‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“I squeeze the wasted years, and from them, I drip the water of restored life.”

What has happened to the minds of Egyptians?

Why do they kick away blessings so harshly?

If it’s not rudeness, is it a coincidence, or a challenge?

Or could the reason be the blind eye and heart of “Mustafa Sanad,” who lacked the politeness and intelligence necessary to choose someone to volunteer to help me?

What I’m asking for is not a miracle, and I can do it myself, so what do a few pages of research with two thousand or three thousand words mean? I am Dr. “Nouria Badri,” a professor of theater, with hundreds of similar peer-reviewed and published research papers. I have a great history as a specialized academic, a member of judging committees in over twenty theater festivals, a member of the promotion committee at the university, and numerous awards and honors that I cannot count!

The major problem in front of me is that I don’t have enough time to sit at my desk. I have travel, lectures, reading academic papers, and judging performances, and all of these take my time. Even my close friends… they don’t leave me enough time for my husband and children… and I can’t refuse them, or they’ll accuse me of being condescending.

So, what do these Egyptians have to occupy their time?

They come to work honored and esteemed, sitting in offices larger than their homes, swinging on chairs that only the presidents of republics have, and they have so much time while the work required of them is little. If they had a time crisis like mine, I would excuse them, but here they are: the writers among them write two or three books every year, others spend nights at cafes until the middle of the night, and the rest loiter in malls causing congestion, without buying anything. Each of them drives a car from the latest model… meaning they are poor, and I am their master.

I know them better than they know themselves. I studied in Egypt, they taught me, and they gave me that luxury, so I could ask and indulge, from my Master’s to my Doctorate. I have paid my debt to everyone, not just those who helped me, but to the entire Egyptian society. Even today, I participate in buying medicine with my colleagues in Kuwait and Egypt for those who need it. This is not a favor from me, but I feel as Egyptian as they are, and that is why I ask with a strong heart.

By God, those were the days, Dr. “Nouria,” after years when you had many choices, choosing between this and that. No one could ever impose conditions on you. I was the one who set the conditions.

By God, good evening to you, “Nasser Hassan,” I have never met anyone with such sound judgment:

“Dr. Nouria, you design, and we wear… You ask, and we execute. We are together in the service of Arab theater and Arab culture. You are the voice of our thoughts that we cannot express, and God sent you from the heavens to be the messenger of these thoughts. May God keep you for us, O Lord.”

His words dripped with refined sweetness. He never made me feel uncomfortable when I discussed something with him or asked him to revise part of my research or add a paragraph. He would apologize nobly and politely, as if he had made a mistake. Indeed, he was well-mannered. He understood me; when I called him, just hearing the tone of my voice, he knew exactly what I wanted:

“Your satisfaction, Dr. is my greatest desire. I feel that you’re not satisfied, and that doesn’t please me personally. But I have paper and pen for you to tell me all your notes and additions. We learn from you, our professor.”

The nice thing was that whenever I dictated a note to him, he would follow up each sentence with a phrase from his own unique vocabulary of tact:

“God enlightens you, Dr. Nouria,” “May God light your path with wisdom, Dr.,” “You are right, you hit the mark exactly,” “How did I miss this… it’s so obvious.”

Then he would send me the full research by email, along with a list of references, footnotes, suggestions, and the summary I would present, in both Arabic and English. In short, he was a professional researcher… in every sense of the word.

One day I met him in one of the shopping malls. He was shy to start talking, so he waited until I did. That day, I invited him for a cup of coffee. After we sat down, I asked him directly how he could write academic papers so proficiently without being specialized or at least having a Master’s degree.

He looked at me with sympathy and said:

“I did finish my Master’s degree, but I never defended it. I had a disagreement with the professor for some reason, which I don’t remember, and maybe he doesn’t remember either, but one day I woke up to find myself expelled from the Graduate Studies Department! Some friends and colleagues suggested that we take a large gift to the supervisor to reconcile, but it seems, as I later learned, that the gift wasn’t appropriate, or maybe it didn’t meet the price he had set… or what was commonly expected in such cases.

The important thing is that I decided to completely leave that path. There was an opportunity to travel and work at an institution, so I submitted my papers, passed the interview, and came here. And today… every time I see a university professor, I tell myself that he knows how to choose the right gifts for his thesis supervisor.”

I comforted him and said that today, he was better than a million doctors:

“How happy I am to have a doctor at the university who doesn’t even have money for dinner for his children.”

But even “Nasser” left me. He emigrated and left all of Kuwait. I had hoped he would have time, even in Australia, but he wrote a kind letter apologizing for his lack of time and references.

I couldn’t repeat my correspondence with him, especially after “Mustafa Sanad” volunteered to bring someone better than him: the translator. But he disappeared, then disappeared again, and later came back telling me that he misjudged and that the translator “turned out to be of low origin, narrow vision.

Mustafa Sanad had given me the translator’s phone number, so I could contact him after his guaranteed approval. I had completely forgotten about it. When I was flipping through some papers, I came across the name “Mohsen Helmy” and his phone number on the paper Mustafa had given me. I squeezed it in my palm until it turned into a ball, and I was about to throw it into the trash, but I hesitated.

I checked the time; it was seven in the evening. I called him. A calm voice answered. I introduced myself. He paused for a moment, then responded cautiously. “It’s an honor, Doctor.” I asked if I could meet him in an hour. He said he didn’t want to leave his daughter alone in the apartment at night, and he might not be able to bring her if I wanted to discuss something private.

I appreciated his precision. I asked if tomorrow would work for him. He said it was fine. If it was during work hours, it would be an honor to receive me in his office. I immediately agreed. I told him we should meet at 10 AM sharp, as I had a lecture at 12 noon.

The translator was careful to meet me at the elevator door when I informed him I had arrived at the building. He let me take the lead and pointed the way, saying his office was next to the doctor’s. He didn’t know that Mustafa Sanad had already told me all the details about him and his office. On the way, I noticed that the damn man was sitting at his desk like a porcupine, watching me from under his dark sunglasses. I could almost feel the darkness of his heart, which seemed to scorch the air around him. No doubt he would think there was some sort of agreement behind his back, but he wouldn’t interrupt our privacy, as Mustafa had told me he had cut ties with the translator and stopped visiting his office.

I looked around the office. For a moment, I felt as though I had arrived in Egypt. The wooden boxes inlaid with ivory and gilded edges resembled the ones I often bought from a classy shop in Talaat Harb Square. There were large photos of paintings by Egypt’s most famous painters. As I got closer, I noticed that some were original, bearing inscriptions dedicated to “Mohsen Helmy” from the artists. Near the window, between his desk and the curtains, were several shadow plants and a flower pot. The small tablecloths were from Al-Khayamiya Street, and I had received similar pieces from friends before, which I still kept in my library.

He seemed silent, as if waiting for me to speak.

“Did Mustafa Sanad talk to you?”

He replied, as though weighing his words carefully:

“I don’t place much importance on what he says, and I don’t listen to him.”

That was a subtle hint not to bring up the topic again. A touch of arrogance melted in a sea of politeness, like honey dissolving in coffee:

“You Egyptians are the reason I fell in love with theater. It all started a long time ago. My father—may he rest in peace—would bring us a newspaper or a magazine every day, and we would read just as we breathe or eat. The Arab magazine was a regular guest in our conversations. We read it together, my father, my older brother, and I, and often discussed its contents. It was in the pages of Al-Arabi that I discovered the world of theater, especially when the pioneer of that art, Zakī Ṭalīmāt, wrote for it. Once, I read an article by him praising the actresses Mariam Saleh and Mariam Ghadban, considering them icons. I wished one day to stand on stage like them. But my father taught me that theater isn’t just acting, and he brought me translated plays, which I devoured as if they were delicious meals. After finishing high school, I traveled to the blessed land, and I lived there until I became Egyptian to the core. There, I drank from the river of theater, at university and beyond, until I completed my Ph.D. Today, my life is entirely devoted to theater—from the university to home, to travel—I do nothing but what’s related to theater…”

He pressed his lips together involuntarily and rose to offer me chocolates in a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl:

“How do you like your coffee, Doctor?”

“Perfect, Doctor!”

“I’m not an academic!”

“And I don’t see you any other way. Allow me to call you Dr. Mohsen, out of respect.”

“It’s an honor. It’s a kind coincidence because today, a Kuwaiti poet visited me, and he also addressed me as Doctor. When I told him I hadn’t completed my Ph.D., he nobly responded, ‘You’re worth more than a thousand doctors.’ I believe the generation you belong to has become extinct. The young Kuwaitis—if I may—don’t show the same respect for those who aren’t Kuwaiti.”

“I’ll add to that, Dr. Mohsen, even the youth of the country don’t respect the older generation of Kuwaitis, like the poet ‘Al-‘Ood’ you speak of. We live in an era without morals.”

I began to feel some sympathy for him. The image Mustafa Sanad had painted of him made me expect a meeting with the devil, with his twisted horns, red eyes, and nails that would sink into the necks of his victims. Before me was a man proud of himself.

The Indian entered with the coffee, so Mohsen Helmy rose and took a cup, placing it in front of me, with an empty glass next to it and a sealed bottle of water. Then, he placed the other cup in front of himself and sat across from me. He didn’t want to drink the coffee at his desk. He wanted us to share it as friends.

I looked at the papers on his desk and two rows of books, with some pages marked with yellow sticky notes. Perhaps Mohsen Helmy was right in refusing Mustafa Sanad’s request—how would he find time to write outside of his field? The strange thought that crossed my mind was that “Nasser Hassan” always seemed to find time, and I felt that he did nothing but wait for my call to finish an article or a research paper.

I wanted to end the meeting on a positive note:

“Dr. Mohsen, you’re in Kuwait, among your family and loved ones. I don’t want you to ever feel foreign here. I would be happy to invite you and your daughter to lunch together one day.”

“A kind invitation, Dr. Noura. I would be delighted to invite you to my home first. True, the apartment is small, but I will cook Egyptian dishes you’ll love.”

I asked him, somewhat reproachfully:

“How will you find time to cook? You’re drowning in translation up to your ears!”

He replied as he returned to his desk, turning his chair to face a picture of his daughter:

“Maybe I’ll tell you later how I didn’t live with my daughter, Najma, for many years, and I want to make up for those years, with all their rituals. I want to cook for her, help her study, take her to the markets to buy what she likes. I feel like I’m reclaiming my childhood, refreshing my memory, and squeezing out the lost years to pour from them the water of restored life. Every smile from her will erase a year of absence.

Every feeling of gratitude will compensate for the harsh nights we spent far from each other. At our age, we need to invest every second so the coming years don’t pass like the ones before.”

He turned to continue speaking, and I noticed a cloud of tears forming in his wide eyes:

“I don’t cook every day, only on my weekly day off.”

“This will make me happy. But, Dr. Mohsen, if you linked your acceptance of my invitation with my acceptance of yours!”

He smiled:

“May joy follow. It’s not usually calculated like that, but I’ll feel more comfortable.”

I left, and just as Dr. Mohsen had met me at the elevator, he saw me off to the door. Time had stolen away, and I called my secretary to postpone my lecture by half an hour. The time passed quickly, like a shooting star lit by his words. It seemed to me that my visit to his house would open a new door between us.

I thought I would take my granddaughter, “Fatoun,” with me on that visit. She’s close to the age of his daughter, “Najma,” and I didn’t want her to feel bored in our company. Also, the new generation needs to continue the journey together. (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"