me just to give the lead for him to relate the full story all by himself, my role being to add a small remark every now and then and direct the conversation back to the course he wanted to follow. So apart from being a godfather to him, I played a secondary role like those one sees in such comedy duos as Laurel and Hardy, and Morecambe and Wise. In such shows, you see two characters sharply contrasted in physical appearance and mental qualities: lean versus fat, tall versus short, someone smart and resourceful getting out of trouble unscathed versus a stuttering and stumbling dunce, always taking the brunt. The latter was my role – a role, let me admit, that I took consciously of my own free will.
Apart from the strong affection I held for him, Mansi was an extraordinary phenomenon I was keen to observe. Monitoring him was a source of confusion, astonishment, sometimes annoyance, yet keeping his company was often a source of pleasure. In fact, all his close friends felt the same; I just might be the only one amongst them who had accepted Mansi the way he was and taken him seriously.
But Mansi himself did not take seriously the role that life had set for him, and tried to play roles he was not prepared for. When he committed a mistake in life, it would be because he behaved as an artist in a real-time setting, becoming like an actor on the stage who forgot his words and ended up stuttering, losing the ability to reciprocate. Thus, he settled for a few millions instead of billions, for a single palace rather than many palaces, yachts, private jets, banks and companies. Now he has died like a racehorse that had fallen before the finishing line, I feel he was a wise man, an ascetic to some extent. What would a dead man lose if he left nothing behind? And what benefit would he get if what he left were a million or a billion?
All the plays he had written, except for a few, were rejected. I remember a particular one that he wrote about a man who comes across another man trying to commit suicide by throwing himself off the top of a bridge into a river. After a long conversation, he manages to convince the desperate man that it is not a good idea. However, as soon as the latter leaves, the other man commits suicide himself by jumping into the river. Mansi was quite excited about his play but on reading it, I found it dull and lifeless. It was obvious that he was influenced by the great playwright Samuel Beckett. But it didn’t carry the faintest glimmer of Beckett’s thought and philosophy and I had to reject it.
It was a big surprise to learn later that Mansi had presented an English translation of the same play to no less than Samuel Beckett himself and that the great writer whose famous work Waiting for Godot was a breakthrough in international drama, read it carefully, discussed it at length with Mansi and praised it as a beautiful, interesting piece of work.
5
Had it not been for Mansi, may God rest his soul in peace, things would have continued to run perfectly in my favour at the BBC. I was happy, and so were my superiors who often cited me as a role model. I was not yet thirty when they promoted me to the position of assistant department head, a rare occurrence at the time. As a result, I found myself attending meetings of heads of departments, and I had my own office and a secretary.
I even attended the Queen’s coronation ceremony at Westminster Abbey, and I found myself side by side with VIPs from around the globe. I later sat with heads of state and prime ministers at the party held at the Westminster Hall. It is true that the costume I wore for the occasion had been rented from Moss Bros in Covent Garden: a black suit with a long tail that made me look like a penguin, a top hat and a starched collar. But it is also true that when the party was over, chauffeur-driven cars came in to pick up the heads of state and prime ministers while I walked down to the underground station.
The tube was so crowded I had to stand up, and people kept staring at a man dressed like a noble amongst the masses. That odd situation would have fitted Mansi better. He would have exploited it in the best way and turned it into an exciting story. I, for one, enjoyed that fantasy world for a day that was too short; little did I know that life was flirting with me, as always, like an attractive lady, trying to coax me into doing something that had never crossed my mind.
Also, I was the first Arab to be sent to New York to cover the meetings of the UN General Assembly, an event that brought together most of the world’s leaders. I was there when Nikita Khrushchev banged the table with his shoe in protest while Britain’s Prime Minister was delivering his speech. I saw members of the Nigerian delegation jubilantly enter the hall in their flowing attire, led by the venerable Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa. Nigeria had just gained independence and become a UN member, before it was brutally destroyed and the venerable Ahmadu Bello was slain in one of those rash military rages called revolutions.
I was there when Dag Hammarskjöld, the UN Secretary General, announced that he was not succumbing to the Soviet Union’s calls for him to resign. Years later, the United States did the same thing, exerting pressure on my friend Amadou-Mahtar M’Bow, UNESCO Director General. In New York, Khrushchev launched a tirade against Hammarskjöld, describing him as a lackey of the West and holding him accountable for the Congo tragedies. I still remember a phrase of Hammarskjöld’s short address announcing that he was staying in his position. Addressing Third World leaders, he said: “This organisation has not been established to serve the superpowers. It has been established to serve you, for it’s you, not the superpowers, who need it.”
At that meeting, the Arabs were unanimous on two things: Rallying behind the Palestinian cause and supporting the Algerians’ struggle for independence, which was coming to fruition. They were at odds on everything else.
But I was too young. And so was the Arab world. Egypt and Syria were united under one flag. Damascus was truly glorious and open-handed. Cairo was giving birth to dreams that seemed very much attainable. Salah Jaheen was writing and Umm Kulthoum was singing – and so was Abdel Wahab. Sabah’s chant, “I know my way, from al-Moski all the way down to al-Hamidiyah Souq”, sounded as if she literally meant it. Poor old Hamidiyah Souq! At the time it was still there by the Great Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, as it had been back in the days of Caliph Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik. They had not yet demolished that historical monument and run asphalted roads through it.
And Lebanon was living a seemingly endless romantic dream. Money poured in from all corners, as the Arab poet said – “The house is flooded down to the estuary that is Lebanon”. Banks did not have enough room to keep cash. The lira was as strong as gold and people thronged restaurants and nightclubs from sunset to dawn. The ladies of Beirut would stay on at the Corniche to greet the Mediterranean sun – as if that pleasant time was meant to last forever. Our brother Nizar Qabbani’s romantic poems would cause young girls to wet their velvet pillows with tears and would stir old women’s yearnings for a youthful time that would never be re-visited.
September is the season for romance,
So take me in your arms,
And let us embrace.
Did they tell Mother I am here with you?
Oh! Look, folks, how life has played havoc with you and me ever since?
Yes, they were truly generous to me. They dispatched me on prolonged assignments to the Beirut office, a privilege only a few enjoyed. I lectured at the training institute several times. Mr Waterfield, our senior manager, once said to me humorously: “They have invited me only once. How come they keep inviting you time and again?”
My share of business trips was clearly greater compared to others. In most cases, my name automatically popped up as the favoured nominee for challenging assignments that most likely weighed heavily in annual reports.
No wonder, then, that I was elated, self-satisfied, seeing life as a charming lady waiting for the faintest hint from me to come to my side.
In the midst of all that, Mansi, may God rest his soul in peace, abruptly intercepted my path just as Satan had done to Adam in Paradise.
6
I entered Mr Waterfield’s office. He was sitting with his assistant and the controller of foreign broadcasting services. The latter was a dreadful man who would come our way only when something serious happened. We were not best friends; he believed that I was given an easy ride as one who paid little heed to internal administrative