careful, there are only two acres left…' How beautiful the village was, with the garden smelling of orange blossom; a perfume as heady as musk behind the ears of fine women…
'What a suggestion!' someone was exclaiming.
'But it's a wonderful idea!' Samara replied eagerly. 'And this way we will really get to know each other; there's no room for pretenses!'
'But what do you mean by it?'
'I mean the primary concern of your lives!'
'Sounds like a probe to me!'
'If you have any doubts about me at all, then I should leave this minute!' Samara protested.
'Let's start with you, then,' Ahmad said cautiously. 'Tell us about your primary concern.'
She appeared not to be surprised by the question, and said simply, in a way that seemed very candid: 'Mine, at the moment, is that I try my hand at writing a play.'
'Plays are not written without a reason!' Mustafa said maliciously.
She took a leisurely puff at her cigarette, narrowing her eyes in thought, hesitating. Ali's smile betrayed his sympathy for her, and he said, to encourage her: 'The atmosphere here is clearly not conducive to anything except cynicism and triviality. I think you have a strong character, though — and you should stand firm!'
She lowered her eyes, as if she were contemplating the coals in the brazier. 'So be it,' she said. 'The truth is that I believe in being serious.'
There was a barrage of questions. Serious? Serious about everything? Could we not seriously believe in absurdity? And seriousness, moreover, implies that life has a meaning — but what is this meaning? Finally Ragab cried, 'You have a sorceress here before you! With one stroke of her pen she will turn farce into political theater!' He turned to Samara. 'But do you really believe in that?'
'I hope so.'
'Speak frankly. Tell me how you can. We would welcome this miracle of belief with all our hearts!'
They discussed the higher basis on which life's meaning had formerly rested. They agreed that this basis had now gone forever. What new foundation could there possibly be? Samara summed it up: 'The will to live!'
They exchanged their thoughts. The will to live was something sure and solid, but it could lead to absurdity. Indeed, what was to stop it? Was the will to live alone sufficient to create heroes? For the hero was someone who sacrificed his will to live in the service of some other thing, loftier in his eyes than life; how, according to her theory, could that higher glory ever be reached?
Samara spoke again. 'I mean that in our search we should turn toward the will to live itself, not any one foundation in which it is impossible to believe. The will to live is what makes us cleave to real life at times when, if it were left to our intellects alone, we would commit suicide. This will itself is the sure foundation granted to us, so that by it we might rise above ourselves…'
Mustafa spoke. 'You've turned Marx upside down,' he said. 'Not 'from above to below,' but 'from below to above'!'
'There is no philosophy there,' she protested. 'But this is my primary concern. Now it's your turn.'
Curses on you all. There is no worse an enemy to the water pipe's pleasures than thinking. Twenty pipes, and all for nothing, or nearly nothing. A date palm seems to be the firmest believer of all. The perseverance of the midges is also worthy of admiration. But if the plaints of Omar Khayyam lose their ardor, then say goodbye to ease. All these mockers and scoffers are merely complex atomic formations. And each of these individuals is breaking down into a certain number of atoms. Losing their form and color… changing entirely… until there is nothing left of them that can be seen with the naked eye… until there is nothing there except voices.
The voice, then, of Ragab al-Qadi: 'My primary concern is art.'
And the voice of Mustafa Rashid: 'Actually, his primary concern is love — or, to be more exact, women.'
Samara's voice, doubtful: 'Is that really what concerns you?'
'No more and no less.'
Her voice had prompted Ali's voice to reply. He said: 'My primary concern is artistic criticism!'
The mocking voice of Mustafa: 'Nonsense; his real concern is to dream — dreaming itself, that is, regardless of the contents of the dream. Criticism? He criticizes simply to flatter friends or destroy enemies — and to squeeze a certain amount of money out of it as well!'
'But then how can he want the dream to come true?'
'That does not matter to him at all. But when the pipe is generous in its bliss, he scratches his formidable nose and says: 'Contemplate, my children, the distance man has traveled, from the caves to outer space! Bastards all, you will soon sport among the stars like gods.'
The inquiry turned to Ahmad. His voice spoke hesitantly. 'My first concern is… to keep up my reputation.'
Mustafa's voice, interrupting again: 'This man is in a different situation altogether. He's a Muslim, to begin with; he prays and fasts, and he is a model husband whose attitude toward the women here is one of complete indifference. Perhaps his primary concern is that his daughter gets married!'
Khalid's voice: 'He is the only one of us who will live after death.'
Anis became tired of his clamorous solitude and called Amm Abduh to change the water in the pipe. The man seemed, while he was present, to be the only thing existing in this vocal wilderness. One voice said that his concern was to remember; and another that it was to forget. And Anis himself wondered why the Tartar hordes had stopped on the border…
'I have no concerns!' cried Layla's voice.
To which the voice of Khalid replied: 'Or rather, I am her first concern!'
Saniya's voice said: 'Mine is that my husband divorces me — and that Ali divorces both his wives…'
Samara's voice tried to draw out Sana's voice, but it did not utter a word. Ragab's voice said: 'Tell me your primary concern!'
And Sana's voice said: 'No'; but the voice of a kiss whispered, indistinct and blurred. As for the voice of Khalid, it said: 'My first concern is… anarchy!'
Laughter rang out. Then a silence reigned, like an interval for rest, and the void had complete dominion.
Amm Abduh approached. 'A woman has just fallen from the eighth floor of the Suya Company building,' he said.
Anis regarded him anxiously. 'How did you find out?'
'I hurried over when I heard the scream. It was a shocking sight.'
Ali's voice: 'Luckily we're far from the street — we can't hear anything.'
'Did the woman commit suicide or was she murdered?'
'God only knows,' replied the old man. Then he hurried out to the street.
Ali suggested going out to see what was going on, but this was rejected by the company. The shock of the news had returned the atoms to their original formation, and people were themselves again. Anis was glad that he had escaped from his wearisome solitude. The company of madmen was better than being alone. It was Mustafa's turn to speak now, but Ali wanted to avenge himself first.
'He's a lawyer,' Ali began, 'who lost some of his best clients when the constituencies were reorganized, and who lives now off the misdeeds of ordinary people. His first concern, after getting an advance on his fees, is the Absolute; and this even though he is ruthless when it comes to getting the balance of the fees!'
'So you're devout!' said Samara.
'God forbid!'
'But what is the Absolute?'
It was Ali who replied. 'Sometimes he looks at the sky, and sometimes he retreats into his shell — and sometimes he is sure that he is close to it, but there are no words to describe it. Khalid has advised him to go to a gland specialist.'
'But he is one of the serious people at any rate?'
'Not at all. His Absolute is absurd.'
'Could you describe him as a philosopher?'
'In the modern sense of philosophy, if you wished; that is, the philosophy that combines theft and imprisonment and sexual perversion a la Jean Genet.'
Anis recalled his last meeting with Nero. No, he was not the monster people said he was. He had said that
