‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt “In exile, beginnings are difficult, but endings are like earthquakes—unpredictable to their victims.”

I felt a sense of awe that transcended the threshold of curious senses.

I am now entering the kingdom where the Interpreter once lived, as though I am his successor. The inheritance was not just furniture and items left untouched since he departed his office; it was a legacy of stories I had heard about him, from my time in Cairo and even during my first days in Kuwait.

I let my gaze wander across the spacious room. Here, they say, the man spent long hours—he was the first to arrive at the institution and the last to leave. The tales woven by the tongues of those around him, and the words of those who dealt with him, elevated events into the realm of legends. The handful of years he spent among them turned him into an icon, both professionally and personally.

After a figure disappears, reality usually dies, and myths begin to breed.

Dali-Novel-Sindh CourierLife is a balancing act, one that oscillates between entry and exit, sunrise and sunset, ascent and descent, inhalation and exhalation. The Interpreter left for me to enter, and I will leave so someone else may come after me. These walls will continue to consume us, much like an old smoker consumes the thin bafra papers he rolls his tobacco with.

I noticed the Indian office attendant who had opened the door for me and now stood still, as if observing me. He introduced himself as “Sunker”—later I learned this was how he pronounced his name, “Shanker.” Where did your teeth go, Shanker? The Indian interrupted my thoughts and reflections:

“Mr. Salman, the manager, ordered Mr. Mohsen’s office to be closed a few days after his absence. At first, the ambulance came and took him to the hospital, and then, in the evening, two policemen came. Mr. Salman waited for them, spoke with them here, and later in his office. The next morning, everyone knew that Mr. Mohsen might not return, as he had fallen into a coma. From that point, everyone tried to get close to the manager to claim this room—the largest in the institution after the manager’s office. But Mr. Salman decided to lock it, and since then, no one among the staff has been allowed inside. He would simply ask me to clean it from time to time.”

Shanker’s long-winded introduction explained the looks I had received from the employees. Now I understood: I occupied the coveted lair that their most senior members had long desired. This office, and the manager’s adjoining room, were the only ones with doors that closed. The rest of the staff sat in open-plan rooms, like the newsrooms we see in some newspapers and news agencies, where everyone passing by could glance at them. The privacy of the Interpreter’s room tempted many.

The room contained two desks, the larger of which clearly belonged to the Interpreter. On its surface sat a large computer screen, and his swivel chair was upholstered in soft leather. Beside the desk stood a small side table with two telephones, one for internal calls within the institution and the other, as Shanker told me, for direct local and international calls.

Wooden cabinets with glass doors were arranged throughout the room, with some positioned to conceal the door leading to the private bathroom. The walls were adorned with a few paintings and photographs—I would have time later to examine them in detail. Facing the large desk were two seating pieces: a three-person sofa and a two-person loveseat, separated by a small wooden coffee table. Near the door, a tall round table held magazines, books (mostly in English), newspapers, scattered papers, and small cards with writing on them.

I was surprised to find Shanker still standing there, so I asked him:

“Can you make me a cup of coffee—medium sugar?”

He nodded, left the room, and quietly closed the door behind him.

After a few minutes spent opening and closing cabinets, flipping through book covers and magazines, and observing the traffic outside the window overlooking Arabian Gulf Street, I turned to the desk. I sat down and, without thinking, pressed the button to turn on the computer. Seconds passed before the screen lit up with the device’s name, followed by a two-line message in English, which I translated:

“Continue as Mr. Mohsen” above an image of the Interpreter,

“Sign in as another user” above a blank circle.

I hesitated for a moment. A soft knock on the door broke my concentration. I quickly stood and opened it to find Shanker entering with a black porcelain coffee cup, an empty glass, and a small bottle of water.

“Mr. Majeed, you remind me of Mr. Mohsen. He used to drink coffee with the same amount of sugar as you. And now you’re sitting in his office—there must be similarities between you. Same same.”

Shanker repeated “same” twice to emphasize the resemblance. I thanked him, and he backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Continue as Mr. Mohsen

Sign in as another user”

I reread the two-line message and, driven by curiosity, clicked the first option.

The soft hum of the system starting up sent a shiver through me, like an unknown tremor coursing through my body—as though treasures awaited me, as though I were entering Tutankhamun’s tomb with its discoverer, Howard Carter.

On a background depicting a garden with pink flowers and orange leaves, the screen was meticulously organized into sections. Each section contained folders in pale yellow hues, labeled with Arabic or Latin names, arranged with remarkable precision.

One folder was titled Le quattro stagioni, the Italian name of Antonio Vivaldi’s masterpiece The Four Seasons. Inside it were four subfolders, each named after a season: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

In another folder, Rainbow, I found seven subfolders: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet. The parent folders unfolded into numerous child folders, leaving the curious soul lost among images, texts, and audio-visual files.

After a couple of minutes, the taskbar at the bottom of the screen signaled that the internet was active, triggering a flood of notifications:

“You have 657 new emails in your inbox,” “You have 36 friend requests on Facebook,” “You have 22 messages in your chat box…”

It felt as though I had invaded someone’s grave, as these notifications belonged to him alone. I wondered how the Interpreter had trusted his computer to be accessible when he left it. There was no explanation but that his departure had come like a sudden stab to his awareness. Yet his heart and mind still remained here, operating digitally. The machine hadn’t realized its owner’s absence, and clearly, most of these senders were unaware of what had happened to the Interpreter.

In exile, beginnings are difficult, but endings are like earthquakes—unpredictable to their victims.

Lost in thought, I nearly let the coffee grow cold. I began sipping it while watching the notifications grow and multiply.

I clicked on the inbox, deciding to delete the advertisements to trim down the messages, which had now dropped from 657 to just 37. I marveled at how many emails had been discarded. Is there any point in drowning us with so many unread ads?

I felt as though I had stumbled upon a priceless treasure. In these folders, it wasn’t just about old and new messages—it was filled with texts the Interpreter had authored, translations he had done, personal letters, official documents, financial spreadsheets, coded notes, photos, PDF copies of dozens of books, and collections of Arabic and Western songs.

Perhaps I needed to read it all. I might just become the exact image of the desired man everyone had spoken of. Before me was a catalog:

“How to Become an Interpreter Who Satisfies Your Bosses and Impresses Your Subordinates in Six Days!”

This content before me was not just the man’s mind, but his heart, tongue, senses, and secrets—all laid bare

I felt that the device in front of me was the digital image of the absent man, the objective equivalent of his past life. I opened and closed the files quickly, unable to believe what they contained. They weren’t dangerous, for no danger crosses the river of a man whose entire life flows between letters and dots, but they were intriguing.

In a few minutes, I found myself inside the veins of his life, sharing his breath, which had once faltered here, and my feelings toward him began to shift.

Who are we, if not these lines that digital devices retain… or spread?

In the days preceding my arrival, I met with the Director of the Arab Translation Institute in Cairo, Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim,” on the terrace of a restaurant overlooking the great Nile of Egypt. The man was a tall, elderly figure, with a thin mustache matching his slender body, which he dyed just as he had dyed his hair. Dr. Al-Ibrahim came to meet me wearing a gray suit, carrying a small black leather bag.

From the moment he sat down before me, the man didn’t hide his displeasure with the shallow service, despite being in a five-star hotel, with a slow waiter and an unclean tablecloth. He seemed eager to convey the idea that he had come from another planet, not as a Kuwaiti, but as someone who had studied in Cairo during the 1960s, as he shared and repeated during our first meeting two weeks ago.

Most of Dr. Salman’s conversation was devoted to praising the translator, highlighting how he was a rare example of competence, capable of handling any task assigned to him. He didn’t just master Arabic and English, but was also knowledgeable in reading texts in other languages like Persian, French, and Italian. His writing in his native language was so precise that it didn’t require any linguistic review; he was an encyclopedic figure.

He said to me:

“He’s been absent for about three weeks. At that time, I asked friends about a quick replacement. Therefore, you will travel in a few days on a visitor’s visa, which can be converted into a work visa within three months. I will join you after a week. I have a conference about reforms at the Alexandria Library that I must attend. I have instructed the secretary to open your private office so you can avoid wasting time with other employees. We have many tasks together that will require your full attention.”

The man didn’t forget to express confidence in the person who recommended me for the position, and he smiled, showing yellowed teeth from an old smoker, as he told me I would be a worthy successor to a worthy predecessor. Perhaps he sensed my discomfort with this unknown praise I was about to replace, as if he were taking away my potential.

At that time, I was greatly irritated by his words. Just as I was opening a file I had prepared to present what I thought were my achievements—whether fragments and reviews of books I had translated or samples of translated texts published in Arab newspapers—copies of my articles from Al-Quds Al-Arabi appeared among the papers. Dr. Salman’s face turned red with barely concealed anger, and he said in a disapproving tone:

“You write for Abdul Bari Atwan’s publication?!”

I replied that I didn’t know anyone at the newspaper except the Jordanian poet “Amjad Nasser,” who was my friend and to whom I sent the materials directly.

As if I had summoned a hidden spirit, my phone rang. I saw the international dialing code for London. It was only “Amjad Nasser” calling from there. I excused myself from Dr. Al-Ibrahim to answer, stepping a little further away while facing the Cairo Tower on the other side of the Nile. My poet friend, who was responsible for the cultural section at the newspaper, was thanking me for the new article but asking for more photos. I promised to send the pictures as soon as I returned home.

I returned to the table, only to be surprised by Dr. Al-Ibrahim’s statement:

“I will take the file; it will be useful for the salary evaluation committee at the institute. But you must remove your articles from Al-Quds Al-Arabi. You should know that Abdul Bari Atwan is an enemy of Kuwait. He has been one of the fiercest critics of the Gulf countries. To proceed with finalizing the contract, you must stop writing for him. I won’t be able to protect you if you violate this condition.”

I laughed aloud. Amid the memories that flooded back, I now noticed a file among the translator’s files, titled Al-Quds Al-Arabi Files, containing his articles on foreign studies and books!

I discovered that there was one of two possibilities: either the translator was writing for Al-Quds Al-Arabi without Al-Ibrahim’s knowledge, or he was writing with his knowledge, but Al-Ibrahim couldn’t force him to stop, as he was too reliant on him.

Perhaps Al-Ibrahim wanted to take revenge on the translator through me, so he set a precondition that perhaps he hadn’t thought of when the translator came to work at the institution.

I heard a knock on the door and waited for “Shanker” to open it, but he didn’t appear. The knocking continued. I moved from my place toward the door and opened it. I found a gray-haired man with small eyes, a protruding belly, and shabby clothing. He looked like a messenger, but he wasn’t:

“Good morning, I’m Mohyi. Mohyi Saber!”

“Ah, welcome, please come in. Dr. Salman has spoken about you a lot, of course, positively.”

In that Nile-side meeting a few days earlier, Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim” told me that the person closest to him after the translator was “Mohyi Saber,” the artist and art critic. He waited for my reaction upon hearing the name, but it was clear I had never heard of him. The man was slightly embarrassed and told me I would get to know him up close and that he would be my best companion in Kuwait.

Dr. Al-Ibrahim didn’t know that, after our meeting and before traveling, I asked many people about the so-called “Mohyi Saber,” until someone led me to the certain truth:

“Mohyi Saber — my friend — has been in Kuwait for a quarter of a century. A failed painter. He has a few paintings of two ducks and two roses.

He worked there as a teacher of art education at an elementary school. To increase his income, he worked in the afternoons at a gallery store framing paintings, like an amateur carpenter. Someone influential met him, took him out of this rut, and hired him at the institution as an art advisor.

Now, he is a broker for paintings, going around Egyptian artists, convincing them to hold exhibitions, agreeing on commissions, buying paintings at the cheapest prices, shipping them, but no paintings ever return from Kuwait. The sale always amounts to only half, and the rest are hidden, with ready-made stories justifying the disappearance: the paintings got lost in shipping, customs confiscated them, the paintings were stolen, the senior official at the institution was gifted two paintings in exchange for signing off on the exhibition permit. Despite repeated complaints about him, artists continue to submit to him, perhaps as one of them said, thinking there may be some good behind it, but there is nothing behind Mohyi Saber but harm.”

Now, this devil, resembling a chubby doll broken by a mischievous child, materialized before me. Soon, I felt that the man was on an official mission to recruit me. He had either positioned himself or been placed by Dr. “Salman” as a spy on me:

“Dr. Salman loves the people close to him. He won’t like your integration with others. He came to lead this institution and found a decaying legacy left by the previous manager. You’ll find most of them are thoughtless, and the moment he felt reassured by the translator’s presence, the man disappeared. Dr. Salman had to face the others alone, but I suggested he look for a replacement, and thank God, you arrived here quickly and will be his great support.”

Mohyi , it seemed, was trained in domestication, for he himself was domesticated and tamed. It didn’t take long for him to reveal his role, and since Dr. Salman wouldn’t be present for the coming days, he had sent someone to prepare me to work within his atmosphere and environment.

I noticed something; Mohyi Saber didn’t speak of the translator as a deceased person, only vague references to leaving the place and being absent, repeating “when he was here,” terms that never describe someone who has died, as I was certain. Even Shanker didn’t say “when Mr. Mohsen died.” I began to suspect that a disagreement had arisen, and that the fall or absence of the translator had been for this reason.

“What do you think, shall I take you to an Iranian restaurant today?”

I thanked him, though with insistence, promising to accept the suggestion later. The restaurant, it seemed, was the final training ground or slaughterhouse where I would be initiated into the fire of submission to my master.

He stood up, pointing toward the door:

“My office is in the hall, third on the right. I will introduce you to the colleagues later. I leave you now to your office!”

Mohyi stressed the word “your office,” and it seemed that my guest was one of those who kept their eyes on the place. But the manager understood Mohyi’s true position. No matter how high he rose in the hierarchy, he remained, to the manager, just the person who made wooden frames for paintings; he was a technician, not an artist, and his choice was only to be the manager’s eye on those “enemies” in the spacious hall.

Mohyi’s entrance had taken me out of the celestial paradise of the translator and placed me into this earthly world. How different the two worlds were, one we walk through with our feet, the other we fly through with wings. There was an imaginary triangle connecting the manager, who would return in a few days, the man who had just left, and the angel who had ascended to some sky. (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"