Four Eggplants

I don’t know if it is good and beneficial for me to meet the Israeli writer Amos Oz, the writer of the story of Yusuf Al-Yaqoubi in Jerusalem.

What will he write about Yusuf? And how will he write the story of the terrifying imaginary years of friendship between Hamam and Yusuf in the leprosy hospital? Certainly, Hamam's character will be strongly present in Amos's novel as it will be in mine. Hamam, my shocked hero, get ready to be a pivotal character in two novels written by two authors, written through different perspectives. Why do I want to meet Amos? What do I want from him? And what will I say to him? Should I tell him (Listen, Amos: the only sibling of fiction is justice)? Amos will laugh, I can see him laughing. Now, it seems like he says: (Remember, O writer of Hamam’s novel, that your justice is not my justice, just as your God is not my God). Here, I thought for a long time about the futility of even imagining a debate with this man. This man may be another Yusuf in another story of deception that happened in this land, a new Yusuf. So, he is the one writing, now, the story of Yusuf Al-Yaqoubi.

I put in a lot of effort searching for the café where Amos sits on Friday evenings in old Jerusalem, specifically at Bab Al-Khalil. I saw him sitting at a table at the edge of the café, which is located directly beneath the Imperial Hotel. He was bent over a thick yellow notebook, writing with great intensity. In front of him was a cup of coffee that he hadn’t taken a sip from yet. I wonder if he started writing, now, the story of Yusuf? I see him happy in shaping images and arranging events, writing abundantly. Between one line and another, he raises his head, closing his eyes, in ecstasy and sometimes in pain and confusion. How did the features of Hamam's image that Yusuf conveyed to him appear? What did Yusuf say about Hamam? I will be content to sit in front of him or perhaps write in front of him or withdraw; in a little while, I will decide.

I reconsidered the idea of sitting with him, because a feeling reached me of betrayal regarding Hamam and his story if I sat with him. The waiter placed a cup of herbal tea on my table. I took out my thick notebook in a performative move in response to Amos. I tried to write in Hamam’s novel, but the performative movement turned into a sincere real act far from reaction. Amos disappeared from my orbit, the café, and everything. I was only thinking of one thing: how to make Hamam smile in his grave as I write his strange story. Like rain, the events of the story poured out clearly as my Jerusalemite hero narrated it to me. Four hours of writing, I didn’t lift my head from my notebook, and nothing woke me from the magic of this stupor except the presence of a Palestinian woman clad in a stunningly illuminated dress, placing a betir eggplant on my table: (Look, ma'am, look, smell it, just touch it, is there anything more delicious than this?). I bought a pound of this gold that I adore from her, placed the paper bag of gold on the table near my notebook tightly sealed, and returned to writing. But a voice from Amos's direction stopped me for a moment. The woman was urging Amos to buy the eggplants, and he, displeased, tried to convince her that he was very busy, waving her away with his hands, making a sigh. But in the end, he surrendered to her, pulling out his money in anger quickly, took four eggplants from her, and placed them on the table near his notebook. After two hours, I stopped, exhausted from writing. I had finished two complete chapters, written in my clear stupor. I want, now, to leave for Ramallah, happy with my spoils: two chapters of Hamam's novel and a pound of betir eggplants. As for my minor losses, they were only a slight pain in my lower back and numbness in my fingers. Before I left the café's entrance, I threw a last glance at Amos's table; he had left, I don’t know when. On his table was only a full cup of coffee. At the moment I turned to leave, I heard the waiter calling me: (Sir, there are eggplants rolling under your table). I bent down under the table, saw the four eggplants, checked my eggplant bag, and saw it sealed and full. I picked up the four eggplants, opened the bag, and placed them inside, smiling.