Your Honor, five months after publishing the first story in my own name (after inventing a distinctive title), I was traveling the countries of the world to present my new story at seminars, where the most famous critics and intellectuals would introduce me. The biggest newspapers and international literary magazines wrote about me. I could not even find enough time to give television and radio interviews. The local critics wrote long studies on how our just war could inspire in man such artistic largesse, such love, such poetry. Many master’s and doctoral theses were written in the nation’s universities, and in them the researchers endeavored to explore all the insights into poetry and humanity in my story. They wrote about the harmonies between bullets and fate, between the sound of planes and the rocking of a bed, between the kiss and the piece of shrapnel, between the smell of gunpowder and the smell of a woman’s vulva, although the story did not make the slightest mention of war, directly or indirectly. When I came home, at a lavish ceremony I was awarded the post of Minister of Culture with no trouble at all. I was in no hurry to publish the four remaining stories, because the first story still had more to yield. I exchanged my wife, my house, my clothes, and my car for new things that I coveted. I can say that I paid homage to the war and raised my hands to heaven in gratitude for the bounty and the priceless gifts. I was confident that the Nobel Prize in Literature would be here on my desk in the ministry after the fifth story. The gates of happiness had opened, as they say.
Then one day three large parcels from the front arrived at my address at the ministry, containing twenty stories sent, it seemed, by the same soldier in the same manner: elementary school books bearing the names of soldiers, containing tales of love and destiny. At first I felt tremendous confusion, which soon turned into icy panic. I quickly picked up the stories and asked the man in charge of the ministry stores to give me the keys to one of the storerooms. I hid them in complete secrecy and made many and intensive contacts to find the soldier. All the messages would come directly to my office in the ministry, and all of them confirmed that the soldier had been killed. They were frightening days. On the following day other parcels arrived, with double the number of stories this time, from the same soldier and in the same manner. Again I carried the stories to the storeroom and put extra padlocks on the door. Cruel months passed, Your Honor, with me torn between hiding the stories, which continued to flood in at an amazing rate, and looking for the soldier, of whom there was no trace the length and breadth of the front. In the meantime the second story had been printed and released. I received phone calls from the President, the Minister of Defense, and other state officials, lauding my loyalty and my genius. Invitations from abroad began to flood into the ministry, but this time I turned them all down on the grounds that the country was more precious and more important than all the prizes and conferences in the world, and the country needed all its righteous citizens in such trying circumstances. In fact I wanted to find a solution to the problem of the stories, which kept arriving every morning in vast numbers, like a storm of locusts: today a hundred stories, tomorrow two hundred, and so on.
Your Honor, I almost lost my “tank brain.” At last I obtained the address of the soldier’s house and went to visit his family to make sure he was dead. His mother told me she did not believe he was dead. There was only a small hole in his forehead. It was a sniper’s bullet. I took the address of his grave from his wife and left them some money. The other storerooms at the ministry were crammed with workbooks. How would I explain to the party and the government that I had written all these stories, and why was I writing them in workbooks, and why the names of the soldiers, seemingly in elementary school? And why was I storing them this way? There were dozens of questions, none of which had a logical answer.
I bought some old flour warehouses on the edge of the city in case more stories poured in. I paid vast amounts to three workers in the ministry to help dig up the soldier’s grave. There he was with his decayed body and a hole in his forehead. I shook his body several times to make sure he was dead. I whispered in his ear, then shouted and insulted him. I challenged him, if he could, to open his mouth or move his little finger. But he was dead enough. A worm came out of his neck, chasing another worm, then the two of them disappeared inside again somewhere near his shoulder.
Your Honor, you may not believe this story, but I swear by your omnipotence that within a year the flour warehouses and the ministry storerooms were crammed with the soldier’s stories. Of course, I didn’t have a chance to read all the stories, but I would take a sample of each batch, and I swear to you that they did not increase only in number, they also became increasingly brilliant and creative. But at the time I trembled and felt that my end would come soon if this flood of stories did not cease. Certainly I left no stone unturned in my inquiries and research. I looked into the addresses from which the parcels were coming. They were being sent in the name of the soldier from various parts of the front, but there was no trace of him. Nevertheless I could not go too far in asking about the parcels, for fear of being exposed.
I went back to the grave and burned the soldier’s body. I divorced my second wife and left my job after a psychiatrist helped me by submitting a report saying that my health was deteriorating. I collected all the workbooks from the ministry storerooms and the old flour warehouses and bought some isolated agricultural land, where I built a special incinerator, a large storeroom, a bedroom, and a bathroom, and surrounded it with a high wall. I was sure that the stories would keep pouring in at this new address, but I was prepared for them this time. As I expected, from the morning of the first day at the farm I was working hard day and night, burning the colored workbooks—all the stories, and all the soldier’s names—in hopes that the war would end and that this madness of khaki sperm would also stop.
The war did stop, Your Honor, after long and terrifying years, but a new war broke out. The only option left to me was the incinerator fire, as you are the Merciful, the Forgiving.
Your Honor . . .
So now, and before I’m put back in the mortuary, I know you are the Omnipotent, the Wise, the Omniscient, and the Imperious, but did you also once work for an army newspaper? And why do you need an incinerator for your characters?
Crosswords
IN MEMORY OF MY FRIENDS:
DAWOUD THE ENGINEER, 2003
KOURESH THE POET AND DOCTOR, 2006
BASSEM THE SCULPTOR AND PHOTOGRAPHER, 2007
He wakes up.
It’s a mess of a morning.
He hears the words: “For God’s sake, I’m going to die of thirst!”
He sits on the edge of the bed. He feels a numbness in his limbs. He pours himself a glass of water. He looks around the ward in a daze. He sees a bird hitting the windowpane. A plump nurse is giving an injection to a man with an arm missing.
“Aha! Cold water! Thank you,” says the policeman somewhere deep inside him. . . .
My lifelong friend Marwan used to say, “Across: mankind; down: the sea. The highest mountain peak in the world. A three-letter word. An unfamiliar reality.”
They published a picture of him smiling on the cover of the magazine!
It was a picture taken two years ago during the ceremony at which he received the prize for being the best crossword writer. The prize was funded by a billionaire member of Parliament who came back to the country after the change in regime. They say the great passion he acquired for crosswords during his long exile was behind his decision to finance the prize. It was worth fifteen thousand dollars. The prize aroused much envy among certain journalists and writers, who criticized it severely and at length. Marwan won it on merit; I think Marwan could be awarded the title Poet Laureate of Crosswords.
I found some of his old crossword puzzles at the farm once. They contained strange expressions such as “half a moon,”“a semi-mythical animal,”“a vertical tunnel,”“a poisonous grass,” and “a half-truth.”
&nb
sp; In the olden days, when our eyes were like magnifying glasses, the moon was a giant that rose above the rooftops, and we wanted to break it with a stone. In those days Marwan and I were like a single spirit. One autumn evening we lit a fire in a barrel of trash and swore an oath to be forever loyal to each other. We played often, and invented our own secrets, built our own world out of the strangeness of the world around us. We watched the adults’ wars on television and saw how the front ate up our elders. Our mothers baked bread in clay ovens and sat down in the sunset hour, afraid and with tears in their eyes. We would steal sweets from shops, climb trees and break our legs and arms. Life and death was a game of running, climbing, and jumping, of watching, of secret dirty words, of sleep and nightmares.
I remember you both well. I felt like a third wheel when we all started high school. I was jealous of you!
Marwan and I would chase the coffins. We would wait for them to reach the turn off the main road. The war was in its fourth year by this point. The coffins were wrapped in the flag and tied firmly to the tops of cars that came from the front. We wanted to be like grown-ups who, when a coffin passed by, would stand and raise their hands solemnly and sadly. We would salute the dead like they did. But when the death car turned a corner, we would race after it down the muddy lanes. The driver would have to slow down so that the coffin didn’t fall off. Then the car would choose the door of a sleeping house, and stop in front of it. When the women of the house came out they would scream and throw themselves in the pools of mud and spatter their hair with it. We would hurry to tell our mothers whose house the death car had stopped outside. My mother would always reply, “Go and wash your face,” or “Go to Umm Ali next door and ask her if she has a little spice mixture to spare.” And in the evening my mother would go and mourn with the local women in the dead man’s house, slapping her face and weeping.
Once I was sitting with Marwan waiting for a coffin to arrive. We were eating sunflower seeds. We had waited a long time and were about to give up hope and go back home disappointed. But then the death car loomed on the horizon. We ran after it like happy dogs and were betting on who could beat the car, when it finally stopped in front of Marwan’s house. His mother came out screaming hysterically. She ripped her clothes and threw herself in the pool of mud. Bassem, who was standing next to me, stood stock-still and stared in a trance. His big brother noticed him and pulled him into the house. I ran back home, into my mother’s arms, crying in torment. “Mummy, my friend Marwan’s dad’s died,” I sobbed. She said, “Wash your face and go to the shop and fetch me half a kilo of onions.”
I heard what you wrote yesterday. How the first explosion shredded Marwan’s face. The windows shattered and the cupboards fell on top of him. His mouth filled with blood. He spat out teeth and indistinctly heard the screams of his colleague, the editor of the New Woman section. The dust made it impossible to see. She crawled over the rubble screaming, “I’m going to die . . . I’m going to die.” Then she fell silent suddenly and forever. Marwan bled a long time and only recovered consciousness in the hospital.
Okay.
Marwan had cute and interesting ideas when we were kids. Once he asked me to help him collect time. We went down toward the valley, stretched out on our stomachs, and proceeded to stare at a weed without moving for more than an hour. We were as silent as stone statues. It was Marwan’s belief that if we stared at anything in nature for an hour we would store that hour in our brains. While other people lost time, we would collect it.
It was a double explosion. First they detonated a taxi in front of the magazine’s offices. If it hadn’t been for the concrete barriers the building would have collapsed. The second vehicle was a watermelon truck, packed with explosives. The first police patrol to arrive after the first explosion brought three policemen. The murderers waited for people to gather and then detonated the second vehicle. That killed twenty-five people. Two of the policemen were killed on the spot, and their colleague caught fire and began running in every direction. Finally he staggered through the door of the magazine building and collapsed, a lifeless corpse.
In an old text of yours you say:
A pulp of blood and shit
a monster
a defiled planet
a god-viper
time spilled in that time.
When we were in high school we used to fuck a prostitute who would give us her customers’ shoes. She loved us like a mother. She bought us lots of chocolate and laughed when she slept with us. Marwan used to steal spoons and knives from his house and offer them to her as presents. She was crazy about little knives and addicted to crossword puzzles. We called her “the drunken boat,” after the poem by Rimbaud. Before the school year ended, we went on a school trip to explore the mountains. Marwan tried to bring the drunken boat along with us, but the headmaster threatened to expel us from school. On top of a rock shaped like the head of an angry bull, overlooking the valley, we sat down to smoke and read the newspaper. The others went off to explore a cave where prehistoric man had once lived. It was small, like an animal’s burrow, and full of spiderwebs, they told us later. I read the paper while Marwan smoked, and then we would switch roles. It was a government newspaper and it was pathetic, from the political news on the front page to the back page devoted to the mysteries of the other world, as if our own world weren’t strange and incoherent enough. It was on top of the bull’s head that Marwan discovered his vocation. He solved the crossword puzzle in the newspaper in an instant. After that he got a notebook and pen out of his bag and set to work writing his own crossword. He smoked six cigarettes before he finished his first puzzle. It was made up of synonyms from nature. From the rock he stared up at the treetops and said, “Writing crosswords is much easier than solving them.”
“Perhaps it’s like the real world,” I said, blowing smoke and pretending to be a dreamy young man.
“What a philosopher,” he said sarcastically. Then he gave an absurd, euphoric yell that filled the valley.
That night he told you that the drunken boat was his relative. Why did he hide this from you for so many years?
We were separated when we went to college. Marwan’s family moved to another part of the city. He went to study agriculture, with dreams of ending up with a piece of land where he could plant pomegranate trees. I went to the school of mass communications. We would visit each other constantly, exchange ideas, laugh, and smoke and drink a lot. We would also exchange gossip about the drunken boat. We heard that some pimp had cut off her ear because she stole a ring from a customer who worked in State Security. She got her revenge on him three days later. He was lying asleep on his stomach, so she sank a carving knife deep into his ass. She was given a jail sentence.
Marwan got married in his first year at college. It was passionate love at first sight. The fruit of his love with Salwa was two children, and the fruit came while they were still studying. When they graduated, Salwa stayed at home to look after the children, and Marwan went looking for work. Things weren’t easy for someone who had just graduated in agriculture. Meanwhile I started to have articles published on historical esoterica, which I had been writing since I was a student. After I graduated I began work straightaway at a magazine, Boutique. We would vent our need to rebel by writing on ideological and social themes. I got in touch with a colleague who was working at the popular magazine Puzzles and told him that Marwan was skilled at writing crosswords and astrology columns. Marwan was angry with me for lying about the astrology, but he had no options other than to work at the magazine. He started writing crosswords and even began studying up on astrology.
He sent you a text message that read: Fire Sign—You’re compatible with all the signs. Your blood group breathes disappointment and happiness. You stick your tongue in the woman’s mouth in order to cool down. The fog that burns on the ceiling is the steam of sweat. You buy pins and colored pictures from the shop. You pin them on your flesh wh
en you receive a guest. The firewood comes to you throughout the night, wrapped in nightmares. When you wake up you have a bath on fire. You eat on fire. You read the newspapers on fire. You smoke a cigarette on fire. In the coffee cup you come across prophecies of fire. You laugh on fire. You have your lungs checked at the hospital, and they find a spring of errors that looks like a tumor. You dream of the final act: It goes out.
I bought a stuffed scorpion from the toy shop and went to visit Marwan in the hospital. The doctor told me that Marwan’s injuries weren’t serious. They had extracted some fragments of window glass from his scalp and said he would be fine. Salwa, his wife, was anxious and frightened by Marwan’s mental confusion. Like her, I asked the doctor various questions about Marwan’s mysterious condition. The doctor asked me, “If you’d gone through a terrorist explosion like that, would you come out laughing and joking?”
“Maybe!” I said, looking at his pointed nose.
He gave me a contemptuous look and took Marwan’s wife to one side.
The doctor was wrong; Marwan wasn’t suffering just from shock. The burned policeman had got inside him and had taken control of his being. He would say he could hear the policeman’s voice in his head, clear and sharp.
Aahh! Perhaps like my voice . . . you frame his sarcastic words and hang them on your living room wall.
War
Peace
God’s ass
After coming out of the hospital Marwan kept to himself at home and didn’t want to meet any visitors. One day he contacted me and said he wanted to come visit. We bought a bottle of whiskey and went to my apartment. He told me he was reluctant to go to the policeman’s house and find out who he was.
The Corpse Exhibition Page 4