Telepathy (3 page)

She said with a suavity I did not expect, “You will write it for my sake. Isn't that so? Every writer offers gifts to girls who are his fans. This will be my gift from you.”

I remembered that she had read me her story “The Neighbors' Goat” in a corner she had chosen in a noisy coffeehouse that I did not frequent often and that none of my friends patronized. She had paid for my coffee and my cigarettes that day, had listened to my negative opinion of her story, and had left angry, only to return with a dilemma that was hers and not mine.

In my first meeting with her I had probed a lot into her character, more than I should have, but had found no trace of admiration that would prompt me to offer her a text that I could not write. I was certain now that she, even if she had never read a book by me, would understand from my approach to writing that if I did actually write her dilemma as a novel, I wouldn't elevate her a single centimeter. I would make her the worst heroine ever. Her “lover,” on the other hand, the petition writer Tulumba, I might transform into a crazed lover who would not accept defeat easily. He would bring her to dwell in a house trellised overhead with vipers and furnished with daggers and knives. He would kill her time and again so that he could survive as a firebrand of love, eternally aflame.

Annoyed with her and her insistence on creating a victim, I sided strongly with her suitor just as I had sided
previously with numerous individuals I considered victims of an unjust life. I remember that in my novel
The Course of Events
on the final two pages I saved the hero – Sufyan, an embezzling bank employee – from serving many years in prison because I considered him a victim of a lengthy chain of malfeasance, in which he was merely a minor link, while much more robust links were watching his tragedy and laughing.

In the novel
Tortoise
, published five years ago, I watched Salma, a cruel, perverted public security officer who devised innovative forms of sexual torture, die on the last page; but then I invented an effective remedy that extended her life long enough to give her time to apologize repeatedly to her victims before she expired.

I said to Najma, “My dear, I don't owe anyone anything. I'm a free writer and write only what I want and what I can. The experiences of other people don't appeal to me or excite me.”

I think I was rude, because I felt wasted and had a bitter taste in my throat. I saw the supercilious girl vanquished this time so decisively that she made no attempt to inch toward victory.

She plucked her classic gray handbag from the table, opened it forcefully, and took out a strip of aspirins. She popped two pills from the strip and swallowed them without water. Then she rose and turned away from me.

She departed with quick steps, much faster than a girl's ordinary gait. The adolescent waiter, whose smile revealed teeth corroded by sweets, had, I suspect, a different
scenario – involving love and the flight of the beloved – playing in his mind at that moment. When I returned to my house that day, I sat brooding deeply about the petition writer Hamid Abbas, reflecting on his nickname Tulumba – “the Pump” – and how he had acquired it. This chain of thought was far removed from Najma's dilemma and was a line of reasoning that might introduce this crazed lover to a different text far removed from his actual life.

Najma did not meet with me again for a long time after that – just as she hadn't after I criticized “The Neighbors' Goat”. So I was surprised to receive, approximately a year later, on Facebook, a request to be her friend. I responded quickly and did not resist my desire to check out her wall to learn what types of projects she was working on, whether she was still writing short stories, and whether her skills had improved.

I found the story “The Neighbors' Goat” plastered across the page, with all its linguistic and technical flaws. There were hundreds of comments and expressions of admiration surrounding it, promoting its flaws.

I discovered another story by her, called “Espionage Report on My Grandmother”. The idea was excellent, but the writing wasn't. The best thing about the story was its title. There were also other brief phrases that did not match her personality, like: “My heart burgeoned in your flank. Straying in your feelings, it rises, soaring . . . I beg you,” or “If my desire to meet you dies, don't forget to visit its grave.”

I placed a “like” sign on a picture of her in dark clothing and without accessories, leaning against a mud-brick wall,
apparently in some village or country estate, even though I didn't actually like the picture. This “like” opened a passageway in the wall of our quarrel and we met once again.

When we met, I intended to ask her about Tulumba, the wretched petition writer – whether he still was madly in love with her and was creating scenes for her immortal novel. But I didn't, for fear of becoming involved in her crisis again. She, for her part, gave me no information about what had happened. She also did not refer on her page to that dilemma, which she had said she was trying her hardest to drag out as long as possible.

I answered Najma's phone call after a number of insistent rings.

She spoke in a very low voice, as if she were too good for the line and did not want to release her voice full force. She apologized for not attending the book launch for
Hunger's Hopes
, citing an unexpected illness of her normally healthy grandmother, who was over ninety, and enthusiastically invited me to attend an enlightening debate to be held the next evening at the Social Harmony Club, where she would introduce the speaker. The lecture would be devoted to something called “reflexology medicine”, about which there was currently a lot of talk. “People have a right to understand its reality from the experts, in person, and the degree to which it can alleviate pains and treat chronic illnesses,” she said.

Despite my serious efforts to acquire information and despite the fact that I have expended endless hours reading books of every type, all I knew about reflexology was the
name, and it had never occurred to me to learn about it firsthand. The topic had never interested me much, and I had no wish to seek treatment, should I get sick, from any alternative form of medicine. The invitation was delivered persistently, however, by a girl who had been humiliated by me often; I had to go, to humor her.

– 
4
 –

I was a little late arriving at the Social Harmony Club – which was near my house – because when I had already dressed to go out and was ready to leave, I was suddenly overwhelmed by some literary passages that I considered extremely important. I wrote down the title of a possible novel, part of the plot idea, and some random scenes that might make it into the final text or that might be torn up straightaway. I was inspired to think that this novel might include some characters from Kuala Lumpur such as Master Tuli and Anania Faruq and some other local characters that I wouldn't need to research, since I had them squirreled away in my memory. I wished I hadn't become ensnared in this invitation from Najma so I could continue writing all night long, because I had a strange feeling that the writing would flow and not peter out until I became exhausted.

It was after seven-thirty when I found a parking spot near the venue, parked, and entered the hall. Luckily the lecture hadn't started yet.

The place wasn't as crowded as I had expected it to be. I noticed a number of individuals I knew, sitting in front, their eyes focused on the dais. Among these was the
elderly trade-unionist Abd al-Rahman, who used to head the main labor union. He had called himself  “Mahatma”, even though he did not go barefoot, wear a loincloth of cheap fabric, or harangue people in the streets – as he should have done to earn that title. Since he used to complain of chronic back pain, he was no doubt searching for relief through reflexology. I also noticed Sonia al-Zuwainy, who owned a successful chain of hair salons. She was of Moroccan origin and had been married and divorced many times. She must have been searching in reflexology for a way to moderate her temperament so she could stick with one man. I noticed the swim coach Shawqi, who was called Shushu by his swimmers. A fourteen-year-old boy sat alone on an isolated chair with his eyes glued on the stage; I didn't understand why, unless he was hoping the lecture would provide a laudable way to attract girls.

I plopped down in the first empty chair I found. This was next to a middle-aged woman wearing heavy gold earrings and an attractive, green thobe embroidered with gold thread. I hoped that my presence would not be noticed by anyone I knew or by any of my readers and that the evening would pass uneventfully and I could continue writing afterwards without any burdens or encumbrances. The woman, however, noticed my presence, although fortunately she did not have a clue who I was. She leaned slightly toward me and asked in a whisper, “I think I've seen you before. Do you give the weather report on TV?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “Yes, occasionally.”

I glanced at the stage, where Najma was sitting. She wore an ordinary white outfit like a nurse's uniform. The speaker, who was beside her, was elegant in a black striped suit and a yellow necktie. Behind them was a large poster on which was written in broad, blue letters: “Reflexology Medicine: Pros and Cons: A Lecture by Dr Sabir Hazaz.”

Najma introduced her guest, using the title “professor”, which wasn't by any means an outstanding title in a country that addresses in this way office boys, vagrants who sniff gasoline, guys who sell newspapers on the street, and electricity meter readers. I used to know a parking concierge at one of the big hotels who bore this title. The credentials that earned him this sobriquet included his ability, no matter how many cars there were, to find a parking place for a driver. I have a cousin who is a carpenter in a small shop and who two years ago produced by himself all the doors and windows for a merchant's house of several stories. Then he awarded himself the title of professor; he wouldn't saw a wooden plank or tighten a screw on a wardrobe that was coming apart unless the client addressed him by this title. Even Steven Riek, the Southerner who sits in a wheelchair in front of the old Church of the Virgin in the center of the city and draws amateur pastel portraits he sells to passers-by for two pounds is known as Professor Steven Riek. The Ethiopian woman Dama'ir, who used to work as a maid for one of my acquaintances and who occasionally came up with totally novel recipes, was called Professor Dama'ir. At a panel where I spoke on the state of youth writing, I was accorded the title professor but immediately scrapped the
idea and explained that I was just an ordinary novelist and possessed none of the qualifications for a title like this.

Najma plunged into the lecturer's biography and enumerated his various forms of expertise, all his successes, and the numerous trips. He had treated an Arab leader for savage migraine headaches that the Americans with all their facilities had been unable to cure. He had treated Africans who were dogged in their countries by psychological complexes and cured Communists who still believed in Lenin and Marx of their ingrained beliefs. He had practiced this profession for the love of God in countries that could not offer him even a loaf of bread and in areas that electricity still hadn't reached, whereas his theories of reflexology were studied in the most advanced institutes in the world.

The man was very short and very thin, but his fingers were as long and graceful as a pianist's.   Although his face was relatively free of wrinkles, he was definitely over seventy.

The lecturer launched into his speech right away in a large voice that belied his small stature. “Reflexology is a concept that relies on exciting certain points on the hands and feet by massaging them in a special way.  This provides an excellent treatment for many health problems. It is not a new science, even though people have not heard much about it till now. Most probably its origins date back more than 5,000 years when the Chinese knew about it and used it to remedy health problems.  Ancient Egyptian drawings of it have been found, proving that they knew about it as well. Each of their kings had reflexology physicians who supervised his care. For this treatment to provide the
hoped-for results, the body has been divided into ten vertical regions, with five on each side of the body, starting from an imaginary line bisecting the body vertically. Treatment must be provided by a specialist's hand; it cannot be something haphazard performed by a person without the requisite skill.

“But what happens when the regions we have referred to are massaged?

“There are actually numerous theories about this, but most probably reflexology treatment influences the body's blood flow, just as massage assists relaxation, and thereby helps the body perform its functions in a better way. By this method, we undertake treatment of numerous diseases like anxiety, insomnia, puerperal fever, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic back pain, the menstrual problems of some women, sterility, frigidity, premature ejaculation, even various types of cancer, inflammation of the liver, joints, and prostate, and . . .”

I suddenly felt bored and envied Professor Hazaz his effusive vigor and blazing mind. He would pause occasionally, breathe deeply, wet his throat with a sip of water from the full glass in front of him, or cast a brief glance at a folded piece of paper that a member of the audience had certainly submitted to inquire about some ailment or to request some clarification.

I needed to move a little, to smoke a cigarette, or to flee from the place to return to my draft. I didn't feel at all absorbed in this lecture. I was not enjoying it and had never thought I needed reflexology treatment. To date,
I have had a limited number of pains that I have loved and lived on friendly terms with for a long time: nervous tension while writing, bloating of the colon, acid reflux, insomnia on some occasions, mood swings – but nothing else. If I required treatment in the future, Sabir Hazaz would certainly not be the person I sought out. I decided to rise from my seat while the professor was enumerating the dangers of treatment conducted by a non-specialist. These included torn tendons, an increased need to urinate, and thickened discharge of the body's morphine, leading to something akin to insanity. Najma looked bored too. Her expression was reserved and her eyes almost closed. Her diaphanous white headscarf had slipped, but she had not lifted a hand to adjust it.