He took some books off the shelf and placed them on the long table that was littered with papers, newspapers, magazines, teacups and pens as well as a laptop and other miscellaneous objects. He spoke while shuffling envelopes and packages around as if looking for something, and talking all the while.
I felt greatly relieved on entering his office. For some unknown reason, I was happy. The sun’s rays were streaming through the open window and the beautiful sunny atmosphere contrasted sharply with my first visit back in the winter. The blinds had been drawn at that time and the outer window, in the shape of a concertina, had been closed. The room had been cold and damp in spite of the fireplace with its flickering blue flame. Today, however, spring was in full bloom and the windows were wide open, allowing the sun’s rays to filter gently into the room. The soft cool breeze blew gently and intermittently. From where we stood near the large table, the view was stunningly beautiful. There was a green open space dotted with red and yellow flowers, and rows of lush green trees whose huge trunks rose high into the air. As we stood in the office, we could see the winding street teeming with cars and pedestrians. Shops were open, indicating the vitality and vibrancy of the city. It was a very different impression from what we’d seen as we drove in from the airport.
Samir didn’t invite us to sit down, as if wanting us to enjoy the lovely view of the green landscape and the river in the background. He continued searching for various things that were scattered on the shelves. I had no idea what he was looking for or what he wanted to show me. Since our meeting the previous winter I’d learned to listen to his non-stop talk. He was chatting in a very animated way, as he had the first time when he’d urged me to visit Basra to write the piece on the situation of women in the south. This time, however, he urged me to travel to Tehran and Damascus to complete the report. For my part, I was all ears. He explained fairly precisely the importance of this investigation for the current situation in Iraq. He commented in detail on the stages of Kamal Medhat’s life, for he knew much more about him than I did, down to the smallest details, as though he’d decided that I should know everything in advance.
The brown envelope
I stood before him in complete silence and looked intently at his face without uttering a word. I had no immediate response to what he told me concerning this personality whom I found quite puzzling.
Samir suddenly turned around and took a brown envelope off the shelf. He held it in both hands and looked at me, saying that a certain newspaper would be very happy to publish extracts in its Sunday supplement from what I would write about this man. At this point, Boris entered the room and stood near Samir’s desk without looking at me. He spoke to Samir about some agency matter. When he’d finished, he suddenly fell silent, then turned to me smiling. ‘You’re ready for this assignment, aren’t you?’ he said.
Boris’s confident statement represented the launch of the job, which I thought would be neither easy nor simple, contrary to what Samir had said. The differences between the two men seemed fairly clear, at least to me. The old Russian journalist had a great deal of training and expertise. In fact, he was the oldest foreign reporter I’d ever known. He’d visited almost all the countries of the Middle East and had been present at all the political crises, the years of tension, the civil wars and military coups. He’d written a number of books on Iraq, Iran, Palestine and Egypt. He was fluent in Arabic, Turkish and Persian. I learned that he had worked initially as a Middle East political analyst at Novosti News Agency in the former Soviet Union. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, he’d moved to the United States and become one of the most active experts on Iraqi affairs in particular and the Middle East in general.
My gut feeling proved correct, especially after Samir placed the envelope in my hands.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, totally bewildered.
The envelope was heavy and smelled of the past. It was held together with a yellow elastic band. I brushed it with the palm of my hand but there was no dust on it.
He told me that the envelope was vital for my work, because it contained all the letters that Kamal Medhat had sent to his wife Farida Reuben over many decades. Boris had acquired the letters from the wife herself. I was to unseal the envelope and use the contents for my piece about him.
I took the envelope and went with Faris into his office.
Faris opened the windows, revealing exactly the same wonderful view that I’d seen from Samir’s window. I sat at Faris’s desk which was overlaid with a film of dust. There were papers, newspapers, pictures, envelopes, an ink bottle, a laptop and several other objects. I put the envelope on the desk and opened it. I was stunned by what I saw.
Inside the envelope were numerous photographs and letters written by Kamal Medhat to his wife Farida. It was clear that Farida had sent them to Boris, who in turn had given them to Samir, who had then passed them on to me in the hope that they might throw some light on Kamal Medhat’s character.
Faris, who was sitting near me, looked in my direction without asking about the envelope, the letters or the photographs. He made no comment, significant or otherwise. It was clear that he knew all about the envelope and its story from the start. He probably knew of the correspondence between Farida and Boris Naumkin, but showed no interest in the subject.
I spread out the photographs, letters and official documents on the desk in front of me and flipped through them quickly without stopping to read. As soon as I’d read a date or a couple of lines, I pushed it aside and picked up another. The handwriting seemed to show real pain. I realized that I had to go patiently and systematically through the whole lot, line by line, word by word. But I was too impatient. I wanted to devour everything at once and absorb it all from the first glance.
I got up and, to relieve the tension, began to pace to and fro in the room, leaving the letters and photographs spread out on the desk.
While I was doing this, Boris came in and handed me the letter that Mrs Farida Reuben had sent to the Agency’s manager, to which she had attached more letters and photographs. I began to read it, totally oblivious to Faris, who was sitting at the table drinking tea.
A letter to the manager of the Press Cooperation Agency in Iraq
Mr Boris Naumkin
It was with great sorrow that I learned from one of your reports about the sad fate of the Iraqi musician Kamal Medhat. I wish to inform you that the dead man’s real name is Yousef Sami Saleh, who was my husband. We emigrated to Israel from Baghdad after the birth of our son Meir. But my husband could not bear living away from his country, Iraq. So he escaped to Iran, where he stayed on. He used to write to me frequently from there until he married a Shia Muslim woman, Tahira al-Tabtabaei, as you can see from the letters I’m sending you. He then entered Iraq under the name of Haidar Salman Ali. He obviously stayed in Iraq during this whole period, as is clear from his letters. Our correspondence never stopped. Because he could not send letters directly from Iraq to Israel, he would send them via musicians living in Moscow and Prague. He told me in detail about the conditions of his life in Iraq and how he was deported to Iran as an Iranian national in 1980. His wife Tahira died on the journey. In a letter dated August of that year, he told me that he had solved the problem by going to Syria and from there to Iraq. On a trip to Europe, he sent me a letter informing me that he was now living in Baghdad and was married to a woman called Nadia al-Amiry, who had given him a son, Omar. He told me the details of how he’d got to know her and married her. He also asked me about his son Meir. I had told him earlier that Meir, like him, could not stand living in Israel, that he had emigrated to the United States and had joined the US Navy.