Papa Sartre

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That wicked devil Hanna Yusif, the macabre-looking gravedigger, and his depraved friend — whom he refers to by the curious Biblical name of Nunu Behar — were the ones who convinced me to write the biography of an Iraqi philosopher, who lived in al-Sadriya district in the sixties.

In truth, those two charlatans were not lacking a love of philosophy, nor were they without enthusiasm and genius. They were, however, truly short on honor and relied without exception on depravity.

I met them last winter. I visited them in a modest house overlooking the cemetery at the church of Umm al-Mauna behind al-Saadun Park. An Iraqi merchant who called himself Sadeq Zadeh — half mad, wanton, and entirely dishonest — had rented the room for them. I later learned he was the man financing the biography of the dead philosopher.

A friend working at the old manuscript library in Baghdad introduced me to them. I was mesmerized by Hanna’s broken voice, his high-pitched tone, and his gravedigger’s face. I met them on a cold, sunny December day. Hanna said to me with a certain visionary look while his hand rested on his girlfriend’s shoulder — she never stopped chewing gum—“My house is in al-Saadun Park, near the Assyrian’s grocery. I’ll wait for you there on Sunday morning.”

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