Yes, I’m the one who came to you, because you were still here, alive in the city I believed I had flooded under the rains. How are you still here when I killed you once with gas, and then with a flood? When I used to wander through the neighborhood of Bourj Hammoud, Luqman, I thought about its being the first area to be submerged by the flood coming out of the sea. A giant tsunami that would sweep away the rocks and people and voices and languages. A symphony of waves to rival the sky, advancing like united armies to destroy everything in their path: women, children, and elderly; livestock, horses, and dogs; trees, car frames, balconies, ugly curtains, and electrical poles and lines. Residents and foreigners, vendors, travelers, the disabled, the whores, the laborers, and the beggars. A divine, cosmic tsunami that would end the world in order to begin it again. No! To end it, without any mercy. A rough draft, full of mistakes, and then a cosmic eraser to make the page white again.

“Every time I get myself ready to die, N, you bring me back to life. Haven’t you had enough of me yet?”

This time, Luqman, you’ll certainly die. I will kill you this time for good and all, and you will die.

‌Epilogue

In his report to the police, Dr. Andrew related, in part:

Because she suffered a confusion of identity and other psychological afflictions, Mrs. N spent more than fifteen years in our institution, during which time not a single person came to visit her, despite her being a well-known writer of works that attracted great interest when they were published. She first came to us expressing a fear that murderous spirits were transforming her into a killer, and we received her and pursued her treatment, both psychological and medical, throughout all these years. (See attached report 1.)

When Miss Zahra opened the door to Mrs. N’s room this morning, she found Mrs. N swimming in a pool of her own blood. She had stabbed herself with new Faber-Castell pencils under her right shoulder only to pull them out and plant them in her torso, directly in the solar plexus. This caused serious blood loss, which led to her passing shortly before dawn. (See forensic report, attached.)

Scattered around her, we found many papers, some of them stained with blood. It was clear that they belonged to a single manuscript of numbered pages bearing the title Mister N. Under her hand was a fresh sheet, and using a finger dipped in her own blood, she had written:

Finally. I’ve finally freed myself from him.

‌Translator’s Note

Reading Mister N is a pleasure on multiple levels. That is even more true for translating it.