I WANT TO JUMP AHEAD for a moment and inform you, dear reader, what happened both while and after these stories were being told. I stayed in the old man’s house for five days and five nights, because that’s how long it took the septuagenarian to get through all the events and details. He was quite generous and hospitable, without any skin off of his nose. That’s an expression I stole from some literary work. We stayed up very late into the night, catching some sleep during the daytime and not waking up until mid-afternoon. There were particular aspects of the story that kept me there that whole time, until the story was finished. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself and give everything away before its time, but there’s no harm in saying that the butler tried to stop the old man from talking.
By the time I finally made it home, my family had given up hope of ever finding me. The office had been searching for me with the assistance of the police as well as the efforts of dozens of village leaders whom I know and who know me as well. After heading off in search of the Land Rover and the driver and Mr Tameem, the butler came back two hours later to inform us that he couldn’t find any trace of the car. I concluded that the two of them had managed to fix it somehow and continue on their way to the village of Abu al-Fida. Later they would tell me how they had waited there for me until morning, but when I didn’t come back they went to get help towing the car. Unfortunately, the old man’s house didn’t even have a telephone from which I could call the office or my house during the entire time I spent there. Because what the old man was telling me remained so captivating, I forgot all about calling the city, and it never once occurred to me that they might believe I’d got lost in the wilderness on that stormy and rainy night, and had been eaten by wolves, which led to my colleague being hauled in for questioning. He remained under suspicion even after I finally made it home in one piece.
The stories affected me so deeply that I felt as though they had become a part of my own life. My family felt the same way, especially my wife, who believed that something terrible must have happened to my mind because I decided to get out of the car in such frightening weather. But it was really nothing more than the fact that I was taken by those stories I’m about to narrate for you starting in the next chapter.
All that’s left for me to explain to you is the form of writing that you’ll find here. As I mentioned at the outset, I’m not accustomed to writing literary texts or such modes of expression. All I’ve ever been good at is writing accounting reports that are only of interest to my bosses at the Agricultural Bank. Am I even capable of writing as long a story as this one?
I was convinced that this story needed to live for ever in a book. As you know, the old man had reached a ripe old age and he had only a short time left. If it had ever occurred to him to write it down, he would have done so a long time ago and not allowed it to fester in his chest. That’s why I found myself facing this great and challenging task. How should this story, or these stories, be preserved? And who would have written them down, if I hadn’t done so?
One day I heard about this well-known poet who was very good at writing prose, and so I went to see him, to ask him to listen to me tell the story so that he could then write it down in his own words. After I had convinced him to hear part of the story, he told me to stop, begged off writing, and wished me well. Truth be told, he did the right thing, because there is something in this story that offends common decency, as they say, despite my own belief that nothing can offend common decency anymore, not these days. Once I made it home, my preoccupations and fears about dying and the story dying with me became more and more pronounced. That’s why I decided to write it down myself. And yet, dear reader, I found that I am not very good at writing stories, so please forgive me. Just yesterday I opened up a literary book and discovered that the author had introduced his book with a caveat for his reader that the book wasn’t complete, as perfection is a characteristic of the Creator. If professional writers offer their own excuses, then certainly I can write now and apologise later.
It remains for me to say that I tried going back to the old man’s house another time, but couldn’t find it again. I also tried once more in the summertime, relying on a compass and asking all the peasants and the shepherds where the house might be, but none of them could tell me anything. That was strange, of course, but I assure you that I actually showed up there on that stormy, rainswept night.
So here you have these stories. You’ll find me emerging from the frame of the story in order to speak with the old man, to discuss what I heard with him from time to time, or you may find me describing the old man and his butler and the house where I stayed for five days, or you may hear me talking about the shocking events that happened to me there. So, I beg your forgiveness… and God is behind every good intention.