Packaged Lives, page 3
Time: Friday, 16 May 1995, 8:30 a.m.
From The House of Ants (1996), 165–72.
Player: Adnan. Forty-six. Tall, thin, with an oddly proportioned figure. A rectangular block of chest and stomach with no waist. Calm facial features offset by excitable mannerisms. Dressed in a white shirt and a pair of gray trousers.
He is speaking on the phone to a woman who could be his wife or girlfriend. Her physical presence is of no importance. He is not listening to her. He does not expect her to respond either. He does not see her at all. She is his sounding board. He is simply thinking out loud. This happens every time he talks on the phone.
He drinks a lot of tea and moves nonstop between the kitchen and the bathroom. Quick, successive, chopped-up sentences. He is afraid of losing track of them, and of his ideas. He eats while talking. He writes while talking. His favorite place is his chair facing the window looking over the street behind his desk.
Isn’t it strange that human beings have been thinking obsessively about the same issue for thousands of years! I mean, the relationship between man and woman, like what the television series presented last night, I mean The Politician’s Wife. We were affected by the wife’s position. Many things go into the making of a character. Complex factors. It’s not really like what we think. There’s religion, the oath of fidelity, the social contract, a sense of betrayal . . . There’s morality and dishonesty . . . There’s deception . . .
There’re other complicated factors, like the father-son or mother-daughter relationships, but these don’t seem to take up the same amount of our attention. What do you think?
He gets up from his chair, goes to the kitchen, and returns with a piece of old cheese on a small plate. He wipes the mold off the cheese and cuts it into thin slices. He brings another plate of sliced tomato, cucumber, and brown bread. He mutters.
The skin of the cucumber is thicker than the cucumber itself. It feels like the buildup of chemical compounds and wax.
He looks at the calendar. The picture displayed is of a painting by an impressionist artist.
Speaking of relationships, take this painting, for example, it’s both strange and attractive. Two young girls. Sisters. One has a strong personality. She’s the domineering one. The other plays the role of the mother. She looks after her sister with tenderness. She brushes her hair. The features of the strong sister remind me of Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine of Gone with the Wind.
He eats quickly. He puts a morsel in his mouth with one hand and with the other brings up another morsel close to his lips. As if he were in an eating competition. For each morsel he piles a slice of cheese, a slice of tomato, and a slice of cucumber on a slice of bread. He presses these together tightly with his fingers in case any should fall to the ground on the way to his mouth.
I’m worried. I didn’t feel comfortable with Peter yesterday. The problem with Peter is that he thinks he has a monopoly over language. I gave him a report on our project and till now he’s read only a few pages. He nodded his head and said it was good, very good, but this would mean changing his project. He meant of course changing the terms used and their meanings. He has wonderful ideas but he can’t express them clearly. All I did in my report was to present a clear and brief overview. For him though there are other things to consider. First of all, there’s the question of age and at what age a person becomes resistant to change, and secondly, how fast can one change . . . I notice that he pauses sometimes when we’re talking and says, stop, stop, I can’t follow you, my working memory is not functioning anymore . . . For Peter thinking is a process; it is like a computer, if you give it too much information it can’t process it. Or it gets confused.
Knowledge is a process and it must be given time, according to Peter. He pauses, looks away, and thinks, and he can take days or weeks to think. At our meeting with the head of the department yesterday, he kept saying, “Give me credit for my experience.” I was annoyed. I am still annoyed. Some people stand in the way of progress because they don’t know how to communicate. We’re now facing a problem that may delay our project. Whenever I suggested a question or proposed an answer or came up with a theoretical explanation, he always gave the same response, wait until we have the results of the experiment, until we have analyzed these results, and have looked at the final picture. Only then can we know the answer. My position is completely different. What I’m saying is that waiting for results shouldn’t prevent us from looking for answers or talking about them. He said we must learn to live with our uncertainties. Why? Don’t we have the experience, knowledge, and experiments we have made to help us overcome the uncertainties? Why do we postpone looking for answers? Fine. He’s not a bad human being, Peter, and he may be right about this. But I’m like Abbas-Can’t-Wait. Does Peter know the story of Abbas-Can’t-Wait? They have something similar in English proverbs, like Peeping Tom, but I don’t really know the similarities. Speaking of proverbs and words . . .
He goes to the kitchen, returns with a cup of tea, and stands in front of the window absentmindedly.
I was thinking of triliteral verbs in Arabic and how to conjugate them. I know we have to strip every word down to a triliteral root, but how do you get to those three letters? I read, I can’t remember where, that triliteral verbs come from putting two biliteral verbs together. The word H-J-R, “stone,” for example, is made up from H-J, “pilgrimage,” plus J-R, “to trail,” like “to train around the black stone during the pilgrimage to Mecca.” And the word KH-T-R, “danger,” is made up of KH-T, “to write, to draw a line,” plus, uh, T-R, but wait—there isn’t any T-R.
He repeats in monotony.
KH-T, to write, KH-T, to draw a line.
What matters to me is the straight line, or what connects two points in a straight line. Its relationship with geometry interests me. I discussed geometry with Peter and Robert yesterday. They say geometry is no longer important. It’s an outdated science. I think they’re wrong. I have my own theory. Geometry, the science of point, line, and flat surface, can be applied to other sciences. Geometry can help explain other sciences. Take the example of a child looking at a certain point in front of him. He draws a hypothetical line, though unknowingly, between his eye and the point. When he moves his eye in another direction, whichever direction that may be, he does nothing but draw straight lines linking the eye and what it sees.
He adopts the mannerism of a teacher giving a lesson.
This is from the perspective of the child. What about the person watching him? When he looks at the child looking at something from his position he draws a triangle that connects three points. While he looks at the child drawing a straight line, he is also looking at the straight line. We have here a flat surface.
He reaches out for the phone and dials a number.
Hussein, good morning, I’m very busy now, call you in five minutes.
He returns the handset to the base and leaves for the bathroom. He returns, still talking.
I must call Faiza. I will cancel my appointment with her. I don’t feel comfortable with this woman. Too ambitious. Too pushy in too many ways. Now, right, what about the root of triliteral verbs? If the theory of merging two biliteral verbs is correct . . . This reminds me of the Chinese language, which is pictorial. If we want to say “stable” we draw a house and an animal, and if we want to say “farm” we draw a house and a plant. It has remained a pictorial language to this day. If we go back to the origin of any language, Arabic, for example, what stops a language from resembling the early human utterances? A child begins with making sounds like these.
He makes childish noises, moving his hands and feet.
Ga, Ka, and Ta, no, no, no, these come later. He begins with Ma, Ba, and Da, or, or Baba, Dada. Ma is the mother, Ba is the father, Da is for siblings and pointing, and maybe Sa is for sky and Tha for earth. A letter pronounced in a particular way may not be proof enough for the beginning of things. Two letters add more force.
He tries calling Hussein again. He waits. He takes the phone and sits behind his desk.
Good morning again. How are you? It pained me to read Dr Naaman’s article. I have thought about it and formulated the following position. Yes, political and economic adequacies aside, we also need technology and pragmatic strategies for coexistence. It’s almost the same as the Opposition. Do you support it?
He speaks in a sharp tone and spits out words in great excitement.
If you’re truly democratic you have to work with the people, not the businessmen. There’re such things as history, public opinion, and the street. The street may be emotional and reckless but you still have to respect it. It’s the role of the intellectuals and thinkers to serve the strategies put forward by the nation and the people. We don’t have the constitutional structure or legal mechanism to represent the nation . . .
Silence
Everything is going in one direction and this is wrong. We must write and analyze to make things clear.
Longer silence
Not exploring an idea fully is dangerous. Nobody is challenging the might of America and Israel and this is dangerous. We have to look at other axes of power. What’s China’s position? For example, what will happen if she decides to play a role in the future? This is a different axis. Is there an alternative to American domination and whatever Israel dictates?
Silence
No . . . Understood . . . Yes . . . I know . . . Clarity can be dangerous . . . This makes us trash the views of the people . . .
Silence
Some people say that America is capable of anything and everything. In my opinion, we have to point out the contradictions within America itself. I mean we have to come up with proposals that go against the taken-for-granted position of compliance.
He calms down a bit. His tone softens.
The pragmatic position is what I said, to focus on the present and go in the direction I asked you to take. What do I want? When you write or give a lecture, take into account other perspectives.
Silence
True . . . Yes . . . This saves the cause. Democracy is even more indispensable when we are under siege . . . Your article was pretty good. The position it suggests is like the one taken by the ancien régime. The people respect it because it is better than complete submission.
Silence
I know . . . I have a very small suggestion though. I would begin with the wider context and change the way you address your readers.
Silence
You speak to people from the perspective of the theories that proclaim the end of history, the end of ideologies, and the rise of a new world system. This is where you and I don’t always see eye to eye.
He interrupts the person on the other end of the phone sharply.
I know you don’t say that explicitly, I know, but there is a link between what you write and those theories. Your current position is based on this approach even if you’re not fully aware of it.
Silence
Yes, balance, accumulation and balance, two ideas, this is a political philosophy . . .
Silence
The nation needs multiple perspectives . . .
Silence
The story . . .
Silence
First of all, can we deal intelligently with the American position on the Middle East? Secondly, will it be possible to propose a collaborative project that will unite all the Arab nations?
Silence. Then he interrupts the person on the other end of the phone sharply again.
No, I’m not being emotional. This is a fundamental question, and you must raise your writings to a higher standard so that they can have a bigger impact.
He laughs.
I know . . . Multiply your perspectives and you’ll have a bigger audience . . . No, no . . . I have . . . This is wrong . . . It’s clear who is patriotic . . . I know . . . The phone can sometimes help make ideas clear . . . I know . . . The people are fed up inside . . . Siege everywhere . . . The size of our tragedy is so big people just want a solution to our problem, any solution, and to start again, like Africa, who are now inviting the colonizers to return . . . OK . . . See you soon . . .
He puts the phone back in its place. He remains standing. He looks out at the street. Quiet inside and outside except for the ticking of the clock. He looks up at the wall clock. It is a quarter to ten. He jumps.
Damn, I have a meeting at the university at ten-thirty.
He rushes out of the room, puts on his coat, comes back to retrieve a big envelope, and goes out again. We hear the loud slam of the door.
February 1996
3
Delirium
In his late forties, he has the look of familiarity that anyone who meets him thinks he knows him. Short, with a head of thick black hair touched by white at the temple. Dressed in a white shirt with blue stripes and a pair of gray trousers.
He is waving his hands and reaches out with his right hand to massage his moustache, forgetting that he had shaved it off when he first arrived in London. His slightly bulging eyes are sparkling with keen intelligence. His emotions are clear for everyone to see, in his trembling lips and the foam gathering at the two corners of his mouth.
He lives in a small room designed for a single person. A pink spread covers the small bed. Pink curtains drape over the window. A small table and two chairs stand by the bed. A pile of books is under the table, and another pile next to the bed on a small pink rug. To the right of the room is what looks like a kitchen counter. It is equipped with an electric hub and a sink sandwiched between a cupboard above for cups and plates and another below for pots and pans. Next to it, in a corner, is a small fridge with an electric kettle sitting on top.
From The House of Ants (1996), 129–32.
Night falls. The light emitted by the only lamp in the room is too bright for the suffocating size of the room. The man never stops moving. He sits on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and gets up. He goes to the kitchenette to prepare a cup of tea, then forgets what he is doing. He sits on the chair, stares at the blank pages, and gets up again. He opens the fridge door. He looks inside absentmindedly. He slams the door shut again. Or he leaves it slightly ajar.
All the while he raves.
I swear by God I’ll spend the rest of my life exposing their corruption. Thirty years of my life I’ve wasted in their service. Class struggle, free homeland, and the people’s right to pursue happiness, these were all illusions. All the while we, the young and naive, did the work. We mobilized people, increased party membership, distributed pamphlets, and ran from place to place. We abandoned our families and children. The married men left their wives and the unmarried their fathers, mothers, and young brothers and sisters. Every single one of us paid with his youth and life and for what, to be victims of both the regime and the party. How many of us? Ha! And your highness tells me to forget the past, turn over a new leaf, and start life anew! After all this and you want me to swear by the grave of my father whose funeral I managed to miss, why, because I was too busy serving the party? Don’t argue. Execute then argue. I saw everything but never argued. I left the house at dawn and got back only after midnight. All that time I told myself they would reward me one day, and I would be like them, living the good life. It’s true that the life of struggle was difficult and had to be lived in secret, but between you and me it wasn’t always difficult or secretive for everyone. I mean there are people and there are people. Party leadership traveled and had a good life pretty much all the time outside the country. They took their children, relatives, and lovers with them, to study, to seek medical treatment, you name it. All membership vacancies were reserved, and when we asked for whom, someone would answer, “reserved is reserved, Comrade,” or “all vacancies are filled this year, Comrade, maybe next year, don’t forget, Comrade, your existence inside is very necessary, among the people, among the nation.” If only it were my father’s revolution and my grandfather’s Marxism!
So I stay close to the nation and the people, but what about you, and the leadership or the members of the central committee? Where is their place? In Moscow, Bulgaria, Hungary, to be even closer to the people and the nation? How many times did I apply for membership? Ten? Twenty? Every time they had an excuse. Let me tell you one more time, they all are, all of them, corrupt!
What? Are you telling me Ahmed is not like them? Are you calling me a liar? That I have something to gain from telling you what I’m telling you now? What gain? For your information, I have a BA from the Faculty of Management and Economics, and if it’s about envy and jealousy like you say, I could have stayed in my job and got myself cozy with the Ba‘thist regime. A lot of good would have come out of it for me, instead of this tiny prison cell in a country that rarely sees the sun. Do you think I enjoy watching the Arabs rush from one palace to another or one presidential office to another? Ahmed? Of course I know him. I’ve known him since he was in the student union. He was our neighbor too. You think you know Ahmed better than I do! Of course he didn’t want membership in the party. Do you know why he declined party membership? Why did he refuse to go to Moscow, do you reckon? Because he was happy in Syria! Everything he wanted he found in Syria. Why would he trouble himself, go to a foreign country, learn a new language, and board in a military school? Syria was better for him. He fought his battles at meetings in the afternoon and drank blissfully at night. The best life! Food and drink at the expense of the people. I know Ahmed very well. He is the laziest man in the country! If you left him under a palm tree he would sit there until a date fell into his mouth. He would never get himself worked up about anything. Entre nous, Ahmed was the poorest member of the political office but, like all of them, he put his personal interest above everything else—he would have left the party if he hadn’t gotten paid his money, not like me, stuck with the nobodies in the middle of nowhere.
