Читать книгу The Automobile Club of Egypt - Alaa Al aswany - Страница 7

My wife finally understood that I needed some time on my own . . .

I left her the big car and the driver so that she would be able to get around with the kids. I drove the smaller car to our chalet on the north coast, a three-hour drive alone with my thoughts and the voice of Umm Kulthum streaming from the cassette deck. At the gate, the security man checked my papers. In winter the resort management stepped up their security to prevent burglaries. A cool, refreshing breeze blew in from the sea. The place was completely empty and had the air of a fairy-tale town whose inhabitants had fled. All the chalets were locked and the streets deserted except for the lampposts. I drove past the main square and then turned up the street leading to our chalet. A new Japanese car suddenly appeared, driven by a man in his fifties and with a beautiful woman somewhat younger in the passenger seat. As they overtook me, I looked over at them . . . they must be lovers, come to the resort to get away from prying eyes. That had to be it. For such blushing languor and loving serenity are not typical of married life. The door of the chalet squeaked as I opened it. I followed my wife’s instructions to the letter. I started by opening the windows, plugging in the fridge and removing the covers from the furniture. Then I took a hot shower and went into the bedroom to unpack and hang up my clothes. I prepared my seat in the sitting room next to the balcony. I telephoned to order food from the only place open in winter, and perhaps owing to the sea air wolfed down the food and nodded off. By the time I woke up, night had already fallen. I looked out from the balcony at the empty resort. It was dark except for the strip of lampposts. I felt a little strange and then a worry came to my mind:

I was now completely alone and hundreds of kilometers from Cairo. What if something were to happen? If I had a heart attack, for example, or if armed robbers set upon me, would I be able to cope with any of those situations we read about in the newspapers?

My death would make a sensational headline: “Well-Known Novelist Murdered in Mysterious Circumstances!” I made an effort to pull myself together. Three kilometers away there was a new, well-equipped hospital I could get to if I suddenly fell ill, and there was no chance of a burglary with the security having been heightened at all the entry gates and even by the sea. The guards, all local Arabs familiar with the coastal region, patrolled twenty-four hours a day. But what if the guards got themselves together and started burgling? I decided that only happens in cheap detective novels. I took another shower. That was how I usually got rid of unwanted thoughts or feelings. Whenever I stood under the tap and felt the hot water pouring over me, I could calm myself down and clear my mind. Thus refreshed, I made myself a cup of coffee and set to work.

I connected my laptop to the printer and loaded a whole ream of paper. I had already proofread the novel a few times, but I resolved to go through it a final time. It would take me three hours, and I would end up not changing a single word, perhaps a comma or a period here and there. I closed the file on the laptop and went out onto the balcony, lit a cigarette and stared out at the empty street. I knew it would be hard to bring myself to print out the novel, that I would put off that singular moment as long as I could, but then, with a click, my novel would be born; it would come out into the light, suddenly transformed from the hypothetical text composed in my imagination into a finished, tangible thing with a real and independent existence. The moment of clicking on the print button always gave rise to strange and powerful ambivalence— a combination of self-satisfaction, gloom and anxiety. Self-satisfaction for having finished writing the book. Gloom because taking my leave of the characters has the same effect on me as when a group of friends have to depart. And anxiety, perhaps because I am on the verge of delivering up into other people’s hands something that I treasure. It will be the same with my daughter— for as happy as I shall be at her wedding, the thought that I am no longer her everything, as I deliver her into another man’s hands, will rip me apart.

I got up to make another cup of coffee, but no sooner had I stepped into the kitchen than, lo, another surprise. I could hear footsteps. I could not believe my ears. I ignored the sound and busied myself with the coffee, but the sound was getting clearer and louder. I cocked my head to focus my hearing, and I was sure of it. I was not dreaming. They were the footsteps of more than one person. I was glued to the spot. No one knew I was here, so who could these people be, and what might they want? The footsteps came closer and closer, and then the doorbell rang. They were outside, standing in front of the door. There was nothing to do but deal with the situation. I quietly opened the kitchen drawers one after the other until I found a long sharp knife and then laid it on the shelf opposite the door, within easy reach. I turned on the outside lamp and looked through the peephole. I could see a man and a woman, but I could not make out their features in the weak light. I opened the door slowly, and before they could utter a word, I said, “Everything okay?”

The woman answered in a cheerful voice, “Good evening, sir.”

I kept looking at them. The man then spoke in the tone of someone addressing an old friend, “We are very sorry to bother you. But we have come to see you on a serious matter.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Actually, you know us very well.”

She smiled as she said this. I noted the confidence in her voice and responded, “Excuse me. I think there is some mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” she said, laughing. “You know us well.”

The situation became even more curious. The man smiled and said, “Don’t tell me you don’t remember seeing us before?”

I started to feel afraid. I was having an odd sense of déjà vu. The man and woman did in fact look familiar, as if I had seen and spoken to them before, as if my previous meeting with them had lain buried in my memory and then suddenly resurfaced. In a loud voice, I said, “I don’t have time for riddles. Who are you and what do you want?”

With disarming calm, the man answered, “Are you going to leave us standing at the door like this? Let us in and then we’ll speak.”

The strange thing is that I obliged. I stood aside and let them in as if I had suddenly lost control of my own actions. I could hear what I was saying and see what I was doing, as if I were another person. They came in slowly, walking around as if familiar with the place. They sat next to each other on the sofa, and I could finally see them in the light. The man was in his late twenties. Large but not flabby. Olive-skinned. Handsome. The woman was just over twenty, beautiful, winningly lithe of figure with fine facial features to match, glowing brown skin and beautiful green eyes. Her elegant outfit was straight out of the forties. The man was wearing a lightweight white sharkskin suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, a tightly knotted blue tie and spats. The woman was wearing a tailored blue outfit with a white collar and buttons and white hair clips and a straw hat on her plaited hair. They exuded a sort of vintage aura, as if they had just stepped out of an old photograph album or a black-and-white film. I had no idea what to think. I could not take in what was happening and thought that I must be hallucinating, no longer sure that the man and woman sitting in front of me were real.

The man opened a pack of red Lucky Strike cigarettes. He held one with two fingers and then tapped it on the back of his hand, before putting it in his mouth and lighting it with a small lighter. He took a deep drag and said, “I am Kamel Gaafar, and this is my sister, Saleha Gaafar.”

“You can’t be!”

He laughed and spoke slowly, “I know that this is a difficult turn of events for you to absorb, but it is true. I am Kamel Abdel Aziz Gaafar and this is my sister, Saleha.”

I stared at his face and, suddenly angry, I snapped, “Listen. I am not going to let you waste my time.”

“Please stay calm until I have explained everything to you.”

“I don’t want an explanation, thank you very much. I have work to do.”

The woman smiled and said, “But we are part of your work,” and the man added, “Actually, we are your work.”

I could not answer. A shiver went through me. I could feel my heart racing. I was sweating and thought I was going to lose consciousness. Almost sympathetically, the man gave a friendly smile and continued, “Sir, please believe me. I am Kamel Gaafar, and this is my sister, Saleha. God alone knows how much we like you. My sister and I are products of your imagination and have come to life. You dreamed us up for your novel. Your imagination led you to write down the details of our lives, and at a certain point as you outlined our characters, we came into being. We have moved from the realm of imagination into that of reality.”

I could not answer. I carried on looking at them. The woman laughed and said, “I can guess just how much this surprise has affected you, but this is the truth. We have come from the realm of your imagination to meet you.”

I remained silent, and the man carried on speaking amicably, “We have to thank you. It’s our good luck to be your characters. I can only admire your dedication to your art. You spend years writing a novel, and it is so rare to find novelists who put so much effort into it.”

“Thank you.”

I uttered those words sotto voce while absorbed with the thought that I was getting used to the strangeness of the situation. I looked at each of them in turn. Saleha smiled and spoke in her mellow voice, “Please don’t look at me as if I were one of the wonders of the world. You’re a great writer, and you know that there are many inexplicable extrasensory phenomena. You sweated blood and tears to create living characters. And now we are actually alive and in front of you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

In a loud voice, I said, “Let’s assume that you are speaking the truth, and even that you are Kamel and Saleha Gaafar; what do you want from me?”

Kamel smiled broadly, tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray and said, “Ah. You see, sir. We have come here in all seriousness to stop you from printing out the novel.”

“By what right?”

“The novel is really rather good, but it is lacking a few things.”

“Such as . . . ?”

As if by some prearranged plan, Saleha smiled and chimed in, “Some of our thoughts and feelings are absent from the novel.”

“I have expressed the thoughts and feelings of my characters quite well enough.”

“You have expressed them from your point of view.”

“Naturally. I’m the author.”

“Why don’t you let us speak for ourselves?”

“No one has the right to interfere with my work.”

Kamel remained silent for a few moments, as if he was looking for the right words, and then said gently, “Sir, please trust us. We know just how much effort you have made, but you can’t describe our thoughts and feelings by proxy.”

“That’s what all authors do.”

“But our case is different. We have come to life. It is our right to be able to speak for ourselves. We have got some important elements that need to be added to the novel.”

I rose from my seat and shouted forcefully, “Listen. It’s my novel. I wrote it from my imagination and experience. I will not allow anyone to add a single word that I haven’t written.”

Saleha also stood up and moved closer to me. I recognized that she was wearing “Nuit de Paris” perfume. She said, “I don’t understand why you are getting so upset, sir. We only want what is best for you. If the novel is published before we have a chance to add our thoughts and feelings, it will be a great loss.”

There was nothing left to say. I made up my mind, walked over and opened the door and told them, “If you don’t mind . . .”

“Are you asking us to leave?” cried Saleha, giving me a look of rebuke. Her green eyes were strangely affecting. “We haven’t done anything to deserve such heartless treatment.”

“Please leave the house immediately.”

Kamel got up first, followed by Saleha, who said, “You insist on humiliating us. All right. We’ll leave. But I want one thing from you.”

She opened her travel bag, took out a CD in a transparent cover and said, “This is a version of the novel in which we have recorded everything that happened in our lives.”

“For heaven’s sake, I am the one who wrote the novel!”

“You might have written it, but we are the ones who lived it.”

There was no point discussing the matter any more. I was almost at the end of my tether and on the point of doing something stupid. Saleha was standing there, smiling, her hand stretched out with the CD, but when she realized that I was not going to take it, she carefully set it down on the small table. They left, shutting the door gently behind them. I had no idea what to do. I lit a cigarette. Good Lord, what is going on, and who were these people? Were they con artists or simply mad? What were they up to, and how could they know the names of the characters in my unpublished novel, which no living creature apart from me had read? Could fictional characters really come to life? There is a whole science called parapsychology that seeks to explain otherwise inexplicable paranormal phenomena. The worry I’d had earlier resurfaced. I might be ill. Was I mentally disturbed and suffering from hallucinations? If I had been a drug user, I could have solved the matter with one drag of hashish. I had tried it once, but it left me feeling so dim-witted that I have avoided it ever since, and I have no idea how some authors manage to write at all while under the influence.

In my case, writing demands total concentration. I returned to my senses and realized that the two visitors must have been real and that, overwhelmed by the shock of it all, I had treated them badly. I should not have told them to leave. I should have made them stay until I had got to the bottom of things. I should have overcome my sense of amazement and listened to them. I opened the door and ran down the steps. Maybe I could catch up with them. I would apologize and bring them back to the chalet. I had to find out what was going on. They could not have gone far. I strode down the garden path, but when I reached the street, I became completely befuddled. Had they gone left or right? If I went the wrong way, I would lose them forever. I noticed one of the security guards, in his distinctive blue uniform, sitting on a wicker chair on the opposite pavement. I rushed over to him, and he stood up. I asked whether the man and woman who had just left my chalet had gone toward the sea or the desert road. To my utter astonishment, the guard said that he had not seen anyone.

I described them to him, but he reiterated that he had been sitting there for hours and had seen no one go in or come out of the chalet. I stopped trying to contradict him and started looking around, but I was only clutching at straws. I hurried off toward the sea, and then I returned and rushed off in the opposite direction, hoping that I would catch sight of them. But they had completely disappeared. I knew that my efforts were futile. I went back to the house, panting, and slowly walked up the steps, overcome by an unexpected anxiety. I must be sick. I was suffering from hallucinations. People were appearing before me whom no one else could see. I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead and almost hear my heart beating. It occurred to me that there was only one way to find out whether this was merely a vision or reality. I unlocked the door and flicked the switch on the wall, flooding the sitting room with light. I blinked hard and looked at the table. The CD was there. Exactly where Saleha had left it. I relaxed. With trembling fingers, I removed it from its cover and slid it into the laptop. It took a moment for the laptop to recognize it, and then I started to read.