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

First published in 2009 by

The American University in Cairo Press

113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

www.aucpress.com

Copyright © 2001 by Ali Bader

First published in Arabic in 2001 as
Baba Sartre

Protected under the Berne Convention

English translation copyright © 2009 by Aida Bamia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Dar el Kutub No. 4131/09

eISBN: 978 161 797 155 6

Dar el Kutub Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bader, Ali

Papa Sartre / Ali Bader; translated by Aida Bamia.—Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2009

p.    cm.

eISBN: 978 161 797 155 6

1. Arabic fiction I. Bamia, Aida (trans.) II. Title

892.73

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8    14  13  12  11  10  09

Designed by Adam el Sehemy

Printed in Egypt

The Research Trip

T
hat wicked devil Hanna Yusif, the macabre-looking gravedigger, and his depraved friend—whom he refers to by the curious Biblical name of Nunu Behar—were the ones who convinced me to write the biography of an Iraqi philosopher, who lived in al-Sadriya district in the sixties.

In truth, those two charlatans were not lacking a love of philosophy, nor were they without enthusiasm and genius. They were, however, truly short on honor and relied without exception on depravity.

I met them last winter. I visited them in a modest house overlooking the cemetery at the church of Umm al-Mauna behind al-Saadun Park. An Iraqi merchant who called himself Sadeq Zadeh—half mad, wanton, and entirely dishonest—had rented the room for them. I later learned he was the man financing the biography of the dead philosopher.

A friend working at the old manuscript library in Baghdad introduced me to them. I was mesmerized by Hanna’s broken voice, his high-pitched tone, and his gravedigger’s face. I met them on a cold, sunny December day. Hanna said to me with a certain visionary look while his hand rested on his girlfriend’s
shoulder—she never stopped chewing gum—“My house is in al-Saadun Park, near the Assyrian’s grocery. I’ll wait for you there on Sunday morning.”

That Sunday I walked around the post office building, heading toward the Christian neighborhood that surrounds al-Saadun Park. Trees lined the street that ran between rows of one-story houses. I suddenly smelled the shiny rain-wet asphalt and spotted the Assyrian’s grocery at the end of the main street. It wasn’t a large store but a narrow shop really, with two wooden doors. There were two metal-leaf panels at the center, and the front of the grocery was covered with white tiles. Inside there was a marble stand filled with copper utensils and baskets of washed fruit; there were also bottles of whiskey, local arrack, and first-rate wine, all lined up neatly in the glass showcase. A photograph of a stiff figure wearing an embroidered and medal-bedecked costume was hanging on the wall behind the Assyrian. I asked him about Father Hanna’s house. “Who told you he’s a father?” he retorted, and burst out laughing. His white mustache stretched over his upper lip like milk, his blue eyes sank into their sockets, and his bony face seemed to mock me. It was his wife who replied, pointing a thin finger at a large green tree in the middle of the square, “There it is.” In the only memory I have of her she is wearing her braids curled on top her head like a halo, medical glasses, and a sad countenance reminiscent of Eve’s face after she was thrown out of Paradise. When I reached the cemetery fence, I saw a little house attached to a crumbling church. Water was running in a shallow creek along the fence, casting a silvery film in the air. I could hear the water flowing smoothly. I had to press up against the red brick wall to pass. The wall surrounded a rather large piece of land with a soft lawn and groups of roses that were planted without pattern; large trellises swayed under the impact of the birds jumping from corner to corner.

A man wearing drab trousers and a white scarf on his head, with a sharp knife in hand, was slaughtering a colorful rooster in the garden. He cut its throat and threw the creature onto the lawn, where it struggled in a pool of blood. I asked him if this was Hanna Yusif’s house. He said yes. A drop of red blood on the lawn shone in the glare of the sun.

Our encounter was warm and friendly. Hanna smiled constantly, making his small mustache look like a trace of red wine. He led me to the living room. The curtains on the windows were embroidered with small pink flowers. I could hear the shower running and a car’s tires squealing on the asphalt road.

I asked him if someone else was home, and he said, “Nunu is in the shower.” I asked him again about the philosopher and the books he had published during his lifetime. He shook his small red head with his shining blue eyes, “No, none at all. This presumptuous fellow did not write a single book in his whole life.”

“Presumptuous?” I said, surprised.

“Every philosopher is presumptuous,” said Nunu Behar as she walked past us, naked, coming out of the bathroom.

“I don’t understand,” I said, staring at Nunu Behar, who was standing in front of a sofa covered with silk cushions. She buttoned her shirt and put on her pants without underwear. She left the top button unbuttoned and looked straight at me. I could see her ample breasts under the soft fabric of the shirt. She continued, “Yes! Every philosopher is presumptuous, but there are those who write books and make their biographer’s job easy and others who don’t write books and force us to pay someone to dig for information, lie, and make things up to make true philosophers out of them.”

Her style of speech surprised me. She seemed to believe that writing a philosopher’s biography was an easy undertaking. She had sensed that I was apprehensive about writing this one,
which would explain her indirectly trying to dissuade me from not doing so.

Her face was dripping with water and her jet-black hair shone under the light of the corner lamp. When she reached me she said, “You know, a philosopher is a fabrication, it is true . . . believe me, a fabrication.” I could sense the heat of her skin under the open shirt that revealed her generous breasts. I asked her, “Who creates this fabrication?” The two scoundrels said in unison, “We do.” Then Hanna added, “You will write this man’s biography and we’ll cover your expenses for collecting information and documents and then we’ll pay you for writing.” Nunu added, “Today we’ll give you some papers and some geographical pointers for you to get started with. But please, don’t think that this is going to be a difficult project. His life was simple, extremely simple.”

“Do you think so?” I said. She replied, “I do.”

I was truly happy with the promised sum of money, especially because I was totally penniless. Only my friend, the investigator in the manuscript library, knew how broke I was. But when those two scoundrels saw my joy at the prospect of a handsome sum of money and my willingness to undertake the project, they probably sensed my desperation. They immediately gathered the various papers, large folders, and documents that were scattered in their study. Hanna handled the red leather books roughly, pushing aside large glass inkwells on a desk with all sorts of colored pens, pins, and quills and a smaller inkwell with red ink. He explained, “These are important documents that will acquaint you with the philosopher’s childhood, his school years, and the people who used to know him.”

Hanna took a handkerchief from the pocket of his plaid trousers, with which he wiped off the desk, and sat on a rattan chair. He looked at me surreptitiously, handed me a thick striped file, and said, “This is Nadia Khaddouri’s family file. They were partners with the Lawi family, the car dealers.” He then took
out another pile of square sheets and said, “These are important papers. They concern Shaul.”

Nunu Behar added, “These documents and data aren’t really enough. They’ll only show you where to start and where to find more information and important papers.” She was chewing gum while she spoke, and her eyes projected an exciting glitter of desire. I turned my gaze toward the papers in my hand and began to examine them. They weren’t documents in the real sense of the word but rather little snippets of information written in a vulgar and gushing style. Some were no more than encomiums written by those who had otherwise considered the philosopher stupid during his lifetime. Others, in a most sycophantic way, attested to his wisdom and genius. These papers wouldn’t be a real source of information but could be important because they shed light on some of the preliminary problems related to the biography. Clearly, the real problem with these papers was that they consisted of piles of highly indigestible materials, written in a vulgar style, boringly flattering, and wholly lacking in impartiality. What I was looking for was a document that would contain objective information. At this point even a dull document would provide a great deal of help.

The documents Hanna handed me were written in an affected and biased style. Throughout the period of my work on the biography, frankly, they were more of a handicap than a help. I tried to liven them up with irony and made fun of their repellent nature and superficiality. Page after page, I had to deal with fables such as “No sooner did the philosopher touch the branch standing before Husniya than its flowers bloomed,” or “No sooner did he take the chicken in his arms than it laid an egg weighing half a kilogram in his lap.”

I was going over documents that could turn a carriage conductor into a silent, huge, mysterious giant. They revealed the ability of some people to distort, imitate, and contradict
without being aware how much their gibberish defied reason. More important for me were the names, an abundance of names: names of servants, masters, men of letters, merchants, children, and renowned personalities. Obviously I‘d have to look for them elsewhere, and not in those documents written in such a repulsive and provocative style.

I asked Hanna if the philosopher had had friends, but it was Nunu Behar who replied in her lazy tone, “We’ll introduce you to the merchant Sadeq Zadeh. He’s the only one who knows a great deal about his private life. There is also Butrus Samhiri the lawyer. You must meet him as well. He has official documents that will help you with your project.”

We sat around the marble fireplace on chairs with green satin cushions. A weak light came from the darkness of the chimney, and when Nunu Behar opened the window I immediately smelled the scent of her breasts mixed with a hint of earth and the lingering traces of strong perfume.

“When will you start working?” asked Hanna Yusif.

“Tomorrow,” I said.

“I’ll write letters of recommendation. They might help facilitate your mission. I have a piece of advice for you as well.”

“What is it?” Nunu Behar was playing with a chain that rested between her breasts. “Are you a moral person?” he asked, smiling.

“I am an honest man,” I said immediately.

“You must be weary of that,” they both said and laughed in a quiet, subdued manner. Nunu Behar moved away from me with her wild hair, raising her hand and revealing a small expanse of skin between her underarm and breast.