Upstairs, Downstairs at Andala Page #3

A Palestinian Ghost Story

• Fantasy

								


-IV-
 
“Can I ask you a couple of questions Sir?” I asked the ghost as it was mopping the floor, under a sudden conviction that  the time to quiz him had arrived.
“Yes. If you can stop calling me Sir.”
“What shall I call you then?”
“Friend.”
“Not chairman.”
“No.”
“Okay Mister friend.”
“No, just friend.”
“Okay friend.  I want to know a few things about you, your personal life I mean.”
“What do you like to know?”
I looked up my notes. “Well. Let’s see.  Is it true that your older sister pushed you to get married?”
“Yes. She was a bully.”
“I understand your mom died when you were a child and your father remarried and settled in Cairo. Did you like her, your step-mom?”
“Not particularly. She resented dealing with seven kids. But in retrospect who would blame her?”
“I see. Why did you compare yourself to Jesus Christ ?”
“You’ve done your homework. Because like him I had no time to waste. You see his mission was to save the world but it shrunk over time and by the time I came around it was secretly localized.  But to be honest with you, and I didn’t say this too loudly back then, I also felt close to  Salahadin, the Commander of the Faithful.” 
“Okay. What do you really consider yourself?”
“You ask tough questions kid. Let’s see. A Bedu tribesman.”
“A Bedu ha? No wonder you had no concept of time or punctuality all your life.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you ought to see the advantages of being late. I was once, when I was the president of Palestinian student association in Cairo, late at a demonstration and all my friends were rounded up except me.”
“Speaking of your friends, who was your closest friend?”
“After God, my gun, and after that Sahah Khalaf.”
“Who is he?”
“We went to school together, fought together, travelled the world together, until they killed him – in 1991.”
“Thank you. My next question is Sir: when was the happiest moment of your life?”
I expected him to say when he received the Nobel Peace Prize.  
“When I fired my first shot at the enemy.”
“I see. And when was the best time of your life?”
“That’s easy, when I was in Kuwait for the first time. I had several cars, multiple companies, I was a builder, a contractor you know. I built homes, bridges, you name it, and money was good. I could have been a multi-millionaire if I had stayed in Kuwait. For a while, and I haven’t told this to anyone, I gave myself up entirely to pleasure and gaiety.” His voice alighted.
“That was in early 1960s, am I right?”
“That’s right. What else?”
“Well. Let’s see. It’s not every day one is visited by the President of Palestinian State.”
“Don’t let the title scare you son. Ask your next question.”
“Okay. What is your biggest regret?”
“That I didn’t see my mother. She died of kidney failure before I was old enough to remember her.” I instantly thought of my own experience with my father and paused before asking the next question.
“What is your favorite spot?”
“Haram al-Sharif.”
“Me too.”
“That’s good.”
“What is your favorite line from your own speeches?”
“I ‘m a believer in disaster, a convert to catastrophe.”
“I understand you had a lot of dramatic escapes. Which one was the, how shall I say, closest?”
“Well. Let’s see. I had a few car crashes, several assassination attempts, but the plane crash in Tunisia was the worst. I was sitting right next to the pilot and he died immediately.  That was horrible. A miracle that I survived if you ask me.”
“What was the best home you ever lived in?”
“I would say the safe house in Victor Hugo Avenue. I was disguised – as a Palestinian tourist.” He chuckled.
“And what would you say is your second biggest regret?”
“I suppose leaving Kuwait City.” And after a pause, he added, “Do you know why? Because I was in love.”
“You were?!”
“Yes. Why do you act so surprised? You think I had no heart?”
“No. No, it’s not that. It’s just that in all the information I consulted about you there is no mention of it.”  He laughed. “So that makes you the only person who knows the story. The rest are dead. Guard the secrets well. That’s your first test.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She was nice, a heavenly face, was a dentist’s help and was also a French tutor to some rich kids, because of her I embarked on French, to impress her you know, and kept going back until the dentist found out why and threatened to pull my good teeth if I showed up again.” We both laughed.  “I should have married her, but she was not political and wouldn’t marry me unless I quit politics. ‘You’re already married’ she told me when I went to say goodbye to her, married to the cause she meant. And that’s why she had little regret, but I had, a lot. For years I dreamt about her.  I remember I once dreamt we were at the Nile-side saloons dancing cheek to cheek with that French song in the background. It was her favorite song.” 
“Did you ever see her again?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she got married. Let’s change the subject.”
“What gives you the biggest pride?”
“That I come from the al-Radwan clan.”
“What were your biggest shame?”
He paused for a long time before answering. “That we left Beirut in 1982 and left the camps unprotected to the Phalangists who massacred the women and children.”
Seeing that he was getting sad, I switched to a more banal question. “Why were you always so careless with money?”
“Because deep down I’m a socialist. A true socialist abhors money.”
“You married Suha Tawil in Tunisia, in 1991, am I right?”
“Right?”
“Did you love her?”
“With all my life.”
“And then you went to Iraq after the Israelis bombarded your headquarters, was that a good decision?”
“A beggar can’t be chooser. We didn’t have too many choices.  You’re starting to ask too many questions now. I ‘m getting tired.”
“Please just a couple more. Why did you choose the nickname Abu Ammar?”
“You should know. He was the Prophet’s companion.”  
“So you consider yourself a true Muslim?”
“One hundred percent.  Okay last one?”
“Why do you keep singing that song?”
“I already told you son.”
“Oh that’s right you did, because of her. So even after all these years, even in posterity you still miss her.”
Instead of replying I heard a faint “good night.”  “Don’t leave yet sir. Please, please. Just this last one.” 
“Go ahead. But be quick about it.”
“What’s the first thing that comes to your mind with the word Palestine.”

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