“The neighbor squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, ‘Jaafar, this is your new home.’
“I was totally bewildered. I saw my grandfather in the middle of the salamlik, sitting on a sofa with arabesque designs carved into its high back. My neighbor had a short talk with my grandfather, kissed his hand, then left. I found myself alone with my grandfather, not yet recovered from the magic of the birds, the flowers, and the stream; and the profound sorrow in my heart had not subsided. My grandfather sat cross-legged, wearing a large white robe and wrapped in an embroidered shawl, his head covered with a white cap. He had a long, thin face, brown skin, a large forehead, and a long, proud nose. His look was peaceful, and his white beard reached his upper chest. We exchanged a glance, and I did not see anything frightening on his part. He appeared quite old to me, but had a noble and distinguished demeanor. He looked like a worthy owner of that fascinating garden.
“I stood at some distance from him, neither close nor far. I was wearing my striped robe and my embroidered cap with the talisman attached to it, and colorful slippers. I carried a package containing my few belongings. He looked at me for so long that I was overcome with the urge to run away. Then, as if he had guessed my reaction, he smiled and directed me to come closer. I told him eagerly, ‘I want to go back to my mother.’ He held out his hand, and I walked to him and shook it. I was suffused with an urge to cry, but I controlled myself and did not shed a tear. His touch filled me with warmth.
“He said gently, ‘Welcome,’” and sat me beside him. ‘You are in your house. Do you like the garden?’
“I nodded eagerly to express my admiration, but he asked me to speak up. ‘Talk. I like words.’
“I mumbled an inaudible ‘Yes.’
“My grandfather asked me if I knew who he was and what being a grandfather meant.
“‘My father’s father,’ I said.
“‘Do you believe it?’ he asked.
“‘I do.’
“He asked if I remembered my father.
“‘He used to carry me to see the mahmal,’ I explained, ‘but I remember my mother.’ I then broke into tears, but he tapped me on the back and asked if I remembered something else about my father.
“‘I visited his tomb,’ I said.
“He turned his face away from me, then asked, ‘What is your name?’
“‘Jaafar.’
“‘Jaafar what?’
“‘Jaafar Ibrahim.’
“‘Jaafar Ibrahim Sayyid al-Rawi. Repeat after me.’
“I did as he asked, and he went on questioning me. ‘Who created you?’
“‘God.’
“‘Who is your prophet?’
“‘Prophet Muhammad.’
“‘Do you pray?’
“‘No.’
“‘What have you memorized from the Quran?’
“‘Say: He is God, the One.’
“‘Haven’t you memorized the Fatiha?’
“‘No.’
“‘Why did you start with “Say: He is God, the One”?’
“‘Because of its power to control the jinn,’ I said.
“‘Do you deal with the jinn?’
“‘Yes. Many of them live in our storeroom and they fill Margush by night.’
“‘Have you seen them with your own eyes?’ he asked.
“‘Often,’ I said.
“‘You are lying to your grandfather.’
“‘I saw them and dealt with them,’ I insisted.
“He gently passed his finger over the contour of my face. I felt close to him and got over my nervousness.
“‘Do not lie, Jaafar. I do not like lies.’
“‘I am telling the truth.’
“‘Look with your eyes and do not imagine what does not exist.’
“‘Grandfather,’ I said.
“He looked at me inquisitively.
“‘Why haven’t you ever visited us?’
“He turned his gaze in direction of the garden. ‘Your grandfather is old, as you can see.’
“‘Why haven’t you invited us to your house?’
“He was silent for a long time, then said, “Your father refused!’
“‘Will I be living here for good?’
“‘It is your house, Jaafar.’
“‘Will I be able to play in the garden?’
“‘You will, but your life will not be all play. You are six years old and you must begin to live.’ And my new life began.”
Jaafar stopped and said angrily to me, “That was my grandfather, al-Rawi, the owner of the waqf. What law deprives me of my legitimate right?”
“Let’s return to your new life,” I suggested.
“I am not an insignificant being, as you seem to think,” he declared. “I have rights and I am educated. I can talk to you about the drawbacks of democracy and those of communism.”
“You can talk to me about all this throughout your story, but do return now to your new life.”
He shrugged and said, “What a shame — my eyesight is failing and I will lose it totally one day. There are not many years left for me to live. Human beings still endure pain and anxiety. We die, leaving behind a fulfilled but forgotten hope, and seven disappointments preoccupy us to the time of our death. And here you are, asking me to relate my life story according to the way you like it, rather than the way it suits me.”
“We need to be organized so I can learn your life story in the few remaining days of your life.”
He gave in to my pleadings and resumed his tale.
“My new life was a fascinating dream. I forgot the past. My ungrateful heart forgot my dead mother whose tomb I never visited. One night I dreamed of her, and when I woke up my heart was heavy and I cried. But young hearts find consolation very quickly. I was entranced by the stream and the henna trees, the palm and lemon trees, the vineyard, the frogs, the birds, the nightingales, the pigeons, and the doves. Even the furniture fired my imagination. I was fascinated by the copper utensils decorated with gold, the Persian rugs, the luxurious cupboard, the huge carved mirror, the colorful curtains, and the comfortable couches. There was also the balcony covered by English ivy and the large bathroom with its tiled floor and unusual water tank. I continually discovered new objects that were valuable and historical, and had new names and a gorgeous appearance. I was awed by this display of wealth, but never fell in love with it. It did not truly touch my heart.
“The needs of children were not taken into consideration when the palace was designed, which explains why I was most impressed by the gardener’s donkey. I found a friend and a playmate in him, and spent long hours riding him back and forth in the alley, carefully avoiding the low-lying branches. I admired greatly the water pump, the well, the water fountain, and the peacock that stood on a marble pole in its center.
“A kind old copper-skinned woman called Bahga took care of me. It did not take long for us to bond. On various occasions, and over a rather long period of time, Bahga told me a great deal about the tragedy surrounding my birth. I discovered that my grandfather lived alone, surrounded by a retinue of servants. My grandmother had died a short time ago and my father had passed away far from the house. My father was the only son out of eight children who reached manhood. The other seven died, some in their childhood and others in their youth. He was the hope, after so much pain and the dream of the future; but that future, in my grandfather’s opinion, resulted in a disappointment worse than death. Otherwise, he would not have had the courage to punish my father to such a degree, completely severing ties with him, exiling him like an enemy and excluding him from the house, the family, and the inheritance.
“All this contributed to making my grandfather a puzzle to me. His personality conveyed compassion, magnanimity, and sweetness, but anger transformed him into a devil or a hard stone. When I met him he was semi-retired in his house, but originally he was a graduate of al-Azhar, and inherited from his father and forefathers a huge fortune and a connection to that great university. Despite all that, he never worked in public office, either in a religious or a teaching position. His only activity was looking after the properties he owned. In his free time he read and studied religious and philosophical books, and works dealing with economics, politics, and literature. His reception hall was the meeting place of men of religion and Sufis, and those who were concerned with politics and literature.”