The Journey of Little Gandhi

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But they’re talking.

I see their images in front of me, fading away behind their eyes. Eyes that vanish, and water. Lots of water, covering everything. And distant voices; voices that seem to be distant. I summon the images before me and listen.

I don’t know who’s talking or who’s listening. I’m talking. I’m the one who’s been talking all along. But I’m not sure. Is it my voice or the images? Why are they like that? I see their images while they themselves dissipate like water. Water doesn’t dissipate, water just takes you and goes. They’re in the water, and they’re all just like the water. I’m telling the story and it hasn’t even ended yet. And the story is nothing but names. When I found out their names, I found out the story. Abd al-Karim, Alice, Suad, the Reverend Amin, the American Davis, the dog, the barber, Spiro with the hat, Salim Abu Ayoun, Doctor Atef, Doctor Naseeb, Abu Jamil the impresario, Lieutenant Tannous al-Zaim, the second dog, Madame Nuha Aoun, Husn, Ralph, Ghassan, Lillian Sabbagha, Constantine Mikhbat, Abu Saeed al-Munla, “The Leader,” Fawziyya, Husn the son of Abd al-Karim, Abd al-Karim the son of Husn, the Assyrian Habib Malku, the Aitany boy, and al-Askary, et cetera, et cetera, and the White Russian woman, et cetera, every one of them died. They went to this et cetera thing and didn’t come back. I don’t know if Najat died, but the old baker Rashid died for sure. And the rest, I don’t know. Even the death of Abd al-Karim, who opens the whole story, is uncertain. I didn’t see him die. Actually, I wasn’t even there when he died, and when I went to visit him at his house, I didn’t find any trace of him. Not of him, or his wife, or his daughter, or the barber. And I didn’t search for them. I met Alice in a cheap hotel called the Salonica.

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