The Committee (Middle East Literature in Translation)

by Sun' Allah Ibrahim

  After I had dried my head and stuck a small piece of cotton on the cut, we went back to the bedroom to change our clothes. I contented myself with pants and a shirt. He put on a complete suit, right down to the necktie.

  We went to the kitchen and I made tea. There were only three eggs in the fridge. After asking my guest's preference, I put them on the stove in a little water. I also took out a piece of cheese, another of sesame halva, and some black olives.

  We finally sat down facing each other across the dining table. I offered him two boiled eggs out of the three and conferred the third on myself. He didn't comment on this unequal apportionment, but instead applied himself to his food with great relish, whereas I just picked at mine.

  We soon finished eating. I poured the tea. My newspapers came, delivered by the vendor as usual to the front doorstep. I gave Stubby one and kept the other.

  Lately I had developed the habit of combining four activities: drinking tea, smoking my first cigarette, reading the daily paper, and attending to a bodily need. I'd gotten into this habit when I began my research on the Doctor. I had had to cut down the time between getting up and leaving my apartment in order to spend as much time as possible at the publishing houses of the newspapers and magazines whose libraries I haunted. However, this custom was rooted in an instinctive sense of the appropriate place to read our national newspapers. Like all habits, it came to be a cornerstone of my daily mental routine. Whenever I relinquished it or deviated from it even slightly, my whole day was ruined right from the start.

  I didn't feel there was anything preventing me from following my routine that day, especially since I was in more need than ever of all my mental faculties, as well as of whatever time alone I could get. I put my pack of cigarettes and my matches in my pocket, tucked the paper under my arm, picked up my cup, and went along to the bathroom.

  I expected him to follow me like always, and so he did. I set my cup on the edge of the sink and confronted him, explaining what I had in mind and how it was contingent on closing the door.

  He looked at me derisively, "Have you forgotten I saw your bare backside under conditions less dignified than answering a call of nature?"

  "I haven't forgotten. But it's customary for a person to tend to this business by himself. This is a very private moment."

  He said maliciously, "If you must wave other peoples' dirty laundry in public, can you expect to wash your own in private?"

  Having determined the attempt was futile, I pulled down my pants and sat on the plastic toilet seat. He stood in the doorway watching me.

  I picked up my teacup, took a couple of sips, then put it on the floor by my feet. I took out a cigarette and lit it. Then I unfolded the paper and began with the headlines.

  But the usual harmony of the morning didn't de velop. Neither the tea nor the cigarette had any flavor and I couldn't concentrate on reading. More important than all that, my bowels wouldn't move.

  I had no hope of making any progress by staying in this position. I got up, pulled my pants up quickly, and headed for the bedroom, feeling deeply depressed and frustrated. I sat at my desk while he occupied the armchair.

  I lit a new cigarette and reached for the index cards filed in the shoebox. Feeling Stubby's gaze on my face, I began leafing through them.

  I had to find some method that would satisfy and be sanctioned by the Committee so I could continue the research I had begun. Could this be done by eliminating certain parts of his biography? Or by restricting my approach to a single aspect of his rich personality? And what would that aspect be? Or should I completely abandon the novel program I had proposed to the Committee and instead employ a traditional biographical format?

  The harder I thought the more hopeless I felt. The traditional format was fraught with the grave dangers I had alluded to at the time. On the other hand, it made the connections between aspects of his career and personality clear, so much so that it would be difficult to deal with the two separately.

  How is it possible to speak of wealth without alluding to its source? And too, if I ignored the related facts, I would violate the basic principle that Balzac crystalized in his celebrated maxim: "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," which has since become a premise of all modern researchers.

  Likewise, it was not possible for me to disregard his humble origin, or his patriotic role and connections with the revolution, or his appeal for Arab unity, socialism, or his diverse economic activities, or his brokering for foreign companies and the international awards he won for this, or his greed for the Gulf petroleum wealth, which goes to its real owners in Europe and the United States via other middlemen. What would be left of him if I did?

  Stubby suddenly addressed me in a friendly manner, seemingly uninterested, "Incidentally, yesterday I heard you speak about the important discoveries you had arrived at in your studies on the Doctor. If my memory doesn': fail me, you said you could tear the veil from many mysteries. What did you mean?"

  I sensed danger and tried to avoid answering.

  I said nonchalantly, "In fact, I haven't yet come up with anything. What I meant to say, and perhaps I didn't express myself accurately, is that I'm on the brink of understanding the relationships between a number of miscellaneous phenomena."

  "Such as?"

  I thought a bit, then said, "The phenomena are many, innumerable, so that it is difficult to choose only one of them. Take, for example, the spread of the maladies of mental depression, sexual impotence, apathy, religious fanaticism, the extinction of the Egyptian cigarette, or the return of Coca-Cola. Wherever you look you will find the phenomenon you want."

  I smiled and added, "Indeed, the Doctor himself provides us with one of the most provocative and inexplicable phenomena. By that I mean the presence of many like him in each Arab nation, in spite of disparate social and political systems, characteristics, and laws."

  He ignored my reference to the Doctor and shook his head scornfully, "And where is this alleged relationship between the phenomena?"

  Cunningly, I answered, "I didn't say I'd discovered it. I'm only beginning my research."

  Enunciating every syllable, he said emphatically, "I see you're chasing a mirage, imagining something that doesn't exist, for how does an ordinary study like the one you're doing lead up to all these matters?"

  I banged the desktop and said, "This is what I con stantly keep repeating to myself to no avail ... What would you think about a cup of coffee?"

  He was surprised at the change of subject, but quickly said, "I have no objection."

  Then he looked at his watch and corrected himself, "Better if I don't. It's nearly dinnertime."

  I got up and said brightly, "Unfortunately I wasn't expecting this visit, so I didn't prepare for it. Actually, I have enough rice, but as for the fridge ... Well, I believe there's at least half a chicken, but then again one has to fix some side dishes. Something like soup and some kind of meat or fish dish, another of vegetables, to say nothing of fruit and desert. Thus, you see, I have to go-I mean-we have to go to the market."

  He said, propelling me toward the kitchen, "Don't bother. We'll make do with what you have on hand."

  I shrugged my shoulders as if to absolve myself of responsibility, took the half chicken out of the freezer, and put it in some water to thaw. I lit a burner under a pan of water, cleaned the chaff out of the rice, and poured the hot water over it, reserving enough for the cup of coffee I so badly needed.

  I washed the rice thoroughly in hot water and transferred it to another pan. I added butter, salt, and a little liquid, then put it back on the heat. Going back to the fridge, I took out tomatoes, cucumbers, and green pep pers, then opened the utensil drawer located under the burner to look for a clean knife. I only found a large, sharp butcher knife. I closed the drawer on it and took a couple of sips of coffee. My companion stood in the doorway of the kitchen, dividing his attention between keeping an eye on me and scanning the titles of the books arranged in rows running from the ki
tchen to the bathroom. I asked him to pour me some water so I could wash the paring knife.

  As he poured, he indicated the nearest pile of books, "You like detective stories?"

  "Definitely."

  "But I see that you don't have even one work by Agatha Christie."

  Drying the knife and hurriedly chopping the vegetables, I replied, "I only like certain kinds of detective stories: those based on action. The ones I like best have a hero who pursues criminals and gangsters and suffers every hardship in the process. Most of the time he protects the weak or defenseless from society and the dominant classes."

  "You're a real humanitarian," he said derisively.

  Sipping my coffee, I said, "Not at all. Indeed, some people might think I'd regressed to adolescence. Others might consider it merely evidence of the child within every person. But I believe there's more to it than that. Our fascination with this kind of story expresses an inability to act when necessary and goes hand in hand with the natural, rightful desire of every person for evil to be punished and good to triumph."

  After a moment, I continued, "Such stories don't require much mental effort from the reader, because they are built on action. However, this doesn't mean that Agatha Christie's stories are distinguished by a high intellectual level. From a flight of fancy, she creates simplistic mysteries not worth puzzling over when reality itself teems with true mysteries requiring all one's faculties."

  Trying to get under my skin, he said, "Now we're getting back to discussing unsolved mysteries and strange phenomena. I'm beginning to wonder whether you're of sound mind."

  I understood that he was pulling my leg, but I didn't rise to the bait, rather waved the knife in the direction of the =ap and said, "You're laughing at me. But what about the black tap water? Isn't that a true mystery?"

  "And what else?" he said calmly.

  I plunged ahead rashly, "There are many of them, if you like, take the Doctor's position on the problem of war and peace. In some short newspaper interviews, he portrayed war as the only means for recovery of usurped rights. Meanwhile, in other interviews he asserted that peace was the only means."

  He interrupted me to ask, "What's the inconsistency?"

  "The inconsistency is that in the first case, when he speaks of war, you find him working energetically on projects that require, indeed require first and foremost, peace. In the second case, when he speaks of peace, you find him caught up in forming a corps of mercenaries to offer to whomever will pay the price."

  I stopped to check the rice and turn down the burner. Then I rinsed the half chicken and readied a frying pan.

  I continued, "If these aren't enough, there is a third mystery for you. The instructions on foreign medicines sold in our country prescribe a larger dosage than that prescribed for patients in the countries where they are manufactured. Why?"

  I put two tablespoons of oil in the frying pan and slid the half chicken in, having stepped back a little so that the hot oil wouldn't spatter me.

  Still at the height of enthusiasm, I said, "How do you account for the map hanging in the Israeli Knesset? Although the Israelis proclaim that it was their ancestors who built the pyramids located on the western bank of the Nile, this map shows Israel's proposed borders on the eastern bank."

  He didn't bother to argue, being more interested in listening, as though giving me enough rope to hang myself. I noticed this suddenly, when a gleam of enjoyment appeared in one of his eyes. Putting the food on the table gave me the opportunity to change the subject.

  Sitting down opposite him, I said, "Perhaps you noticed my collection of stories by the Belgian writer Georges Simenon. I am truly a devotee of him and his hero, Inspector Maigret. Although his stories are not `action oriented,' being closer to true mystery stories, they nevertheless surpass Agatha Christie's in that they are dis=inctive for their psychological depth and sociological dimension. They substantiate the fact that most of an ordinary man's contradictory attitudes are stored up in the unconscious. At a certain point in this accumulation, something occurs, like the straw that broke the camel's back, and the man acts completely out of character with everything he has ever done. A peaceful man who has never committed a single violent act is capable of perpetrating the most heinous crime of premeditated murder."

  He didn't comment, but gave himself up wholeheartedly to eating with his familiar appetite. I began to watch him quietly. He clutched the drumstick firmly, carriec it to his mouth with a steady hand, then bit into it with gusto. Concentrating hard, he chewed until it was pulverized.

  It occurred to me what was missing in my life-to be precise, this manner of eating, which springs from an interest in life, a lack of hesitation in meeting danger, and persistence in defeating it.

  We finished eating. I cleared away the dishes and put them in the kitchen sink. We went along to the bathroom and washed up. After that, we holed up in the inner room, each settling into his place.

  I lit a cigarette. No sooner had I taken two puffs than the familiar drowsiness I always feel after eating overcame me. I felt that my exertions had stretched me to my limits and that I was in dire need of a short nap.

  "Wouldn't you like a bit of a rest? I usually sleep a little after dinner," I remarked.

  He took his time answering. "It isn't my custom to sleep during the day. And as for you, I don't believe you're in a position to waste time sleeping."

  I understood what he meant and turned my attention to the box of index cards. I began to leaf through them, although my burning eyes couldn't make out anything written on them.

  He'd relaxed peacefully in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, on a point above my head. He became com pletely absorbed in his thoughts. It was as if he'd turned into a statue. ~ - - - -- i

  My head felt heavy, so I let it droop forward a little. I couldn't resist the temptation to close my eyes. Suddenly, he addressed me urgently, "Could you accompany me for a moment?"

  I saw that he had stood up tensely. Startled, I left my seat. My heart began to pound. I followed him out. He went into the bathroom saying, "Please stay right there until I'm done."

  He left the door open so he could see me. After dropping his pants, he settled onto the plastic seat. I turned my back and stood looking at the books arranged along the hall, most of which I had purchased in preparation for my first interview with the Committee. I had arranged them strictly by subject, grouping the economic and political studies together, including some excellent studies on foreign interests in the Arab world and a distinguished work on the military in third-world countries. The latter study included a brilliant chapter on the roots of the obviously sadistic behavior of thirdworld leaders, which may shed some light on the bloodthirstiness of Arab leaders.

  I had reserved a corner for the most important works of serious literature. Many names were ranged there, from Shakespeare, Pushkin, and Cervantes to Garcia Marquez and Naguib Mahfouz.

  In a prominent place I collected everything pertinent to the careers of several world figures, such as the prophet Muhammad, Abu Dharr al-Ghafari, Abu Sa'id al-Jinabi, Ibn Rushd, al-Ma'arri, Karl Marx, Freud, Lenin, Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, Taha Husayn, Madam Curie, Albert Schweitzer, Fucik, Castro, Guevarra, Lumumba, Ibn Baraka, Shohdi Attia, and Gamal Abd al-Nasser, who set the standards for human endeavor by their ideas, experiences, and sacrifices.

  A sharp metallic sound roused me from my contemplation of these names. In spite of myself, I turned around to see a strange sight: his pants bunched around his ankles and the rest of his body bare, Stubby was leaning over to pick up a big black revolver that had fallen to the floor.

  He lifted the revolver with a quick movement and lodged it between his thighs, then pulled up his trousers. He stole a glance in my direction. But I had turned away from him just in time.

  I understood-and my heart beat violently-the secret of that bulge I had previously noticed between his thighs. This meant that I hadn't been dreaming this morning when I imagined something firm bumping my thigh.
I almost smiled when I saw that out of fear I had reversed the well-known Freudian axiom in which a gun is a symbol for the penis.

  No sooner had the humor of the situation faded than a feeling of danger seized me again. This feeling stuck with me as we returned to the bedroom and took our places opposite each other.

  Suddenly something occurred to me that made me hold my breath-what if I were to refuse?

  What would he say if I revealed I wasn't willing to abandon my research or change the subject? What if I were determined to finish it, bringing it to its natural conclusion, and to accept whatever that would do to my chances with the Committee?

  I found that this idea relieved me greatly. It was as though it lifted a great burden from my shoulders. I looked at him, considering the situation. It seemed to me that he grasped the drift of my thoughts, because he suddenly smiled derisively.

  This smile unnerved me and made me wonder. Could this really be so simple? You are free to accept or refuse. If you refuse, he would say, "Fine. That's your business. I'll leave you now. I don't think we'll meet again. Farewell." Then you would accompany him to the front door saying, "Goodbye and good luck." And that would be the end of it.

  Then why does he need the revolver?

  For the first time, I fully realized the delicacy of my position. I lit a fresh cigarette and tried to control the trembling of my hand.

  I closed my eyes and reviewed my past. The ideals I had believed in while growing up surfaced. I had gradually eliminated those that were clearly naive and unrealistic, although I had tried desperately not to give them up, and I had kept those that were important and valuable, plus those consistent with my nature and abilities. Indeed, feeling torn, I had struggled to reevaluate them every so often and to develop them to accommodate the continual changes in the modern world, avoiding as many pitfalls and labyrinths as possible, although throughout all this I was exposed to a great deal of harm and innumerable dangers.