeb arrived, breathing heavily. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Luqman applauding a sick man who stood on a chair, screaming and shouting curses.
“Keep it down!” Najeeb told him. Then he hurriedly pulled Luqman along by the arm to get them out before they attracted attention and came to some bad end.
CHAPTER 8
“Lukman, baby! I mees you very much!”
“Do you see? This is the Communista!” Luqman said to Najeeb, as he let Marina into the dim apartment, lit by candles. He took the bottle of whiskey from her hand, as well as the appetizers and main dishes she had purchased. Then he looked at his friend and asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“What do I think?” answered Najeeb. “First, give me a glass, man, and I’ll be happy to tell you everything I think.”
Luqman went into the kitchen and came back with three glasses. He poured a glass for himself and for Najeeb. Marina ate; the other two ate and drank. When Najeeb’s tongue was loosened,
he asked, “How long have you known languages?”
Luqman laughed. “Instead, you tell me how long has this”—he made an obscene gesture—“needed any talking? Do you see me passing my time with her in conversation?”
Marina asked them what they were saying, but they didn’t respond. In the end, she got up, announcing she was very full and was going into the bedroom to lie down and rest for a while.
Luqman got up and took out some candles to replace the ones that had melted down and gone out. Najeeb asked him, “Are things really that bad?”
“Not any longer,” answered Luqman as he took out of his pocket a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Tomorrow, I’ll pay the electricity bill. I’ll toss out all this furniture you see. I’ll bring in workers to clean, repair, and paint everything. You’ll see! Two weeks at most, and you won’t recognize this apartment. By the way, let’s go to the market tomorrow to buy everything we need. Najeeb, we’re through with this filth and deprivation. We’ll bring back the good old days once again. God willing, we’ll put this poverty behind us once and for all!”
Najeeb smiled. “Those were the days, weren’t they? If only the Albino were still alive, the gang would be complete.”
Luqman frowned.
“I didn’t mean it,” Najeeb went on. “You’re right. He’s dead and we’re still here...Luqman, do you remember that night we spent together in that village...What was its name?”
Luqman smiled.
“It doesn’t matter. How long it’s been since we had fun like that! And the girl?”
“Nahla,” said Luqman.
“Right, Nahla! To this day I’ve never understood why she died.”
“Why she killed herself, you mean,” said Luqman.
“She died, she killed herself—same difference. Don’t tell me she was a virgin. All we wanted was a little fun, but there are some people who always turn fun into a tragedy. Isn’t she the one who smiled at us and began winking and gesturing? Isn’t she the one who came to us wanting it, without any pressure or threats? Did we lure her with money? Did we tempt her with gifts or promises? And when we began having some fun, she began resisting, saying no, and playing hard to get.”
“Until you hit her,” said Luqman.
“If I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have given in and gone along, and we wouldn’t have been able to satisfy her with fondling and kissing and—”
“And searing her with a lighter,” interrupted Luqman.
“Have you ever tasted a grilled nipple, Luqman? A divine thing, a rare flavor, a scent that pierces through to your heart and intoxicates your soul. I didn’t mean her any harm, believe me. When we had gone to sleep, and I woke up and heard a creaking in the kitchen, I said to myself, ‘How generous of her to make us coffee or breakfast as her own special way of expressing how grateful and indebted she feels.’ The whore! I never thought she was searching the drawers for something to hang herself with at dawn...
“Do you hear what I’m saying, Luqman? I swear on my life, I’ve never felt lust like that, or the arousal and pleasure I felt that night. To this day, the taste of her nipples is still on my tongue. That’s why I always took refuge in her memory whenever depression came over me.”
--
Luqman wiped the dripping sweat from his body with a towel. Then he stood at the window, smoking a cigarette and thinking. He ought to install an air conditioner; otherwise the customers would suffocate in the stifling heat.
Customers! Such a beautiful thought—especially the ladies. Tomorrow, he’d make a list of the tools and supplies he needed. Then he’d go to the newspaper. No, it was still too early for an advertisement. He ought to finish preparing the office beforehand. He also needed to set up a phone, or entrust Salaam to deal with that and just buy a cell phone he could carry as an additional means of doing business.
But how would he determine the cost of the service? No matter what happened, he would require that customers paid in US dollars. He didn’t want the local currency. That matter was settled, at least. The profits, too, still had to be lucrative even after he divided them with his partners, Najeeb and Salaam. And why shouldn’t he take half, seeing as he provided the apartment? Salaam would say she was the one who provided the capital, even if it was Lurice who was the source of the money. The bitch, she made him sign papers and deeds that guaranteed her rights to the capital and to her share of the returns. Oh, well. He’d look into that later, given that he’d be in charge of the accounting and budgeting. He’d pay a small bribe here and there. He’d expense the right amount of bills and embezzle a little without—
Najeeb entered the room and came over to stand nearby. He took a cigarette from Luqman, lit it, and leaned against the windowsill as he smoked. “Man!” he said. “It’s as though we’re in hell! All these clouds and not a breath of wind...Hey, Luqman! There’s a man in the street looking at us.”
“Don’t worry. He’s a policeman.”
“Since when did this end-times city put police back on the street?”
“Ever since peace came back, and the people of the neighborhood brought a petition to the local police station complaining of all the assaults and thefts.”
Luqman left the window and went over to sit on the couch. Najeeb turned to face him, thinking something over, and said, “By the way, that Marina is out of this world. It’s as though I haven’t slept with a real woman in years.”
“And the director—are you forgetting her?”
“God save me! If you only knew the things that whore made me do for her to keep me in the asylum! Not to change the subject, but what is it that’s kept you up till now?”
“How do you expect me to sleep when I have three guests in my bed—you, Marina, and your snoring, which is so loud that the walls shake!”
Najeeb smiled, “Sorry. Go in and sleep now, if you want. I’ll stay out here and maybe lie down on the couch if I get very tired.”
Luqman had a question in mind that had been bothering him ever since running into Najeeb. “Tell me, Najeeb. What is it that brought you to that institution if you weren’t using drugs?”
“I was charged with addiction because the penalty for that was lighter than it was for dealing. When the war ended, I had no skills apart from my job as a sniper, so I told myself I would learn a new profession. It happened that I came across a big dealer who won me over, and I started working.”
“How did they arrest you?”
“I was doing a buy at a house that got raided. They had me in prison in a heartbeat. If my dealer hadn’t been a big shot, I mean, if he hadn’t had friends in the government, I’d be pushing up daisies now. He was the one who took care of things and had the charges changed from dealing to using. Then he interceded on my behalf, I was transferred to the asylum, and...and you know the rest, right?”
Luqman nodded. Indeed, he knew the rest, but there was one last thing he needed to clarify. “Look, Najeeb, I’m trusting you. I’ve provided the capital, offered my apartment as the office, and made you partners with me and Salaam. Don’t you think you ought to pay me back by explaining to me where you acquired all this science, with you being shut away with the mentally ill and the crazies?”
Najeeb said, “All this science came to me from a certain guy.
“He had been in the asylum for years by the time I got there. Of all the patients, he was the most famous, and everyone called him ‘Einstein.’ They told me his story and how he’d pay his children to catch rats for him. He gathered rats and worked with them until his apartment had been transformed into a laboratory overflowing with rodents. The building’s tenants filed a complaint about him, and the police came. When they saw how old and knowledgeable he was, and that he was from a good family, they brought him to the mental institution.
“That’s how I met him. We grew closer after I learned he had lost his children in the war, and when I saw how old he was. ‘So, he has no heir,’ I said to myself. ‘Why don’t I play the role of a son as long as he likes me and trusts me.
’ Then, by the time I realized that the will of a crazy or mentally disturbed person wouldn’t be legally binding, I had gotten to know him, and a deep friendship had grown between us.
“He asked me to gather some rats for him, which I did, and he paid me. The institution’s kitchen was full of rats. I nearly died of disgust. He was an old man full of weird stories that would make your hair stand on end.
“He kept on repeating that the rats were the ones who caused the war, until in the end he convinced me. It was as though I had no prior knowledge or any connection to all that had happened. It was as though I was innocent of that war. I would join with him in saying, ‘It was the rats who caused the war and destroyed our lives. If it weren’t for them, today I would be a farmer or a simple teacher with a wife and kids...’
“I don’t know how to explain it to you, Luqman. I believed him. He persuaded me. Maybe because those things he would say offered me proof of my innocence. In my free time, I started visiting him and listening to his delusions for hours on end.”
“Where is he today?” Luqman asked.
“He died,” answered Najeeb. “The director sent for me and told me he had fallen ill with some kind of poisoning. She said that when the foam was bubbling from his mouth and he struggled against death, he was holding onto two notebooks, fiercely clutching them to his chest like someone clinging to a life preserver. And when the doctor arrived, and several of them tried to pull the notebooks away by force, the old man pulled the director close and whispered in her ear, ‘Give them to Najeeb.’
“The director didn’t understand, and neither did I. When we began flipping through the pages, we figured out that he had recorded in them all the information he had gathered about rats. The director laughed and said to me, ‘Congratulations! This is your inheritance from Einstein.’
“I didn’t laugh, myself. I took the thick notebooks with a kind of fear and awe, just to annoy her. Then I left her office, intending to toss them out. I don’t know what stopped me from doing that. Maybe it was his constant talk about the rats having caused the war, or his delusions that made me imagine, at least for a moment, that those whom I had killed had only been animals. Or maybe it was that he was thinking of me like a beloved son in the last moment before the spirit left him...”
Oh, Salaam! Page 5