‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt
“There is no palm tree that the wind hasn’t shaken.”
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid
Why did I feel that hatred toward him from the very first day? It seems that this person is more sinister than I thought. I believed he wouldn’t take advantage of me, but he slipped away like a seasoned snake.
Damn you, Dr. “Salman”, where do you find people like him?
I am the one who has been loyal to you for a long time, yet you never trusted me, despite all that I’ve done for you. You still remind me of the first time we met at Al-Shaher Gallery.
It’s true that I used to make frames for artwork, but before that, and still am, and will always be, a visual artist. I accepted a teaching job here as a drawing teacher because life in Egypt is tough for an aspiring painter. I didn’t have the money to rent a space for a studio I dreamed of. My room at my father’s house became cramped, especially when I found out my younger brother wanted to get married there. I ran away to Kuwait, dreaming of returning one day to the art scene in Egypt, a dream that has lasted for twenty-five years.
What can I say to you, Dr. “Salman”?
I’m the one who introduced you to the great artist at the Ministry of Culture, and now you two are thick as thieves. I managed to invite him to Kuwait through the institution, and I organized five exhibitions for him, where he sold millions, and your commission was the status that was always reserved for you in Egypt, where you would come as a dignitary. Even when I offered to buy an apartment in Cairo for you, you said:
“Mohyi , I own all of Egypt; why would I need an apartment there?”
I remember you telling the great man about your love for Gamal Abdel Nasser, as a staunch nationalist and Arabist, and the man didn’t question it. One day, he called me, saying he was preparing a surprise for you. When I met him later during a vacation in Cairo, at his villa overlooking the Nile, he called for “Nimr,” his dark-skinned servant, and whispered something to him.
Nimr disappeared and returned with a huge box… He opened it, and inside was a bust of Gamal Abdel Nasser, made of bronze by the artist “Gamal Al-Segini,” and said to me:
“This is a gift for Dr. Salman. Your job now is to make sure this rare statue reaches him in perfect condition.”
I remember giving the base of the statue to someone to take to Kuwait, and I traveled with the head of “Gamal Abdel Nasser,” for you to celebrate it, as if Nasser himself had returned to life again. You told me at that time:
“The Prince was the last person to see Nasser alive at Cairo Airport, and now I’m the first to see him revived here in Kuwait.”
You’ve forgotten that, or perhaps you’re pretending to forget, so you don’t feel any obligation toward me. So, when I told you I wanted the office next to yours, you responded:
“And who will watch over those rats?”
I tried to make you understand that I’m not a street cat, spying on your rats to relay information to you, even though you don’t respond, as if you enjoy this game of cat and mouse. I won’t deny that you gave me a raise of a hundred dinars, but you kept the special treatment for someone you had only known for a few days, named… “Ahmed Abdel Megid.”
Maybe you thought he would remain like the translator, your confidant, your secretary, and your literary expert. I doubt that.
When I called you to tell you about my meeting with him and my reservations about him, you laughed for a long time, and I imagined your image, your small belly shaking, your yellow teeth grinning maliciously, and you said to me:
“Mohyi , there’s no palm tree that the wind hasn’t shaken. I know Abdel Megid’s weakness, just like I knew the translator’s weakness. Here, no one escapes the sands of the desert, otherwise, the door is wide enough for the camel and all that it carries.”
I know how much you hate camels, and how angry you get when they associate the region with camels, but your hidden anger wasn’t aimed at “Ahmed Abdel Megid”; it was meant for me. How many times, when you were angry, did you tell me that? The door is wide enough for the camel and all that it carries!
But I remind you of what I told you earlier about my fear of “Mustafa Sanad.” That sly frog with his black glasses and an even blacker heart. You used to tell me that he was your gateway to all the researchers in Egypt you needed for the institution’s work. Then you showered him with favors, before I discovered that he was literally selling you out to others. The people he suggested to you for the annual seminar were nothing but half-researchers. His relationships with them were the golden key for their attendance.
Look at the guest list he proposed to you for three years:
“Raja’ Al-Minyaoui?” He’s the publisher who prints his books.
“Hind Al-Qudsi?” She’s the sister of his brother-in-law’s wife, who you were told works in television, though she only produced a single episode about him personally on an obscure program aired at 3 am on the second channel.
Even when you suggested honoring the great critic “Daniel Kheir,” after the writer “Fawz Al-Abdullah” nominated him, he told you that Kheir is Christian, and this would cause you great anger in a country where extremists control the National Assembly. He also said that the man was old and might not even be able to travel, or could die on the plane.
At that time, the writer came to me because she knew of our friendship that spans a quarter of a century. She told me how she always saw “Mustafa Sanad” at “Daniel Kheir’s” table in Alexandria, eating and drinking, never leaving his plate of nuts, and never bringing a gift to the session. His motto is to take only. When I came back to you about honoring him, you told me:
“Look, Mohyi … Ms. Fawz wants Daniel Kheir to attend because he’s the one who used to write her stories. I know more about her and him than you do. Focus on the artists, because Mustafa Sanad knows more about Egypt’s writers than you do, just as you know more about artists than he does.”
My fears will come true, Dr. “Salman,” one day, but by then, it will be too late, and regret will be of no use.
I called “Shankar” after I finished the call with you. “Shankar” knows he can’t deceive me. I asked him about “Ahmed Abdel Megid,” and he told me that he had taken over the translator’s device. I’m afraid that now he has everything the translator kept—his writings and secrets—if he was able to crack the computer and the files.
When I entered his room, I saw the device open, but I didn’t get the chance to look at its screen. You know, the translator was always careful to keep the screen facing only him, and no one would see it except the one sitting at his desk. I wish you had waited, Dr., until you returned before “Ahmed Abdel Megid” entered the translator’s room and took his papers.
I know you entered the room many times, but you never opened the computer. You’re an enemy of these new devices. Like you, I believe they have destroyed art, and new artists are more children of Photoshop than children of still life and live models.
I wasn’t the only one coveting the translator’s office. There was “Mustafa Sanad” himself, who pushed you even more than I did, but you refused. There was also the seasoned accountant, and you refused. You didn’t even respond to “Hamoud Al-Mudhefi’s” request, this Australian donkey, who had no valid reason to inherit the office except that he was Kuwaiti, and that gives him privileges others don’t have.
We are loyal to you, Dr. “Salman,” but you doubt all of us. Your slips of the tongue when you drink reveal that deadly suspicion. I believe you even doubt yourself. You use us all, like a paper napkin, before discarding us carelessly.
When they transferred the translator to Mubarak Al-Kabeer Hospital, you were in the building. I received the news and immediately relayed it to you, but you didn’t seem as disturbed as I expected. However, the tragic thing—at least for me—is that you didn’t visit him there, not even when you found out he was moved to Hadi Hospital, in intensive care. You even said to me:
“Fawz has money and doesn’t know how to spend it. The translator’s condition is hopeless. If she had left him in Mubarak Al-Kabeer, she could have saved the money to transport his body to his family. Fortunately, his daughter had traveled before his injury. God be with her. Maybe we can find a way to send her a few bucks as his end-of-service reward; she’ll surely need expenses over there.”
The problem is that the bureaucracy won’t finalize his papers for months. But as long as he is alive and being treated, he will continue to receive a salary for three months—unless I report his absence from work. I will wait, perhaps destiny will take its course.”
How cruel, Dr. “Salman.” This man was close to you, loving you. I could feel it in his dedication to work, and now you speak of him as though he were just a scrap car, ready to be discarded, or a sick horse that deserves a mercy shot to the head.
Few knew that the translator was transferred to Hadi Hospital, and those who did did not realize how he managed to afford treatment at a private hospital.
A handful of those who knew hinted that Dr. “Salman” might be the one paying for the translator’s treatment. But one day, “Mustafa Sanad” came to my office, lowered his head and voice, leaned in and whispered in my ear:
“You know, Mohyi , the whole story. It’s true; love is only for the first lover!”
“Mustafa Sanad” told me the story of the translator and the writer “Fawz Al-Abdallah”:
“I’ve only been here for four years, but I was a witness to the first seed. I was on vacation and went to visit the Alexandrian writer Daniel Khairat because I never missed his weekly gathering before traveling. The translator came, and Fawz Al-Abdallah was with us. And you know the translator… his tongue is sweet. He says big, vague things. And it seems he got involved with Fawz. He’s cunning, she’s a widow, beautiful, single, Kuwaiti, and wealthy. The spark must have been quick. Because just a few weeks after my return to Kuwait, Dr. Salman asked me for my opinion on the translator.
Honestly, I said good things. I know Dr. Salman distrusts even his shadow, and since he asked me, he’ll ask ten others. I started thinking about why he specifically asked about the translator, and the answer came to me like a silver platter. Since the translator arrived, Fawz’s feet started bringing her to the institution’s door and getting used to entering his personal office.
I connected the dots. When I asked him directly, he denied it. Even though he knew I had recommended him to Dr. Salman, what can you do with ingratitude?”
The only time I visited the translator in the ICU at Hadi Hospital, I caught a glimpse of “Fawz Al-Abdallah” leaving the elevator on her way out, and at that moment, I confirmed Mustafa Sanad’s whisper was true.
The institution has become a house of doubts, as long as it’s led by the greatest skeptic. Everyone is pretending with everyone else. I wished for the day when I could open the door angrily, to shout in Dr. “Salman’s” face the truth I’ve been hiding since I learned who he really was:
“I can’t stand this situation anymore. No more deceit. I want the freedom you stole from me when I started working under your management. This is no longer a bearable situation. The private sector’s sponsorship system is easier than my situation—the mix of working for the government and serving a sponsor.
You were dreaming, and I was the one making these dreams come true. Look at your collections. There’s not a name you haven’t taken a painting from. You’re increasing your portfolio of artworks, while I’m diminishing my trust among artists, until my credit is nearly zero. I’ll leave you, your institution, and your country…”
But as you’ve learned, Dr. “Salman,” I am more cowardly than you. I’ve waded into quicksand, reaching halfway between the shore of safety, with neither the years left to finish the journey nor the courage to swim back to the beginning. This sand will swallow me, as it swallowed those who came before me.
We will drown, raising our hands with a handful of dinars, but they will never be a lifeline.
These reports I am forced to tell about my colleagues come to me every night like bats stained with black ink. Words have turned into black stains, and you smile, rejoicing like a Roman watching gladiators in the Colosseum. You resemble those gathered around Guernica, contemplating the tragedy, dressed in fine clothes, talking about the dead with cold blood, some of them remembering nothing of Pablo Picasso except his famous baldness.
Every time I talked to you about Picasso, you’d say:
“But he was like a bull in the way he had sex!”
I know you preferred talking to “Munsif Anwar” because of his love for that crude language. He would tell you vulgar sexual jokes, and you would laugh loudly, as if he were tickling your testes. You’d repeat his latest jokes until he brought you something new, and you were fooled into thinking he was buying them especially for you. You believed him, because you believe only in nonsense.
“Munsif Anwar” himself is just a grotesque figure. A masochist to the core. He doesn’t just mock others; he even goes so far as to mock himself. He laughs when you ask him about his broken glass relationships with the stone of betrayal. I, and others, are witnesses to his suspicious silence when you talk about his first wife, but you may not know that he still loves her. You don’t know that sarcasm is a big mask that hides an even greater tragedy. Every woman he loved betrayed him, and he himself told us once in a moment of honesty:
“I came to Kuwait to forget. The water here doesn’t just make your hair fall; it makes memories fall down the drain of the years… We shouldn’t look too deeply into the sewers. The smell is enough.”
There’s no doubt he was referring to the gossip he heard about his romantic misfortunes. He wanted us to stop. He seemed to think that mocking him was a privilege only his sponsor could afford.
What have you done to us, Dr. “Salman”? We came to you sick, hoping for healing, and you leave us dead, mercilessly, and deny us even the decent shroud. (Continues)
Click here for Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3,
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About the Author
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid is a renowned Egyptian poet, journalist, novelist, travelogue writer and translator. He is author of around three dozen books and Editor-in-Chief of Silk Road Literature Series.
