Two Escapees

by Ahmed Al-Khamisi

In one of the narrow rooms in the newspaper’s headquarter, Khaled Lam’y, the Arts section editor, sat at his desk, nervously fiddling with a cigarette lighter as he listened attentively to the phone pressed against his ear. In front of him, on the only chair in the room, sat the cartoonist Ayman, with a folder of paper on his lap and occasionally tugging at its corner.

An anxious expression grew over Khaled’s face after he finished the call. He stood up, skimmed the surface of the desk and said, “We must leave this story immediately.”

Ayman’s anxiety became restless and pinched a touch of astonishment into his voice: “What happened?”

Khaled responded while gathering his papers toward him with the edge of his palm: “I just learnt that they attacked Jamal’s house. He is the author of the story in which we are a part.

“Then they dragged him down the building’s steps, threatening him and telling him to spike the story along with all its ideas and characters. Therefore, you and I will be at risk of death if we stay inside the story.

“Either that or we spend years in the censorship warehouse. We need to gather our descriptions right away and immediately escape from this story, so they won’t find any trace of us when they arrive.”

Ayman replied in surprise: “But the dialogue that the author placed in my mouth — and in yours — did not touch upon the well-known red lines.”

Khaled responded, “True, the dialogue did not contain any explicit phrases but, overall, it suggests that everything has become forbidden and prohibited, even whispering. The author portrayed you as a cartoonist in the story while I am the editor in charge of the newspaper’s art page.

“You suggested a caricature idea for me: a prisoner, asking for a book. Then, the jailer said to him, ‘The book is unavailable in the prison library right now; but we do have the author himself.’ In your opinion, don’t you think that this means something? The authority can distinguish between the good citizen and the bad one from a distance.”

Ayman asked, “And how do they differentiate between them?”

Khaled responded sarcastically, “This is simple. If a citizen sits and puts his left leg over his right leg, he is a leftist, and it’s necessary to arrest him. If a citizen sits and places his right leg over his left leg, he is right-wing; and it’s necessary to arrest him. And if he hasn’t crossed his legs at all, he is cunning and mean, hiding his beliefs; and of course, it’s necessary to arrest him. However, the good citizen spends his lifetime building a new, happy society.”

Ayman queried, “But is it believable that they started to chase even the literary characters, like you and me?”

Khaled responded, “Literary thoughts and literature are dangerous, because words can turn into action. Therefore, you shouldn’t underestimate a poem, a novel, or even a literary idea.”

Ayman sighed sadly: “It’s unfortunate that the author who created us is deeply preoccupied with the struggle for liberty. If we were created by an author of entertaining plays, we would have been guaranteed a dignified life, instead of being chased.”

Khaled shrugged: “No character chooses its own author. Whatever happens to us, it’s the result of a decent intellectual flashing thought, through which the writer has not compelled us to lie or deceive.” Khaled added, “I think we must hurry and escape from between the lines of the story before they raid us.”

Khaled, inhaling a deep breath of the essence of true life, asked, “Have you overlooked erasing any traces that might reveal our presence in the story?”

Ayman shook his head: “Rest assured, I’ve erased both our names and gathered all our descriptions, but I haven’t had enough time to review all our details there.”

Khaled gazed vacantly and squealed: “Oh my God! I left my lighter on the desk! Go back to the story quickly and bring it to me! The lighter has my fingerprints. You will find it right at the beginning, where the author mentions that my fingers are fiddling with it.”

Ayman turned around and climbed the last letter in the story, ascending to the top of the text. When he reached the first paragraph, he swiftly snatched the lighter from the first line. As he was about to descend, his eye caught the author’s description of him as “a cartoonist reflecting honesty in his features.” He erased that sentence and continued descending. When his foot reached the sidewalk, he dusted off his trousers and said to Khaled: “Here is your lighter. We’re no longer present in the story, not even in a single word.”

The two exchanged a look of encouragement, each pressing one hand tightly against the other’s. They gazed at the long, open-ended route as they started walking in vigorous steps, glancing over their shoulders. They crossed the vast square and ran like the wind, touching the ground and flying with a light push, soaring above the city’s domes and castles, fluttering through the air.

Whenever they felt tired, they would descend to the cafes, sitting among the people for a little while. Then they would ascend with their artistic musings to the literary figures and the ideas that take refuge in the sky.