Читать книгу Friendly Fire - Humphrey Davies - Страница 5

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THE FIRST FILM SHOW IN HISTORY took place in December 1895 in Paris, at the Indian Salon of the Grand Café, on the Rue des Capucins. One year later, the cinema arrived in Egypt. The first film was shown in Alexandria in November 1896 in a hall owned by an Italian named Dello Strologo. This was a unique event in the life of Egyptians and foreigners living in Egypt alike, and the press of the day was filled with enthusiastic commentary on the new invention. Even the extortionate prices charged for tickets did not put people off. Showings lasted about half an hour and were broken up into a number of separate episodes, none exceeding a few minutes in length and consisting for the most part of scenes from domestic life, on the streets, in forests, and at sea. Despite the naiveté of the subjects and the primitive filming techniques, people were enthralled by cinema, paid for their tickets, and hurried into the screening hall, where they sat on chairs in rows waiting for the magic moment when the lights were extinguished, everything went totally black, and the scenes began to appear on the screen. No doubt, the pleasure felt by the first viewers as they watched real life on the screen for the first time was greater by far than our enjoyment today of the art of the cinema, despite which, that exquisite pleasure brought with it at the time a curious problem. The audience, in that state of extreme excitement that would seize them as they followed the film, would often become so engrossed in its events that they would imagine that what they were seeing was indeed real. Thus, if the sea appeared to be rough with high waves, they would feel terrified, and no sooner did a fast-moving train appear on screen, puffing thick smoke, than many would let out cries of genuine panic and rush to exit the hall, fearing that the train would crush them. When these unfortunate events were repeated Dello Strologo instituted a new tradition: he would wait for the audience members in front of the hall and accompany them to the screen. Then, taking it in his fingers, he would say, “This screen is just a piece of cloth, not much different from a bed sheet. The images that you are going to see are reflected on the screen and do not originate within it. In a short while, you are going to see a speeding train. Remember, gentlemen, that this is only an image of a train, and can therefore do you no harm.”

When we read of these happenings today, more than a hundred years later, the panic of the audience appears bizarre and laughable. Nevertheless, to this day, some readers of literature continue, most unfortunately, to make the same confusion between imagination and reality, and this is a problem from which I, like many other novelists, have suffered greatly. In my novel The Yacoubian Building, I presented two characters, Abaskharon and Malak—two brothers from a poor Coptic background distinguished by their craftiness, eccentricity, and vivacity. In the course, however, of their bitter struggle for survival, they are by no means above lying and stealing. After publishing the novel, I was taken aback to find a Coptic friend of mine telling me reproachfully, “How dare you present such a debased image of the Coptic character?” My response (which he found quite unconvincing) was that I hadn’t been presenting the character of the Egyptian Copt in general but that of fictitious characters who happened to be Copts in just the same way that the novel teems with corrupt Muslim characters, from which fact it was quite impossible to infer that all Muslims are corrupt. Likewise, in my novel Chicago, I present a character called Shaymaa, a young woman who wears the headscarf, has come from the Egyptian countryside to Chicago to be a student, and whose stay in America has made her rethink her conservative upbringing. Given that she falls in love with a colleague, with whom a physical relationship gradually develops, and that the novel was published in installments in the newspaper al-Dustur, I would receive a weekly dose of insults and curses from readers of extreme religious views because, in their opinion, by presenting as a character a young woman who wore the headscarf and had abandoned her principles, I had harmed the image of all Muslim women who wear the headscarf and, consequently, of Islam itself.

I thought long about the question, “What could drive an educated, intelligent reader to consider the behavior of a fictitious character in a work of the imagination an attempt to harm the image of religion or of a section of society?” To be fair, the responsibility for this confusion should not be placed entirely on the shoulders of the reader. On the contrary, it is connected by fine threads to the nature of literature itself, for two reasons. The first of these is that a large part of the pleasure of reading may be attributed to the fact that it gives power to our imaginations. We take pleasure in imagining the events of the novel and its characters in ways that suit ourselves. These imaginings cannot be realized without the intervention of make-believe, meaning that we are incapable of taking pleasure in reading without deluding ourselves, fleetingly, that what we are reading is not made up but has actually happened. (It is because of this make-believe that the lights are turned off in theaters, whether of stage or screen.) It follows that the confusion that occurs in the minds of some between imagination and reality is an indicator of the artist’s excellence in the execution of his work, since he has succeeded in making the reader’s make-believe seem true, though, in this case, the make-believe is exaggerated and causes him to cease to distinguish between form and reality.

The second reason lies in the fact that literature is an art of life. The novel is a life on paper that resembles our daily lives, but which is more profound, significant, and beautiful. It follows that literature is not an isolated art. On the contrary, its matter is life itself and it intersects with the human sciences such as history, sociology, and ethnology. This intersection is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it provides the novelist with inexhaustible ammunition for his writing while on the other, negative, side, it drives some to read works of fiction as though they were studies in sociology, which is fundamentally mistaken. The writer of fiction is not a scholar but an artist impacted emotionally by characters from life, who then strives to present these in his works. These characters present us with human truth but do not necessarily represent social truth.

A work of fiction may be of benefit in that it gives us certain indications concerning a given society but it is incapable of presenting its essence, in the scientific meaning of the term. Sociology, with its field-based and theoretical studies, its statistics and its graphs, is capable of presenting the scientific essence of a given society but this is not the role of the novel or the poem. The character of a young, Egyptian, headscarf-wearing woman in a novel may give us an idea about the feelings and problems of some women who wear headscarves but certainly does not represent all the women who wear headscarves in Egypt. Anyone who wants to know the ‘truth’ about the phenomenon of the headscarf must consult the studies on the topic conducted by sociologists.

Why am I writing this?

Because this confusion between imagination and truth, between the work of fiction and the sociological study, was applied to my novella The Isam Abd el-Ati Papers, much in the manner of a curse, and led to its being banned for many long years. How did this come about?

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On my return from my studies in the United States at the end of the 1980s, I decided to dedicate all my efforts to becoming a writer, while at the same time I was obliged to work as a dentist to earn my living. As a result, my life came to be divided into two completely separate parts—the dignified, well-managed life of a respected dentist, and the life of a free man of letters, devoid of all social shackles and pre-existing rules. Each day, after finishing my medical work, I would throw myself into the discovery of life in its most authentic and exciting forms. I would roam strange places and get to know unusual characters, driven by an insatiable curiosity about and genuine need to understand people and learn from them. How many nights I spent in odd, raucous partying with characters who piqued my interest, following which I would be obliged to go by the house to take a shower and drink a quick cup of coffee before taking off again to start, without having slept, my work at the hospital. Day after day, I worked at forming my own group of amazing characters. I made friends with poor people and rich, retired politicians and bankrupt former princes, alcoholics, ex-convicts, fallen women, religious fanatics, con men, thugs, and gang leaders, all the time maintaining a precise and rigorous distance between the worlds of night and day. Sometimes, despite myself, problems would occur: at the end of one night when I had been drinking at a cheap bar downtown, a fierce quarrel erupted between two drunks, one of whom dragged the other out of the bar and began beating him in the street. With some other well-meaning customers, I rushed to break up the fight and bring about the required reconciliation. The whole scene was accompanied, needless to say, by a huge uproar, loud shouting, and slanderous insults. In no time we heard the sound of a window being opened in the building opposite, and a man, obviously aroused from sleep, appeared and started shouting angrily, threatening to call the police if we did not desist immediately from making such a drunken row. When I raised my head to look at him, I recognized him: it was one of my patients at the clinic. Certain he had seen me, I quietly stole away. A few days later I had an appointment to measure him for a set of false teeth. I received him normally. While I was working, he kept peering at me suspiciously. Finally, no longer able to contain himself, he said to me, “Excuse me, doctor. Do you sometimes spend the evenings in places downtown?” I was expecting the question, so I gave him an innocent smile and said in the accents of a professional liar, “I can’t go out in the evenings during the week as I have to wake up early to do my surgical procedures, as you know.”

The patient gave a sigh of relief and said, “That’s what I thought too. Not long ago, I saw someone who looked like you in the street at four in the morning, but I told myself it couldn’t possibly be you.”

Fortunately, however, such incidents didn’t occur often. One night, when on my fascinating nocturnal wanderings, I ran into Triple Mahmoud. A friend had introduced me to him and I had been captivated from the first moment by his extraordinary intelligence and the originality of his ideas. He was different from anybody else I had known. Even his name was unique, his father and grandfather for some reason favoring Mahmoud over any other name, which made his name Mahmoud Mahmoud Mahmoud. This had excited the mockery of his colleagues at school, where they named him Mahmoud Times Three, or Triple Mahmoud, and this name had stuck with him until even he came to use it. When I met him, Mahmoud was a little over forty and his life could be summed up as a series of determined but unsuccessful attempts to succeed in a variety of fields. At university he had studied—one after the other—engineering, fine arts, and cinema, only to abandon them all. When I asked him the reason, he replied, “I realized that the educational system in Egypt leads to the stifling of creativity in the student, and, in addition, to his being tortured psychologically.” When I looked dubious, he added by way of clarification that “the great artists and pioneers of cinema in Egypt created the cinema first, and only established the Institute of Cinema later, proving that they didn’t need the institute’s classes in order to create the cinema.”

This strange and eccentric logic, which was not without its validity, was an example of Mahmoud’s take on life, and most of his actions and thoughts were characterized by the same equal mix of eccentricity and original thinking. He was incapable of getting along with stupidity, bureaucracy, and social hypocrisy and was straightforward, frank, and sensitive to the highest degree to any slighting of his opinions or personal dignity—all characteristics designed to bring failure in their wake in the corrupt situation in which we live in Egypt. All the same, despite his rejection of the educational system, he was far from lazy. Once persuaded by an idea, he would exert honest and exceptional efforts to see it put into practice. He was also one of the most diligent readers I have met in my life, having educated himself so well that he had attained an encyclopedic knowledge of art, history, and literature. He was a gifted painter but his first exhibition, in Egypt, failed to attract the interest he had expected so decided to take his paintings to France and exhibit them there, telling his friends, “I shall take my art to those who understand art.” Someone asked him, “How can you go to France when you don’t know a word of French?” Staring at him with contempt, as though calling down curses on his stupidity, he said, “Am I going to France to talk?”

Needless to say, he failed in France, where, as he sat on a sidewalk on the banks of the Seine, he described his situation with a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness as that of “a hungry bankrupt, on whom and on whose paintings the heavy rain descends.”

I stayed friends with Mahmoud for a good while, and he had an impact on me. I was fond of him and felt very sad at the way in which his fate had become so circumscribed. A few years later, Mahmoud suffered a nervous breakdown; he was treated in clinics more than once. Then he fell into the slough of narcotics and this led to his early and sudden death at an age of less than fifty. My sorrow over Mahmoud was both personal and general. On the one hand, I sympathized with the trials of one blessed with authentic talent who harbors great hopes only to see them all dashed. On the other, I felt that in all fields Egypt was losing major talents and forces, such as Mahmoud, through tyranny and corruption. Had Mahmoud been born in a democracy, whose citizens had access to justice and nuturing, he would have had a different fate in both art and life. I thought about the tragedy of Mahmoud so much that one day I woke up and asked myself, “Why not write about him? How he would feel and how he would think, and how he would throw out those profound, mocking, intelligent comments that rest on the knife edge between wisdom and madness?” I assumed the character of Mahmoud as though I were an actor, and this was not particularly difficult to do as he had occupied my thoughts so much. The moment I placed a ream of paper in front of me and opened my pen, I set to and I wrote a number of pages at one sitting. I continued working enthusiastically, day after day, until the book was finished. Its protagonist, Isam Abd el-Ati—a frustrated, highly educated young man who suffers from the tyranny, corruption, and hypocrisy in Egyptian society and compares these with the false discourse of self-congratulation repeated by the government media about the greatness of the Egyptians and their millennia-old civilization—bears a close resemblance to Triple Mahmoud.

The novella, which is written in the first person, starts with the hero bitterly mocking the famous words of nationalist leader Mustafa Kamil, “If I weren’t Egyptian, I would want to be Egyptian,” after which follows a torrent of biting criticism directed at Egyptians. In truth, it never occurred to me while I was writing the book that it would cause me problems. I showed it to friends and all were enthusiastic in their praise and this encouraged me to take the manuscript to the General Egyptian Book Organization (GEBO) with the idea of submitting it for publication and completely confident that it would win their attention, and perhaps even a warm welcome. But there, in the Organization’s sumptuous building on the Corniche, Egypt’s corrupt cultural establishment dealt me my first shock. It turned out that it was the custom at the GEBO to divide authors into three categories. The first consisted of well-known authors, and these had their works published straightaway. The second consisted of authors who came with a recommendation from someone important in the state, and their works were published too, depending on the degree of influence of the person making the recommendation and without regard for the quality of the work or the author’s talent. The third category, which constituted the vast majority of authors, was made up of the obscure ones—authors who were not famous and came without recommendations. These had their works referred to reading committees. The strange thing was that the members of the reading committees were not professors of literature but ordinary employees of the Organization whose bosses had wanted to flatter or reward them and had therefore put them on the committees so that they could earn extra remuneration. In other words, an employee in the Finance Department, or Workers’ Affairs, would be the one to decide whether your novel deserved to be published. In fact, the Organization’s administration did not pay great attention to the reports of the reading committees, as the authors referred to them were obscurities who had no relationships with the officials. Hence the publication of their works was a matter of no interest to anyone at GEBO.

I will never forget the critical moment when I found myself sitting in front of the employee who constituted the reading committee. He had my book before him on the desk and was flipping through it. Suddenly he said to me, with frowning face and hostile tone, “I can’t possibly publish this book.”

“Why?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know the answer.”

“Please tell me yourself.”

“Because you insult Egypt.”

“I don’t insult Egypt.”

“You make fun of the leader Mustafa Kamil.”

“I don’t make fun of him. I love and respect Mustafa Kamil. The one who makes fun of Mustafa Kamil is Isam Abd el-Ati, the hero of the novella.”

“Do you want me to believe that you don’t agree with what he says even though you’re the one who wrote it?”

I started going through for the honorable member of the reading committee the difference between an article and a story, and how the article reflects the author’s opinion, while the story is a work of the imagination consisting of multiple characters whose opinions do not necessarily represent the author’s point of view.

The employee said nothing. Fired with enthusiasm for my case, I said, “If we follow your logic, the author would be a thief if he writes about thieves and a traitor to his country if he describes the character of a spy in his novel. That kind of logic demolishes the very foundation of literature.”

The official manifested a certain embarrassment. Then a crafty smile drew itself on his face and he said, “So you don’t agree with the hero’s opinion about Egypt?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Would you be willing to write a disclaimer?”

“A disclaimer?”

“That’s right. I’ll agree to publication if you write a disclaimer in your own handwriting condemning what the hero of the book says about Egypt and the Egyptians.”

“Very well.”

I got a piece of paper and a pen from the employee and wrote as follows, under the heading “Disclaimer”: “I, the author of this novella, declare that I do not agree at all with the opinions expressed by the hero, Isam Abd el-Ati. They represent the opposite of what I think about Egypt and the Egyptians.” Then I added as my own contribution, “I would like to affirm that the hero of this book is a crazy and mentally unbalanced person and he gets what he deserves at the end. I have written this disclaimer at the request of the reading committee at the General Egyptian Book Organization.”

The employee read the disclaimer carefully, sighed with satisfaction, then wrote down the permission to publish on the book and promised me that it would be published soon.

3

Why did I agree to write that ludicrous disclaimer? Because I wanted to publish my first book and because I calculated that it would cause a scandal that would reveal the corruption and ignorance at the General Egyptian Book Organization. That was why I added that I was writing the disclaimer at their request. Some weeks passed after this incident and I went once more to the Organization to ask them what was happening with the book. I found a different employee. When I told him what had happened, he took out the book’s file (which had not moved from the drawer in the intervening period). As soon as he opened it and read the disclaimer, his face took on an expression of panic. He questioned me and when I told him the story, he said, “No. That’s nonsense.”

Then he tore up the disclaimer in front of me and told me quietly, “Listen. We will publish this novella once you have taken out the first chapters. What’s your reaction?”

My reaction, of course, was to snatch up the manuscript from where it lay on the desk in front of him and leave the building. I have never been back. I was extremely depressed but after a while I pulled myself together and decided to publish the book at my own expense. As I’d completed a collection of short stories during the same period, I put the stories and the novella together in one book, printed just three hundred copies, and distributed these to critics and friends. The book met with an astonishingly warm welcome and was praised by many critics. This put me in a strange situation for a period—that of being a writer without readers. The critics praised my book in the newspapers, but anyone who read those articles and then went looking for the book would not be able to find it. Bad luck, in fact, continued to dog the work. After the great success of The Yacoubian Building, publishers started pressuring me to give them anything I’d written. I took The Isam Abd el-Ati Papers to a major publisher, who read it and said, “I like it very much, but frankly I can’t take on the consequences of publishing it. The opinions expressed in it could get me put in jail.” Indeed, a well-known critic, who hates me for personal reasons, wrote, without the slightest embarrassment or sense of guilt, a long article in which he deliberately confused me with the hero of the story, using this confusion as a base from which to accuse me of despising my country and of being infatuated with the West.

This is the history of the book that you are holding in your hands, which I wanted you to know before you start reading it. I am confident that the majority of readers will understand that literary characters always possess an existence independent of the writer. As for those who would hold me to account for the opinions of the hero and consider me responsible for them, I repeat to them, with respect, what Dello Strologo, the owner of the Italian cinema said one day to his audience: “This screen is just a piece of cloth, on which images are reflected. In a short while, you are going to see a speeding train…Remember, gentlemen, that this is only an image of a train, and can therefore do you no harm.”