Telepathy Read Online Free PDF Page A

the body perform its functions in a better way. By this method, we undertake treatment of numerous diseases like anxiety, insomnia, puerperal fever, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic back pain, the menstrual problems of some women, sterility, frigidity, premature ejaculation, even various types of cancer, inflammation of the liver, joints, and prostate, and . . .”
    I suddenly felt bored and envied Professor Hazaz his effusive vigor and blazing mind. He would pause occasionally, breathe deeply, wet his throat with a sip of water from the full glass in front of him, or cast a brief glance at a folded piece of paper that a member of the audience had certainly submitted to inquire about some ailment or to request some clarification.
    I needed to move a little, to smoke a cigarette, or to flee from the place to return to my draft. I didn’t feel at all absorbed in this lecture. I was not enjoying it and had never thought I needed reflexology treatment. To date,I have had a limited number of pains that I have loved and lived on friendly terms with for a long time: nervous tension while writing, bloating of the colon, acid reflux, insomnia on some occasions, mood swings – but nothing else. If I required treatment in the future, Sabir Hazaz would certainly not be the person I sought out. I decided to rise from my seat while the professor was enumerating the dangers of treatment conducted by a non-specialist. These included torn tendons, an increased need to urinate, and thickened discharge of the body’s morphine, leading to something akin to insanity. Najma looked bored too. Her expression was reserved and her eyes almost closed. Her diaphanous white headscarf had slipped, but she had not lifted a hand to adjust it.
    Even though the audience was small, people had begun to slip away without embarrassment. A young woman whose name I don’t remember, although I see her occasionally at cultural events, was taking notes on a piece of paper as if she were a pupil in an important lesson.
    It seemed to me that Mahatma Abd al-Rahman wanted the professor to stretch him out right then and massage the map of his feet, because he was holding them out in front of him and kept pressing them together. The seat of Sonia al-Zuwainy, the hair stylist, was empty, and the isolated youth remained alone. The swimming coach, Shushu, was shaking his long hair rapturously, and my middle-aged neighbor, the woman with the embroidered green dress and heavy gold earrings, leaned toward me again the moment I started to rise. She whispered, “Now Irecognize you. You courted me when we were in secondary school. You’ve matured a lot, but I know you with a woman’s memory. How are you, dear? Are you married?”
    I didn’t reply and quickly shot outside.
    I stood in a rather dark corner of the outer hall of the club building, smoking my cigarette deliberately while I tensely revisited my Asian memories, hoping they would speak again quickly so I could record them the moment I returned home.
    The hall, unlike the inside chamber where the lecture was held, was very crowded. At a number of tables people of different ages were eagerly playing dominoes and cards. People were speaking shrilly about the current political situation, the faltering national economy, and local football matches. A few people were gathered around an old table-football board situated in the opposite corner, waiting impatiently for their turn.
    It was a run-of-the-mill hall in an ordinary club where the presence of a novelist, even a stellar one, would definitely not attract anyone’s attention. The people there were far removed from the paths of reading. All the same, something unusual happened at that moment. I suddenly saw Ranim’s troubled lover emerge from an inner room. He was wearing his same traditional garb – thobe, turban, and goatskin shoes – and heading rapidly toward me. In his right hand was a copy of
Hunger’s Hopes
and in