Heart of the Night

2

My relationship with Jaafar al-Rawi grew stronger with time. In his loneliness, he was ready to cling to anyone who would encourage him, be it only with a smile. I ventured into this friendship with the strong conviction that it would end soon. His disturbed personality did not suggest a desire to settle down into a lasting friendship and it did not take much to satisfy him. There were obvious reasons that drew me to him, but there was also an intangible motive: past memories and my own fascination with the al-Rawi family, their stories, the rumors about Jaafar’s crazy adventures, and my attraction to Jaafar despite his repulsive appearance. I felt sorry for him, living his final days in this miserable way. He was quite tall, and were it not for his poverty and possibly some illnesses, his old age would have been glorious and beautiful.

One day, after a meal of kawari in one of the Muhammad Ali Street restaurants, I asked him how he lived. His answer was quick. “I roam the streets during the day until almost midnight.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Among the ruins.”

Surprised, I asked what ruins he was referring to.

“They belong to me by reason of occupancy. This is what is left of my grandfather’s house.”

I did not know that the house had fallen into ruin, as I had not visited the neighborhood in a very long time.

“Don’t you have relatives?” I asked.

“They might fill the globe.”

I smiled.

He explained, “I have children who are judges and others who are criminals.”

“Is that true?” I asked.

“And despite that, I am alone.”

“What a way to talk!”

“Give me back the waqf and I promise you that I will be surrounded by children and grandchildren. Otherwise I will remain alone, an outcast.”

“You seem to like puzzles,” I commented.

He laughed. “I like a good meal and the waqf. I’d also like to damn those responsible for the waqf.”

“Don’t you have any income in your old age?” I asked.

“I have some old friends. Whenever I meet one of them, he shakes my hand and puts in it whatever he feels like giving me. I roll in the mud now, but I originally fell from the sky.”

Saddened, I said, “This is not a way to live. Write your petition immediately.”

“It is the true, authentic life. Try it if you have the courage. Open doors boldly, don’t be servile: everything you want is your right. This life belongs to the human being, to everyone. You have to get rid of your stupid habits; that is all you need to do.”

“Yet you wish to regain your grandfather’s inheritance,” I said.

Laughing loudly, he said, “Do not hold me responsible for my contradictions. I am a pack of contradictions. Don’t forget also that I am an old man, and have been engaged in a battle with my grandfather for a very long time.”

“I’d like to know why he deprived you of your inheritance.”

“This is my battle,” he explained. “Do not rush matters. I am not the simpleton I appear to be. Many are fooled by my appearance, and young children even follow me as I roam the streets. Do they think that I like to talk? Because I am alone, I talk to myself. What do people think? I am getting older, and I have not stopped asking questions. Believe me when I tell you that I am not a normal person. Even when I was on the mountain or living in the palace or in the ruins, I was not normal. Despite my loafing and begging, I stand tall in life, my head raised high and defiant, because life respects only those who do not take it seriously.”

I smiled as I watched him defying existence, wearing his worn-out suit and with his tanned skin. I whispered, “Good for you.”

He went on, talking about his connections. “I do not interact with humans alone, but I have contacts with non-human things: jinns and devils and the intrinsic components of civilization.” He then changed his tone and asked, “Have you chosen a trustworthy lawyer for me?”

I pleaded with him, “In God’s name, Jaafar, forget this imaginary case.”

“Am I not Jaafar Ibrahim, the grandson of Sayyid al-Rawi?”

“You are,” I said, “but you do not have a case, none whatsoever.”

“I will provoke a revolution that will reverse the order of the universe.”

“That is more feasible than winning your case. Write the petition and do not lose time.”

Laughing, he said, “The employees of the waqf ministry live off the income of our properties, then they stretch out their hands to offer us charity.”

“Write the petition and do not lose time.”

Silence fell over us for a few minutes, and then he said, as if talking to himself,

“Five pounds!”

“You must at least rent a room on a roof.”

“No. The amount will be enough for food, cigarettes, and clothes. As for lodging, how can I rent a room when I own a palace! I will not leave the ruins.”

I told him once more, “Write the petition as soon as possible and send it to the ministry.”

“There’s no rush. Let me think about it. I might write the petition or I might consult a lawyer. I might even go on with my life without a petition or a lawyer. No need to rush.”

“You know what you should do,” I said.

“There is no possibility of communication between the two of us. You fear life and I despise it. What you fear even in your imagination I have endured, and everything you ask God to spare you I have sought with my own free will.”

“This is great, Jaafar,” I said.

“Do you like what I say?” he asked.

“Very much.”

“Would you like to hear more?”

“I assure you that I would.”

“You have treated me to a wonderful meal and will offer me serious help in the coming days. We are the children of the same neighborhood, so let’s go to Wadud’s café at the Green Gate.”

We walked side by side in the direction of the old neighborhood, passing beneath the historic arch that leads to the Green Gate. There we settled down, smoked hash, and drank coffee, and talked in the quiet of the long night.