Elias Khoury - White Masks

“Me?”

“You work in the archives!”

“But I told you I did. . In any case, it’s the best place to be. What do you think reporters do, anyhow? They only translate foreign news agency reports. That’s all reporters are, mere translators. A reporter these days isn’t a writer anymore, he’s just a machine. But I’m a writer, or at least I aspire to be one. . Did you know that some of the greatest writers were doctors? Chekhov, Yusef Idriss, Abdel-Salam al-’Ujeyli, to name only three! They were doctors and writers! That’s what I am going to be-a writer — and that’s why I’d much rather work in the archives. Listen, my friend. .”

“I’m listening, Dr. Archives!”

“I’m not joking, in the archives I’m in charge of all this humdrum stuff. Where do you think novelists get their material from, you don’t suppose they make it all up, do you? Not at all, nobody makes up anything! It’s all right there for the taking, either in press archives or directly out of people’s mouths! You’ll see, I’ll write a great novel yet. . it’s just that I’m. . exhausted… My nerves are frayed, this can’t go on. .”

And then, leaning across the table, his voice dropping to a whisper: “I’m in a fix. . a real fix. And I’m scared. They want me to marry her! Can you believe it? I can’t. . no. . I won’t marry her!”

I told him it seemed pretty simple to me, that if he was being blackmailed, he should pay them off and he’d be rid of them.

“What do you mean, pay them off? No, Sir, I’m not parting with a piaster!”

I had been aware that my friend was involved in “those kinds of relationships.” I knew he was having an affair with a girl, although he wouldn’t reveal her name or introduce her to me. He said she was ugly and stupid.

“All she reads are romance photo-strips! She comes over once a week, I sleep with her and then she leaves. She hardly says a word, nothing more than small talk. She’s just a slut!”

He’d laughed recounting how as a result of their relationship he had taken to reading cheap celebrity tabloids and also those photo-strips she got. They were really entertaining, he said, and certainly better than all those newspapers which never told you anything. I told him I was both impressed and intrigued by his relationship to this girl. Was it really possible to experience that kind of unadulterated passion, without words, without promises, without courtship? And then came the shocking realization that he was in way over his head.

“You don’t understand. . she’s only fifteen, she’s a schoolgirl. She comes over in the afternoon after school, between two and four, and all I pay is 400 lira. . It’s a fabulous deal! I am having this torrid, passionate liaison, of the sort you read about in romance novels, but without any of the commitment. And she’s as fresh as a rose. . it’s as simple as that. You know Nazeeh al-Tabesh?”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’? He’s that neighbor of ours, the one who runs the café.”

“Oh, him!”

“Yes, him. Well, he’s the one who brought her to me. He said: “Be good to her, Doctor, she’s very young, and she must be home by four.” And he took my money and left.

She just stood there in middle of the living room like someone lost. I shut the door and bolted it, and slid a tape of light Western music into the cassette player. She asked me if I wanted something to drink. Coffee, I told her. And she went straight to the kitchen, as if she already knew the house — she seemed to know where everything was. When she came back with the coffee and sat down beside me, I suddenly felt ashamed of myself. It was impossible, if I had married young she would have been the age of my daughter. But the devil was out and about, the very devil was in the house! So I took her and slept with her. She was so docile, and warm, she never said a word, and she was beautiful, beautiful. . like an actress or a model. . She closed her eyes, and I watched her, like that, with her eyes closed… She was warm as a loaf of bread… I couldn’t get enough of her. Then I heard her whisper that I should get up because she had to go home.

She got up from the bed, went into the bathroom and washed, then she put on her clothes and left. I tried to arrange another tryst. “No,” she said. “You have to ask Mr. Nazeeh.” When I asked her what her name was, she told me to choose a name for her.

“Najma,” I said.

“Najma,” she repeated. “That’s a pretty name.”

“That’s because you’re a star, my Najma. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Ask Mr. Nazeeh,” she replied.

So I started asking Nazeeh for her. She would come over and I would pay. I didn’t know anything about her family. I tried to find out once, but she cupped her little white hand over my mouth and silenced me.

“But why are you doing this?” I asked her. “You’re so young.”

“It’s better this way, and we’ll live well.”

“What about your parents? What do they think of this?” She covered my mouth again. “And what about love?” I asked. She threw her hands up in the air, smiling. And I led her to the bed.

Nazeeh al-Tabesh suggested I try someone else besides Najma. He had lots of girls, of every age and color. All I had to do was choose. But I told him I liked Najma.

“You’ve fallen for her, man,” he said, chuckling through his chipped teeth.

“God forbid! It’s just that she’s beautiful!”

And so Najma kept on coming to my place, and I paid. It took more than half my salary to keep her coming! But, honestly, how had Nazeeh al-Tabesh got hold of such a stunning bunch of girls? I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of the authorities, of… you know. . being caught.

“And what authorities would those be?” he replied. “We are the authorities, we ’re in charge,” he said. He explained he was under some sort of protection and that I was to be discreet.

And then the problems started. . bad, bad problems… I got this anonymous phone call at the paper. The guy said he was Najma’s brother. I played dumb, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he came to see me in person. He was this fortyish-something man, with deep-set eyes, telling me he knew everything and that Najma was his sister and I had to marry her.

That was ridiculous! How could Najma be his sister? Since Najma wasn’t Najma at all, it was just my name for her-I didn’t even know the girl’s name. Najma didn’t exist as Najma, and it was obvious that I had been the object of some sort of extortion racket — right from the get-go. I was about to tell him that he was lying, that Najma wasn’t Najma, but then I saw the gun bulging under his jacket, and I held my tongue. He said he’d give me five days, or else. .

“Or else you know what’ll happen, don’t you?” he added before leaving the room.

Then he started to call. He’s been phoning every day, both at home and at the office, “to remind me,” he says. And the five days are up tomorrow, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t marry her! That’s out of the question! Whom would I go to and ask for her hand anyway? To Nazeeh al-Tabesh?. . And start pimping for him, maybe? No, sir, I will not marry her. Let them kill me! This time tomorrow I’ll be dead. Tomorrow, they will kill me!

When I went to see Nazeeh al-Tabesh, he acted as if he didn’t know me, the bastard! He’s the one who got me into this mess! Can you imagine, pretending he didn’t know me or the girl. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said! And all that time, he was pocketing the money! He’d be waiting at my door for his 400 lira, like a panting dog… And now he knows nothing! I’m telling you, I won’t give in, I will not marry her. What can they be thinking of, me marrying a prostitute? I wouldn’t marry anyone — the very idea of marriage is abhorrent — and I certainly won’t marry a professional whore! Let them kill me! I’d rather die than marry her!