By the time Khafaji arrives at his building, the sun is low in the sky. The guards in the foyer are sipping their tea as he walks in. They smile and half-stand as Khafaji goes by. “No, men, don’t get up,” Khafaji calls out and waves to them. The electricity comes back when he is halfway up the stairs.
It doesn’t take long for Khafaji to gather his things. For the last week, he knew he was leaving. Only today did he learn the destination. He takes the uniform out of the box, and realizes that the files are missing. He packs two changes of clothes – underwear, socks, undershirts, dress shirts, trousers, a sweater, a jacket. After that, there’s no room for anything else. He looks around, wondering what else to take. He finds an old photo album. Later on he will regret that it only contains pictures of Suheir and Uday and Mrouj, but none of his parents or sisters or brother. He walks over to the bookshelf and agonizes over what to take. One book of poetry, but he can’t decide which. His fingers finally pull al-Maarri from the shelf. Making the Unnecessary Necessary.
Khafaji hears a man cough behind him and then a voice. “Brother Muhsin, Peace upon you.”
He turns to see Ali, who is standing at the open door. “Upon you peace, Ali. What can I do for you?”
“I hope I’m not bothering you, Brother Muhsin.”
“Not at all.” Khafaji looks at his watch and waves him into the room. Ali takes two steps forward. Khafaji asks, “Have you come for the keys?”
Ali shakes his head, but says nothing. Khafaji looks at him again and adds, “You’ll find them over there next to the door. On the table, right there.” Khafaji points, but Ali ignores him.
Khafaji goes back to looking through the books on the shelf. Without turning around he calls out, “I hope you don’t mind, but I can’t offer you anything. I’m in a hurry. I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Muhsin. You’re not leaving.”
“Pardon?”
“Muhsin, I mean, we’ve reconsidered.”
Khafaji sits down, and puts his head in his hands. He stares at the floor and says nothing.
“Look, you do not have to leave. I hope this is good news. But I can understand if you’re not in a mood to thank me. In any case, I hope this makes things right. We can’t force you to stay, but I hope you do.”
Without a word, Khafaji gets up, walks back into the bedroom and picks up the suitcase. He drags it down the hall and past the living room. He sets it down next to the front door. Only then does he come back and extend a hand in Ali’s direction.
“Thanks for telling me, Ali. And yes, it is good news to hear that I’ll be allowed to stay in my own home. Should I bother asking why you changed your mind?”
“Brother Muhsin, let me know if there’s anything else I can do. We are neighbors.”
Khafaji looks at him. He stares behind Ali at the bookcases. He sees the empty bookshelf, then says, “There is one thing you can do for me, Ali. I don’t care about the couch. I don’t care about the chairs or the pots or the pans. You can have them. But I want my poetry back. All of it. If you can do that, then you can be my neighbor.”
Ali nods and puts his fingers together.
“Oh. And another thing. I’m going to be gone for a little while, but I am coming back. Can I count on you to keep an eye on my place while I’m gone?”
Ali smiles. “Sure,” he says as he gently takes the suitcase from Khafaji’s hand, and then carries it downstairs. In the foyer, the two men shake hands. Ali tells one of the guards to help Khafaji with the suitcase. The man carries it all the way to Abu Nuwas Street.