Street of Thieves. Mathias Enard

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СКАЧАТЬ the uprising started in Morocco on February 20^th, they couldn’t stand still anymore. They took turns in sit-ins, demonstrations. My bookstore had become campaign headquarters: the group saw the Arab revolts as the long-awaited green tide. Finally, genuine Muslim countries would stretch from the Atlantic Ocean to the Persian Gulf, they dreamed about them at night. According to what Sheikh Nureddin told me, the idea was to win as many free, democratic elections as possible in order to take power and then, from within, by the conjoined forces of legislature and the street, to Islamize the constitutions and the laws. Their political projects didn’t matter much to me, but the incessant and noisy activism turned my life completely upside-down. They stopped letting me have constant access to the Internet (they needed it all the time), and I could no longer read quietly. There was always some activity, some demonstration to take part in, some broadcast to watch on TV. So I would spend more and more time downtown. I’d go read a detective novel over a cup of tea on the Place de France all afternoon. Sheikh Nureddin blamed me a little for my absences; he’d look at me reprovingly and say, you could take a more active part in our struggle.

      They took some blows. The cops had received orders to disperse the tail end of demonstrations not with tear gas or rubber bullets, but in the old style, by hand and with clubs, and they did pretty well for themselves: you’d see blue uniforms swarming over the bearded men. Since young people had to be in the forefront of the Movement, Bassam had been the first to sustain some injuries near the Place des Nations, late one night, and to return a hero, his chest streaked with bruises, a bandage on his nose, his eyes purple, still chanting “For God, Nation, and Liberation.” The model for all this was Egypt. That was the only thing on their lips, Cairo, Liberation Square. Egypt is an advanced society, said Sheikh Nureddin, the Brothers will carry the day. He almost cried with emotion. I remember, when we heard a French specialist on Arabic society on the TV saying there are no Muslim Brothers on Tahrir Square, Sheikh Nureddin was incredibly upset at first. Lies, he said. May God destroy these miscreants. What bastards these Frenchmen are, they respect nothing, not even the truth. Ready to do anything to keep their power, those assholes. And then he got hold of himself, saying after all it’s not bad to stay in the shadows, it gave an even more legitimate feeling to the uprising. What’s more, the news from Egypt was excellent: the Brothers were confident of emerging the great victors in the free elections when they took place, and of forming a government. The first one since the Algerian swindle twenty years before.

      It was chaos in Tangier for at least a week, but Sheikh Nureddin could clearly see that it wasn’t taking the Tunisian or Egyptian path, that the Palace was more clever or more legitimate (after all, isn’t the King the Commander of the Faithful?) and that they’d have to form an alliance with a party already in place if the reform of the Constitution were to take place.

      A few weeks later, the King granted amnesty to an entire contingent of political prisoners, among them members of the Group who had been languishing in government jails since the massive roundups after the attacks on Casablanca years before. The Sheikh was euphoric. He welcomed these companions as if he were Joseph himself returning from Egypt and finding his brothers again. The Propagation of Koranic Thought became a hive of bearded men.

      I was impatient for all this agitation to be over so I could resume my reading and regain my tranquility. The Group was like a pack of caged animals—they kept pacing in circles, waiting for night and the time for action. They had decided to take advantage of the disorder, the demonstrations and the cops to undertake a “neighborhood cleanup” as they called it. Bassam, anxious to avenge his broken nose on the first person to come along, was on the prowl for fights. They went out in bands of a dozen each, armed with cudgels and pickax handles after a belligerent, eloquent sermon by Sheikh Nureddin, which talked of the campaigns of the Prophet, the Battle of Badr, the Battle of the Trench, the fight against the Jewish tribe of the Banu Qaynuqa; about Hamza the hero, the glory of the martyrs in Paradise, and about the beauty, the great beauty of dying in battle. Then, very heated after this theoretical warm-up, they would move out into the night almost at a run, with Bassam’s nerves and cudgel in the lead. I heard nothing about the result of their first engagements, except that they would come back happy, out of breath, with no wounded or martyrs. Sheikh Nureddin thought that for safety reasons it was important he not take part in this holy war himself, but would look at me in surprise when I said I preferred to keep him company at the Center. After two nights of fights without any losses, he wanted to lead his troops to victory himself; I was finally prepared to stay alone and peaceful in front of the computer, but one glance from Sheikh Nureddin was enough to convince me that I’d better join them; I was given a club which I hid, like everyone else, under my caftan.

      The expedition could have been amusing; our band, hoods on their heads, beards, long coats, haunting the dark sidewalks, wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Egyptian comedy.

      I hadn’t been warned of the goals; the sermon had mentioned fighting against impiety, sin, and pornography, but nothing more precise. The night was cold and damp. There were six of us, we walked in rows, it began to rain a little, which took away whatever charm the expedition had. The struggle against drunkenness and materialism was not a pleasure outing.

      When I saw that we were turning left two hundred meters from the Koranic Thought, I began to get a little worried; there was one possible target, at the end of the avenue, which I hoped was not ours. But it was. It couldn’t be anything else. Everyone seemed to know where we were going but me; Bassam in the lead, the group advanced unhesitatingly. We reached the bookseller’s shop; he had closed the display window because of the rain, but light seeped through the door, despite the late hour; I imagined he was in the process of knocking back one or two bottles of cheap wine while leafing through old Spanish or French magazines of naked girls. And he was in the back of his store, with a bottle of red; he raised his head from his Playboy, looking furious, recognized me, and smiled timidly, disconcerted. Sheikh Nureddin’s eyes were full of scorn, he uttered a brief sermon in classical Arabic, you are the shame of the neighborhood, our neighborhood is respectable, respect God and our neighborhood, Infidel, we are the punishment of Infidels, the ruin of miscreants, leave our neighborhood immediately, respect God, our wives, and our children, the bookseller rolled his wild eyes; they darted very quickly from right to left, rested on Bassam, on me, and returned to the Sheikh reeling off his anathema. He still had his glass in his hand, and his incredulous look, wondering if I was playing a bad joke on him or something of the kind. Then the Sheikh shouted The wrath of God be upon you!, and turned to me, Bassam opened his coat to take out his pickaxe handle and looked at me too. All three of them stared at me, the bookseller said in a toneless voice, what kind of joke is this?, Bassam looked as if he were begging me, as in, come on, for God’s sake, what are you waiting for, shit, go on, go on, the Sheikh was sizing me up, I opened the panel of my coat, took out my club, the bookseller looked terrified, surprised and terrified, he got up all of a sudden from his chair, skirted around the desk on my side, very quickly, as if to flee, I didn’t want to hurt him, he tried to seize hold of my club, he began insulting us, bastards, dogs, assholes, I fuck your mothers, then Bassam hit him hard, on the shoulder, it made a dull sound, he shouted in pain, collapsed while clutching my coat and my legs, Bassam pummeled his ribs with his cudgel, very spiritedly, the bookseller shouted again, swore profusely, Bassam started up again on his thigh, aiming for the bone, the man began groaning. Bassam was smiling, brandishing his stick. I wondered for an instant if he was going to smash my face in as well. Sheikh Nureddin leaned over the bookseller, who was on the ground groaning, said to him I hope you have understood, then gave him a kick that made him cry out even louder. Tears were running down the poor guy’s face, I couldn’t look any more, I put away my weapon and went out. Bassam followed me, then the Sheikh; I heard him spitting on his victim before leaving. I ran back to the center, the others behind me. When we reached the Group for the Propagation of Koranic Thought, I threw my axe handle on the rug and locked myself up in my room. I was trembling with hatred, I could have cut Sheikh Nureddin and Bassam into pieces. Me, too. I could have cut myself up into pieces. Sitting on my bed I wondered what to do. I didn’t want to stay there. I was full of superhuman energy, an incredibly powerful anger. I took all the money I had and left. The Group was at prayers again, I crossed the large room without СКАЧАТЬ