Telepathy

— 5 –

It was a little past ten p.m., and I was extremely tense as I drove my jalopy through the virtually empty streets of the capital, not knowing where I was going.

The car radio was tuned to the national broadcasting station, and a politician from the ruling party was talking about the great revolution awaiting the nation after gold was discovered in numerous regions and the great economic progress, encompassing all citizens, that would soon occur. I scarcely heard him. Nishan Hamza sat silently next to me, staring at the road without focusing on it. He returned from time to time to the same folded page of Hunger’s Hopes. He would read a little and then close the book.

He had felt it necessary to speak to me, and I needed that conversation even more than he did. He wanted to share a secret with me. I wished his secret could be broadcast now on the radio instead of forming part of a conversation studded with useless small talk.

I couldn’t sit with him in some coffeehouse, whether one I frequented or one I didn’t, because by this rather late hour all the coffeehouses had closed. I couldn’t go with him to my house, because I was afraid of taking a lunatic there — and that’s what I thought he was. He might become enraged and kill me in a frenzied moment, and I would die pointlessly. Even if he weren’t a lunatic and didn’t harm me, I didn’t want anyone to know how to find my house, which I mentioned I have fortified carefully to protect my seclusion. I couldn’t just drive around like this expecting him to talk, because I don’t absorb things when I’m driving. Besides, I was perturbed and definitely needed a place where we could sit and talk while trying to relax so I could calm down.

The shameless politician concluded his radio interview. Now they were broadcasting “The Migratory Bird” by the genius Mohammed Wardi, and I sensed the song’s brilliance for the first time.

Observing that my companion had suddenly put his hand in his pocket to search for something, I was alarmed. An acid reflux attack ensued and my breathing almost stopped. His hand finally emerged, however, grasping the old pen without a cap, and he wrote some type of note at the bottom of the page with the folded corner.

Two weeks before my trip, my brother Muzaffar had visited me, although as I have mentioned his visits don’t involve me much, because he doesn’t spend a lot of time with me. He would not return for six months, but now I wished he would show up so I could forcibly enlist him in my predicament. I would oblige him to shield me or at least volunteer some sensible opinion. Naturally I could have informed one of my close friends — I actually thought about that. I scratched this notion, though, at least until I fully understood what sort of crisis I faced, because perhaps there was really no crisis whatsoever. It might have been one of those pranks we encounter from time to time. I might have endured something much worse than this before but couldn’t remember now.

I was surprised when Nishan spoke. His eyes weren’t directed toward me, and his voice was odd. It was the quavering voice of a feverish man. “Where are we going, sir? I think you’ve been driving for more than an hour and seem to have no intention of stopping.”

I had no ready answer for his question. I really had been driving without any destination or any interest in finding one. I looked around to get my bearings and was astonished to find myself in the Railroad District, near the central train station. This was where my spiritual mother, Malikat al-Dar, lived. Actually I was almost in front of her house. I had no idea how I got there. Some invisible rope seemed to have dragged me. All the same, I felt a certain degree of relief, because my spiritual mother’s house was my second home, which I visited whenever I wanted a mother figure, the scent of a mother, or food prepared by a mother. It wouldn’t seem odd for me to arrive now with a guest, because I had done that frequently, most recently two months earlier when I brought a former storyteller named Isma‘il. I had wanted some information about the capital’s ancient history. He had refused to provide these clarifications until after a repast of traditional home cooking. Malikat al-Dar’s house had been virtually the only place where I could find an old-fashioned meal.

Malikat al-Dar’s house was expansive, not physically spacious but emotionally so. Thus at any time it might shelter strangers or people from her village in the North of the country — villagers who were clueless in the capital. The room she allowed me to use was at one side of the relatively large courtyard. It was a rather big room that was furnished with cots and quilts and a small cooler containing water and occasionally food.

The house’s main entrance, which was directly opposite me, had been repainted a dark green; the sign announcing that the occupant had performed the Mecca pilgrimage had also been repainted: “Pilgrimage Accepted, Sins Forgiven, and Praiseworthy Return.” Malikat al-Dar had fulfilled this religious duty once with her husband and another time after he died as a member of an official delegation. Her income from her evening job, which she still retained — as a nurse for a well-known gynecologist and obstetrician — even after she retired from working for the government, was enough to animate her household and her whole life.

I knocked gently on the door, and she opened it herself. She was limping a little. She had symptoms of osteoarthritis in her knees because of her plumpness and advancing age, and these symptoms had become more severe. An orthopedic physician had told her she would need knee replacement surgery soon.

It was late and the house seemed empty. The beds in the open guest room appeared to be unoccupied, and the quilts were folded up. The sound of a colicky infant echoed from one of the inner rooms. I deduced that he was the child of her daughter Fatima, who had been quite pregnant during my last visit (before my trip to Malaysia).

I asked, “Has Fatima given birth?”

“Yes. Her son, Dhu al-Nun, was born nine days ago. You weren’t here for me to tell you. When did you get back?”

I wasn’t at all surprised that this newborn had been given a name that far outstripped his age and that was unlike the names of other contemporary newborns. I knew that Malikat al-Dar and her family loved strong names and imposed them on their in-laws, even if they were foreigners. They regarded modern, wimpy men’s names through eyes filled with pity and regret. Malikat al-Dar had three daughters, each of whom had married and given birth to boys with names like Abd al-Basit, Abd al-Qayyum, al-Tanajiri, Abu al-Ma‘ali, and Suhayb.

I didn’t have a chance to see Fatima, who was resting with the nuisance named Dhu al-Nun, because of the calamity accompanying me: Nishan Hamza Nishan.

I thought Malikat al-Dar hadn’t noticed my companion in the faint light of the courtyard. But I was wrong, because as we crossed the darkest area of the courtyard, she asked, “You haven’t introduced me to your guest?”

I would introduce her to my guest, since she was welcoming him into her home; this was an unavoidable evil. But I wouldn’t pronounce his full name or even part of it. I would limit myself to his father’s name, Hamza, which was a common enough name. I didn’t think he would object. My problem was that she too had read Hunger’s Hopes, although without understanding everything — like other old-fashioned midwives whose educations were limited. She had read it not because she loved reading or was fond of culture in general, but simply because I had written it. She would certainly know that Nishan Hamza Nishan was the lunatic who dwelt in that novel. If I pronounced his full name, I would raise dozens of question marks for which there was absolutely no need.

I said, “My friend Hamza. He’s a writer who has recently begun to make a name for himself. We were driving around, talking, and suddenly found ourselves near your house.”

She didn’t say anything and brought us into a room she normally used to receive transient guests, as opposed to the clueless ones who stayed for extended periods with her. It was an excellent room that was thoughtfully furnished with a large settee and chairs covered in red velvet, as well as two beds made of polished wood on which any tired guest could stretch out. She left us and then returned a few minutes later carrying two glasses of orange juice with ice. She departed, explaining that Dhu al-Nun needed her expertise in the care of newborns in order to quiet down. I knew that she had detected a hint of mystery and wanted to distance herself from it.

Nishan’s telephone and mine rang at the same time. His ringtone was rather strange and sounded like distant barking. My ringtone is very common — it’s a cheerful song that I swear is on three-quarters of the cell phones in this country. I didn’t answer my phone; it was a call from Najma, who no doubt would ask me to comment on something she had written on Facebook about her seminar with Hazaz. I turned off my phone, but Nishan quickly answered his. Although I wasn’t certain, I thought he was speaking to a lady. The voice was shrill and gushing; I could hear some from where I sat. He responded with the word ‘yes’ more than ten times. Then he shut off his phone and turned toward me.

Now, as I listened to his story, I would understand what I had done to him when I wrote Hunger’s Hopes and what he would do to me. He reached for the glass of orange juice, brought it close to his mouth, but set it down again without taking a sip. He cleared his throat, and then began to speak. I became a pair of large ears, something that hadn’t happened to me for a long time.