I once said to Nancy, ‘I hate writers …’
‘What?’ she said in a slightly disapproving tone.
‘I hate their ironed clothes and clean-shaven faces. I hate their lazy, boring lives. I’ve always preferred the lives of reporters who confront life head-on and go to dangerous places.’
I still remember this statement that I made to Nancy that day, although she couldn’t work out why I felt like that. It might have been my love of travelling. I loved moving around and couldn’t stay in one spot for long. I loved going from place to place, seeing the variety and vitality of life itself. I was as passionate about life as writers are about gloves, shoes, money and hatred. Writers’ hatred smelt like tar. It was a smell exuded by the words of those whose souls had rusted away. They were prisoners in their stuffy rooms, in spite of the bustle of life on the streets, the delicious fragrance of a small flower on a table and the clean, ironed clothes they wore.
‘But journalism also attracts some ghastly writers,’ she said, ‘and their numbers are on the increase. There are even more of them than authors. They fall into many types. There are the fake journalists who watch a massacre in cold blood and talk as though they’re social reformers or sex therapists. There are others who write reports as though they’re in possession of absolute and irrefutable truths. There are those who try to solve ethnic problems in a mathematical manner, and those who view democracy in the light of the agendas of sheikhs and clerics. And then there’s a faction who might commit murder or go mad if a word of criticism is directed at them.’
Nancy’s voice on the phone was like a divine intervention, injecting a dose of tenderness into my miserable night. It was dawn, around four or five in the morning. I’d been shaken abruptly out of my dreams by the sound of the phone. It rang many times before I opened my eyes and fumbled for the receiver. Her sharp and confident tone startled me: ‘Don’t hang up …’
Her voice had an imploring tinge. ‘I need to have a word with you,’ she said and then stopped.
‘Nancy, I can’t work with that person. I can’t!’
‘Listen. You can’t go to Baghdad by yourself. It’s too dangerous for you.’
‘I’ve been there dozens of times.’
‘But the situation now is much worse …’
‘I’ve been through all kinds of situations, Nancy. I know exactly what it’s like.’
‘Don’t be so bloody smug.’
‘And what can this person do that I can’t?’
‘My dear, he has an unbelievable capacity to deal with armed groups. He sometimes takes on the task of smuggling journalists in and out of Baghdad. He has shady connections, everyone knows that, but he knows how to deal with the militias. He’s the one who leaks what they want the press to know. He sometimes passes militia recordings and information to the TV channels, like information about a foreigner who’s had his throat cut. In return, he enjoys privileges. You’ll be safer with him …’
‘Safer with a journalist who brings films of militias killing some reporter or hospital nurse? What do you mean?’
‘Yes, unfortunately, my friend, that’s what he does. But he’s kind and useful. I won’t let you go alone this time. The situation is much worse. You can’t. This isn’t just my opinion, but the agency’s as well.’
I was happy that she really cared about me. The more insistent I was, the more I sensed her anxiety.
I hung up. But for the remaining hours I couldn’t close my eyes. I stayed in this state of dismay and dejection until I saw the pale and hateful light of dawn in the Amman sky, coming through the curtains of the open window.
The following day, the three of us met at Fakhr el-Din restaurant. This was a swanky place located on Jabal Amman, designed like a huge palace with spacious gardens. The tables were situated in interconnecting rooms, and there was always a warm and intimate atmosphere. Faris sat on a black leather chair facing me. He was unexpectedly quiet, something I’d never witnessed before. He spoke gently and was extremely polite. He even raised his hands as if praying to the waiter to pour him some wine. His strange looks reminded me of a famous Hitchcock character, the detective in Rear Window.
At that particular moment, two explanations jarred in my head. On the one hand, Nancy might have been responsible for his state of calm. She might have convinced him to stop his silly babble. On the other hand, it was possible that my view of him had been wrong and based on a misconception. He might have been a very different man from the image he projected.
On that day, Faris seemed to me like a modern peasant responding to social challenges that he craved. He was not really a likable person, but he did display a kind of wild passion and an amazing love of food and drink. He was very tall, though not excessively. He wasn’t the kind of man who was immediately appealing. He would express his views rather slowly. And in this meeting he revealed his alter ego, that of Asaad Zaki.
‘What! You’re Asaad Zaki?’ I asked him, as though trying to arrest the slippery Asaad.
‘Yeah, I’m Asaad Zaki,’ he said proudly.
‘But Asaad lived in Brazil,’ I objected.
As soon as he’d uttered the name Asaad Zaki, my conflicting and hostile emotions subsided. In fact, they disappeared almost entirely. Why was that?
Jacqueline Mugharib had told me about Asaad Zaki when I saw his photograph in Kull al-Arab magazine. He was a thin young man with a squirrel-like face and sunken eyes, an excellent, intelligent reporter who had good connections with Latin American journalists. He lived, if I wasn’t mistaken, at Katania House, in the same room that was occupied later by the two sisters from Latakia. He stayed for a while in the house before leaving for Beirut, where he worked briefly as a journalist and then as a TV reporter. This was all I knew about him. Although I hadn’t met him in person, I’d already heard dozens of his news reports. Those who’d worked with him spoke highly of his talent and exceptional abilities — he was a cameraman, editor, commentator and analyst all at the same time, a whole crew in one person. Moreover, he was greatly admired for his courage and daring.
But how had he created this new image and new life for himself?
He said he’d fabricated the image, and the life too, in order to avoid falling prey to Iraqi intelligence. I soon discovered that the name Faris Hassan was also an invention and a fabrication. So what was his real name? His father’s name was Mahmoud Zaki. He’d worked for a long time as a lawyer. Being a highly cultured man, he’d been accused by the authorities of belonging to the Communist Party, a very serious charge at that time. He’d been arrested and imprisoned for more than a year as part of the notorious campaign against communist elements carried out by Saddam Hussein. During his time in detention, he’d been subjected to brutal torture. A short while after his release, he’d managed to escape with his family to Syria and from there to Warsaw.