New Short Fiction from Kuwait: ‘The Phone Call’
The Phone Call
By Taleb Alrefai
Translated by Aldo Nicosia
Today the sea is rough. I talk to myself, even though no one is listening. The coffee in front of me tastes more bitter than usual, almost as if I can no longer tell flavors apart.
*** *** ***
It all happened by chance, near the end of my workday. I was still at my desk when the director of the board’s executive office phoned me: “The president would like to meet with you.”
He rarely called me in. As I walked to his office, I tried to remember if I had made any mistakes or left something out.
“Good evening,” I said.
As always, he seemed calm, reserved, inscrutable. “Please, sit down.” A blanket of silence fell between us, then he said: “Dr. Amer, you’re a hard-working employee, and I intend to propose you to the Executive Board as the new CEO.”
His words surprised me, and I wished I could hear them again. But he began to study me, so I replied, gratefully: “I hope I always live up to your expectations.”
“I don’t want anyone to know,” he warned me. “I’ll contact you personally. That’s all.”
Back in my office, everything began to feel strange. A dizzying feeling surrounded me. How could a single sentence overwhelm a person? It wasn’t that my position at the company was about to change. It wasn’t about my changing relationship with the other employees, either, or my salary—which would double—or my annual bonus, or my travels around the world. It was that my obsession with the idea of a promotion had overwhelmed me. My entire life was about to change. I would become CEO of one of the largest companies in the country, one with an international reach. The certainty that my life had already changed, in fact, even before my promotion, turned out to be a burden. I considered calling my wife, but I remembered the president’s warning. I also knew she would pester me constantly and repeatedly, asking, “What happened? What happened?” So it was best to keep the secret to myself.
*** *** ***
“Dr. Taleb, you’re the writer, the one who chose the story’s subject, so don’t leave me hanging.”
“Mr. Amer, I write scenes that follow the logic of the story.”
“And is it equally logical that I suffer? Surely you can help me by speeding up the ending.”
“I have to stay true to the thread of the narrative.”
“Do you know what causes a person anxiety?”
“Yes.”
“Then help me.”
“I’ll try.”
“Let’s see where your help takes us.”
*** ***
It was as if the sea had turned gray… The coffee had gone cold. I’d forgotten about it.
*** *** ***
That day, as soon as I set foot in the office, the director of the board’s executive office called me, speaking with a marked urgency: “Send me an updated copy of your CV. Right now.”
Within minutes, I had sent it to her. I understood that the board meeting was imminent and that my promotion would be on everyone’s lips. Almost at the doorstep, I remembered that I had to go to the central market to buy some things my wife had asked for.
During lunch, she sensed my agitation. “Are you tired? Why didn’t you bring what I asked you to get me?”
“I forgot,” I said, touching my temples. “Headache.”
I don’t know how I managed to sit with her, while my mind and heart were elsewhere, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring.
*** *** ***
“Dr. Taleb, I’ve been waiting for two weeks.”
“I’m not the one managing the board meeting dates.”
“You’re the writer who knows the events of the story. You can write a sentence and make me happy.”
“Making the protagonist happy doesn’t always improve the story.”
“But I’m tired of sleeping with my cell phone under my pillow. Of taking it to the bathroom. I hear it ringing, but then it doesn’t ring.”
“You can continue living as if nothing has happened.”
“And what about my meeting with the president?”
“You’re the protagonist of the story. That means you have to experience its events.”
“Please, either write the ending or admit you don’t know how…”
Just then, a strange silence fell between us.
*** *** ***
The waves began to crash, furiously, sending a spray of white foam into the air. I’ll order a hot coffee.
*** *** ***
I tried to get back to my life as it had been before, but it’s impossible. So many images kept flashing through my head: rewards, new pay at work, doors that would open easily for me. But every thought brought me back to my phone, so that my breaths got fluttered, and I sank into anticipation. More than once, I made sure the president’s number was saved in my contacts.
Yesterday, I lost patience and went upstairs for no good reason. The director welcomed me, and when I greeted her, she replied, “Good morning, Mr. Amer.”
I didn’t know what to say, but she jumped in first: “The president left yesterday.”
My heart sank: she hadn’t told me when he would return, and I returned, sadly, to my room.
*** *** ***
“Dr. Taleb Al-Rifai, I no longer wish to get any promotion.”
“You can’t back down from your heart’s desire.”
“But you created it and instilled it in my mind and heart.”
“And you agreed to play the part.”
“Then write the ending of the story…”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Absurd!”
A sharp scream jolted me out of the conversation. Immediately, I looked at the phone, unsure whether the call had ended or had perhaps not yet begun.
Taleb Alrefai was born in Kuwait in 1958. He is the award-winning author of a dozen novels and several collections of short stories. He was named Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres (Knight of Arts and Letters) in France in 2023.