The Committee Part 4

I sensed danger and tried to avoid answering.

I said nonchalantly, "In fact, I haven't yet come up with anything. What I meant to say, and perhaps I didn't express myself accurately, is that I'm on the brink of understanding the relationships between a number of miscellaneous phenomena."

"Such as?"

I thought a bit, then said, "The phenomena are many, innumerable, so that it is difficult to choose only one of them. Take, for example, the spread of the maladies of mental depression, s.e.xual impotence, apathy, religious fanaticism, the extinction of the Egyptian cigarette, or the return of Coca-Cola. Wherever you look you will find the phenomenon you want."

I smiled and added, "Indeed, the Doctor himself provides us with one of the most provocative and inexplicable phenomena. By that I mean the presence of many like him in each Arab nation, in spite of disparate social and political systems, characteristics, and laws."

He ignored my reference to the Doctor and shook his head scornfully, "And where is this alleged relationship between the phenomena?"

Cunningly, I answered, "I didn't say I'd discovered it. I'm only beginning my research."

Enunciating every syllable, he said emphatically, "I see you're chasing a mirage, imagining something that doesn't exist, for how does an ordinary study like the one you're doing lead up to all these matters?"

I banged the desktop and said, "This is what I con stantly keep repeating to myself to no avail ... What would you think about a cup of coffee?"

He was surprised at the change of subject, but quickly said, "I have no objection."

Then he looked at his watch and corrected himself, "Better if I don't. It's nearly dinnertime."

I got up and said brightly, "Unfortunately I wasn't expecting this visit, so I didn't prepare for it. Actually, I have enough rice, but as for the fridge ... Well, I believe there's at least half a chicken, but then again one has to fix some side dishes. Something like soup and some kind of meat or fish dish, another of vegetables, to say nothing of fruit and desert. Thus, you see, I have to go-I mean-we have to go to the market."

He said, propelling me toward the kitchen, "Don't bother. We'll make do with what you have on hand."

I shrugged my shoulders as if to absolve myself of responsibility, took the half chicken out of the freezer, and put it in some water to thaw. I lit a burner under a pan of water, cleaned the chaff out of the rice, and poured the hot water over it, reserving enough for the cup of coffee I so badly needed.

I washed the rice thoroughly in hot water and transferred it to another pan. I added b.u.t.ter, salt, and a little liquid, then put it back on the heat. Going back to the fridge, I took out tomatoes, cuc.u.mbers, and green pep pers, then opened the utensil drawer located under the burner to look for a clean knife. I only found a large, sharp butcher knife. I closed the drawer on it and took a couple of sips of coffee. My companion stood in the doorway of the kitchen, dividing his attention between keeping an eye on me and scanning the t.i.tles of the books arranged in rows running from the kitchen to the bathroom. I asked him to pour me some water so I could wash the paring knife.

As he poured, he indicated the nearest pile of books, "You like detective stories?"

"Definitely."

"But I see that you don't have even one work by Agatha Christie."

Drying the knife and hurriedly chopping the vegetables, I replied, "I only like certain kinds of detective stories: those based on action. The ones I like best have a hero who pursues criminals and gangsters and suffers every hardship in the process. Most of the time he protects the weak or defenseless from society and the dominant cla.s.ses."

"You're a real humanitarian," he said derisively.

Sipping my coffee, I said, "Not at all. Indeed, some people might think I'd regressed to adolescence. Others might consider it merely evidence of the child within every person. But I believe there's more to it than that. Our fascination with this kind of story expresses an inability to act when necessary and goes hand in hand with the natural, rightful desire of every person for evil to be punished and good to triumph."

After a moment, I continued, "Such stories don't require much mental effort from the reader, because they are built on action. However, this doesn't mean that Agatha Christie's stories are distinguished by a high intellectual level. From a flight of fancy, she creates simplistic mysteries not worth puzzling over when reality itself teems with true mysteries requiring all one's faculties."

Trying to get under my skin, he said, "Now we're getting back to discussing unsolved mysteries and strange phenomena. I'm beginning to wonder whether you're of sound mind."

I understood that he was pulling my leg, but I didn't rise to the bait, rather waved the knife in the direction of the =ap and said, "You're laughing at me. But what about the black tap water? Isn't that a true mystery?"

"And what else?" he said calmly.

I plunged ahead rashly, "There are many of them, if you like, take the Doctor's position on the problem of war and peace. In some short newspaper interviews, he portrayed war as the only means for recovery of usurped rights. Meanwhile, in other interviews he a.s.serted that peace was the only means."

He interrupted me to ask, "What's the inconsistency?"

"The inconsistency is that in the first case, when he speaks of war, you find him working energetically on projects that require, indeed require first and foremost, peace. In the second case, when he speaks of peace, you find him caught up in forming a corps of mercenaries to offer to whomever will pay the price."

I stopped to check the rice and turn down the burner. Then I rinsed the half chicken and readied a frying pan.

I continued, "If these aren't enough, there is a third mystery for you. The instructions on foreign medicines sold in our country prescribe a larger dosage than that prescribed for patients in the countries where they are manufactured. Why?"

I put two tablespoons of oil in the frying pan and slid the half chicken in, having stepped back a little so that the hot oil wouldn't spatter me.

Still at the height of enthusiasm, I said, "How do you account for the map hanging in the Israeli Knesset? Although the Israelis proclaim that it was their ancestors who built the pyramids located on the western bank of the Nile, this map shows Israel's proposed borders on the eastern bank."

He didn't bother to argue, being more interested in listening, as though giving me enough rope to hang myself. I noticed this suddenly, when a gleam of enjoyment appeared in one of his eyes. Putting the food on the table gave me the opportunity to change the subject.

Sitting down opposite him, I said, "Perhaps you noticed my collection of stories by the Belgian writer Georges Simenon. I am truly a devotee of him and his hero, Inspector Maigret. Although his stories are not `action oriented,' being closer to true mystery stories, they nevertheless surpa.s.s Agatha Christie's in that they are dis=inctive for their psychological depth and sociological dimension. They substantiate the fact that most of an ordinary man's contradictory att.i.tudes are stored up in the unconscious. At a certain point in this acc.u.mulation, something occurs, like the straw that broke the camel's back, and the man acts completely out of character with everything he has ever done. A peaceful man who has never committed a single violent act is capable of perpetrating the most heinous crime of premeditated murder."

He didn't comment, but gave himself up wholeheartedly to eating with his familiar appet.i.te. I began to watch him quietly. He clutched the drumstick firmly, carriec it to his mouth with a steady hand, then bit into it with gusto. Concentrating hard, he chewed until it was pulverized.

It occurred to me what was missing in my life-to be precise, this manner of eating, which springs from an interest in life, a lack of hesitation in meeting danger, and persistence in defeating it.

We finished eating. I cleared away the dishes and put them in the kitchen sink. We went along to the bathroom and washed up. After that, we holed up in the inner room, each settling into his place.

I lit a cigarette. No sooner had I taken two puffs than the familiar drowsiness I always feel after eating overcame me. I felt that my exertions had stretched me to my limits and that I was in dire need of a short nap.

"Wouldn't you like a bit of a rest? I usually sleep a little after dinner," I remarked.

He took his time answering. "It isn't my custom to sleep during the day. And as for you, I don't believe you're in a position to waste time sleeping."

I understood what he meant and turned my attention to the box of index cards. I began to leaf through them, although my burning eyes couldn't make out anything written on them.

He'd relaxed peacefully in his chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, on a point above my head. He became com pletely absorbed in his thoughts. It was as if he'd turned into a statue. ~ - - - -- i My head felt heavy, so I let it droop forward a little. I couldn't resist the temptation to close my eyes. Suddenly, he addressed me urgently, "Could you accompany me for a moment?"

I saw that he had stood up tensely. Startled, I left my seat. My heart began to pound. I followed him out. He went into the bathroom saying, "Please stay right there until I'm done."

He left the door open so he could see me. After dropping his pants, he settled onto the plastic seat. I turned my back and stood looking at the books arranged along the hall, most of which I had purchased in preparation for my first interview with the Committee. I had arranged them strictly by subject, grouping the economic and political studies together, including some excellent studies on foreign interests in the Arab world and a distinguished work on the military in third-world countries. The latter study included a brilliant chapter on the roots of the obviously s.a.d.i.s.tic behavior of thirdworld leaders, which may shed some light on the bloodthirstiness of Arab leaders.

I had reserved a corner for the most important works of serious literature. Many names were ranged there, from Shakespeare, Pushkin, and Cervantes to Garcia Marquez and Naguib Mahfouz.

In a prominent place I collected everything pertinent to the careers of several world figures, such as the prophet Muhammad, Abu Dharr al-Ghafari, Abu Sa'id al-Jinabi, Ibn Rushd, al-Ma'arri, Karl Marx, Freud, Lenin, Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, Taha Husayn, Madam Curie, Albert Schweitzer, Fucik, Castro, Guevarra, Lumumba, Ibn Baraka, Shohdi Attia, and Gamal Abd al-Na.s.ser, who set the standards for human endeavor by their ideas, experiences, and sacrifices.

A sharp metallic sound roused me from my contemplation of these names. In spite of myself, I turned around to see a strange sight: his pants bunched around his ankles and the rest of his body bare, Stubby was leaning over to pick up a big black revolver that had fallen to the floor.

He lifted the revolver with a quick movement and lodged it between his thighs, then pulled up his trousers. He stole a glance in my direction. But I had turned away from him just in time.

I understood-and my heart beat violently-the secret of that bulge I had previously noticed between his thighs. This meant that I hadn't been dreaming this morning when I imagined something firm b.u.mping my thigh. I almost smiled when I saw that out of fear I had reversed the well-known Freudian axiom in which a gun is a symbol for the p.e.n.i.s.

No sooner had the humor of the situation faded than a feeling of danger seized me again. This feeling stuck with me as we returned to the bedroom and took our places opposite each other.

Suddenly something occurred to me that made me hold my breath-what if I were to refuse?

What would he say if I revealed I wasn't willing to abandon my research or change the subject? What if I were determined to finish it, bringing it to its natural conclusion, and to accept whatever that would do to my chances with the Committee?

I found that this idea relieved me greatly. It was as though it lifted a great burden from my shoulders. I looked at him, considering the situation. It seemed to me that he grasped the drift of my thoughts, because he suddenly smiled derisively.

This smile unnerved me and made me wonder. Could this really be so simple? You are free to accept or refuse. If you refuse, he would say, "Fine. That's your business. I'll leave you now. I don't think we'll meet again. Farewell." Then you would accompany him to the front door saying, "Goodbye and good luck." And that would be the end of it.

Then why does he need the revolver?

For the first time, I fully realized the delicacy of my position. I lit a fresh cigarette and tried to control the trembling of my hand.

I closed my eyes and reviewed my past. The ideals I had believed in while growing up surfaced. I had gradually eliminated those that were clearly naive and unrealistic, although I had tried desperately not to give them up, and I had kept those that were important and valuable, plus those consistent with my nature and abilities. Indeed, feeling torn, I had struggled to reevaluate them every so often and to develop them to accommodate the continual changes in the modern world, avoiding as many pitfalls and labyrinths as possible, although throughout all this I was exposed to a great deal of harm and innumerable dangers.

I thought back over where my life had been heading before the Committee interviewed me and how I suffered humiliation at its "hand." However, I didn't forget that the a.s.signed research had given some meaning to my life after a long spell of hopelessness.

I opened my eyes to find him looking at me.

I laughed, hoping it would be infectious, and said in a voice I tried to keep normal, "How about a cup of coffee? I absolutely can't keep my eyes open."

"As you like."

We went to the kitchen. I looked at the small mirror hanging in the hall and saw that my eyes were bloodshot.

When we reached the kitchen I asked him, "Have you any objection to drinking Turkish coffee this time?"

He c.idn't reply; he was busy checking the contents of the "Hall Library" as I called it. I interpreted his last response as acceptance.

I took the medium-sized coffeepot from one of the shelves and asked him again, "How do you prefer yours?"

"Not too much sugar."

He picked up the closest book and began to turn its pages with one eye still on me. I couldn't find a small spoon on the drain board, so I opened the utensil drawer. My eyes went right to the butcher knife, that large, shiny blade with a tapered tip.

My -zeart leaped between my ribs. I got ahold of myself and took the spoon that I wanted, then closed the drawer.

I put the coffee and sugar in the pot, filled it with water, stirred the mixture well, and put it on the small burner I had lit.

I washed the spoon and dried it, then opened the drawer and set the spoon by the knife, looking at its sharp edge. Without taking my eyes off the knife, I pushed the drawer in slowly, deliberately leaving it ajar.

I stood in front of the coffeepot until it began to bubble and then foam up as it came to a boil. It surged higher until it almost overflowed the rim.

I quickly removed it from the heat and turned off the burner. I put two cups beside it.

For the first time in ages, I felt strength and purpose pervade my being.

F I V E.

This time when I arrived for my appointment, the Committee had already gathered. The old porter admitted me at once.

I found its members, naturally except for Stubby, seated behind a long table set crosswise in the hall. They were in the same order I had seen the previous time, with the decrepit old man who couldn't see or hear in the middle.

I noted the unmitigated atmosphere of mourning evidenced by the black ribbons on their jacket collars and the floral wreaths arranged at one side of the room, each wrapped with shiny black cloth. Also attached to each was a memorial placard with the name of the sender in prominent letters.

The members of the Committee began to eye me, though still examining the files in front of them. Mean while, curious, I read the names of the mourners. Right in front I discovered the names of the American president Carter and his wife, the first lady, his vice president, Walter Mondale, and his national security advisor, Brzezinski. I also saw the names of his predecessor, Kissinger, and several former American presidents such as Nixon and Ford, as well as of Rockefeller, Rothschild, MacNamara (president of the World Bank), the president of Coca-Cola, directors of international banks, presidents of companies that manufacture weapons, chewing gum, drugs, cigarettes, electronics, and petroleum, and in addition, the leaders of France, West Germany, England, Italy, Austria, the heads of Mercedes, Peugeot, Fiat, Bedford, Boeing, and the emperor of j.a.pan.

I easily found the names of the Israeli prime minister, Begin, and his ministers Dayan and Weizman; and the presidents of the military governments of Chile, Turkey, Pakistan, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Bolivia; and of Mubutu (the president of Zaire), and of Arab kings and presidents; members of the former shah of Iran's family; Mama Doc (the first lady of Haiti); the presidents of Communist China and Romania, of both North and South Korea, and the leaders of the Australian people.

The names of many luminaries from the Arab world were there: directors of leading political parties, senior officials in charge of security, information, defense, planning, and construction, the authorized agents of foreign companies, not to mention the more luminous "doctors," among them my well-known countryman.

When I finally turned my attention to the Committee members, I sensed that since the last time I had seen them they had undergone some change I couldn't put my finger on. This aroused my curiosity further. I looked them over, searching for some explanation. Their scowling faces weren't new to me. In spite of the dark gla.s.ses most of them wore, I recognized the same individuals I had met twice before.

Unable to think, for a third time I failed to count them. Nevertheless I was certain their number hadn't changed, except, of course, for Stubby. His place next to the old man was empty. It was swathed in black, like his picture, which hung on the wall as a reminder of his demise.

I solved the mystery only after looking at the old maid several times. When I noticed she was wearing a military uniform with red ribbons edged in gold, I finally realized what I had been oblivious to from the beginning.

Perhaps I was so slow to figure this out because I was accustomed to seeing three officers among the Committee members. This number had registered in my unconscious from the first moment. I was content with it and didn't pay attention to their ident.i.ties. To me, they all looked alike because of the uniforms.

Now I looked closely at the other officers to determine their s.e.x and ident.i.ties. I searched for the third until, with difficulty, I found him. Wearing civilian clothes had greatly altered his appearance.

This phenomenon really piqued my curiosity. Having been trained by the events of the last year to solve mysteries and riddles, my mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation.

Formerly, I had believed the Committee was a combination of civilians and officers. But, as I had seen today, the change in dress shook this belief to its foundations. It could mean only one of two things: the Committee consists entirely of officers, some of whom sometimes wear civilian clothes, or it consists of civilians, some of whom sometimes wear military uniforms.

In neither case was there any significance to the change. Actually, abandoning the uniforms could be considered a weakening of the military streak in the Committee. For a fleeting moment this hope was inviting, in view of the reputation soldiers have for cruelty and bloodthirstiness. That the old maid wore a uniform intensified this hope, since she, by virtue of her femininity (frustrated though it be) was more humane. On the contrary, I soon saw that for this very reason, it was a confirmation rather than a weakening of the military streak.

Using the Committee's language, the chairman snapped me out of my reverie when he said in a sonorous and mournful tone, "Let us begin today by pausing for five minutes to mourn the departed." The members pushed back their chairs and stood. I didn't move because I was already standing. The Committee does not allow anyone to sit in its presence.

I raised my eyes to the picture of the deceased hanging on the wall behind the chairman. I stared into his eyes, in sympathy with the Committee members. While the five minutes crawled by, I tried to concentrate on remembering the way his eyes had moved, each in its own direction, during his full life.

The chairman cleared his throat a number of times, as though he was charging a battery that powered his voice. Then he began to address his colleagues. Looking all the while at the floral wreaths, as though in actuality addressing their senders, he hurriedly said, "Your honors, respected members. This is one of those exceptional times when the Committee has convened to discuss a matter at variance with its normal experience. This is the third time we have gathered on account of the departed. If my memory serves, the first time was in the mid-50s, when we decided to admit him to the Committee. I still remember him as he was then, full of youth and vitality. The next time was the year before last, when we celebrated his winning the Golden Eagle Prize in recognition of his efforts to serve the Committee's goals.

"Truly, the departed played an important role in devising most of the impressive transformations that have taken place around us and in molding the form in which they materialized.

"The possibility of fulfilling the dreams of mankind and putting an end to all the dangers that threatened the human race is unfolding. They had arisen in the '50s, but were buried in the '60s and early '70s and due to our colleague's role are again springing up.

"Here we refer to that old dream of global unity or a United States of the Earth, in which all the inhabitants of the planet would be incorporated into a h.o.m.ogeneous state fostering prosperity and attempting to provide a better life.

"This underscores the depth of the loss afflicting us. The cause of civilization and progress has suffered, as well as the causes of socialism, peace, and democracy."

He paused a moment to give the others an opportunity to deduce the conclusion he was leading up to, then resumed, "In all our dealings we have been careful to remain disa.s.sociated from any direct connection to official bodies and executive authorities, in spite of the rumors that have clung to us and that on several occasions have had a basis in reality. These rumors cast doubt on the aforementioned precept, although, in truth, they confirmed it.

"Now we are faced with a similar situation whose seriousness forces us to attend to it. You well know its implicat=ons for the future.

"What compounds the delicacy of the situation is the anguish and distress you are now subjected to, through being directly confronted by the pair of hands stained with the blood of your comrade."

An angry muttering arose among the members, none of whom took their eyes off me even once. I found myself compelled to speak. In contrast to what I expected, my vcice came out shaky, using words other than those I had p-epared.

"I hope you can find it in your hearts to let me present my side. I am sure you will be so magnanimous and generous as to allow me to speak Arabic in order to better express myself. You may be sure that I share in the pain of your loss, for it is a loss to us all."