Where Is Manar?
Book Two: Sorry, Ma'am — This Body Is Not for Rent
Chapter Four: The Weight of Forgetting
—
Sami stood at the threshold, watching his cigarette smoke dissolve into the still air of four in the morning. His nose still dripped blood — a tax his body paid for no longer distinguishing between waking and the delirium of dreams. At his feet, a stray dog rolled onto its back in that way that was both pathetic and vaguely disgusting, panting as if waiting for a kick it considered a reward, as if the world around it had completely lost its mind.
"Tsk... don't drool on my leg, you masochistic bastard," Sami muttered hoarsely, pressing the sole of his shoe into the dog's belly, watching the animal's enjoyment of its own pain.
He thought about the cow dream that had woken him. A poorly constructed dream, lacking any coherent plot. "Who thinks a cow could actually frighten me?" he scoffed internally. He had faced worse. He remembered bitterly that grotesque entity, the Diaper Monster, which nearly drowned him at the bottom of a cereal bowl — a terror that had stolen his breath in sleep as it would have in waking. Compared to that, tonight's cow was just a failed idea from an amateur nightmare-writer.
He flicked his cigarette nervously, feeling the throb of pain in his head. "Seems like I need a vacation," he whispered to himself as the dog continued wagging its tail with pathetic insistence. "Even nightmares are suffering from lack of imagination... or maybe I've exhausted all possible terror."
"Listen, dog — why don't you find yourself a wife to sort your life out instead of seeking attention through these twisted methods?" Sami addressed it with bitter sarcasm. But the dog just panted and wagged its tail, as if asking: What is a wife? Some kind of food? Keep doing your job, man. Crush that spot. Yes — right there.
"Damn... what are these stupid thoughts invading my head? What's happening to me today, by the gods of stray dogs!" Sami screamed internally. Then suddenly, a thought struck him like lightning: "Maytham! How did I forget about him? This is a matter of life and death — how did it slip from my mind entirely?"
Sami rushed inside, cursing his forgetfulness, leaving the door open behind him in his panicked haste. In the dark hallway, he ran into his mother's figure, which appeared suddenly.
"Morning, Mom," he greeted her curtly, trying to hide his confusion.
She replied with a voice heavy with sleep and curiosity: "Morning, Sami... what has you out at this hour?"
"Nothing, just insomnia and a change of scenery," he answered, trying to justify his predawn vigil. But she stopped him with a firm tone: "Why did you leave the doors open? Haven't I told you a thousand times to close them at night?"
Sami felt his focus slipping. How had he forgotten something so routine? "Sorry — I was in a hurry."
His mother glanced at the security monitor and said: "Go close the doors. Don't let the dog inside."
Sami hesitated for a moment: "The dog — yes, I wanted to bring him some food. Poor thing, his ribs are showing from hunger."
She answered as she turned back toward her room: "There's chicken in the fridge. Feed him and don't forget to close the doors. Good night."
Sami went to the fridge, pulling out pieces of chicken with measured steps. There was no noise in his mind now — just a strange silence, like the quiet after a storm. The name that had leaped into his consciousness moments ago now receded behind a thick fog, like a memory from someone else's life, or a line from an old book whose pages had just been closed.
He stood at the open door, saw the dog still there, watching him with eyes gleaming with hope. Sami bent down slightly and placed the meat before it with a calm gesture.
"Here, poor thing. Enjoy your dawn hunt."
He sat on the threshold, watching the dog tear into the chicken with gratitude. He felt a pleasant numbness spreading through his limbs, as if the thoughts that had been troubling him had been placed on distant shelves, beyond his reach.
He flicked his cigarette, the smoke rising to mingle with the damp morning air. He looked at his bandaged hand, then at the dog, and felt a strange peace.
"Tsk... even dogs have their own stories," he whispered to himself with a bitter smile.
—
[Al-Kifah School]
Ayman's transfer to this school wasn't just a change in his career path — it was the pursuit of an imagined paradise. He had exhausted himself to secure a position at this particular school: the place where he had taken his first steps as a child, only a two-minute walk from his front door.
He had thought the proximity would bring him peace of mind. Instead, he slammed into the wall of harsh reality. As he walked down the corridor, he didn't hear the tremor — he felt it. A violent vibration generated by his students' feet before he even saw them.
Ayman rushed forward and threw the door open with such force the hinges shrieked: "CRAAAACK!"
"You bastards! What are you doing?" he screamed at the human mass that had transformed the classroom into a monkey exhibit. The scene was surreal: some swinging from curtains like jungle vines, others climbing ceiling fans, while the rest had taken over desks in a dance that recognized no law of gravity.
"It's Mr. Ayman! Run!"
The place exploded into a chaotic panorama. Bodies scrambled to reclaim seats in a display that resembled headless chickens in flight. Finally the dust settled and a cautious silence descended. Ayman slammed his attendance book onto the desk and shouted: "Now — who is responsible for this coup?"
Voices erupted in unison, like a coordinated denunciation: "It's the Ragtag Organization, sir!"
Ayman stood frozen in genuine confusion. Had the nickname "Ragtag" become a compliment these days? "Very well — Ragtags, step forward!"
Three children stepped forward with confident strides and stood with absurd military rigidity:
"Comrade Alaa Kamil, founding member, salutes the teacher!"
"Comrade Jawad Hammam, founding member, salutes the teacher!"
"Comrade Karrar Sameh, founding member, salutes the teacher!"
Ayman sighed: "Tsk. Tell me — what is this organization you've founded?"
One of them stepped forward to report: "For the teacher's information: my brother Sami told us the Ragtags were the knights of old. He suggested we form an organization to revive the memory of the great ones."
Jawad continued: "And we begin by stealing good grades from the top students and distributing them to the failures!"
Karrar delivered the final blow: "And the organization is exclusive, sir — we don't accept new members unless they bring sunflower seeds."
Ayman shook his head in despair and muttered: "Damn you, Sami." Then louder: "And what was the reason for that earthquake just now?"
They answered as one, as if reciting a sacred text: "Sir — Sami said the earthquake wasn't caused by tectonic plates. It was caused by a dance party the elephants threw underground! And how can we be defeated by elephants?"
Ayman stood rubbing his forehead in disbelief, looking at the victims of professional brainwashing by a barber who knew no mercy. He sighed deeply as he opened the attendance log:
"Listen, Ragtags. Sami is my friend. And if he tells you the sky will rain pies, buy metal umbrellas — not because what he says is true, but because reality itself might hesitate to contradict him."
He erased the algebra lesson from the board and wrote in large letters: "The Laws of Jungles and Cardboard."
Then he turned to them: "Since you've decided to be Ragtags, today I'll explain the difference between reality and Sami's imagination — which appears to register higher on the Richter scale than any earthquake."
—
In the living room, Manar sat with eyes like two olives and half a measure of concentrated stubbornness, while Mom chased her with a soup spoon like she was trying to tame a tiny hurricane.
"Manar, sweetheart — just one spoonful. Let the Professor eat alone!" Mom called out, trying to liberate the poor cat from siege.
But Manar had decided that the Professor wasn't just a cat — he was a furry handbag with a sagging belly. She held him in an odd configuration: his top half compressed under her small armpit, his bottom half dangling with desperate gravity, his fat belly protruding like dough overflowing its pan. His wide yellow eyes blazed with a silent plea: Where are the animal protection societies? I am a Professor. I don't deserve this humiliation.
I laughed, watching the scene from the stairwell. "Mom, leave him — he's paying the tax on luxury and obesity."
Manar turned toward me and, with a sudden movement, decided to include the Professor in the soup banquet. "Pwotethor... hungwy!" she announced, trying to cram the spoon into his small pink mouth, which only opened to release a strangled meow.
"No, Manar!" Mom lunged, rescuing what remained of the poor cat's dignity from drowning in a sea of stew.
The Professor seized the moment of distraction and slipped from Manar's grasp like a wet bar of soap. He attempted to run, but his excess weight transformed the escape into a comical waddle toward the corner of the room. He tried to hide behind the sofa — but nature betrayed him: his head and front half reached safety, while his massive belly and twitching tail remained exposed outside, an open target for Manar's next offensive.
Mom sighed, wiping a spot of stew off the floor: "This cat is going to resign from his profession soon, Sami. Look at his eyes — he's planning to run away and live with the street cats just to escape your sister's affection."
Lucky him — at least his situation is better than that masochistic dog.
"Come here, my cupcake," Sami called to Manar, reaching to pick her up and feed her.
When Manar turned toward him, she froze without blinking. As if she had seen a ghost wearing a hat. Sami felt it too — a faint coldness, or something moving, just behind his neck.
"What is it, my flower?" Mom asked in surprise, noticing her daughter's sudden stillness.
Manar pointed her small finger at Sami and said with unwavering confidence: "Mama — behind Thami, a notebook. Fwying!"
"What notebook?" Sami spun around quickly, trying to spot this flying object — and found only empty air and motionless curtains. Mom looked too, carrying the same bewilderment. Was Sami's imagination contagious to the little one now? Or was the house actually haunted?
The confusion didn't last long. Manar waved her hand through the air and announced with innocent finality: "Pwah... gone!"
She declared it had left or vanished, then returned to her ordinary life as if she hadn't just triggered an earthquake of confusion in everyone's minds. Mom and I exchanged a long look. Had there really been a notebook? Or had Professor Charles finally decided to learn to fly to escape the stew?
I looked at the Professor. He moved his head slightly — seeming to wish for that very thing.
"Tsk... even she's started seeing things. It seems the madness in this house is being distributed equally."
—
— End of Chapter Four —