wrote
Hungerâs Hopes
. I have noted that it flowed forth with no impediment worth mentioning. Perhaps that was the nature of the similarity between the dream Abd al-Qawi Jumâa could remember and the forgotten dream that insinuated itself into my mind while I was writing.
Abd al-Qawi the Shadow had risen from his recumbent position on the rope bed and stepped youthfully into a room that he used as an office and that overlooked the courtyard where we were sitting. As he left, he told me that an idea had struck him, even though it was before his scheduled writing time, which normally began at ten. He would just jot the idea down quickly and return. What astonished me about the Shadow was how entirely convinced he was that he was brilliant and world-renowned and the master of whatever situation he found himself in (or didnât). Consequently, he was treating me now, despite my age and fame, as if I were a novicewho was wasting his time. I always remind myself when I meet with him that he is much older than I am and was a luminous star when I was merely a myopic toddler who could write nothing besides his own name. Though itâs true that I havenât been influenced by him and havenât written drama or poetry while he hasnât written a novel, all the same I consider him my master and the master of my whole generation.
Half a minute later he returned shouting, âI found inches of dust in my office, and the sentence flew away. Iâll remember it later when they clean the office . . . Linda! Niâma! . . . Dust makes thinking impossible.â
He resumed his recumbent position on the rope cot. It was droopy, and some of the ropes had pulled loose. I was smoking, and my question may have been waiting at the tip of my tongue. Then it leapt out: âYou didnât tell me how Matthewâs and Nishan Hamzaâs stories are related. Did the priest sign his name? Did he know the characters, live with them, and then send them in the dream?â
âNo . . . I really didnât expect this question from you, Writer. What is the relationship between a Christian cleric and a dictatorship? How could he play himself in a story criticizing the dictatorship? I said that he composed a play about the dictatorship in his mind and sent it to me so I could write it down on paper. He was in telepathic communication with me, without either of us realizing that, and this is exactly how Nishan Hamza communicated with you. The difference is that Father Matthew wasnât personally involved with the fate of the characters;it made no difference to him whether the Republican Palace collapsed on the heads of the people working there. Nishan, however, came to you to change his destiny. You wrote in your novel that he dies of glandular cancer, and he doesnât want to die. He can live with schizophrenia and deal with it, since he wonât die from it. But heâs terrified of dying of cancer and is begging you to help him. Do you understand now?â
I understood some things, but other matters still escaped my comprehension. I told myself but not the Shadow this.
Why hadnât Father Matthew tried to record his play on paper himself, since he was the author? Why had Nishan tampered with details of his own story? Why hadnât he ended it with schizophrenia since he feared dying? There were no answers to these questions, which even lacked a framework of logic within which they could be answered.
Another question that I considered extremely important was now smoldering at the tip of my tongue: âHow did you know it was Father Matthew who sent you that play telepathically rather than someone else? How did you establish that?â
Abd al-Qawi the Shadow laughed till his tight core abdominals quivered, and he raised himself from his recumbent position to sit upright on the bed. He was barefoot and his feet were slender but had some ugly scabs. He reached for the coffeemaker to pour each of us a
Hungerâs Hopes
. I have noted that it flowed forth with no impediment worth mentioning. Perhaps that was the nature of the similarity between the dream Abd al-Qawi Jumâa could remember and the forgotten dream that insinuated itself into my mind while I was writing.
Abd al-Qawi the Shadow had risen from his recumbent position on the rope bed and stepped youthfully into a room that he used as an office and that overlooked the courtyard where we were sitting. As he left, he told me that an idea had struck him, even though it was before his scheduled writing time, which normally began at ten. He would just jot the idea down quickly and return. What astonished me about the Shadow was how entirely convinced he was that he was brilliant and world-renowned and the master of whatever situation he found himself in (or didnât). Consequently, he was treating me now, despite my age and fame, as if I were a novicewho was wasting his time. I always remind myself when I meet with him that he is much older than I am and was a luminous star when I was merely a myopic toddler who could write nothing besides his own name. Though itâs true that I havenât been influenced by him and havenât written drama or poetry while he hasnât written a novel, all the same I consider him my master and the master of my whole generation.
Half a minute later he returned shouting, âI found inches of dust in my office, and the sentence flew away. Iâll remember it later when they clean the office . . . Linda! Niâma! . . . Dust makes thinking impossible.â
He resumed his recumbent position on the rope cot. It was droopy, and some of the ropes had pulled loose. I was smoking, and my question may have been waiting at the tip of my tongue. Then it leapt out: âYou didnât tell me how Matthewâs and Nishan Hamzaâs stories are related. Did the priest sign his name? Did he know the characters, live with them, and then send them in the dream?â
âNo . . . I really didnât expect this question from you, Writer. What is the relationship between a Christian cleric and a dictatorship? How could he play himself in a story criticizing the dictatorship? I said that he composed a play about the dictatorship in his mind and sent it to me so I could write it down on paper. He was in telepathic communication with me, without either of us realizing that, and this is exactly how Nishan Hamza communicated with you. The difference is that Father Matthew wasnât personally involved with the fate of the characters;it made no difference to him whether the Republican Palace collapsed on the heads of the people working there. Nishan, however, came to you to change his destiny. You wrote in your novel that he dies of glandular cancer, and he doesnât want to die. He can live with schizophrenia and deal with it, since he wonât die from it. But heâs terrified of dying of cancer and is begging you to help him. Do you understand now?â
I understood some things, but other matters still escaped my comprehension. I told myself but not the Shadow this.
Why hadnât Father Matthew tried to record his play on paper himself, since he was the author? Why had Nishan tampered with details of his own story? Why hadnât he ended it with schizophrenia since he feared dying? There were no answers to these questions, which even lacked a framework of logic within which they could be answered.
Another question that I considered extremely important was now smoldering at the tip of my tongue: âHow did you know it was Father Matthew who sent you that play telepathically rather than someone else? How did you establish that?â
Abd al-Qawi the Shadow laughed till his tight core abdominals quivered, and he raised himself from his recumbent position to sit upright on the bed. He was barefoot and his feet were slender but had some ugly scabs. He reached for the coffeemaker to pour each of us a
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