us. We know just how much effort you have made, but you can’t describe our thoughts and feelings by proxy.”
“That’s what all authors do.”
“But our case is different. We have come to life. It is our right to be able to speak for ourselves. We have got some important elements that need to be added to the novel.”
I rose from my seat and shouted forcefully, “Listen. It’s my novel. I wrote it from my imagination and experience. I will not allow anyone to add a single word that I haven’t written.”
Saleha also stood up and moved closer to me. I recognized that she was wearing “Nuit de Paris” perfume. She said, “I don’t understand why you are getting so upset, sir. We only want what is best for you. If the novel is published before we have a chance to add our thoughts and feelings, it will be a great loss.”
There was nothing left to say. I made up my mind, walked over and opened the door and told them, “If you don’t mind . . .”
“Are you asking us to leave?” cried Saleha, giving me a look of rebuke. Her green eyes were strangely affecting. “We haven’t done anything to deserve such heartless treatment.”
“Please leave the house immediately.”
Kamel got up first, followed by Saleha, who said, “You insist on humiliating us. All right. We’ll leave. But I want one thing from you.”
She opened her travel bag, took out a CD in a transparent cover and said, “This is a version of the novel in which we have recorded everything that happened in our lives.”
“For heaven’s sake, I am the one who wrote the novel!”
“You might have written it, but we are the ones who lived it.”
There was no point discussing the matter any more. I was almost at the end of my tether and on the point of doing something stupid. Saleha was standing there, smiling, her hand stretched out with the CD, but when she realized that I was not going to take it, she carefully set it down on the small table. They left, shutting the door gently behind them. I had no idea what to do. I lit a cigarette. Good Lord, what is going on, and who were these people? Were they con artists or simply mad? What were they up to, and how could they know the names of the characters in my unpublished novel, which no living creature apart from me had read? Could fictional characters really come to life? There is a whole science called parapsychology that seeks to explain otherwise inexplicable paranormal phenomena. The worry I’d had earlier resurfaced. I might be ill. Was I mentally disturbed and suffering from hallucinations? If I had been a drug user, I could have solved the matter with one drag of hashish. I had tried it once, but it left me feeling so dim-witted that I have avoided it ever since, and I have no idea how some authors manage to write at all while under the influence.
In my case, writing demands total concentration. I returned to my senses and realized that the two visitors must have been real and that, overwhelmed by the shock of it all, I had treated them badly. I should not have told them to leave. I should have made them stay until I had got to the bottom of things. I should have overcome my sense of amazement and listened to them. I opened the door and ran down the steps. Maybe I could catch up with them. I would apologize and bring them back to the chalet. I had to find out what was going on. They could not have gone far. I strode down the garden path, but when I reached the street, I became completely befuddled. Had they gone left or right? If I went the wrong way, I would lose them forever. I noticed one of the security guards, in his distinctive blue uniform, sitting on a wicker chair on the opposite pavement. I rushed over to him, and he stood up. I asked whether the man and woman who had just left my chalet had gone toward the sea or the desert road. To my utter astonishment, the guard said that he had not seen anyone.
I described them to him, but he reiterated that he had been sitting there for hours and had seen no one go in or come out of the chalet. I stopped trying to contradict him and started looking around, but I was only clutching at straws. I hurried off toward the sea, and then I returned and rushed off in the opposite direction, hoping that I would catch sight of them. But they had completely disappeared. I knew that my efforts were futile. I went back to the house, panting, and slowly walked up the steps, overcome by an unexpected anxiety. I must be sick. I was suffering from hallucinations. People were appearing before me whom no one else could see. I could feel the sweat dripping down my forehead and almost hear my heart beating. It occurred to me that there was only one way to find out whether this was merely a vision or reality. I unlocked the door and flicked the switch on the wall, flooding the sitting room with light. I blinked hard and looked at the table. The CD was there. Exactly where Saleha had left it. I relaxed. With trembling fingers, I removed it from its cover and slid it into the laptop. It took a moment for the laptop to recognize it, and then I started to read.
1
The story started when a man called Karl Benz met a woman called Bertha.
Karl held Bertha’s hand and spoke his vow in a staccato and rasping voice, as if he was reticent about the words. When it was Bertha’s turn, her face reddened slightly, her breath becoming irregular, and the words came out in the disjointed fashion of a schoolgirl reading out a difficult text for a demanding teacher: “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I take thee, Karl Benz, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
A dinner for the family and some close friends followed the ceremony. Just before midnight, Karl opened the door to their new house, and Bertha paused before walking across
