Abdullah Salem Bawazirs Short Story: The Deceased [Archives:2002/19/Culture]

For the seventh time, Thabet Yaqzan perplexedly read the news of his death on the cultural page of the weekly Al-Shuala
It must be an misunderstanding or just similarity of names. The news was Thabet Yaqzan, the great literarian died. He contributed much in literary field specially in writing stories.
He threw away the paper and dialed the telephone number of the journal and waited for a while but nobody answered. Angrily he closed the telephone receiver.
He looked at his watch. It was eight oclock in the morning.
He went trough his work trying to forget that ominous news. Half an hour went by and he dialed the number again. After several long seconds he heard a voice.
– Hello, who is it?
– Weekly Shuala?
– Yes.
– I want to talk to edition manager, please.
– The manager is ill. He wont be in today.
– What about the editor-in-chief?
– He hasnt come in yet.
– So, I have to talk to him directly.
– Whom do you mean?
– The literary editor of the magazine.
– He came, but has just left.
– Who are you?
– I am deputy editor-in-chief. Can I help you?
– Yes, I want to talk with you about a news item in the last issue.
– What was it?
– Yesterday, you announced the death of a great writer. Do you know how he died?
– Late Thabet Yaqzan?
– Yes.
– I know he died of heart attack.
– Do you know the circumstances of his death?
– Actually I dont know how he died and even the heart attack Im not sure of. People say much.
– What do you mean?
– I heard another story that the death was from a disaster.
– Disaster?!
– They say poor writer was anxious because his electric power supply was cut off, so he went to the electricity office to negotiate with them about the many unpaid bills when a lorry hit him.
– What about the heart attack?
– There were many stories about the death.
– I want to hear them all.
– Some of his relatives say he stayed up till morning listening to the radio for news of his Arab homeland.
-And then?
-At six oclock in the morning they found him dead while a loud song of we are victorious was broadcast.
-How strange! Is there any other story?
-Yes, it is said that he died in the market during shopping. He couldnt carry fish and vegetables which he bought, so he fell down dead.
-May Allah be merciful with him, but I want to know who was the first to tell the news?
-The literary editor of the magazine.
-Where is he now?
-He is busy with a private matter nowadays.
-Which matter?
-He has been engaged for two years hoping to find a house to get married in, so he has been running between the magazine and housing directorate. But what do you need him for. Do you know him?
-I am eager to see him.
-Would you like us to tell him anything?
-No, just tell him I have phoned.
-What name, please?
-Thabet Yaqzan.
Then he closed the telephone receiver.
Saturday 31st. Dec.
Three papers were in front of him telling the same news as Al-Shuala. He took one and read: We announce the death of a righteous man whom people need at this hour.
He threw it aside and took the second and read: The late writer was lovely and loved by all, a good thinker and a national torch etc.
His head was about to explode while he was thinking why do we, the Arabs, appreciate our literary figures and thinkers only posthumously, just after their death? Should they die to be mentioned proudly? Where is that editor of calamities?
He couldnt bear anymore; therefore, he dialed the telephone:
– Hello, is that weekly Shuala?
– Yes, who is it? A nice vivid voice answered.
– Thabet Yaqzan.
– The late writer?
– His soul.
– Are you flirting with me?
– Oh no. It seems you are quite tranquil having a good sense of humor.
– Please I want to talk to your ominous editor.
– Which editor do you mean?
– Is there anyone other than him? The literary editor!
– Sorry, he hasnt arrived yet.
– Is he still at the housing directorate?
– You know his story?
– Oh I want to know my story?!
– The news of your death?
– Exactly.
– Your friend will be here in half an hour, then you will know the whole story.
– Well, goodbye.
– Goodbye my soul, I mean Thabet Yaqzans soul.
He hung up the telephone while the girls words were ringing.
He smiled unwillingly. He recalled events of last Friday when his wifes friend came to his house with black clothes to offer condolences. It was an awkward scene when he himself opened the door and the woman was about to faint as she saw him.
He stopped recalling to look at his watch. A quarter of an hour left. He recalled another events. After Fridays prayers he met an old man whom he hadnt seen for ages. The old man shook hand with him incredibly saying:
Sorry son Ive got weak sight these days. Are you Thabet Yaqzan or one of his brothers? I heard that one of your family member died. Have I misunderstood or have I go dotard? Or you might have another brother who died recently? I dont understand what is going on these days.
As he remembered the deputy editor-in-chiefs words, he answered: Yes, dad. I have three brothers but all of them died. The first one was killed in front of electricity office from a car accident, the second one died as he heard horrible news of the Arabs on radio and the third died after shopping and his soul went up to heavens with garlic perfumes.
The telephone rang. He shook.
– Hello, is that the late Thabet Yaqans office?
– Yes, this is his grave, I mean office. Who are you?
– One of excited people of his literature. Please give my condolence to his family.
– Reassure, I will tell him your condolence personally!
Then he dialed the telephone:
– Hello, is that Shuala, the weekly?
– Yes, who is it? Answered the vivid voice.
– Thabet Yaqzan.
– Welcome nice soul.
-Are you always relaxed like this? Arent you excited with what is going on this world? Tell me has the editor of calamities arrived?
– Oh darling, he has arrived. She answered singing.
– Oh, it is not time to sing. Please connect me to him and then sing or dance as you like.
– Of course. Wait a minute.
He waited for awhile then a confused voice answered:
– Hello, is it Thabet Yaqzan himself?
– Exactly.
– Really?!
– Take it easy, I wont blame you. Ive heard of your difficult circumstances. All I want is to tell me my story from the beginning.
– The story is that I heard about death of a great writer but I didnt know him exactly.
– Alright. And then?
– I recalled all writers name then your name jumped in my mind.
– But why did you choose my name among them?
– Because I havent heard anything about you for a long time and havent read anything new of your works.
– So you believed that was what you aimed?
– No, not at all.
– Whether you meant or not. Youve announced my death on purpose or not!!
– I will never repeat such mistake.
– I dont think so.
– Im terribly sorry, sir.
– Shall I ask you a question?
– Ye, by all means.
– You said you havent heard anything about me.
– Yes, for a long time.
– Has anyone asked about me?
– Yes, many writers.
– What did they tell you?
– Some said they didnt know the name? Others said they didnt see you chewing qat or drinking for a long time in any place.
– They know well I dont like such places. And others?
– They said you had migrated and left writing.
– They say so while I am still near them.
– They might be excused for the writer is considered alive as long as he writes and when he stops he will be considered as dead.
– But some circumstances prevent a writer to continue.
– People are not concerned with that.
– Thats right. People have enough problems to think of the writers.
– What are you going to do?
– To such salacious people and all readers, I will write again.
– We, on our part, will correct the news of your death in the next issue.
– No, dont be in a hurry. By the next issue I may unfortunately die. Then youll have do the opposite.
– God may extend your age, sir but tell me what to do?
– I will send you a new story to publish in the next issue. It will be a kind of resurrection.
– Fine. It will silence the rumors.
– Agreed. Goodbye.
He closed the telephone, went towards the calendar on the wall, took the last paper of the last day of the year and threw it out of the window and kept observing it as if he were saying goodbye to an antipathetic guest. Then he came back to his study cheerfully with a good omen to start writing a new story.
Translated by Saad Sharif Tahir
Yemen Times Staff

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