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.
3
Bab al-Akhdar alley fell into silence under cover of night. It is then that the hordes of beggars return to their spots, the lunatics clutter the corners, and the smell of incense fills the air. No outsider roams there at night except the few customers of Café Wadud. They are all hash smokers.
“Let me tell you about the time of the legend,” said Jaafar.
“You mean your childhood years,” I said.
He was quick to respond, “I mean what I said, so do not interrupt me. There is no childhood, but a dream and a legend, the age of the dream and of the legend. It forces itself on you in a tender and possibly deceitful manner, usually because of the hardships of the present. It echoes strongly in my psyche, but when I analyze it I come out empty-handed, which confirms its illusionary nature. Suffice it to say that I know nothing of any significance about its two basic poles, my father and my mother.”
“Did they pass away during your childhood?” I asked.
“I do not remember my father at all, and I have no visual memory of him. He did not leave a photo to remind me of him. He left the world before fathering another child. I remember only one incident connected to him, and that somewhat obscurely. It was on the day of the celebration of the mahmal, as we watched from a window overlooking Margush. I was sitting on his shoulders watching the crowds and the head of the golden mahmal swaying at the level of the window. It was a situation imbued with compassion and affection, don’t you agree? The mahmal is one of the landmarks of the legend. As for the crowds, they were a special kind of reality. The memory revived one day in my office in Bab al-Khalq square, making me shout in Saad Kabir’s face these words—”
But I interrupted him, “We are in the midst of the legend. Do not overstep its boundaries!”
“Let me talk freely. I hate restrictions.”
“But the story will be scattered by the stream of thoughts and I might lose my way between its fragments.”
He laughed loudly. “Won’t you allow me to toy with time the way it toyed with me? Well, let’s go back to the legend, to the brazen jinn, to the playful inanimate objects, to the spectral truths, and to the real dreams. I have already told you that I do not remember my father, but I will never forget my mother’s hand.”
“Your mother’s hand?”
“Be patient,” he said. “My father died, but I do not know how or why. He died in his youth, as I was told years later. I was five years old or slightly younger, and unable to even remember the house in Margush district. There was possibly a room that could be accessed from the hallway via two steps. There was also a high bed that could be reached by climbing on a wooden stool that was very tempting to play with, and a water pipe was placed high on top of an armoire, out of my reach. There were spoiled cats, a mangle, a dark storeroom inhabited by all types of jinn, black mice, an incense holder, and a clay jug seated on a tray, filled with water in which sliced limes floated. There were also a coal heater and sacks of coal, chickens, and a conceited rooster. I do not know what caused my father’s death or what his job was, but I can tell you about death itself. I am an expert in it. I once deserved the title of life giver because when anger takes over and words turn to flames, swallowing the celestial words, mysterious doors open, through which devils slip. Satan himself arrives in his fiery parade, surrounded by judges, policemen, and jailers. At that moment Jaafar al-Rawi changes his name, his surname, and his skin.”
“But what about your father’s death?” I asked.
“May God forgive you,” he said. “You crush inspiration. You insist on learning how my father died as if he were your father. What do I know about his death? I woke up on a dark night to discover that I was in my mother’s arms and she was taking me to the neighbor’s. I must have fallen asleep, and when I awoke in the morning I found myself in a strange place. I cried. When the neighbor brought me food, I asked her about my mother. She explained, ‘Your mother is running an errand and will be back soon. Eat your food.’