Not a day goes by that I do not think about the transparent man who lived on my roof. I hesitate to share my experience as I have no insight, proof, or lesson to offer, yet for some reason I feel compelled to do so.
I’ve always been a night-person. In Amman the night always seemed to be the perfect time to breathe. The sticky-hot air turns to cool desert wind and the only sound to be heard is the occasional hoot of an owl. Not to mention the spirits. Jordan is the land of Djinn and awliya’a. The former mystic and otherworldly, the domain of religious leaders and Bedouins. Spirits of the desert night. The latter ghostly and spiritual, the whispered tales of the fallaheen. These are the spirits of the well loved and come only to those who are pure of heart. I do not know what the transparent man was, only that he sometimes sat on a plastic lawn chair on my roof.
In Amman those who cannot have gardens use roofs. My flat was no exception. In an effort to be as accommodating to my rotating circle of friends as possible, I maintained a continuous realm of comfort atop my roof, replete with a hammock, cards-table, assortment of mysteriously acquired ashtrays and lighters, and four cheap white plastic chairs. The transparent man sat on the leftmost chair, and only when it faced away from the table. He did not seem to like being constrained, and in an effort to be hospitable I always left the chair as he liked it whenever I was alone.
The transparent man was, like me, a night-owl. In the light of the moon he seemed closer to translucent than transparent. I could almost see formless features outlined in his face, but whenever my gaze lingered upon him, he would leave. I assumed he enjoyed the comfort of the roof but preferred a sort of solitary company. As a result, I limited our interactions to occasionally offering him a lit cigarette, which he would sometimes take. I never counted my cigarettes to avoid confronting the possibility that I was losing my mind, but the pack always seemed to empty quicker after I saw him.
He would only come when I was alone, and only when I was tired. A presence with whom to end the night with. In the beginning he would lurk in my peripheral vision, but as time progressed, he stood closer to me. One night he sat down in the white plastic chair and placed his feet on the astroturf. After that, he was only ever seated. It never occurred to me to be afraid of him. Looking back on it, I suspect he was merely lonely, and so was I. Solitary companions smoking and looking at the stars.
He only ever looked at me once. It was a warm September night and I was seated next to him, both of us looking forward at nothing. The transparent man turned to me, and I recall thinking that I needed to take something. I spoke aloud, “how?” Then, the transparent man got up and walked off the roof. He walked in mid-air, carefully avoiding buildings as though he wished not to disturb the inhabitants. He kept walking until I could not see him anymore.
It was shortly after that incident that I moved to Canada to attempt to muddle my life into something socially valued or economically productive. I wonder if he still frequents my old flat, or if he misses me, or if he knew I was leaving. All the same, I wish I could have said good-bye.