T H E CO m m I T T E E
Middle East Literature in Translation Michael Beard and Adnan Haydar, Series Editors
T H E
C O I?l 1T1 I T T E E
A N O V E L
SOIIALLAH IBRAHIIlI
Translated from the Arabic by Mary St. Germain
and Charlene Constable
With an Afterword by Roger Allen
J
S SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY PRESS
English language edition copyright © 2001 by Syracuse University Press Syracuse, New York 13 244-5 160
All Righis Reserved
First Edition 2001 0203040506 65432
First published in 1981 as A1-Lajnah
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI 239.48-1984.-TM
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ibrahim, Sun'Allah.
[Lajnah. English]
The committee : a novel / Sun'allah Ibrahim ; translated from the Arabic by Mary St. Germain and Charlene Constable.-1st ed.
p. cm.-(Middle East literature in translation) ISBN 0-8156-0726-1 (alk. paper) 1. St. Germain, Mary S. II. Constable, Charlene. III. Title. IV.
Series. PJ7838.B7173 L313 2001 892.7' 36-dc2l 2001049680
Manufactured in the United States of America
T H E CC) m m I T T E E
I arrived at the Committee's headquarters at 8:30 A.M., half an hour before my scheduled appointment. I had no difficulty finding the room reserved for interviews, just off a quiet, dimly lit side passage. An old man in a clean yellow jacket stood before the door. His features radiated the serenity that masks the faces of those who, having found themselves at the end of the road, surrender and retreat from the hubbub of life and the struggle to ride out its trials and tribulations.
The porter let slip that the Committee doesn't usually convene before 10 o'clock. This was par for the course. It annoyed me; I regretted having been punctual, crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn, without enjoying a full night's sleep.
The porter had the only seat, so I stood near him and set my Samsonite briefcase on the floor. I offered him a cigarette and lit one for myself. My heart beat violently the whole time, even though I tried to pull myself together and control my nerves. I kept telling myself that my confusion would lose me the opportunity they were granting me. I simply would not be able to concentrate, although I would desperately need that ability during the upcoming interview.
After a bit, I got tired of standing around, so I picked up my briefcase and walked all the way to the end of the long hallway. I turned and came back, keeping my eyes on the meeting room door, afraid the Committee might have arrived and summoned me. But the porter still sat in his place, staring calmly ahead. He worked his toothless mouth as though chewing something imaginary.
I paced up and down the passageway, looking at my watch from time to time. It was approaching 10:30 when I saw the porter jump to his feet and put his cigarette on the floor under his chair. He turned the handle of the door to the meeting room, opened it cautiously, and then disappeared behind it.
I hurried back to my place near his seat. My heart beat even more quickly than before. I expected he would ask me to enter when he came out, but he didn't; rather, after retrieving his cigarette, he resumed his seat and calmly continued smoking.
Finally, I took matters in hand and asked him affably whether the Committee had arrived.
"Only one of them," he said.
I prompted, "But I didn't see anyone enter the room?"
"There's another entrance."
I continued to stand beside him for half an hour while the Committee members arrived through the other entrance. The porter went to the buffet several times to prepare coffee for them. Each time, I tried to peek into the meeting room, but he consistently made a point of opening the door just enough to squeeze through, so that nothing would be revealed to me.
Once, he emerged from the meeting room carrying a leather shoe in one hand. He summoned the shoe-shine boy, who was standing at the end of the hall, and handed him the shoe. When the boy started to sit on the floor by the door, the porter scolded him and ordered him away to where he had been standing earlier.
I began pacing again, shifting my briefcase from hand to hand. I was tired. I hadn't slept well the night before in spite of having taken a sleeping pill and so a slight headache hovered at the back of my head. I had not foreseen this possibility, although I had done nothing during the whole of the last year except prepare for what might happen today. I did not dare leave to look for an aspirin; the Committee might summon me in my absence.
As I paced, I drew near the shoe-shine boy, who was enthusiastically cleaning the "Committee's shoe." For that's how I thought of it, and I liked the turn of phrase so well I smiled. I saw that he had finished polishing the surface of the shoe, had turned it over, and begun daubing polish on its sole.
I turned and walked back to where the porter sat and set my briefcase on the floor by him. I offered him a cigarette, lit one for myself, and stood there smoking. Soon the shoe-shine boy finished and handed the shoe to the porter, who received it reverently and carried it in. After a while he emerged, carrying a brass tray loaded with empty coffee cups. He took it to the buffet and sat down again.
Because it was almost 11:30 and no one else had joined me, I assumed I was the only one the Committee would see that day. And so it occurred to me that the Committee was already discussing my case. This was a very distressing thought. It meant, quite simply, that they were already forming an impression of me. For many reasons, it was more likely this impression would be negative, which, in and of itself, would decrease my chances of swaying them through a personal appearance. I knew they had plenty of reports on me. Never theless, I had understood from the first that my fate rested on this meeting. This did not mean it was I who had pressed for this interview; on the contrary, I had been told there was no alternative. And so, there I was.
At exactly noon, the porter went into the meeting room, came right back out, and asked my name. Then he motioned me in.
I took my briefcase in my right hand and fingered my necktie with the left to be sure it was straight. Assuming a confident smile, I placed my hand on the white porcelain doorknob, which I had looked at dozens of times in the last three hours. I turned it, pushed, and entered the meeting room.
Right off I erred on two counts.
In my confusion, which I vainly tried to hide, I forgot to close the door behind me. Then I heard a female voice nearby say tactfully, "Please close the door."
I turned scarlet and went back to the door. Grasping the knob in my left hand, I pushed, but it wouldn't latch.
The door was old and required some pressure to close. I had my briefcase in my right hand, so I pressed with my knee. Sweat trickled down my forehead.
Then I heard the same tactful voice say, "Put the briefcase down and use both hands."
I realized I had lost the first round.
I had known the Committee would question me. Its goal wasn't limited to probing the breadth of my knowledge, but extended to finding the key to my personality and the caliber of my mental abilities. The content of the answer wasn't everything, although it did carry some weight. Rather, assertiveness was paramount.
As I have already said, I spent the past year preparing for this day in all kinds of ways. I devoted myself to studying the language the Committee uses in its interviews. I reviewed all I knew about various fields of learning. I reread philosophy, the arts, chemistry, and
economics. I set myself hundreds of inconsistent problems, spending days and nights in search of answers. I followed quiz shows on television and consulted the equivalent sections of newspapers and magazines. Luck was on my side when I discovered that my brother, twenty years older than I, still kept a complete set of Believe It or Not. In a package held together with rubber bands, he had kept every issue since its first publication thirty years ago.
Not satisfied with this, I tried to form a clear idea of the Committee's work by searching out others who had appeared before it. Although I was sure there were many, I could only get in touch with a few. Most denied ever having gone before the Committee, or even denied all knowledge of its existence. The rest used the excuse that they had forgotten the details, so their reports were vague and contradictory. I got other tidbits of news from various sources, but they didn't help me either. The only thing I came up with was that there was no set method to the Committee's work.
When I tried to gather information about the Committee members, in hopes of getting an idea of their prejudices and predilections, I found a shroud of secrecy veiling their names and jobs. Everyone whom I asked regarded me with anxious and pitying looks.
However, all agreed that the Committee sets clever traps for everyone it interviews. This means that the tale of the door that wouldn't shut was not a coincidence. It revealed my confusion and lack of resourcefulness even before the interview began.
You can imagine my state after failing this test. I stood before them drenched in sweat. Oddly enough, I sensed, way down deep, a feeling of satisfaction at this failure, as though some part of me feared success. This did not prevent my confusion or my overwhelming desire to gain the approval of those lined up before me at the long table stretching the width of the hall.
There were many of them. Unable to concentrate, I couldn't count accurately. Some of them were absorbed in whispered asides, and others in leafing through the papers before them. Most wore large dark glasses to hide their eyes. It seemed to me that among them were familiar faces, which had looked out at me at one time or another from the pages of newspapers and magazines. I also discovered that I knew the owner of the tactful voice: an old maid whom I had met on some occasion. I reproached myself that I had not shown any interest in her at that time. She looked at me with what I thought was a friendly smile.
It didn't surprise me to see the military represented among them. On their collars, red ribbons edged with gold indicated their high rank.
In the middle of the group was a decrepit old man who wore thick eyeglasses and held a paper so close it almost touched them. He was trying hard to read. I surmised that the paper must be part of a special dossier on me.
The old man finished reading, or perhaps gave up trying, and put the paper down on the table. As he turned his head to the left, then the right, his colleagues realized that the session had convened. They fell silent and turned their eyes on me.
I stared at the old man's lips. His sallow face seemed as remote from life as it could be.
He spoke to me, "At the beginning of this meeting, I would like to put on record my appreciation, which my companions share, of your choosing to appear before us. This does not mean that we will necessarily endorse your point of view. This matter depends on many things, and we are here today to settle it. But what I would like to make clear is that an appearance before the Committee, as everyone knows, is not compulsory. In this day and age, everyone enjoys complete freedom of choice. This choice on your part reflects a high degree of sound judgment and perspicacity. This is an important indicator, which we will take into consideration when we review your case. Only first, we would like to hear your point of view in this matter."
I was aware of what I had heard from various sources: the Committee always requires those it interviews to present the reasons and motives bringing them before it. Therefore, I had prepared an answer in advance.
I had expected the Committee to be on to me, so I thought long and hard before settling on the requisite response. I did not want to present a trite answer, something they had heard before, ostensibly meant to flatter. Rather, I wanted to present a unique answer that would appear simple and spontaneous, as though the question had taken me by surprise. My reply would be reliable and true, giving a precise picture of myself without getting entangled in specifics, such as the true motives of some of my actions. I must allude to these activities so as to absolve myself of responsibility for everything prejudicial to me in the case. I must make them infer what I imagined would meet with their approval.
In fact, this was an extremely onerous task, given the highly sophisticated surveillance techniques which they use to find out everything about me.
Working up my nerve, I took several deep breaths, then began to speak. My voice could scarcely be heard. The old man leaned forward, cupping his hand around his right ear, "Excuse me. I don't hear well with this ear. Can you speak up?"
I complied with his request and began the answer I had already prepared. Needless to say, I forgot a large part of it, as I nervously struggled to speak their language without serious grammatical mistakes.
Nevertheless, I managed to sketch a general picture of my background, and the way my life evolved under circumstances which allowed me few options. At the same time, I was spurred on by grandiose dreams and the desire to promote my talents and get everything I could out of them. I made sure I mentioned the standards and moral principles by which I was guided.
After that, I moved on to the misfortune that had caused my illness. I said that, in all likelihood, my illness was the result of a vast disparity between ambitions and actual abilities, leaving me fed up with everything, to the point where I had no option but to change my life completely.
I added a well-rehearsed dramatic flourish to my speech: opening my briefcase, I took out a sheaf of testimonials which I had obtained from various sources, extolling my abilities and confirming the accuracy of the information I had presented.
Since most of these documents were in Arabic, I began to speak about them in the Committee's language. They listened to me with interest, while sorting through the papers I had just given them. I noticed that a fair-complected and light-eyed member seated at the old man's left paid no attention to the testimonials. He was absorbed in examining a file that undoubtedly contained secret reports on me.
A short, ugly member seated on the chairman's right, between him and an officer, looked up and addressed me with hostility, "I can't understand you. After all the progress you've made, here you are trying to start over. Don't you think it's a little late for this?"
I answered him brightly, "Indeed, most people start a new life at forty. This isn't a new beginning in the strict sense of the word, but rather the culmination of the earlier stages of life's journey, a complete blossoming of the diverse potentials I possess. From any angle, it can be considered a natural evolution of my personality."
Stubby snorted angrily. I was taken aback by his rancor. I had a vague feeling that I might have antagonized him by demonstrating my talents and even going so far as to offer proof in the form of those testimonials from respected and influential parties.
I continued this train of thought and came to the conclusion that perhaps as a young man he had stood in my shoes. The Committee must have given him its stamp of approval, but apparently he had failed to live up to expectations. It would seem that in the end he got no further than being merely one of its members. Notwithstanding the Committee's importance and its extensive influence, some, including me, consider membership in it evidence of withering talent and complete failure.
One of the ladies, elderly and dignified, spoke. She was seated at the far left, near an obese man wearing a white jacket, his legs crossed, his head thrown back, gazing at the ceiling as though he were not with us. She asked me, "Do you know how to dance?"
"Yes, indeed. Of course."
Stubby butted in, "Show us, then."
"What sort of dancing?"
I rea
lized this question was a mistake. What sort of dancing, indeed! As if there were any other.
Without hesitation I acted, hoping speed and finesse would testify on my behalf. Finding nothing else, I took my necktie and wound it around my waist just above my hipbones, right where it would emphasize the body's flexibility. I made a point of putting the knot on the side, as professional belly dancers do. I soon discovered that worn this way, it had a great feature: it separates the belly from the backside, allowing each independent movement.
I began to undulate, lifting my ankles a little off the ground. Glancing down at them over my shoulder, I raised my arms above my head and twined my fingers, framing my face with my arms. I danced energetically for a little while, making an effort to snap my fingers, even after linking my index fingers. I was so absorbed I didn't notice the impression I made on the members.
The chairman, who heard not and saw not, spoke suddenly, motioning with his hand, "Enough."
At that point, one of the officers, his face almost completely hidden behind large dark glasses, leaned forward and said, "We know almost everything about you from the papers before us. However, there is one thing we still don't know, which is, Where were you during `that' year? Could you please tell us?"
I managed to stay busy removing my tie from my waist and retying it around my neck while thinking about the year he referred to. From what I knew of the Committee's language, the demonstrative pronoun he had used did not refer to the current year. Since he hadn't mentioned a specific year, he must have intended "that." In as much as I couldn't imagine any omission in the report about me, this had to be a trap.
I coaldn't ask for a clarification of the year intended without springing the trap. It was imperative that I figure it out for myself, and as quickly as possible.
To me, the question was of the utmost difficulty. I decided the one way out was to exclude, on the basis of my age at the time, some of the probable years, such as '48 and '52, so narrowing the field of discussion. There remained the years '56, '58, '61, and '67. A concise answer occurred to me before hopelessness set in: one that did not deviate from the truth by much, but still was not comprehensive.
The Committee (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 1