Ahmed the Philosopher: Thirty-Four Short Plays for Children and Everyone Else

Madame Pompestan is seated behind her deputay’s desk, with an enormous telephone that rings frequently. Ahmed enters, holding a sort of endless official form, a scroll like the legal documents in classic comedy. He looks extremely serious. Madame Pompestan is in the middle of a telephone call.

MADAME POMPESTAN (into the telephone). Well, then, just tell him to go to hell in a washing machine … What? He doesn’t have a washing-machine? … Oh, that’s a good one. What? … I don’t like people who are all washed up? Tell him that the Party for the Unification and Rehabilitation of France will wash his socks when they’re blue, white, and red. All right, enough. (She hangs up.) Ahmed, Ahmed the philosopher! You again!

AHMED. The association of Algerians born in France for forty-seven years now has assigned me to conduct a survey of the nation’s elites. So, naturally …

MADAME POMPESTAN (answering). Excuse me. Hello? … What, the tax bonus again? You’re really starting to get on my nerves. Talk to Edouard about that … What? He doesn’t understand anything about it? So explain to him, darling. My husband catches on quickly, if you explain things to him for a long time. I’m busy with a survey right now, so the tax bonus … Thirty million! Listen now, Robert darling, if they start looking into the books of the loansharks, I’ll kill you. You’re on your own. So long. (She hangs up.) The tax bonus! It’s obscene, that expression.

AHMED. Forgive me. No, what I have here is a questionnaire drawn up for our association by the best sociologists. The sociologists who grab society right between the polls. There are one hundred fourteen questions.

MADAME POMPESTAN. One hundred fourteen? My word, you must think all I do is worry about the Algerians born in France! You know, there are a few other voters out there too! If every lobby asked me one hundred fourteen questions, I might as well just pack it in! (The telephone rings.) Hello? … I told you to get me out of that pain-in-the-ass photo op by saying I was sick! … No, but shaking hands with seventy pétanque players and having to drink their disgusting pastis, thanks, but no thanks…

… I’ve already told you: the subsidy for the dog toilets has to be tripled for the entire district. This is a crucial political point … No and no. Look, if it’s about the budgetary hanky-panky and the shady deals with Casimir, you go through Robert. And don’t put anything in writing … What’s that? You’re such a dope! The judges are collecting even cigar butts to see if we’re trafficking with Cuba, so you’ll go see Casimir in Robert’s car. See you later. (She hangs up.) Pick your questions. Take the two or three most important ones. I maximize my workplace productivity by cutting down on wasted time.

AHMED. I’m still going to ask my first question. (Reading from his vast scroll.) Here. Question number one from the first subsection of the capital A area of the preamble to the questionnaire for the elites on their view on the social complexity of postindustrial macrosystems. Here’s the question: “If three qualified people, let’s call them Bernard, Lucie, and Ibrahim, meet, do they form a triangle?”

AHMED. Because Bernard, Lucie, and Ibrahim don’t form a triangle if they’re in a row, for example, if they’re standing in line one behind the other for a private interview for an executive position.

MADAME POMPESTAN. Hello? … Oh, what a pain in the ass! What bullshit! … Where? … Well, as far as that’s concerned, Robert darling, it’s your job to come up with a cover … What? Casimir spilled the beans? But how many beans, exactly? … That’s a lot of beans, all right … If you take those beans away from the rest of the beans, all you’ve got left is crumbs … Leave him the crumbs? … Some bean crumbs, that’s not a helluva lot … Call me back later, I’m working on legal immigration. Talk to you soon. (She hangs up.) To get back to your stupid questionnaire, I must tell you, Monsieur Ahmed, that it isn’t with geometry that the elites of this country are selected.

AHMED. Not so sure, not so sure! The Greek philosopher Plato said that to educate the kings of the city, good kings, they should study geometry for many years. And even solid geometry. So put that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway, I’ll mark that as a negative and I’ll pick, I’ll pick … the ninety-fifth question, yes. A question from subsection eighteen of part four of the segment entitled “Factorial Analysis of Cultural Superiorities and Distinctions in the Median Zones.” The question is:

MADAME POMPESTAN (nervous). Hello? … But of course, my dear … and so how … the stereoscopic scanner is accounted for in the budget, I assure you … In your villa? But with pleasure, with infinite pleasure … Without Edouard, of course, he wouldn’t be comfortable…Of course, of course, our refined, subtle style of conversation … Don’t forget the blurb in the magazine for surgeons in private practice … The pleasure is all mine.

AHMED. The question is as follows (he reads as if with difficulty): “If you see a dog get run over in the street, do you think you’d prefer that it were a cat?” It’s a difficult question, in my opinion.

MADAME POMPESTAN. And these are your so-called questions for the elites! I’d hate to see the questions for the lower classes! My dear Ahmed, if I see a dog get run over, I don’t think about cats or parrots. I think about the voter who’s the owner of the dog and who’s going to write to me saying that the streets of Sarges-les-Corneilles are filled with danger and insecurity and that it’s my fault. That’s what one thinks about when a dog goes under a bus, if one is a deputay who knows her turf.

MADAME POMPESTAN. What is this obsession of yours? As if I gave a damn about sociology, anyway! Triangles, cats, nothing makes sense in this mishmash of yours!

AHMED. Someone who’s truly distinguished prefers cats, especially Siamese cats and angoras, to German shepherds like Pisspot, the dog that belongs to my friend Moustache who’s from the lower classes, as you put it. Perhaps your political career has undermined your original distinction? Anyway, so I’ll write down …

MADAME POMPESTAN. Hello? … (very upset) Not him too! Casimir spilled all the beans? … Just imagining Robert in the slammer, it’s incredible … What? Say it again … So he obviously spilled the beans too … You said it: there are no more beans to spill … Look, burn all the bridges, blow them up with dynamite if necessary … The judge is Gaston Guillotine? Great! Our heads are going to roll … If Robert spilled the last beans, it’s heads they win, tails we lose … OK, OK, no dynamite, fine, but what about the bridges? … There are no bridges left? … But how are we going to get out of this, then? … You’re really starting to make me crazy, you know that? … Casimir testified against Robert? Egad! I smell trouble … I’m surrounded by squealers.

MADAME POMPESTAN (still on the telephone). You’re getting on my tit! … No, not you, Stéphane-Louis, I’m answering a questionnaire on immigration and social insecurity … What? “You’re getting on my tit” is a strange answer? But … Yes, yes, we’re not secure ourselves. Get in touch with my lawyer, Jean-Claude Pâté de Foie Gras. I’ll call you back. (She hangs up.) OK, let’s get this over with. They think they can nail me just like that, do they? Well, they picked the wrong dame to try to push around. By the time I get through with them, they’ll be picking up their teeth from the sidewalk!

AHMED. Question one hundred forty, end of part five of the additional protocol concerning extreme situations, let’s see. Question. This is a long question: “You’re at home, on the ground floor, your window open onto the summer night. It’s July 14. Suddenly, a kid comes running by in front of the luminous square of your casements glowing in the night. He tosses a firecracker, which blows up right in front of you. Do you think that it’s normal to celebrate the Republic? Or do you jump out the window yelling at the author of this attack?” That’s really a tricky psychosociological question.

MADAME POMPESTAN (distracted, drumming her fingers on her desk). The Republic … the laws of the Republic … I’ve sacrificed myself, thrown myself into republican abnegation. I don’t know these gentlemen named Casimir and Robert … The firecracker leaves me cold, sir, day and night all I think of is the Republic. If I acted as …

MADAME POMPESTAN (more dejected than furious). Again … All this sacrifice, only to be marked down as a negative … The Republic is calling me … what did I do, again?

AHMED. It says right here: a person who belongs to the elite must think about the respect owed to it before wallowing—wallowing is their word—in an abstraction. And they’re quite specific: Republic is an abstraction.

MADAME POMPESTAN. What a bunch of sweethearts your sociologists are! … But tell me, while we’re at it: are they saying anything in the housing project about these two gentlemen, Robert de Roquefort and Casimir de Brie?

AHMED. Come on! You’ve got to entertain yourself, when you’re from the lower classes! You know, sociology, I couldn’t care less about it. Its only use is to justify the way things are. Thanks, but no thanks.¹⁸

AHMED. This? It’s a complete list of the great French wines and cheeses. Actually, I stole it from Casimir de Brie’s restaurant just the day before yesterday! Just before he got into trouble, your old pal Casimir. In my opinion, you’re in hot water. I inspected the office, on the sly. There’s enough for a whopper of a case in the court of Judge Gaston Guillotine.

MADAME POMPESTAN. The bastards! They’re not gonna screw me! The grubby hands of the government tax auditors won’t sully the feminine shoulders of the deputay of the PURF, the Party for the Unification and Rehabilitation of France. But what can I do, for crying out loud, what can I do? With those cowards who all spilled the beans …

AHMED. Ahmed is neutral, in this matter. An entity unto myself, I’m neutral like Switzerland in this dog-eat-dog society. But, if you’re choosing the window, you’d better go now.

MADAME POMPESTAN (struggling to squeeze through the window and getting ready to jump). And to think that you’re the last human being I’ll have set eyes on in this shithole of a town!

AHMED (assuming a very thick North African accent). Ish gone, mama Pompeshtan! Shkip town just like that! Only me in office! Maybe she go to Cashimir place? (Running to the window and leaning out.) Madame Pompestan! Madame Pompestan! I’m marking your last question as a positive! There were fireworks, and you chose the window! Not the Republic! The window! Positive!