Street of Thieves. Mathias Enard

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СКАЧАТЬ his jaw, and when he seemed to have been hypnotized by the swaying of Elena’s breasts to the point of closing his eyelids, Judit gave the signal for departure. I didn’t insist on holding them back, I even agreed it’s time, yes, I have to work tomorrow morning. I explained that the next day I was setting up a table of books in front of the neighborhood mosque, I repeated the name of the mosque and of the neighborhood twice, à la Bassam, to be sure they had understood. Come see me if you’re in the neighborhood, I added for more clarity. It wasn’t very likely that they’d be “in the neighborhood” given the immense touristic interest of our suburb, and when all was said and done I wasn’t so sure I really wanted them to see close up the contents of my piles of books, but you have to understand that it was terribly frustrating to let them go like that, without suggesting anything to them, even indirectly. Judit and Elena were staying in a little hotel in the old city, we walked them back; I’d have liked to tell them the history of Tangier, of the citadel, the little streets, but I was absolutely incapable.

      There is always a certain embarrassment in saying goodbye, especially on a silent, deserted street, next to the trashcans of an inn whose tired neon lights, on the balcony, under the sign, from time to time electrified the thin lines of rain that were beginning to fall again. It’s one moment too many, when you don’t know if you should draw it out or, on the contrary, shorten it and disappear. You’ll get wet, Judit said. Thank you for tonight, I whispered. Bassam held out his hand to Elena without lifting his eyes to her face; better stop there, the gleaming city and the Propagation of Koranic Thought was waiting for us; the stroboscopic light that fell intermittently on Judit’s face froze her eyebrows, lips, and chin. See you soon then, maybe, I said. Ilâ-l-liqâ, she replied, those were the first Arabic words I heard from her mouth, Ilâ-l-liqâ, her pronunciation was so perfect, so Arabic, that, surprised, I mechanically responded Ilâ-l-liqâ, and we started on our way back.

      I don’t know if it was the rain that reawakened Bassam, but a hundred meters after we left the girls, he couldn’t stop talking. Oh wow, oh wow, what a night, hey pal, did you see that, man, they’re crazy about us, I should have pushed for giving them Arabic lessons, they definitely would have followed us, did you see how she was showing me her tits, still it’s incredible, I thought your story about Carmen and Inez was a load of crap, what an amazing stroke of luck. Oh wow.

      The strangest thing was that he didn’t seem frustrated or disappointed about bringing them back to their hotel, he was just happy and couldn’t care less about the rain. Me on the contrary, half soaked—and we still had a good forty-five minute walk to go—I felt a terrible void, a weariness, as if, by showing me Judit before taking her back, Fate had only increased my loneliness tenfold. Now, walking toward our neighborhood, it was Meryem who came back to me painfully, her tenderness and her body; the arrival of the Spanish girl revived her absence, showed me the path of my true love, I thought, and the more the reality of that single physical contact grew distant—almost two years—the more I thought I was realizing how important she was to me since Judit’s presence, instead of immediately arousing new desires, had reminded me of details (smells, textures, moistures) that were manifesting in the rain: the incurable melancholy of hormones. Bassam was wound up like a clock, going on with his oh wows which were overwhelming me. Bassam, shut it, I shouted. Just shut up, please. He stopped short, standing stock still in the middle of the boulevard without understanding. I yelled, you’re right, you know what? We’ve got to go, leave Tangier, leave Morocco, we can’t stay here anymore.

      He looked at me as if I were a halfwit, a retard who has to be spoken to gently.

      Be patient then, he said, because God is on the side of the patient.

      He was quoting the Prophet, with irony, maybe. If Bassam was capable of irony. I felt as if I were completely drunk, all of a sudden, immensely, hugely intoxicated, with no reason whatsoever. Yesterday the expedition with the Group, tonight Judit. If all that had a meaning, it was completely obscure.

      It was raining harder and harder, we ended up flagging down a passing taxi that cost me my last dirhams.

      After we reached the Propagation of Koranic Thought, Bassam started praying. I smoked a joint while he stared at me wide-eyed. Sheikh Nureddin doesn’t like that, you know. We have to be pure.

      I held up a fragrant middle finger, which made him laugh.

      The kif calmed me down a little—Judit on loop in my thoughts, I kept reliving the evening, her smiles, her thoughts about Morocco, about the Arab Spring, about Spain, I could see her hazel eyes, her lips, and teeth, up close. I rushed to the computer, looked for her on Facebook, there were lots of Judits in Catalonia, some without photos, others with, not one who looked like her.

      I ended up landing on pages devoted to Barcelona, I traveled through the city, from the harbor to the hills, walked up La Rambla looked for the university, the Barça stadium, contemplated the Gaudi façades; I suddenly discovered a modern, strange skyscraper right in the middle of the city, a huge iridescent penis, a brightly colored phallus full of offices that stood facing the sea, a disproportionate organ that made me wonder for an instant if it was the obscene farce of a mad hacker or the excessive fantasy of a porn director, how could they have built that tower in the center of such a beautiful city, an insult, a provocation, a game, and this building seemed there for me, to remind me painfully of what I had in place of a brain, an omen, perhaps, an obscure mark of Fate, Barcelona was under the sign of the penis, I turned off the computer. Bassam had fallen asleep on the rug; he was snoring a little, on his back, a half-smile on his face, calm.

      I went to bed; the night was spinning a little, there were shooting stars on the ceiling, I fell asleep.

      FRIDAYS were always exhausting days, I had to make two or three trips with a hand cart to bring the books and CDs, stack them first inside the mosque, then move the trestles, then the big boards with someone’s help, all of which took a good two hours. Then I had to set up the books in nice piles, after having covered the tables with paper, and be more or less ready when they made the call to prayer; Sheikh Nureddin would lend me a hand, then bring me the cashbox and the rolls of brand-new ten-cent pieces on which a bee calmly gathered nectar from a saffron flower.

      Of course, I always had to renew my supply, the clients were usually the same. That morning I had brought one box of Sexuality and another of Heroines, of course, the mainstays of my sales, but also some beautiful Korans with commentaries in the margins, a few brochures by Sayyid Qutb, The Life of the Prophet in two large volumes, three illustrated books for children (Prayer, Pilgrimage, The Fast) and a pretty book I liked a lot, Stories of the Prophets, tales from Noah up to Mohammed. Plus some chanted versions of the Koran on CD and DVD.

      Usually, clients would glance quickly over the offerings as they went into the mosque and would linger when they came out; during prayer and the sermon, aside from a few passersby, there was no one, and in any case according to Nureddin I wasn’t supposed to sell anything during prayers, Muslims are supposed to stop all commerce.

      The weather was ominous; I had taken care to bring along the big plastic tarp to protect the books in case of a shower even though, according to the weather reports, it wasn’t supposed to rain.

      There weren’t many people on the esplanade, a teenager was staring at me, it was my little brother Yassin, this day was off to a great start. He was carrying a bag with some bread, it had been almost two years since I’d seen him. He realized I’d seen him, turned his head away, hesitated, walked away a few steps, then came back, I was waiting for him with a big smile, I held out my hand over the books, he didn’t take it, just spat:

      “You should be ashamed to show yourself here again.”

      Enough was enough, all this because I had been found naked with Meryem.

      “What СКАЧАТЬ