wipe away the dirty trace of ink—of words—and set the backgammon and a ginger and cinnamon upon the table. The drink was the secret behind al-Suweifi’s unflagging energy, and with its arrival, unavoidably, the topic of women would be broached, the topic on which he would address us with any man who had experiences to share welcome to contribute his advice. Al-Suweifi’s friend would sit facing him in silence, not breaking the flow of talk, greeting none of us. He would open the board and arrange the pieces, taking white because al-Suweifi favored black. They were the only two exempted from the café’s rule forbidding all games but chess, embarking on their match with the shyness of someone taking what does not belong to them. Should enthusiasm get the better of them, al-Suweifi would apologize to the others who were sunk in thought:
“Sorry about that, your excellencies. It’s just that he will slap those pieces!”
His friend, who by some miracle we hadn’t yet poisoned, would point at al-Suweifi, intending to give an impression of superiority:
“A kid. What can you do?”
But it would rebound on him and leave him looking foolish.
Their racket did no harm in any case, for their stamina lasted no longer than a single round, after which they’d depart.
I always wanted to leave a card for those I visited, like Arsène Lupin, but with a different inscription for every home:
“To you, and your exquisite taste.”
“One day you’ll thank me for what I have done.”
Mustafa Ismail
The Book of Safety
5
I slowed, wanting to see the mechanism complete the operation, but fear of failure spurred me to throw my body through the narrowing gap. I didn’t calculate whether it was wide enough or not, whether it would crush me, or chop me in two, or maybe give free rein to its cruelty and sever a foot, leaving me to live out a life dragging what was left of me along the highways and byways.
God in His mercy was watching over me, and I made it through in one piece. I dropped into emptiness, then water detonated, as I broke my fall in a pond filled with plants. I cared nothing for myself: all my senses were trained on the giant petals folding shut. I had observed them many a time from the desert sands, and this was the one and only occasion that I would have the opportunity to be a part of their structure. The gap admitting light thinned gradually till I was lost in an endless darkness, stretched out on my back in a watery grave, no torch to hand. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to jump in. The perfect symmetry of the outer shell had overwhelmed me and, distracted by it, the chance had nearly passed me by. The sun had been setting and with the last of its rays, the sound of machinery had begun to swell, and the golden petals had risen up. Here I could search for a different starting point for myself, something other than my own mad project, returning home to live in harmony with my quotidian routines.
Before regret could come, a sign that I was on the right path: a dazzling white light that pushed back against the pitch dark; hundreds of small creatures flitting by so fast I could not immediately tell what they were, but my heart was glad. Even if they turned out to be carnivorous and tore the flesh from my bones, I’d consider their pricks a prize that I had earned. The lotus leaves onto which I’d fallen were struggling to shake off my weight. It was like they were cradling me. A comforting thought, though I leapt up in alarm when it occurred to me that they, too, were closing as their larger iterations had before them.
The water soaked me through. I was being purified that I might deserve this honor. On down a narrow corridor, built wide enough for one. All the space on offer had been given over to plants, in shapes and colors I hadn’t known existed: blue, red, white, and gold, some with elongated leaves, others with leaves round and flattened, some with beating hearts, some coyly folded, some gazing out with brazen hunger.
Never would I have guessed that Amgad al-Douqli, owner of the Lotus House, was quite this crazy. A jamboree so carefully coordinated that no one element overwhelmed another and then, as the space widened, it became clear that it would be impossible to take in the scene in its entirety. Luminous larvae lent an air of magic and mystery. They squirmed around me, investigating the creature who had invaded their sanctuary, and turning me into something sacred. The profane was non-existent. We shall spend the night alone together, glowing friends.
The living quarters were tiny. Al-Douqli had wanted a lotus plant to enclose him like a womb, but he couldn’t get one large enough. Forced to build, he’d drawn inspiration from the idea of a Buddha’s statue and had erected a house, just a bedroom and bathroom on a base constructed from lotus leaves. The end result was a giant and sinister lotus that closed tight shut, with no way to make it open other than the dawning sun.
My dear Amgad al-Douqli,
I shall not write at length, for we share no bond by which I might compel you to endure the companionship of my thoughts. I wanted to write to you simply because of this wondrous home of yours, the target I selected as the starting point in a new life, whose essence shall be movement rather than immobility. All I have learned and trust in shall be put to the test. There is no need for me to stress that I am a decent man and not a thieving crook. Not yet. And certainly you will know that a man’s proximity to decency has nothing to do with the trade he plies. I have no doubt that you will guess what kind of person I am from the way I phrase this letter, but I am not obliged to explicate and explain. We are not friends, in any case, though I am currently sitting at your desk and using your paper and pen.
Permit me to express my admiration of your genius in designing this house and its garden. This genius was what summoned me, insistently, to view it up close.
You will find nothing missing. The safe is untouched. I haven’t looked in any potential hiding places for money or jewelry. That is not why I came. I do not know if this will cushion the blow of having your home invaded, but, whatever the case, I would like to inform you of the following: to me, your house is nothing but a station on the way, a door from one world to another. All I have permitted myself to take is a picture of you with a young woman who, I happen to know, is not your wife. Consider it a down payment on a friendship that may one day bloom. And so I might set your heart at ease, be certain that the picture will occupy the most prominent place on the wall of my modest home, as though it depicted my own brother.
Accept my thanks and appreciation for your understanding, which I regard as an unavoidable necessity.
Your devoted servant,
Mustafa Ismail
Anwar al-Waraqi lifted his eyes from the page. He stayed staring at me, and I didn’t care for it. I don’t believe in what they call the language of the eyes—what was said on the subject I had always considered misguided hyperbole. Nevertheless, I held firm; if this was a test, I wouldn’t turn tail. I tried amplifying my inner thoughts and transmitting them through my gaze:
You’re a fool.
And you’re full of it.
He broke off eye contact to confirm—as though he were a real publisher and not a mere printer—that this beginning left him unimpressed.
“Doesn’t work,” he said. “The flights of fancy don’t fit with the real story.”
Anger at what I took to be an insult was tempered by a suspicion that he might be right. I had been led on, bewitched by the possibility that such sorcery could be real. Even so, Mustafa’s first rule had to be defended:
You are always right. You are sacred. You must believe this before making your move, the vital first step to making your miracle a reality. Within us all, alongside what might be described as the fleetingly mortal, is something more elevated, and to lay your hands on this thing entails being transported to a higher plane than those around you.
So affecting was the idea that my voice grew fervent, silencing the voice of reason, of doubt.
“I didn’t believe the Lotus House existed,” I