I defended myself. “I’m not a thief like you.” His face expressed his disapproval.
I took the manuscript as Hanna was repacking his case. I left still wondering whether the manuscript was really worth the amount he had agreed to give me for writing the al-Sadriya philosopher’s biography. I decided to confirm its authenticity before Hanna ran off completely. I went directly to the Iraqi Manuscript Center across the Tigris, an old house built in the thirties. It was a cold and windy day despite the shining sun. I knocked nervously at the door and waited for a few minutes, but no one came. I started banging very hard and shook the door, shouting loudly, “Open the door! Open the door.”
Now I realized my mistake. In my haste to verify the authenticity of the manuscript, I had behaved in a way that made the people of the house suspicious. They looked at me distrustfully from an upper-floor window. I begged them to check the manuscript right away. Two guards took hold of me and led me inside. They snatched away the manuscript and passed it to a thin, graying man who looked like Pasteur. He examined it with the help of a magnifying glass and said, smiling, “It’s a counterfeit.”
I went back to the hotel immediately, but the Egyptian receptionist told me that Hanna had checked out. I looked for him everywhere but found no trace of him. A few days later I learned that he had gone to Jordan. He blackmailed Sadeq Zadeh with the manuscript he had taken from my apartment and received a significant sum of money. He was cooling his heels in Amman waiting for an immigration visa to Canada. And that’s where it all ended. I couldn’t ask Sadeq Zadeh or Nunu Behar for money; my stupidities could have destroyed them.
All my efforts went to naught. I started looking for a job but soon realized that I was too lazy for any work that required physical effort. The only job that really suited me was writing. One day with a friend I went to a concert by the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra at the Abbasid Palace overlooking the river. Men and women were dressed in their best clothes, and the place was bustling. It was a cosmopolitan crowd.
When my friend went to drink a cup of tea in the garden, I stood alone, leaning against a column and smoking. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Nunu Behar — a transformed Nunu wearing tight trousers and a long white chemise to her hips. She wore no makeup. I was a little concerned when she greeted me because I knew deep inside that Sadeq could never forgive me, and the documents that Hanna took from my apartment could well have destroyed him. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him that Hanna had stolen them; he’d think that I had sold them to him for a tidy sum. He might even think that I had plotted with Hanna against him. Then I heard Nunu tell me that Michel wanted to see me. I was surprised and asked, admiring her beautiful face, “Michel? Who is Michel?”
“You don’t know? I’ll give you the address. We’ll expect you tomorrow,” she said coquettishly, smiling in her seductive manner. She searched in her purse and gave me a visiting card with the address. “We have a job for you, better than the other one. This time you’ll make a lot of money.”
The garden emptied of people, and the concert resumed. My friend returned and suggested we go back in. She looked in amazement at Nunu, mistaking her for a man. Nunu said to her, “We’re old friends. I’ll leave you now. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late. Michel is expecting you.”
My friend asked me, “Who is he?” As the conductor raised the baton I replied, “I don’t know anymore.”
The following morning I went to the address listed on the card. It was in the Waziriya district. I crossed the British cemetery, entered Turkish Embassy Street, and came out right in front of an old house with a white fence and a brown-tiled roof. The garden was full of high trees and had a large iron gate. The servant led me into the living room. The place was tastefully furnished with a small piano and an aquarium. The walls were decorated with pastel Impressionist paintings, signed in English by Khuder Jerjis, an Iraqi painter. There were also two photographs, one of Sartre and one of Michel Foucault, one hand covering his mouth, the other on the back of an armchair.
“Welcome,” said Nunu and led me by the hand to a small table near the window overlooking the garden. She had undergone a total change. Her hair was cut very short, like a boy’s. She was wearing men’s trousers and a large blouse that hid her big breasts, and she smoked a cigar. She offered me one but I told her that I smoked a different kind. She asked why, so I said, “This is a strong cigar, fit for a strong man like you.” She laughed heartily then announced Michel’s arrival.
To my surprise, Michel turned out to be the same Ismail Hadoub or Sadeq Zadeh. He had shaved his head completely and wore gold-framed glasses that resembled Foucault’s. With his height, thin body, white shirt, shaven head, and foxy eyes he looked very much like the Foucault in the photograph on the wall. He greeted me in a philosophical manner and donned an inquisitive look, sat down, and placed one hand over his mouth and the other on the back of the armchair where Nunu was sitting. He was smiling while he looked me over. Nunu got down to business. “Michel has a huge project. You can make a lot of money from it and give Michel a chance to serve Arabic culture.” I asked, my voice slightly choking, “What is this project?”
“A book,” said Nunu.
Michel turned his shaven head in my direction; he looked like a cat considering a piece of red meat. He had lost his edginess, however, and spoke eloquently to impress me with his superior intellect. “I found Sartre useless for Arabic culture, as nihilism and nausea didn’t manage to solve our problems, but I read Michel Foucault and discovered that structuralism is the one approach that will work for us. I want to write a book that explains this idea. What do you think?”
I was overcome with an oppressive feeling. I asked him with little interest, “I don’t understand, who will write the book?”
“You,” he said hesitantly, blushing.
Nunu intervened, “You’ll get the money, and Michel will put his name on the book.”
“He will put Michel Foucault’s name on the cover?” I asked in an obviously sarcastic tone.
“No, he will use his new name, the Structuralist of Waziriya. After the death of the Existentialist of al-Sadriya, we have to invent a new philosopher for Baghdad, and this will be none other than the Structuralist of Waziriya,” Nunu clarified. The new, would-be philosopher continued sitting in the same manner as the Foucault who hung on the wall.
“Well, what is that book? What kind of book?” I asked.
He explained, “You know that Foucault wrote a book about the madness of the classical period and used it to denounce western culture. We’d like a similar book in which you would denounce Arabic culture. We’ll write a book about the madness of the Islamic period.”
Before I could utter a single word, Nunu spoke up, “This time you’ll get your money in installments.”
The philosopher added in an accent that resembled that of a notable Iraqi man, “We’ll give you the royalties we make from the book as well.”
Lighting a cigarette, I interjected, “Well, we’ll face a problem you may not have thought about.” Nunu rushed to light my cigarette.
“What’s that?” The philosopher asked.
“Who said that Islamic culture marginalizes madness? I don’t think it does. A mad person has a respectable place in society, and the proof is you.”
Both exploded in laughter, “Are you sure?” asked the philosopher, smiling.
“Do you have any doubt?” I asked.
Nunu chimed in, ready to light up another thick cigar, “Please, no mockery.”
The philosopher approved, “Don’t you see that Islamic philosophy did not marginalize madness and as a result fell victim to illogical thinking. Otherwise where in our culture could it have come from? It must have come to us from within our civilization, which did not marginalize madness as western culture did.”