Meanwhile, Najeeb devoted himself so fully to his experiments that he took on the appearance of a mad scientist. He would open the notebook that Einstein, the man at the institution, had bequeathed to him and spend hours absorbed in reading it. He claimed he was inventing a poison. Not just any poison, but the poison that would wipe out the entire race of rats, every last one of them. The invention would be recorded in his name, and he would take his place among the community of scientists and the rich and famous. He was buying additional books on botany, chemistry, and zoology, and he conducted strange experiments that gave off a mixture of various peculiar odors.
In the end, Luqman’s apartment was transformed into what appeared to be a genuine laboratory: test tubes, vials, instruments, and cages filled with rats, mice, and insects that Najeeb hunted in his nighttime rounds of the poor residential neighborhoods and the garbage dumps.
That was when Luqman decided to broach the topic with Salaam. He sought her out one day at work in the telephone exchange.
“Don’t you find that Najeeb has been behaving oddly?”
“You mean his experiments and the notebook he’s always reading as though it contained all the secrets of the world? What’s the problem, Luqman? As long as it distracts him from other women and keeps him in my grasp.”
“Sure, but do you see what chaos the apartment has come to? And—”
She agreed with him immediately. “You are so right! We’ve been a burden on you, Luqman. We’ve been too much, I know. What if you persuaded Najeeb of the need to move? That way he would have plenty of space to conduct his experiments. He’d be more comfortable, and you could get some rest. Of course, we’d keep your apartment as an office, and—”
Luqman understood. He would suggest to Najeeb that he move to Salaam’s house. He wouldn’t do it directly. Rather he would make allusions and hint that his apartment was no longer big enough, that he needed some privacy so that he would able to receive the guests he wanted to invite...the female guests he wanted.
“Marina, for example, you old bastard?” Salaam interrupted him, laughing. She added, “Can I count on you? It would be a real service to me, Luqman. I’d never forget it as long as I live, and you’d finally be showing a bit of gratitude to pay me back for all my kindness.”
Then, on the day they had settled on, they came together to carry out their plan. And here was Najeeb, coming out of the kitchen with his notebook.
He went over to Salaam and held out the notebook to show her something. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Salaam inspected the drawing carefully. She raised her eyes with something that resembled an apology. Najeeb frowned, disappointed, and started to head back in the direction he had come from. Luqman stopped him by asking, “What’s the matter?”
Najeeb responded that Einstein had recorded the name of a certain plant in Latin, Urginea maritima, but unfortunately, he hadn’t come across a translation in the dictionary.
“What does he say about it?” Luqman asked with a wink to Salaam out of the corner of his eye.
Najeeb read aloud, “It’s a plant that only grows in the Mediterranean basin. The Greeks, Egyptians, Persians, Arabs, and Romans used it as a diuretic and to cleanse the lungs. The Arabs used it against bedbugs, cockroaches, and the like because it has antimicrobial properties. It varies in height between three and five feet. Its leaves are large and pointy on the ends, and they all grow at the base of the stalk. Its flowers are white or green, which grow in tall bunches from July until September. It has a type of whitish fruit that contains two or three seeds. The root is shaped like an onion and covered in a red rind—”
“Enough!” shouted Luqman, laughing. Najeeb came over and showed him an illustration of the plant torn from a book and pasted onto a blank page in the notebook. “This is the sea onion, man! What’s wrong with you, Najeeb? The area around here is full of it. My mother would boil it for us to drink as a remedy for bronchitis, colds, and coughs.”
“Hallelujah!” shouted Najeeb, overjoyed. He closed the notebook and sat on the couch next to Salaam, putting his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, like someone relaxing after a long exertion.
“Whenever something eludes you,” Luqman boasted, “you just need to ask Luqman, miracle worker and king of riddles. Any other mysteries troubling you?”
“One or two months at the most, and I’ll have the recipe,” Najeeb ruminated.
“The recipe? What recipe?” asked Luqman.
“I’ve solved the problem, Luqman,” Najeeb continued. “I was torn between which of two solutions to choose, biological warfare or a chemical extermination.”
Luqman laughed. “And what do you intend?”
“Chemical,” said Najeeb. “If that doesn’t work for me, I’ll try the germs.”
“Good heavens!” Salaam protested. “And the company? And the accounts I’ve been going through, where I’ve discovered losses that threaten us with ruin? What’s wrong with you, Luqman? Have you forgotten the goal of our meeting today?”
“The problem is the profusion of rats in the poor neighborhoods and the lack of money in those people’s wallets,” Najeeb spelled out. “And the solution? We go to some of the rich neighborhoods at night and set some rats free here and there.”
“Ingenious!” exclaimed Salaam. “What do you think, Luqman?”
“I have an even better idea,” he replied. “We choose a victim, douse him in milk, and set the rats free on him!”
“Luqman! Be serious for once!” Salaam insisted.
But Najeeb concurred enthusiastically. “Of course! We choose a victim and set the rats on him. Then we throw him in a public place where the people will notice and start talking about it. Journalists will come, and the story will be front-page news. You can imagine the fear and the terror, and the calls and the cash…”
“The victim’s on me!” Luqman called out.
Salaam laughed. “And who might it be?”
“The doorman!” said Luqman. “My God, how wonderful it would be to see the rats devour him and leave not a trace behind.”
“Why shouldn’t the lucky lady be the asylum director?” Najeeb countered. “I’d let some purebred rats loose between her thighs to enjoy themselves properly!”
“Or…Marina, Luqman’s girlfriend!” proposed Salaam.
“The Communista? Shame on you!” Luqman scolded.
“I don’t have anything against her, I swear to God,” Salaam protested. “But she’s perfect for the job, since who would miss her? She has no family and no friends.”
Salaam took advantage of the discussion about women to remind Luqman once more of the goal of their meeting that evening. There was nothing for Luqman to do this time but comply. He set about redirecting the conversation such that all three of them arrived at the same conclusion: that it was necessary for Najeeb to transfer his laboratory to Salaam’s apartment, as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 13
“How nice to see you!” the doorman said with a welcoming smile. His eyebrows rose in admiration of Luqman’s elegant clothes.
Luqman had become one of the family, and his frequent visits no longer occasioned a call to announce him to Miss Shireen or to confirm that he actually had an appointment with her.
Shireen opened the door for him with a towel in her hand. She brought him into the living room and invited him to take a seat and wait for her to wash her hands—she had been busy cooking, since people were coming over for dinner. Luqman refused to interrupt her work, suggesting he sit with her in the kitchen.
Shireen put the coffee pot on the burner and asked him if he had brought the bill so that she could compensate him for all his labors. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small piece of folded paper, saying, “I hope you won’t be surprised at the price.”
Shireen read the contents of the paper. She raised her eyes to Luqman and laughed as she shook her head back and forth. “Are you serious?
This is too little,” she said. “Indeed, you’ve practically worked for free.”
Luqman smiled in turn and said, “All the same, its more than I deserve, Miss Shireen.”
She reread the paper and said, “Given that your bill says the price for your labors is that I accept an invitation to dinner, I’m ready to settle things up this instant...on the condition that you be my guest.”
Luqman thanked her and said he couldn’t stay, given that her friends were from high society and were highly cultured, skilled at languages. “They would inevitably find the presence of someone like me strange—a common man, nearly illiterate, and a rat catcher on top of all that.”
Shireen disagreed and said, “I’m very proud to know you.”
“Don’t feel embarrassed, Miss Shireen. I’ll come another time.”
“Please, stay.”
Luqman was silent. The doorbell rang. Before going to receive the first of her guests, Shireen took him by the hand and decreed, “You’ll stay. I need you.”
When the guests were gathered around the dinner table, Shireen sat Luqman to her right after introducing him to all of them, and all of them to him. She used the expression, “mon ami, Luqman.”
They were a mix of nationalities and ages. University professors, researchers, and archeologists. French, English, Italians, and Germans. Shireen spoke to them all, and from time to time, she leaned over to Luqman and translated for him a summary of what was going on in the conversation.
Until it was his turn. He had been fearing this moment, and here it was, landing heavily upon his chest. One of them turned and said something to him. Luqman remained silent and looked wordlessly at Shireen as though to say, “I warned you!”
She smiled to reassure him. Then she spoke to the man posing the question. All the guests turned to Luqman and examined him with evident interest, as though seeking more information.
Shireen played the role of translator between Luqman and her guests after having informed them of his line of work. One of them jumped in to point out the importance that rat lairs held in the eyes of archeologists, given how they advance the study of the habits and characteristics of a given historical age. That was because the lairs usually contained a large quantity of artifacts and even pieces of money.
Luqman went into detail to display his knowledge on the subject. He was dazzling, sprinkling witty comments in here and there, and in the end, Shireen was mesmerized as she saw the others fall under his spell.
The center of conversation shifted away from Luqman and was divided among several small circles when the guests got up from dining table and went to sit in the living room. Shireen put on some music and lowered the lights a little. She started picking up glasses and empty wine bottles to bring into the kitchen.
Luqman stood up and followed, clearing some ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. She thanked him and handed him a chilled bottle of champagne. He set it down on the kitchen table. Then he took her hand and held it between his own.
Shireen was confused and looked at him with darting eyes. Was it the effect of the wine she had drunk, or perhaps was he, Luqman, the cause? To find out, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. He kept her fingers pressed against his lips. Then he looked up and examined her face, loading his glance with all the yearning in his heart.
Shireen lowered her head and closed her eyes. No, he wouldn’t kiss her now. He would first take her in his arms, hold her tight, kiss her forehead, and then let her go. Shireen was a romantic woman. What she wanted, first and foremost, was a love story. Sex would come later, after he had proven to her that he loved her. Silently, tenderly, like a father. Like her father who had passed away.
Luqman went out to the living room with the bottle of champagne. Shireen went around distributing glasses. He saw her moving in a different way now, her body suddenly awake as the blood coursing through it colored her cheeks and animated her limbs.
Shireen took off her shoes and sat on a couch in the corner. She lifted her hand and undid the knot that tied her hair. She shook out her hair, and the red, undulating locks exploded, pouring down on her face and shoulders.
She’d take off her glasses after a little, Luqman knew. Indeed, here she was taking them off and setting them down on the floor beside her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall while squeezing her crossed legs against her chest. What was she dreaming about? Luqman? Perhaps. He’d wait and see.
Someone went over and said something to her. She sat up and answered. She accepted a glass of champagne and took a sip. One small mouthful, then another. She looked towards Luqman. He lowered his eyes to give her the impression that he wasn’t looking at her. Rather, to make her think that he meant to give her the impression that he hadn’t been looking at her. What do you think, Partner? Don’t you see that things always turn out in my favor?
Luqman frowned and strove to project the air of a forlorn lover who saw that intractable and thorny distances came between him and the attainment of his desire. This is what women wanted: a passionate man sending his gaze afar, into empty space, lost in sorrowful passion.
And now she was looking at him again. Her eyes shone with a thousand rays and proclaimed she was a woman who felt as though she were about to enter a love story. All of a sudden, her beauty would combine with the seed a man cast into her heart, making her fall in love at last.
Shireen’s guests got up, thanking her and saying goodbye. Luqman stood, uncertain about what he should do or say. One of the guests, putting his hands on an invisible steering wheel, asked whether he had a car. When Luqman shook his head, the guest offered to give him a ride home.
Shireen, who had been following their discussion out of the corner of her eye, interrupted her own conversation. Turning to Luqman, she breathlessly asked, “Are you leaving too?”
Luqman shrugged his shoulders as though to say, “I don’t know.”
Shireen went on, “I don’t feel tired. You?”
“Me neither,” he replied.
She smiled and said, “In that case, let’s stay up a little longer.”
Luqman went back to the living room and left her to stand with her guests for a few minutes in front of the elevator and say goodbye. He sat on the large sofa and congratulated himself for having taken precautions for this possibility: he had taken a shower, cut his fingernails and toenails, and put on clean underwear, as well as some cologne.
Best not to hurry, Partner: it’s a delicate situation. The smallest misstep is liable to lose Miss Shireen, and with her, our Parisian future. You have to get used to this type of woman. Haste doesn’t work with them. Take all the time you need. If she means nothing more than staying awake a bit longer, then, I beg of you, keep your head in order to leave her with a good impression—we’ll postpone the attack until a future visit, some rendezvous that we might suggest later on.
Shireen closed the door and came back into the living room.
She stood in front of Luqman and looked at him, holding back her emotion.
She hesitated for two or three seconds. Then she threw herself on top of him.
CHAPTER 14
Salaam looked at the director. She could feel her eyes burning with hatred. Her throat choked with the desire to go over, kiss her on the mouth, and bite down on her tongue for as along as it took to shear it off completely. Then she would throw it on the floor.
Salaam didn’t care about anything the director said about Saleem and about her. She didn’t care about the scolding tone that accompanied her speech, or the long-winded sermon she poured on Salaam’s head like boiling water. Rather, it was how she talked about Najeeb at the end and hinted, with a smile full of wicked insinuation, at what the two of them did together.
It was Salaam’s fault. She made things worse, even though she just meant to respond to the director’s fierce and dastardly attack.
The director had said to her, “Your brother attacked the psychologist who was treating him for free.” (She emphasized the wo
rds “for free.”) “Then he ripped open the front of her shirt and threw himself on her, kissing her breasts. When she screamed and tried to push him away, he hit her and began beating his head against the wall, calling out your name.”
Salaam said, “I’ll apologize and try to make it up to her with a gift.”
The director said, “And do you think that’s enough? I requested to see you, Miss Salaam, so that you might enlighten me. Perhaps you have an explanation for Saleem’s behavior.”
Salaam replied, “Wouldn’t that be nice! If it were in my power to understand what goes on in his disturbed mind, I wouldn’t have resorted to your institution. As you know, Saleem isn’t violent. He’s like a child. He has a nervous breakdown when someone prevents him from carrying out a desire.”
“What type of desires, for example, Miss Salaam?”
Salaam looked at her, surprised at the tone her speech had adopted all of a sudden. A tone that had something of an accusation and some kind of oblique strategy, like the tone of an investigator seeking to extract a confession.
If Salaam failed in this test of strength she sensed was coming, she would certainly lose the entire battle, and Saleem would be the victim along with her. What exactly had this vile director heard? Salaam ought to move her tongue back and forth in her mouth ten times before saying something that would turn out badly.
Salaam took a deep breath, trying to force a smile onto lips that resisted so violently they started to tremble. She said, “How should I know what Saleem wanted when he threw himself on the doctor? She may have been treating him harshly, or asking him to do something he didn’t understand. Or else he got a bad vibe about her, or a dark thought came over him. You are putting questions to me that, unfortunately, I have no answers for.”
“There’s no need for evasion, Miss Salaam. The attendant who watches over Saleem’s wing has confessed.”
Oh, Salaam! Page 9