The Disoriented, Page 3

  We shared a friendship, an affection, and a certain complicity; in fact, for several months he was my closest friend—a brief but intense period during which we would meet up every day; either he would call to collect me, or he would arrange to meet me in a café downtown; then we would wander the streets for hours, putting the world to rights.

  We talked about Vietnam, about the guerrillas in Bolivia, the Spanish Civil War, the Long March; we talked, a little enviously, about the cursed poets, about the murdered poets, about Lorca, about Al-Mutanabbi, about Pushkin, and even about Nerval and Mayakovsky, even though they killed themselves; and we also talked about love.

  One day, while we were walking, we were caught in a downpour. At first, as a game, a kind of childish bravado, we pretended not to care and carried on strolling at the same pace, shoulders straight. But within seconds we were drenched. And so we ran, all shame forgotten, and sheltered under an awning. We perched on a stone frieze. The name of a girl cropped up in our conversation—a girl we both knew. We talked about her with a complicity, baring our souls in a way that, even today, troubles me and makes my fingers tremble. Afterwards, for several long minutes, we were silent, as though waiting for our inner turmoil to calm. Then Bilal asked me:

  “Adam, don’t you think we were born in the wrong era, you and I?”

  “When would you like to have been born?”

  “A hundred years, two hundred years from now. Humanity is metamorphosing, and I’d like to see what it will become.”

  His boyish impatience made me feel, in spite of myself, a wise old man.

  “Because you think there’s a finish line where you can go and wait for the rest of us? Think again! No matter where you place yourself in the march of time, there will always be a before and after, events that are behind you and others looming on the horizon that will come towards you slowly, day by day. It is impossible to see everything in an instant. Unless you’re God …”

  Hearing these words, Bilal leapt to his feet and strode out into the driving rain, howling like a madman:

  “God! God! Now there’s a fine occupation!”

  About a week after that conversation, he vanished. He didn’t call me anymore, and none of our friends had any news of him. We were all convinced that he was with his beloved.

  I ran into him only once, in the university library. He had come to do some photocopying.

  “We don’t see you anymore,” I chided him in a whisper.

  He brought a finger to his lips.

  “Shhh! I’m in training! If you want to be God, you have to become invisible.”

  We laughed together one last time.

  He had come to photocopy a pamphlet or a poster. When I went over, he covered it up. I didn’t insist. I suggested we go for a coffee. He made some excuse and slipped away. I would not see him alive again.

  One day—late November, the 30th, maybe the 29th—I had a call from Mourad, early in the morning.

  “I’ve got bad news. Really bad news.”

  The night before, in one of the suburbs of the capital, there had been an exchange of fire between two armed groups. Such incidents were increasingly common, so much so that we had ceased to take them seriously, except when there were numerous victims. In this particular incident, only one fighter had been wounded. I had heard about it on the radio and not given it a second thought. It was one headline among many.

  The fighter had died of his wounds, and it was Bilal.

  “Did you know he’d taken up arms?” I said.

  “No,” Mourad said, “He didn’t tell anyone. But I can’t say I’m surprised. I expect you’re not either …”

  I had to admit that, for my part, I had known nothing, suspected nothing, sensed nothing. The idea that one of my close friends, a poet, an idealist, a ladies’ man, might wish to join the nocturnal militia, machinegun in hand, to fire a hail of bullets at the neighbouring district—no, honestly, the thought had never crossed my mind.

  Six months after the death of Bilal, our ranks would suffer another defection: mine.

  -

  2

  Adam was immersed in his memories when the telephone in his hotel room began to ring. It was one of Tania’s nephews calling on her behalf to ask whether he would like to say a few words at Mourad’s funeral, “in the name of his childhood friends.”

  Since he seemed hesitant, the nephew thought it useful to give a list of the key figures who would be speaking. At every name, or almost, Adam winced. But, given the circumstances, he did not have the effrontery to refuse point blank. He was still struggling to find the words when the young man said, “It’s on Wednesday at 11:00 a.m.” Adam instantly clung to this banal detail as if to a lifeline, explaining that, unfortunately, it would be impossible for him stay in the country until then since he was overseeing exams with his students that very day.

  A barefaced lie! he admitted that evening in his notebook. I’ve been on sabbatical since February, I’ve got no lectures, no tutorials, and no exams until next October. But I wouldn’t want to speak at Mourad’s funeral for anything in the world.

  Why lie? At the time, I wouldn’t have been able to explain. The request caught me off guard, so I said the first thing that came into my head.

  Usually, I trust my instinct; not that it is infallible, but over the years I’ve noticed that I made mistakes much more often when I thought about things, when I tried to take into account all the ins and outs of a situation, or, worse, when I tried to mentally create a list, two columns weighing up the pros and cons.

  As a result, these days I distinguish between two modes of thought. In the first, my mind works like a cauldron; it melts down all the factors and, unbeknownst to me, “computes” them, and delivers the results in a simple, succinct phrase. In the other, my mind is like a common kitchen knife; it applies itself to carving up reality using crude notions like “advantages” and “disadvantages,” “emotional” and “rational,” and only succeeds in confusing me even further.

  How often have I made disastrous decisions for excellent reasons? Or, contrariwise, the best decisions with no regard for common sense!

  So I came to the conclusion that it’s better to make the decision first, in a split second; after which I can take the time to look deep inside myself to make sense of that decision.

  As for the funeral, I didn’t need much time to justify my spur-of-the-moment refusal, at least to myself; and, thereby, assuage my remorse.

  Given the way that Mourad had behaved in recent years, I have no reason to add to the tributes that will be paid to him, albeit posthumously. It is one thing to politely offer condolences on the death of someone you knew; it’s another thing to come all the way from Paris to speak at his funeral, surrounded by his political allies, his business partners, his patrons, and his protégés. All the eminent people my former friend probably frequented during the morass of war, I know only too well the means they used to become rich and powerful. I wouldn’t want to speak before them or after them, I don’t even want to shake their hands.

  I left this country precisely so I would not have to shake such hands!

  A few minutes later, the widow herself telephoned. To insist. Could Adam not postpone his departure until the end of the week? He reiterated his refusal, repeated the same line, clearly, a little brusquely, in order to avoid any emotional blackmail.

  “Sorry! I have to go back. My students are counting on me.”

  There followed an awkward silence during which Tania could not find the words to persuade him and he could not find the words to make his excuses. In the end, she said, apparently resigned:

  “I understand … Anyway, I’ll never forget that you took the first plane to come and see him.”

  Her magnanimous attitude immediately rekindled Adam’s burning guilt. Not enough for him to change his mind, but enough that he felt the need to make up for
his absence at the funeral with some gesture of affection …

  “I’m planning to write to our mutual friends to let them know what’s happened. I’m sure they would want to send you their condolences. Albert, Naïm, a few others …”

  “Yes, please write to them,” Mourad’s widow said. “It’s been years since I’ve heard from them. I’m sure they’ll be sad.”

  “Of course.”

  “It would be wonderful if we could bring all his old friends together again. Next April, maybe, for his birthday. Do you think they would come?”

  “Why not?”

  “We could even do it earlier. The ‘fortieth day,’ maybe.”

  In accordance with an ancient tradition preserved by various communities in the Levant, a memorial takes place forty days after a person’s death. Adam felt that this would be too soon to rally his old friends. But he did not want to upset Mourad’s widow.

  “If that’s what you would like, I can certainly suggest it.”

  “What about you, would you come back?”

  “We have lots of time to talk about that later …”

  “You’re prevaricating.”

  “No, Tania, I’m not prevaricating, but everything can’t be decided right this minute. I’ll write to Mourad’s friends and sound them out. Afterwards, we’ll see where we stand.”

  “You’re prevaricating,” she said again. “Tomorrow, you’ll fly home and the whole project will be forgotten. Your friend would have so loved …”

  The words caught in her throat.

  “If you like, I’ll come and see you this evening and we can talk calmly about a reunion, that way I can make a definite suggestion. How does that sound?”

  For Adam, this was not simply a means of cutting short a conversation that made him uncomfortable. He genuinely wanted to see Tania again before he left. He felt that he had spent very little time with her. After all, it had been at Tania’s request that he had made the journey, and he had barely spoken to her. Just that furtive visit to the hospital, that almost wordless embrace. He told himself that the least he could do was spend some time with her, especially if he intended to leave before the funeral.

  “Tell me what time you’re likely to be alone … I’ll come and see you.”

  A long silence. But for the background noise, he would have thought the call had been cut off.

  When, at length, Mourad’s widow replied, Adam detected a hoarse sarcasm in her voice:

  “My poor Adam, you really have become an emigrant. You’re asking me when I’ll be alone? Alone, in this country, on a day like this? For your information, I’m in the village, in the old house, and there must be a hundred people here, maybe two hundred. Neighbours, cousins, vague acquaintances, people I’ve never even met. They’re everywhere. In the reception rooms, in the kitchen, in the hallways, in the bedrooms, out on the big terrace, and they’ll be here all night and for days to come. Alone? Did you really think I would be alone? Why don’t you go, leave, don’t worry, catch your flight, go home, to Paris, we’ll see each other some other time, in other circumstances.”

  Adam could hardly reply in the same tone on the day that Tania had just lost her husband. Though infuriated by her sudden aggressiveness, all he could say was, “That’s good. We’ll see each other again. Look after yourself.”

  And then he hung up.

  I didn’t deserve to be attacked like that! I was trying to be kind, to be considerate. I was trying to do what she wanted. She had no excuse to attack me like that.

  Maybe I was wrong to ask her if she was going to be on her own. She might have taken it as a criticism, or a sign of pity. All I meant was that I’d wait until her guests had left and go and visit her when she was with family. But what I said was just an excuse. The real reason that she’s angry is because I’ve refused to speak at Mourad’s funeral. And maybe, if we go back farther, my long quarrel with him, one I could have put an end to if I’d agreed to give a eulogy. But that’s something no one can persuade me to do. Not with flattery, not by pleading, and certainly not with that kind of vicious outburst.

  I’ve tried being reasonable but it’s no good, I can’t calm down. I’m furious!

  What really hurt about Tania’s tirade was her telling me to “go home.” Alright, so maybe these days I do consider Paris to be “home,” but does that really mean I can’t also say I’m at home in the city where I was born? It certainly doesn’t give anyone the right—friend or otherwise, grieving or otherwise—to blatantly call me a foreigner.

  Since they’re so desperate to be rid of me, I’m not going to leave! I’m the only one who gets to decide when I leave.

  -

  3

  Truth be told, Adam had no desire to leave the country any time soon.

  When he used his duties at the university as an excuse to avoid speaking at the funeral, he had felt trapped. There was nothing forcing him to catch a flight the following day, the day after, or any time soon. He was only just beginning to get his bearings again, and he did not yet feel any sense of weariness.

  In a way, Tania’s hostility had set him free. If she had remained polite and friendly, he would probably have had qualms about staying in the country and not attending the funeral, and would have left. Reluctantly, perhaps, but he could not have done otherwise.

  Now, he was determined to stay.

  A plan had formed in his mind, and he had immediately telephoned Dolores, his partner, to let her in on the secret. He intended to extend his stay in the country, but would cover his tracks.

  No sooner was the decision made than he set to work. He called down to reception to ask that they make up his bill, and took the opportunity to ask how long it would take to get to the airport. He wanted to be sure that, if anyone tried to reach him, they would be told that he had already caught his flight.

  For the same reason, as he left the hotel, he avoided taking any of the numerous waiting taxis. When the first driver in the queue opened the passenger door, he pretended that he had some things to buy in the local shop and walked off, wheeling his suitcase behind him.

  He walked for a few minutes, rounded one corner, and then another, before hailing a passing cab. He gave the driver the name of the village, Bertayel, and that of a hotel, the Auberge Sémiramis.

  Only after the cab had left behind the urban traffic snarl and turned onto a mountain road did Adam call the manager of the hotel. Her name was indeed Sémiramis and she had been one of their circle of friends at university. He had lost contact with her in the period after he left for France. But they had been in touch since; she had twice been to Paris in recent years and had dinner at his apartment; he had introduced her to Dolores, and “the beautiful Sémiramis” had made him promise that he would come and see her when he came back to the country.

  He dialled the number, and without even explaining who it was, said:

  “I’m in a taxi. I’ll be at your place in half an hour.”

  “Adam!”

  It was almost a scream.

  “I didn’t even know you were in the country.”

  “I flew in yesterday. Have you got a room for me?”

  “You can show up here whenever you like, even in high summer, and there will always be a room for you. That said, I’m not doing you any favours by giving you a room today, the hotel is almost empty.”

  “Excellent!”

  “You think so? My accountant doesn’t share your opinion.”

  She laughed, and Adam felt the need to apologize, though he laughed too.

  “All I meant was that peace and quiet is exactly what I’m looking for. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming, and I haven’t seen anyone. Except Tania, but she thinks I’m on my way to the airport. I assume you’ve heard …”

  “About Mourad? Yes, of course.”

  “Had you seen him recently?”

 
“Once or twice. What about you? I know the two of you had a falling-out. Did you ever make it up?”

  “Yes and no … I’ll tell you about it. Are you thinking of going to the funeral?”

  “Yes, obviously. Aren’t you going?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re wrong. You can’t shirk a funeral.”

  “I have my reasons. I’ll explain later … I’d rather no one knew that I was in the country. I’d like to hide out for a few days. I really need it. I don’t want to see anyone except you.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t see anyone! And no one is going to guess that you’re staying at the hotel. I’ll lock you in your room and keep the key.”

  “We don’t have to go quite that far!”

  Two fleeting laughs. A silence. Then, out of simple politeness, she asked:

  “Dolores isn’t with you?”

  “She couldn’t come. It was all decided at the last minute. She’s working. Will you have me all the same?”

  “I can’t wait to see you …”

  By the time the cab turned into the tree-lined path leading to the hotel, Sémiramis was already waiting by the gate, flanked by three of her staff, an elderly caretaker, a uniformed receptionist, and a very young porter who opened the boot and took out the suitcase the moment the cab pulled up.

  “Room eight,” Sémiramis told him.

  Adam took out his wallet to pay the fare, but the driver waved away his money and took the banknote the hotel owner had thrust through the open window.

  “You’ve been abroad far too long, you’ve forgotten the customs here,” she said assertively, to forestall any protests from her guest.

  Was this really how things were done in his native land? Adam was not sure. But the reasoning left him paralyzed. Every emigrant worries about making a faux pas, and those who stayed behind can easily trigger the fear of ridicule and the shame of having become a common tourist. He stuffed his wallet back in his pocket.