Despite feeling nausea, a nihilistic sentiment regarding existence and the futility of life, Abd al-Rahman was not devoid of love for the high life: dancing in nightclubs, drinking cognac, and joking with the waiters, the dancers, and the drunks. Dalal Masabni took pride in being among his intellectual group and complained to everyone about his nausea and her own. But she also enjoyed life, sought pleasure, and wore heavy makeup. She brimmed with desire and excitement, strove to make a living, and enjoyed alcohol, drugs, and music. Abd al-Rahman gravitated toward that life along with Ismail, whom he used to push into a taxi in front of King Ghazi Park saying, “Let’s spend two to three hours nauseated.”
Grief Adab was decorated with photographs of half-naked dancers and licentious ads that promised a memorable time with the dancers, whether it be “Tear of the Eyes,” “Sugar of the Heart,” or “Virgin of Existentialism!” This last name was suggested, naturally, by Abd al-Rahman. He even suggested that the hallway that led to the dance hall be decorated with a large portrait of Jean-Paul Sartre opposite a red lantern. Dalal Masabni agreed without discussion. Abd al-Rahman brought a large photograph of the French philosopher in a thin golden frame. The dancers, led by Dalal, received him with cheers. Abd al-Rahman climbed up on a small stool to hang the photograph, while Ismail helped him straighten it. When Dalal asked about the identity of the man in the photograph, Abd al-Rahman smiled sadly and bent his head. As he moved his finger to point, it fell exactly on Sartre’s cross-eye. He told her, “My dear Dalal, this is the man who taught us all to feel nauseated.” She shook her head, “Oh, then this is the original nauseated person.”
Such was the extent of Dalal’s understanding of the matter, and among all the dancers whose mouths dropped as they considered that mysterious, beautiful photograph, only Ismail was aware of the importance of the moment. Dancing and cheering, they celebrated Sartre’s arrival, then walked through the long hallway between rows of photographs of half-naked dancers, surrounded by frenzied customers, with drinks in hand.
Abd al-Rahman and Ismail’s regular table was at the far end of the room. The table had a sacred history dating back to the first day Abd al-Rahman entered the club, and it became known as the philosopher’s table. That day a fat, big-breasted, and fair-skinned redhead was singing in a plaintive voice as the crowd enthusiastically cheered her on. As the customers exchanged their greetings, she seized the opportunity to welcome the arrival of the al-Sadriya philosopher, Abd al-Rahman Sartre, which she pronounced “Santer.” With his very first drink Abd al-Rahman turned into a powerful and authentic philosopher; Ismail, on the other hand, had a higher tolerance, as he had started drinking in his youth. Ismail was infatuated with a young Assyrian dancer nicknamed Wazzeh (Duck). She looked like a white duck, and everything on her body moved when she walked: her breasts, hips, and restless feet. She constantly chewed gum. She had memorized a dictionary of depraved words, and every now and then she would point to her half-naked breasts — which Ismail described as “an existentialist bosom”—and tell everyone that it was there that nausea reposed. This always provoked a huge uproar in the hall.
Abd al-Rahman was in the habit of ordering drinks and food from Mikha the server. His table was usually filled with glasses of cognac and whiskey, pistachios, salad, fava beans, and chicken. Ismail was usually busy smelling the dancer’s dyed and unkempt hair and trying to kiss the Virgin of Existentialism’s neck. Abd al-Rahman demeaned himself before her; he would kneel in front of the dancer and flirt in a manner that naturally upset Ismail. Every now and then she would whisper something in his ear, her breath smelling of cheap cognac. He would laugh loudly and beat the table so hard that the cigarette butts in the ashtray would fly all over the table. Whenever the philosopher touched Wazzeh’s naked shoulders, she would laugh her frivolous laugh, adding to the impact of the loud music that fired up the place and tickled the philosopher’s senses. He would sing a song in French and tell his friends that it was the existentialist anthem, puzzling them with his incomprehensible French philosophy sung to a manic tune. Alcohol increased their nausea, and their eyes twinkled upon hearing this great philosophy.
During one of those evenings at the nightclub, Ismail shouted, “Women — nothing matters in life but women and alcohol. . ” No sooner had Abd al-Rahman heard these words, in fact before his companion could even finish his sentence, the philosopher stood up in anger. He wiped his forehead with his hairy, shaking hand, causing the place to come to a standstill. Everybody was terrified. He asked Ismail, “Have you forgotten existentialism, you son of a bitch? Has a dancer blotted out everything I’ve taught you?” Ismail was dumbfounded by Abd al-Rahman’s accusatory, high-strung tone. He lowered his head, and his shiny black hair fell over his eyes. He lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand, looked at Abd al-Rahman with drunken eyes, and said, “Oh no, Abd al-Rahman, philosopher of al-Sadriya, Sartre of the Arabs. I am nauseated, and this woman is existentialism personified. As for me, I am existence for existence’s sake.”
These existential words, these philosophical sentences and deep Sartrian thoughts calmed Abd al-Rahman, while the poor dancers, the truly existential creatures, looked on, puzzled by this world turned upside down. They felt reassured, however, that the matter was solved with those magical words, and so they returned to their carousal. Abd al-Rahman, in contrast, was transported by Ismail’s response into his memories of the Jussieux nightclub in the Latin Quarter. He remembered the international fair in Montmartre, dancing gypsies moving as gracefully as tobacco leaves. The gypsy songs excited him and revived the memory of the enigmatic Parisian scenery composed of existentialism, garrulity, Latin philosophies, and women’s clothes decorated with layers of red lace. He said to Ismail, “Let’s transform Baghdad into another Paris. Let’s make it a second Paris, the capital of existentialism.” Surprised, Ismail wondered how this could be done.
It was the sight of the Negro dancer from Basra that inspired in Abd al-Rahman the idea of a national existentialist movement. Her feminine, uninhibited dancing, the way she jumped up on the stage and revealed her brown body shining under the light, her thick lips and ivory white teeth, and her fishy smell — all this inflamed Abd al-Rahman’s imagination. He asked Ismail, “Who says that existentialism is not concerned with politics and national unity? Otherwise, what would Sartrian commitment mean?”
After a paralyzing silence, an angel’s silence, Abd al-Rahman ordered the waiter to call the dancers, Dam‘ al-Ain, Wazzeh, Rizan the Kurd and her Arabic music ensemble, Lamia, Munibeh, and Saniya. He then declared the establishment of a National Existentialism for the unity of the people, with Sartre’s blessing. The nightclub turned into a wrestling arena, chairs and tables were up-ended, liquor bottles smashed, and plates of appetizers flew across the hall and skidded along the floor. Customers escaped through a side door, and the prostitutes were shouting. The waiters and cashiers were yelling at the top of their lungs. The dancers swayed like madwomen to the beat of the wild music and eventually fell to the floor. Abd al-Rahman and Ismail collapsed from excessive drinking and fatigue; the waiters picked them up and dumped them outside.
3
A few hours later a taxi drove Abd al-Rahman home. He was drunk, with a cigarette still in his mouth, and his jacket hung on his finger. Ismail had to push him out of the car. No sooner had he knocked on the door than he collapsed on the stoop. Moments later, while he was still on the ground, the iron door opened slowly. He had difficulty seeing through his liquor induced haze but was able to make out Germaine standing over him in her nightgown.