Nadia changed as she made the transition from childhood to adolescence. Her expressions revealed a maturing young woman quite different from the capricious child she has been. She became kind and rather timid. In summer she slept until noon, and then went down to the garden, where her friends would join her. Sometimes she would ride in her father’s car across the endless barley and lettuce fields. In winter she’d usually choose to stay home, near the fire, and feed it continuously. Occasionally she would visit Mayer’s office, whose influence over her father was growing. He usually drove her back home or, with her father’s approval, took her to the Plazia Restaurant for dinner. He had a permanent office room in the Khaddouri family business.
Nadia tried to emulate her father’s goodheartedness and her mother’s kindness and compassion. She wasn’t gifted, but she was sensitive. She likely inherited her sensitivity from her father, and it is probably the only virtue she never lost.
Every day Nadia went to her father’s company accompanied by the driver or Mayer ben Nassim. She often persuaded her father to have dinner with her at the Plazia Restaurant. Nadia usually chose a table near a window that looked out onto the street and would watch the passersby. She tried to be witty and entertaining, and when she grew tired of laughing she’d get up. Her father and Mayer would follow.
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One day Nadia didn’t get up at her usual time. Her father tried to get her out of bed, but she was feverish and didn’t leave her room for two days. From that day on she never went back to her father’s office, nor could she look Mayer in the face. Obviously disgusted, she was avoiding him. A year later Mayer left Baghdad for good, but Nadia was indelibly marked by her experience with that man.
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After Mayer’s departure Nadia began to lead a different kind of life. She was growing up and had matured considerably, especially after the Tigris River flooded. She devoted all her time to helping the victims. She and the maid would leave her house in the morning carrying a big pot of milk to distribute to the unfortunate people living in tents close to her house. She showed a great deal of compassion and was pained by their condition, the dangers that threatened them, and the poor conditions for the children in particular. This experience with the flood victims and her volunteer activities taught her the importance of work and the benefit of giving to others. A month later she told her parents that she wanted to look for a job outside the family business.
Surprised, her father asked, “Why do you want to work? Do you need money? You can have all the money you want.”
But Nadia insisted, “No, no, I want to go out and be with people, I want to rely on myself.”
Her mother had another explanation, “You must have been influenced by some silly notions.” Nadia insisted, and three days later she found a job in the Mackenzie bookshop, where eventually she met the philosopher, who was on a family visit from Paris.
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Nadia filled the house with joy whenever she came home for lunch. She ate with her father and took in the superb view of the greenery through the dining room window. Sometimes, even in the rain or wind, she would walk the dog on the grounds. She liked the sound of the wind and she loved the sight and smell of the orange blossoms.
She was not exactly happy, but at times she appeared to be exhilarated and at other times depressed — even on a beautiful day. She spent her weekends in the house relaxing in her favorite armchair, reading in the library, or simply staring into the flames in the fireplace.
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The philosopher’s relationship with Nadia lasted six months, from midsummer to midwinter. He was in Baghdad on a summer vacation after he had lost all hope of ever establishing a relationship with the waitress at the Café de Flore. He wanted to try his luck with Arab women, and to this end he frequented places where women usually gathered in large numbers. The moment he saw a woman he would begin fantasizing about her and imagine her naked in bed. This is how he’d assess her suitability. He’d imagine her fixing breakfast, putting on her house clothes, dressing up in eveningwear, then he’d decide on the degree of her appropriateness — in other words, whether she deserved the title of ‘philosopher’s wife.’
Abd al-Rahman enjoyed people’s attention and their interest in him, a pleasure which clearly revealed the contradictions of his personality. There were times when he wanted to escape from himself and his loneliness and be with other people. And then there were times when he wanted, in compliance with his philosophical orientation, to show indifference and disinterest in others. But everything in the world worked against him.
The philosopher was well aware of the presence of two distinct worlds in his life — the deep internal world, where philosophy reigned, and the external world of easy, practical matters. Finding a compromise between the two and bridging their differences was no small feat. Here arose the ambiguity of marrying an Arab woman: How could one marry a woman who was neither an existentialist nor versed in any philosophy at all?
Abd al-Rahman’s imagination responded to his dilemma during the first month of his visit to Iraq. He would sit in the living room of his parents’ house, stare into the dense gardens, and imagine himself invisible, strongly convinced that somewhere there was a women for him, a woman capable of understanding his philosophy, of understanding him, and singling him out from a sea of philosophers. The man he saw in his mind would have a tired-looking face, thoughtful eyes, calm hand movements, and a certain dreaminess born of the misery and nihilism of existence.
Sometimes he considered this issue childish and even stupid, especially when he began visiting his relatives and observed the behavior of the young women. They would sit up straight with legs crossed and heads bowed, looking at the floor as a sign of subservience. He despised this attitude, all the foolishness of courting, the love notes, the successes and failures. He considered them a waste of a philosopher’s time and a distraction from his meditation. One day, before he had decided when he would return to Paris, he went to the Mackenzie bookshop.
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Nadia attracted the philosopher’s attention. He noticed her among the other shy, sad-looking women. She stood out in her print dress, a flower in her hair, her soft, calm voice and Christian accent. She was different from the other girls he knew, who idly stayed home and quietly worked on their embroidery. Abd al-Rahman felt that she would be able to share his experience, since when he said Sartre, she responded, “I know him. I know his book, La nausée. It costs 200 fils. We have it in the store.” He mentioned Camus, and she responded right away, “I know him; he wrote a novel entitled L’etranger. It costs either 150 or 200 fils. I can’t remember.”
So she knew them all, Suhail Idris, Aida Matraji Idris, Dar al-Adab, and Simone de Beauvoir. Even if she only knew the price of their books, that counted for something. This was not an easy matter. No one among the existentialists of the world would know the price of books on existentialism. She’d be an asset for his philosophy. She’d be able to provide the price of philosophy and its cost overseas. Another woman would have asked stupidly, “Sartre? Who is this Sartre?” Whenever he went into the bookstore and looked at the books on the shelves, tired of his nausea, he would see her, as part of the colored book covers; he would visualize her live image and Sartre’s picture on the same cover. This image swelled his affection for her. She was, in his mind, a part of the books on the shelves. His presence and mood always affected her deeply as well. His power undermined her self-control, and she had to rein in her emotions. Nonetheless, she always conducted herself properly.