Something about M.

What we can say about M?

I don't know myself, it seems to me, like all who might "know" that guy, that M is a creature you cannot describe, a phantom, a phenomena. Maybe he's not a phenomena, phenomena is a state of knowing very well what the border lines between the usual and the unusual. Basically, they do not know what is M, to talk about borders.

Let's try out fortune, gathering from our naked brains what we can recall about M.

He's an oldie. That's one. He's living alone. That's two. It seems that he keeps lots of cats around. That's three (we say 'it seems' because we can't figure it out sharply: does he keep those cats regularly, or it was just an occasion somebody to have a glimpse flash of a cat behind the window, before M to eat it). He prefers to eat cans' food, as the grosser says. That's four. He's staying his condo like a devoted priest. That's five. We can assume, regarding those five points, that M is not a social character.

OK. Then, what we can really really know about M?

Not a social character? What's the very unique about this?!

You know, many of people around are mysterious figures, and we have the privilege of stereo typing to imagine a notorious fellow who's planning to crack down the White House, or the tower of Eiffel, or simply being a serial killer.

Does this leads us to the secret of M?

Even if some mysterious folks turned to be mass murderers or plain hijackers, again, does this prove anything about M?

We always surrounded by questions. It's the very salt of life, and our dear M here is one of the greatest provocateurs of the lusty thing named questions. Yea, questions are a plain pain in the ass, but, as we all know, questions gave the life's some thrills.

Unfortunately, not all the humans know this marvelous wisdom, so many of our street's inhibitors do not bear to hear about M. that nasty guy who's wandering from side to side behind his window, leaving his dark spooky shadow before their eyes.

In most of cases, people either hate the unknown, and respect it. They'd respect it if they had to, but in our case, they didn't have to respect that mysterious figure, so they had the ultimate will to hate him. A hatred without any reasons but he doesn't prove to them his humanity. His deeper weakness. His ravish fever when he had a patient son or daughter. M doesn't give them this. So they hate him openly.

About me, myself, I was aware of his great role in this empty life. He's the questions' maker. I respected that about him. He could be plain and leave me to an empty, predate life.

Thus, I was ready to answer, or even trying to answer. I was ready trying to tell something about M.

I sat down in my tiny room and engaged with my brain storms. What can I do to achieve this great aim? I spent days and nights thinking. Heavens was great with me to arrange the kite with the most decency ever. My boss has fired me. My girlfriend called me a pussy. I have nothing now, in my entire life, but to get the answer of what I've asked.

I knew that M gets his supplies from the grocer by a simple procedure. The grocer boy would leave a box filled with the merchandise before M's closed door, then, after a fixed fifteen minutes, he'll return to pick up an envelope contains the money. (another good question here: From where M gets all of this cash?!). and about the menu, it's simple, M has never changed what he gets from the grocer.

We have here another essential question, how could the menu basically reached the grocer, in the very beginnings?! Good for me I had a simple—this man M is surrounded with 'simple' things—replay, it came from the grocers' boy, he heard a voice calling him. "Hey, boy!" it was short after a dark fan came with a mysterious figure with a simple furniture. The boy looks above; he saw nothing but an envelope hitting his face, titled for his boss. It contained a list, and a sum of money fulfilled the needed list. So it went on.

Ok. I live three blocks away of M, so I can't spy on him through his window, legendary ever closed window, and I have only a friend in that block, I can call him, or hitting him while passing the street, but how could I convince him to escort me to his place, so I can have a glimpse to M's door. After some encounters with my friend, who's basically didn't want me to visit his place, I made him tell me about M's door. "it's old and dirty, has waves of dust and colorless. It seems like it never have been opened" my friend said.

I was in deep need to know about that man, even if it was like childish ways will not lead me to a single thing. I made my mind again; it's not a way I can know anything about M.

I was about reaching a dead end, but suddenly, I've been hit with a luminous idea. What if I could switch places with the grocer boy?

Then?

I could hide in the corridor corner till our M shows up.

Then?

Ummm! I guess it's terrific! Me to see M from a close distance, then I could describe him sharply to our street folks. It will be a historic shot.

Then?

I'd know something about M: his eyes' color, shape of his nose and mouth, height and width, all the physical details about this guy. It's a thing I'd know about M.

What's the new here?

Some folks remember that he's a tall guy, well built, wearing a black coat. His nose seems like a hock. But nobody would assure his eyes' color. Some says it's green, some says it's black; others would insist they're just dark brown.

So?

Talking about physical things won't be a remarkable answer. I must have priorities. I Must concentrate on: what would I want to know? Again I have an answer—but it was me the knowledgeable fellow—and it was just simple and sweet: everything.

So?

I'd switch places with the grocer's boy. I'd ring the door. I'd wait behind the corridor's corner. I'd see M leaning on the box. I'd run to him, a long lovely shiny knife in my right hand.

Then?

A push forcing him to lay down into his dark condo—I feel it, it's dark, shutting the door, sweet sweet time filled with endless stories.

Period.

Excellent. Yea?

I put my clothes on. I felt a warm stream of nourishment is hitting my veins, swimming freely in my blood. I've got a plan.

It was the day light. The grocer's is on my right, just couple of blocks. It's nearer to M's condo. I saw the boy—he's seventeen years old actually—going somewhere with his bag.

"Hey boy!" I shouted.

"Hello, Mr." he shouted back.

"I want a small service from you." I said it when am right before him.

"What kind of a service, Mister?" a sly smile was resting on his lips.

I didn't give a shit for his imaginaries. I stroke the heart of the subject. He was silent while am talking. Then he asked me a good question.

"Why would you do that, Mister?!"

"Simply that isn't your goddamn business."

"Maybe, but this is gonna cost you…"

He did asked a good sum of money, that fucker!

It wasn't about money. I knew this, so it wasn't any problem. He told me that he'd bypass the merchandise after couple of days. I've got luck. He receives them monthly. I spent my days thinking about what I could get out of him. What sort of stories would he has. How he'll deal with that situation. And it came to my mind, would I be my real persona when I do that? Sure I can't, so I got prepared. A mask. Gloves. Black clothes. It seems like a junior batman, or a dare young gangster.

After one day at 12:00 pm.

Good stories will be told nearly at 12:10 pm.

I was excited. I kept walking around my street, gazing at the absent people going there and here. Lost souls whom doing things they really do not understand or love. Dead man walking. Dead man talking.

I went to sleep with a wide smile on my lips. One brave guy out of your pity street, pity neighborhood would do something positive. It will be the first time ever one of you would do such a thing. One of you would dare answering the questions—some questions to be just—you all fear.

Morning. 3 hours left.

Standing before the mirror. Looking at my mysterious aura. You'd never explore the mystery but being mysterious.

Morning. 2 hours left.

Eating my breakfast. Drinking my hot coffee. I was already wearing my black clothes. No time to waste.

Morning. Half an hour left.

Sun is moving confidently, pushing morning away. Warmness of noon is present and vivid. I walking my stares down. I'll smoothly heading the corner of M's block. The boy would come, ring the bell, entering the block, and he'll left the door open. I'll simply follow.

He'll hand me the box, then he'll flee after waiting some moments. Our M would see him going; therefore he'll open the door. Perfect.

One thing wasn't perfect.

I saw an ambulance, and a police vehicle. They're both stopped before the block's entrance. I saw the boy standing before the grocer's, looking at me. I waved my head and lips like "what's going on?" I couldn't believe something would interrupt my plan. I'd wait for another month? Nope, that will not happen.

Some of folks are hovering around the two cars, their curiosity was so obvious. I wanted to go to the boy and ask him to delay handing the merchandise. He'll have the police and ambulance as an excuse. He'll do that. I'll not wait for another month.

I was about walking to him, but I preferred not to be viewed with the boy this day. I tended to go see what's happening in the block.

Then I saw a body. A body on a hauler. a ghost of a smile took over the boy's lips. He was waving to me slyly. Maybe ironically.

It was such nasty odor. M's neighbors commented. It wasn't new there's something strange happening in M's place, but it was the first time ever they'd smell such odor. A day then another one and the odor was going nastier. A phone call to the police and everything was revealed. No, not everything. They didn't recognize that fellow, whom the street folks know no name. Someone only named him M.

It was a corpse.

I've stopped, looking at the hauler. it was him. His corpse.

I clinched my mask, gloves, and the knife resting deep down my pockets.

Noon. No time left.

Standing alone. People gossips are flying around. Sweat. A chilly pattern took over my nose. A wide smile is resting peacefully on the grocers' boy while he's talking with the cups, pointing out to me. Sweat. The streets' asphalt is sending heat to my face. Sweat. Cops are gazing at me. Sweat. Sun's beams of light seemed like a sweet long knife.

Muhammad Aladdin

11:10 pm, Sunday, August 21, 2005

Cairo, Egypt.