As a matter of fact I was very pleased with this meeting, since making such a choice would be inescapable. And we might even agree on the same ending. If one of the versions were acceptable and then adopted, I wouldn’t mind choosing it. I took the documents and left the house.
That evening I began writing the first words of the biography of the existentialist Iraqi philosopher nicknamed the Sartre of al-Sadriya.
The Writing Journey
1
The big clock in al-Sadriya souk chimed seven, waking Abd al-Rahman from his sleep. The sound was mixed with the shouting of street merchants selling vegetables, poultry, and fresh fruits, while the butchers, bakers, and fighting beggars gathered at the entrance of the souk. He was feeling sick. He slowly got out of bed and looked at a photograph of Jean-Paul Sartre hanging on the wall facing him. It was a gray photograph in a beautiful golden frame hung above shelves holding a selection of philosophy books, prominent among them were the French editions of Sartre’s books, organized carefully by title and content—L’être et le néant, Le Mur, L’existentialisme est un humanisme, Les chemins de la liberté, Les mouches—and some volumes of the journal Les temps modernes.
Abd al-Rahman’s house was located at the far end of Dr. Simon Bahlawan Boulevard, overlooking the open section of the aluminum-roofed souk. It was an extremely tidy house, elegant and beautiful. The rugs were thick Kashani, the high walls were covered with Indian wood, and the comfortable chairs were encrusted with silver and precious stones. Paintings and small pictures hung on the walls in a harmonious and orderly fashion. The outside entrance was made of polished marble shaded by the branches of old eucalyptus trees.
Abd al-Rahman pushed aside the muslin curtains and peered through the large balcony that overlooked the souk and saw women selling radishes, vegetables, and fresh figs from large baskets wrapped in checkered black scarves that they carried on their heads. Their children, with shaven heads, were breastfeeding. Customers, men and women, were moving among piles of lemons and oranges in huge wooden bowls, baskets of onions, green peppers, apples, and boxes of pressed dates. At the far end of the souk there were cages of ducks, hens, and small birds piled atop one another. Sheep were jumping at the railing of a bushy garden, a mysterious looking thicket where pots of basil and flowers were covered in shade.
Abd al-Rahman got dressed in front of the long armoire mirror in his warm bedroom. He tied his slim blue tie and slipped on his square eyeglasses with black plastic frames. He compared his reflection to Sartre’s photograph hanging on the wall and was overwhelmed with sadness. What if I were one-eyed? The two of us would have looked alike! Abd al-Rahman had shaved his mustache and styled his hair like Sartre’s. His handsome oval face reflected all of Sartre’s features: a slim nose, slightly rounded cheeks, and a small mouth, all resulting in a similarity that fell short of being complete as long as he had both eyes. What would happen if he became one-eyed and turned into another Sartre? Abd al-Rahman felt at this moment the cruelty of existence; he thought that life was not fair. Had life been fair he, Abd al-Rahman, would have been born one-eyed, God would have made him so, like Jaseb, the vegetable seller of al-Sadriya souk. This illiterate, one-eyed man was not aware of his eye’s Sartrian genius, the philosophical greatness of his imperfect eye, and the place of this imperfect eye in the history of philosophy. Jaseb preferred his good eye to his imperfect eye, unaware of the commonness and vulgarity of his good eye. He was usually sad, ashamed of his physical defect, living in a world where most people had two eyes, a world where everybody sought perfection.
Abd al-Rahman was well aware of the value and greatness of being one-eyed, but he knew that a metaphysical condition like that achieved by the god of knowledge, Sartre, was unattainable. He lost all hope of ever reaching that condition and felt his existence incomplete and dull. The sight of Jaseb tortured him, and he quarreled with him whenever he saw him. He swore at him, threatened him, and at the top of his lungs shouted at him, “By God, if it were not for that one eye of yours arguing in your favor, I would have smashed your head with my shoe.”
Jaseb did not understand the philosopher’s position toward his one eye and considered his words a bitter mockery of his physical defect. Abd al-Rahman would swear angrily at him, saying, “Damn your father and your father’s father and Suhail Idris’s father too!” Jaseb had no idea who Suhail Idris was, but realized that the man was responsible for the state of madness and loss that overcame people at that time. Jaseb listened carefully to the comments made by Shaul, the Jew who plotted against Arab existentialism. He was the source of the insults that Jaseb threw at his enemy, Abd al-Rahman, when he stood with his cart close to Shaul’s shop in al-Sadriya souk.
Abd al-Rahman was haunted by his own binocular condition even while he was in Paris, the capital of existentialism, at the Sorbonne working toward his doctorate in existential philosophy in the late fifties. But he failed in his studies and returned home without a degree in French existentialism. Instead, like all Iraqis who seek knowledge overseas but return without a degree, he brought back a blonde French wife. Trying to console an Iraqi whose son returned home unsuccessful in his studies but lucky in love, Nouri al-Said commented to him, “Short of acquiring knowledge, at least marry someone from among the knowledgeable people.”
No one at that time knew that Abd al-Rahman had very good and sound reasons for marrying a Frenchwoman. He would not have married Germaine had she been an ordinary woman with ordinary qualities. He did not marry her simply because she was blonde. He married her — and this very few people knew— because she was Sartre’s compatriot.
Late one night Abd al-Rahman got lost in one of the dark alleys of Paris on his way home from a bout of drinking in a bar. He stood on a corner of the alley by a telephone pole in the pitch-black night as a cold wind whistled through the streets and a heavy fog settled softly over the city. He put his hands in his pockets, rolled up his coat collar, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and was trembling from cold, feeling the humidity seep through his shoes. He suddenly saw a young woman leaving a high-rise building. He stopped her to ask for directions home. She walked with him to his apartment.
Germaine was a modest young lady working as a babysitter for a weekly wage. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was fair skinned, blonde, and green-eyed. Abd al-Rahman was relieved when they reached the street that led to his apartment, and he asked her about her origins; it’s a common practice among Iraqis upon meeting a foreigner to inquire about his tribe.
She was from Paris, she said, then turned to leave. Her words were like a revelation to him, a gift falling from the sky. He caught up with her and wouldn’t let her go. “You must be an associate of Sartre’s, aren’t you?” he asked her, “Are you related to him?” The thin blonde girl was surprised. She had never heard the name Sartre. She shook her shoulders in astonishment as she looked at the face of the man sinking into his black coat between the white collar and the scarf.