Papa Sartre: A Modern Arabic Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (12 page)

Her reply came as a surprise to him, such a totally and unexpectedly straightforward and hurtful answer, a little mocking even. He had expected her to open her mouth and say, in amazement, “Oh! Are you a philosopher?” Then the wheel of his fortune would have turned, moving from sadness to happiness. She would have stood on the threshold of a huge change that would have led them to an almost total melding. She would have learned to bring to light the hidden, mysterious, and incomplete side of her personality. Through his continuous efforts to express his secret self, she would have discovered the secret lying dormant in his soul. It was obvious that something bothered him and he needed a romantic relationship that would guide him to important people and those strongly biased in favor of their own ideas. But the answer he received was shattering and thus reduced him to shards scattered across the floor. He turned extremely pale as she turned her back and disappeared behind a door. All that remained in his imagination was the memory of her thighs, softly shaking. With trembling hands and grinding teeth he gathered his newspapers, books, stuffed pipe, and eyeglasses and left the café, catching the last breath of his failure.

22

He angrily pushed open his apartment door and threw himself on the bed, where he remained for a very long time. He felt defeated, as if he had been involved in a scandal. He pounded the pillow with his fists, saying, “It is my fault. If I weren’t so
stupid I wouldn’t have said what I said. She embarrassed me. She should have been nicer to me.”

He felt as though his head was cloven in two and each half offered a solution—not a guaranteed solution but at least a solution. He felt torn, crushed, victimized. It was at that moment that he became aware of his tragic fate, the way he had in Baghdad with Nadia Khaddouri. It happened at a difficult period in his life, a time when he felt rejected, odd, and dismayed. He had to choose a way to find the courage to confront the savage monster roaming loose within him. He did so, but not until the following day.

23

At noon the following day, in rainy autumnal weather, Abd al-Rahman left his apartment in a hurry. He welcomed the refreshing breeze that hit his face and moved through his hair. He kept his hands in his raincoat pockets and lowered his hat on his forehead. He kept his eyes on the road in an effort to avoid walking in the puddles and headed toward Saint Michel to meet an Iraqi friend who had been living in Paris for many years.

The grass in the Jardin du Luxembourg was wet and fragrant, the streets were slick with rain, the buildings had been washed, and the trees revealed their dark green color. Abd al-Rahman met Ahmad near a telephone booth at the corner of the street. They walked toward Rue Monsieur le Prince in silence. Abd alRahman’s facial expression revealed his disturbed state of mind. He felt humiliated and disappointed and he wanted his friend’s advice on what his next step with the waitress should be, while recognizing his own gaucherie.

“I want to make a plan,” he told his friend angrily, “I want her to regret what she said to me. I want to change her mind.” Ahmad asked his friend for a cigarette. It was obvious from
his reaction that he was used to the way the philosopher spoke. He asked whether there were reasons for his interest in her, to which Abd al-Rahman responded, “I’ve had enough of prostitutes, that’s why. Do you understand?” Ahmad realized that the philosopher couldn’t resist his physical attraction to that woman. He knew that he wouldn’t let go before he slept with her, though he was not in love with her. He was a jealous man but unable to make a decision.

Abd al-Rahman asked his friend if he had found out anything about her. “Yes,” said Ahmad, “I’ve learned some important things about her.”

“Tell me,” said the philosopher.

Ahmad filled him in. “I learned that she has an Algerian friend named Si Muammar.” Abd al-Rahman stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he asked, “Is that so?” Ahmad nodded and added with a relaxed smile, “It is true, and I can get to know him.”

“What about me?” asked Abd al-Rahman, with a strange look. Ahmad explained his plan, “Of course, of course, I’ll get to know him for your sake.”

The prospect of reaching her at any price was a torture for Abd al-Rahman. It took him back to his bestial nature, where instinct dictated his behavior. He wanted her by all means, at any price, whether it required begging, raping, killing, betraying, or torturing her. He left Ahmad near the newspaper stand and went to satisfy the call of nature in the
pissoir
at the end of Odeon Street. Peeing brought a sense of comfort and relaxation, and his mind fixed on the sight of the crumbling wall of an old church and a flock of pigeons flying from the roof of a building nearby. He rejoined his friend, feeling relieved and even a bit elated. The sky began to clear, and the sun was breaking through the clouds, warming up the puddles in the streets. Everything around him looked beautiful: the facades of buildings, the flowers in the
squares, the
cafés trottoires
with their colorful parasols, the vegetable market, and the newspaper kiosks. His anxiety was washed away, and he recovered his old sense of comfort. He watched with joy as the streets came to life around him. SaintGermain-des-Prés stretched in front of him like a velvet carpet. He did not mind the blowing horns, the blinking red lights of the street bars, or the rush of pedestrians that filled the place this time of day. Women dressed in their going-out clothes emerged from side streets smoking cigarettes, their lips colored bright red with lipstick. He shouted in Ahmad’s face, “I’ll get to know her through Si Muammar, won’t I?”

“Certainly,” replied Ahmad.

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The philosopher was convinced that if he could talk to her even through her friend, he could win her over. He wasn’t short on means to court her, but he didn’t know the path to her heart. Once she was with him he could employ his many unfailing methods: a promenade at sunset over the bridge crossing an icy river, being alone with her in a room filled with the sound of music and the smell of coffee, together watching ducks floating on a pond. He would rush her with a list of terms that revealed complex values such as: ‘existence,’ ‘eternity,’ ‘time,’ ‘absurdity,’ and ‘nausea.’ She would undoubtedly be seduced by this oriental philosopher who had come to Paris equipped with a powerful philosophy and who had memorized the entire philosophical lexicon.

Her own compatriots lacked this quality, and what does a waitress wish for more than to become friends with a philosopher? She’ll regret having made fun of him that one time in the past. She will kneel at his feet and admit her ignorance. Once she learns that he is the philosopher’s student and he himself is a philosopher, she’ll want to get close to him, love him, and
discover his inner force that she once almost inadvertently destroyed. Abd al-Rahman reflected aloud, “Who is this Algerian compared to me!”

“No one” said Ahmad.

The philosopher wondered, puzzled “Why did she befriend him then?”

Ahmad offered, “Maybe because he keeps her.”

This was no challenge to the philosopher, who explained his plan, “If this is the case, I’ll take her out of the Café de Flore. I’ll even buy the café for her.”

There was only one other thing the philosopher wanted to inquire about, but he was a little embarrassed to ask. He took his hands out of his pockets, adjusted his glasses and walked gracefully, showing off his youthful body. He considered those characteristics central to his relationship with women. Then asked, “Is this Si Muammar handsome?”

Ahmad laughed loudly. “No, not at all. I saw him a few times in the Latin Quarter. His face looks like a cognac bottle.”

This response liberated Abd al-Rahman, who started laughing loudly. His eyes twinkled, and he felt joyful and relieved. His heart was beating fast, and his cheeks were hot from emotion. He asked Ahmad, “Is he as elegant as I am?”

“That would be impossible. He wears rags, like the Paris clochards. People say he is a drug addict and spends his time with users, pickpockets, and all the lazy guys.” Abd al-Rahman shouted joyfully, “That’s great!”

The philosopher adopted an affected walk, he was proud of his virility, his youth, his strength, and he made fun of effeminate young Frenchmen. The two friends stopped at a nearby café and were served by a plump waitress wearing country clothes under her red sweater. Her smile revealed a gold tooth. They ordered two beers. The place had a nostalgic ambiance, and Abd al-Rahman felt an inclination for jokes, wisdom, and lust.
When Ahmad broached the subject, he was certain of the effect his words would have on his friend. He said, “There’s only one thing.” Abd al-Rahman asked what it was. Ahmad explained, “People say he is an existentialist.”

“Existentialist!” echoed Abd al-Rahman. He put down the glass of beer he had begun to drink. Ahmad’s revelation hit the philosopher like a thunderbolt. After a short silence he wondered, “Is it true, does he understand existentialism? How?” Ahmad wore a smile of compassion and looked for a way to lessen the shock on his friend. He felt the concern of the philosopher, his anxiety. “I don’t know much. They say he holds long discussions and describes himself as an existentialist.”

Abd al-Rahman was seriously worried. His expression betrayed deep hatred for this Algerian, but he was not crushed. He wet his dry lips with sips of beer. The philosopher was not convinced that Si Muammar could do anything except memorize a dictionary of existentialist terms. Whatever the existentialism of this man with the cognac-bottle-shaped face, it would be easy for Abd al-Rahman to best him, or so he thought. As soon as they met face-to-face he would inundate him with a series of philosophical definitions, even disconnected ones, then confuse him, surprise him, and overpower him verbally. Si Muammar wouldn’t be able to say a word.

The surprise would muzzle him. The waitress of Café de Flore would be stunned and overjoyed. She’d look at Abd al-Rahman with affectionate eyes, rush to his side, and tell him, “You are truly a philosopher, your abstruse words are magical!” She’d recognize the difference between a philosopher and a clochard, a true philosopher and an imposter. She would notice for the first time the richness of his soul, his calm, and poise. She would fall in love with his dreamy eyes, which resembled the eyes of prophets. She would listen to his prophetic voice, the voice of a messenger. She would become aware of his sensual side, his love of food,
and earthly pleasures. She would note his handsome appearance, his lust, his sexual proclivities, and his philosophical personality.

“What more could a waitress want?” he shouted and hit the table with his hand, scaring his friend, whose neck had sunk into his coat. Ahmad regained his self-control quickly and said, “Don’t think of her as your significant other, yet.”

Teary-eyed, his cheeks burning red from emotion and the heat of love, Abd al-Rahman made a solemn declaration, “I will make her my significant other, believe me. I’ll be her gift.” Ahmad commented on his friend’s words saying, “This is real generosity. You are truly generous.” He resumed drinking his beer.

25

Ahmad managed to convince the philosopher of the soundness of his ideas. He was a gifted talker and persuasive speaker who used flattery to accomplish his aims and never defied his friend. His heavy drinking helped endear him to people. It gave him a hoarse voice that was comforting and friendly. His conversation was histrionic, but his tone was warm and reassuring. Presented in an agreeable way, his most insignificant ideas acquired importance.

The philosopher, on the other hand, was a practical man, and alcohol emboldened him. He asked Ahmad whether the meeting with the waitress would be easy, and Ahmad reassured him it would be. The philosopher was convinced of his ability to assert himself and his power over others. He held tight to this imaginary victory out of need for a relationship, and he was ready to conquer the waitress at Café de Flore to show her a pure image of himself, an unadulterated image free of scandal and sarcasm. He intended to reach his target by crushing his debaters and was intent on revenge to expunge the humiliation he had endured at her hands. He was bent on revenge at any cost to advance the image of a very proud man and to conceal his delicate, wounded soul.

Abd al-Rahman thought to himself, “Si Muammar will swallow the bait. Our friendship will be a mere device to reach the waitress of Café de Flore.”

He laughed noisily, and the whiskey vapors escaped from his mouth. He didn’t feel guilty, because he didn’t have a normal conscience. He had a philosopher’s conscience, a conscience that philosophy had killed. He didn’t think like normal human beings, who are considerate of others. His tyranny overpowered any benign feelings he had. He wanted to impose his will on those around him, and he found great pleasure in using his might. Thinking aloud he said, “No, he’ll not be my friend,” then fell silent.

“Of course not,” agreed Ahmad.

Abd al-Rahman explained his intentions to his friend, “I’m not trying to get to know him because of his black eyes. Rather I’m doing it for her eyes. I want to know him for a specific purpose. My aim is the waitress, not some beggar whose head looks like a cognac bottle. This isn’t a clochard’s friendship.” He spoke those words and bent his head over his chest.

26

They left the bar totally drunk and were met at the door by a Filipino prostitute. When the philosopher smiled at her, she turned to him and opened her coat, revealing a short skirt, dark thighs, and provocative breasts. He asked if she would accompany him to his apartment, and she said yes. She walked with the two men until Ahmad went off on his own. The two friends agreed to meet the following day at noon.

27

Abd al-Rahman and the prostitute returned to his apartment under a heavy rain that was soaking into Paris. The rain didn’t
stop all night, and the streets filled with puddles that shone like pieces of glass under cars’ headlights. The philosopher was in the habit of going home drunk every night after spending hours in bars drinking and talking, eventually leaving with a different prostitute each night. This was his way of fighting his loneliness and isolation. His anger at others and his swearing were not deliberate insults but an expression of noble desperation. He was suffering, and in his condition his only consolation was his belief that philosophy can be attained only through suffering, pain, and tragedy.