gloom and anxiety. Self-satisfaction for having finished writing the book. Gloom because taking my leave of the characters has the same effect on me as when a group of friends have to depart. And anxiety, perhaps because I am on the verge of delivering up into other people’s hands something that I treasure. It will be the same with my daughter— for as happy as I shall be at her wedding, the thought that I am no longer her everything, as I deliver her into another man’s hands, will rip me apart.
I got up to make another cup of coffee, but no sooner had I stepped into the kitchen than, lo, another surprise. I could hear footsteps. I could not believe my ears. I ignored the sound and busied myself with the coffee, but the sound was getting clearer and louder. I cocked my head to focus my hearing, and I was sure of it. I was not dreaming. They were the footsteps of more than one person. I was glued to the spot. No one knew I was here, so who could these people be, and what might they want? The footsteps came closer and closer, and then the doorbell rang. They were outside, standing in front of the door. There was nothing to do but deal with the situation. I quietly opened the kitchen drawers one after the other until I found a long sharp knife and then laid it on the shelf opposite the door, within easy reach. I turned on the outside lamp and looked through the peephole. I could see a man and a woman, but I could not make out their features in the weak light. I opened the door slowly, and before they could utter a word, I said, “Everything okay?”
The woman answered in a cheerful voice, “Good evening, sir.”
I kept looking at them. The man then spoke in the tone of someone addressing an old friend, “We are very sorry to bother you. But we have come to see you on a serious matter.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Actually, you know us very well.”
She smiled as she said this. I noted the confidence in her voice and responded, “Excuse me. I think there is some mistake.”
“There is no mistake,” she said, laughing. “You know us well.”
The situation became even more curious. The man smiled and said, “Don’t tell me you don’t remember seeing us before?”
I started to feel afraid. I was having an odd sense of déjà vu. The man and woman did in fact look familiar, as if I had seen and spoken to them before, as if my previous meeting with them had lain buried in my memory and then suddenly resurfaced. In a loud voice, I said, “I don’t have time for riddles. Who are you and what do you want?”
With disarming calm, the man answered, “Are you going to leave us standing at the door like this? Let us in and then we’ll speak.”
The strange thing is that I obliged. I stood aside and let them in as if I had suddenly lost control of my own actions. I could hear what I was saying and see what I was doing, as if I were another person. They came in slowly, walking around as if familiar with the place. They sat next to each other on the sofa, and I could finally see them in the light. The man was in his late twenties. Large but not flabby. Olive-skinned. Handsome. The woman was just over twenty, beautiful, winningly lithe of figure with fine facial features to match, glowing brown skin and beautiful green eyes. Her elegant outfit was straight out of the forties. The man was wearing a lightweight white sharkskin suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, a tightly knotted blue tie and spats. The woman was wearing a tailored blue outfit with a white collar and buttons and white hair clips and a straw hat on her plaited hair. They exuded a sort of vintage aura, as if they had just stepped out of an old photograph album or a black-and-white film. I had no idea what to think. I could not take in what was happening and thought that I must be hallucinating, no longer sure that the man and woman sitting in front of me were real.
The man opened a pack of red Lucky Strike cigarettes. He held one with two fingers and then tapped it on the back of his hand, before putting it in his mouth and lighting it with a small lighter. He took a deep drag and said, “I am Kamel Gaafar, and this is my sister, Saleha Gaafar.”
“You can’t be!”
He laughed and spoke slowly, “I know that this is a difficult turn of events for you to absorb, but it is true. I am Kamel Abdel Aziz Gaafar and this is my sister, Saleha.”
I stared at his face and, suddenly angry, I snapped, “Listen. I am not going to let you waste my time.”
“Please stay calm until I have explained everything to you.”
“I don’t want an explanation, thank you very much. I have work to do.”
The woman smiled and said, “But we are part of your work,” and the man added, “Actually, we are your work.”
I could not answer. A shiver went through me. I could feel my heart racing. I was sweating and thought I was going to lose consciousness. Almost sympathetically, the man gave a friendly smile and continued, “Sir, please believe me. I am Kamel Gaafar, and this is my sister, Saleha. God alone knows how much we like you. My sister and I are products of your imagination and have come to life. You dreamed us up for your novel. Your imagination led you to write down the details of our lives, and at a certain point as you outlined our characters, we came into being. We have moved from the realm of imagination into that of reality.”
I could not answer. I carried on looking at them. The woman laughed and said, “I can guess just how much this surprise has affected you, but this is the truth. We have come from the realm of your imagination to meet you.”
I remained silent, and the man carried on speaking amicably, “We have to thank you. It’s our good luck to be your characters. I can only admire your dedication to your art. You spend years writing a novel, and it is so rare to find novelists who put so much effort into it.”
“Thank you.”
I uttered those words sotto voce while absorbed with the thought that I was getting used to the strangeness of the situation. I looked at each of them in turn. Saleha smiled and spoke in her mellow voice, “Please don’t look at me as if I were one of the wonders of the world. You’re a great writer, and you know that there are many inexplicable extrasensory phenomena. You sweated blood and tears to create living characters. And now we are actually alive and in front of you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
In a loud voice, I said, “Let’s assume that you are speaking the truth, and even that you are Kamel and Saleha Gaafar; what do you want from me?”
Kamel smiled broadly, tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray and said, “Ah. You see, sir. We have come here in all seriousness to stop you from printing out the novel.”
“By what right?”
“The novel is really rather good, but it is lacking a few things.”
“Such as . . . ?”
As if by some prearranged plan, Saleha smiled and chimed in, “Some of our thoughts and feelings are absent from the novel.”
“I have expressed the thoughts and feelings of my characters quite well enough.”
“You have expressed them from your point of view.”
“Naturally. I’m the author.”
“Why don’t you let us speak for ourselves?”
“No one has the right to interfere with my work.”
Kamel remained silent for a few
