The Arch and the Butterfly (15 page)

I heard Bahia’s voice behind me, saying, ‘Please don’t bother yourself with useless questions. When Ahmad insisted on knowing the direct reason for our divorce, I had to tell him the story of the baby I wanted and you did not. That is all there is to it. If it will upset you, I won’t do it, I swear I won’t.’

I told her that it did not matter to me or hurt me. I headed straight out of the garden on to the deserted street on that bizarre Sunday evening. I realised once more that what had happened and the way it had happened, with the words and emotions it had provoked, wouldn’t have happened to me had I left at the right time. Why hadn’t I left every time it had seemed obvious to leave? Why had I squandered so much existence during a quarter of a century of procrastination and waiting?

I walked for a long time and then got on the seven o’clock train to Rabat. As I arrived in the capital, I imagined Ahmad with his short stature sleeping with Bahia and whispering words of love to her in a Marrakech accent. I imagined telling him angrily that even if he stole every woman in the world, he would never get over the humiliation of the woman who dumped him for his lawyer while he was in prison.

I regretted the cruel thoughts, and thanked God that I had not actually said any of it. I read the day’s newspapers before I went up to my apartment, where I slept for a whole day without dreams.

When I woke up I found my voicemail full of anxious messages about my disappearance. I also found text messages from my colleagues at the paper informing me about the recent break up of a sleeper cell. I was reading those messages when another arrived from Fatima asking me to call her. I dialled her number and heard her joyful voice immediately on the line.

‘You sound very happy!’ I said.

‘Not at all. I talked to Ahmad Majd and guess what his comment was on the happy marriage?’ she asked.

‘You’re invited?’

‘No, he said to me: what do you expect me to do? I have devoted my life to correcting the mistakes of the left!’

I told her, ‘I’m afraid that is going to be the last sarcastic sentence he will utter.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because he’s entering the sea of darkness.’

‘Don’t be a bird of ill omen. Watch out for yourself. Do you have any new information about the cell?’

‘Not yet. I’m meeting my colleagues shortly.’

‘It seems it’s linked to the Madrid group.’

‘We’ll see. I’ll call you later.’

‘Kisses,’ she replied.

On my way to meet colleagues at the Beach restaurant, Yacine nudged me and asked, ‘What happened to you? Where did you disappear?’

‘Do you know that your mother is getting married?’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘Wonders never cease, for the living.’

‘Is this your only reaction to the news?’ I asked.

‘We are not surprised by anything, as you know.’

‘I expected you at least to be embarrassed by what happened!’

‘Listen, death is no joke. We don’t go through all this terror to remain subject to emotions and shyness.’

‘Regardless, I must tell you that the main reason for our divorce and the door being flung wide open to this marriage is you.’

‘I know, but don’t expect me to develop a guilt complex.’

‘You also know, don’t you, that the idea of the new baby is just compensating for you?’

‘No one compensates for anyone. The baby won’t replace me; Ahmad Majd won’t take your place; and no other woman will replace Bahia. Whenever you get attached to human beings, they become an eternal curse, like the colour of your eyes.’

‘I’m surprised to hear you say that,’ I said.

‘Let it go. Can I ask you to do something for me?’

‘Go ahead, ask.’

‘Don’t be harsh with Bahia. She’s a very sad woman.’

3

I spent the evening with work colleagues at the Beach restaurant, and stayed late talking about terrorism. One of my colleagues remarked that terrorism had truly succeeded when it took up so much of our time. He also said that, in the end, terrorism was one of the dangers of modern life, no less and no more. It claimed far fewer people than traffic accidents, smoking, drugs or illness. Life itself was more fatal than terrorism. We were unnecessarily panicked, he said, and Moroccans in particular were scared of everything.

Some of my other colleagues were convinced that the largest powers would succeed in formulating effective and extremely expensive security policies, leaving only our cities hostage and easy prey for terrorism. Each one of us would then adopt a personal security policy. We would all wear Pakistani clothes and denounce to the sheikhs those who drank alcohol in our buildings and the women who displayed their charms. If one of them wanted to add a young girl from our family to his harem, we would help him fulfil his wish.

‘Everything terrorism does has to do with women,’ Abbas, a colleague, said. ‘Women are terrorism’s only concern.’

‘Everything we do or don’t do is for the sake of women,’ another responded.Gradually the conversation became knotty as it touched on political Islam, its ties to terrorist organisations, and who benefited from whom. The disagreements increased and our voices grew strident, until we suddenly became aware of the silence in the restaurant. Someone said as we were leaving, ‘It’s very late.’

Abbas said loudly as he was opening his car door, ‘Who would like to join me at a last stop?’

‘Have pity on yourself!’ I said.

He replied, with a phrase attributed to Saadi Youssef, ‘The nation is perishing, let’s perish with it.’

On my way back home I called Layla and talked with her at length about people who entered our lives by coincidence, became predatory beings and devoured our existence one portion at a time, while we were unable to stop them.

‘This situation has a clear, precise name. It’s called cowardice,’ Layla said.

‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘because the victim might be cour­­­ageous in other situations.’

‘It’s still cowardice, because cowardice also means being selective in your courage. There’s no greater cowardice than not resisting someone who is eating you up.’

‘Well I’m a coward then. That’s all there is to it!’

‘I don’t know why you say that. We’re talking in the absolute,’ Layla said.

When we ended our telephone conversation, I felt oppressed. I wondered why I asked questions that led me to humiliating diagnoses. Why did I insist on going around in circles on the same spot, raising all the dust of the world around me?

When I arrived home I found a voice message from Ahmad telling me, ‘Call me even if you get home at dawn.’ There was another message from Bahia inviting me to have lunch with her any day I liked, and a third message from Layla in which she apologised for having been rude. I only returned Layla’s call to tell her, ‘Yes, very rude.’ As soon as I hung up, she called me back and said, ‘Why don’t you come round?’

I took a quick shower and went to her place.

As I was getting ready to leave her, she said, ‘I want to see you sleeping.’

‘If I stay another minute, I will fall asleep,’ I replied.

She rushed to the alarm clock and set it for five a.m.

‘Why the alarm clock?’ I asked. ‘You’ll wake me up when you’re tired of watching me sleep.’

‘I’ll also go to sleep,’ she said. ‘I want to sense you. I don’t mean watching you asleep. I just want to feel that you’re here and that you’ll fall asleep and wake up like you do normally.’

The alarm clock rang. I got up, dressed and returned home sleepy, half dreaming of Layla standing shivering in front of the lift door, begging me to open my eyes and send her a message as soon as I arrived home.

‘I’ve arrived!’

Ahmad pulled me back out of the clouds of sleep at seven a.m., when he appeared at my door saying, ‘Ghaliya packed her bags and left.’

‘Why did she do that? What happened?’ I asked.

‘She’s dead set against my marriage. She said, “If Youssef had done the same to you, I would have been equally upset.’’’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I told her that you consented and did not see anything wrong with it.’

‘But that’s not true.’

‘God Almighty, it’s true. You consent and deep down you thank God for this divine arrangement that suits you and suits us.’

I begged him to let me sleep, as I needed to be fit to work in the afternoon, but after he left I was unable to go back to sleep. I wrote an article entitled ‘Terrorism As I Do Not Understand It’ which included some of what my colleagues and I had discussed the previous evening and other ideas that occurred to me as I thought about the explosions of 16 May 2003 in Casablanca. This deadly violence was blamed on social injustice, poverty, inadequate housing, Zionist aggression and the war on Iraq. Some blamed the events on the lack of polit­ical solutions. Could we ever comprehend a person’s decision to detonate himself in a restaurant, in a mosque, in front of a school or in a funeral procession? How can slitting the throats of children from ear to ear in an Algerian village be a kind of expression? How did we ever give birth to such creatures?

After writing that essay I wrote, without much enthusiasm, another instalment for
Letters to My Beloved
. I discussed how relationships transform us into nourishment to be gulped down. I reflected on the shocks contained in every new relationship, the shocks we feel when we consider objectively what we have become in the eyes of this incredible being. I wrote about how, when we consider the way our emotions are generated, different words fill our mouths, how we walk the city with steps that do not seem to be ours, and how our body awakens near us yet far from us, how we insist it is for us while it insists it is against us.

I then wrote about something I had dreamed, but it was not in a dream: I recognised you from your walk and your hairdo. I was a few steps behind you and I decided to get ahead of you to be sure, but you quickened your pace and I could not catch up with you. Your face appeared and disappeared depending on whether I got closer or farther away from you. I was exhausted and decided to call your name, but I could not remember it or your facial features. I kept following you even when I no longer knew why, or why I wanted to get ahead of you and examine your face. I had the impression that you asked me, ‘What?’ Exhausted, I replied, ‘I do not know.’ My mouth was dry, so I entered the first café I found and drank lots of water without quenching my thirst.

When I sat behind the glass wall in the café I felt a heavy weight crumble inside me, but it was not inside me. The front of the café, its glass doors and windows, were reduced to thick debris that separated me from the world, but when it obstructed my view totally, I remembered you once again. I stood ready to catch up with you. ‘Listen, I can’t get out of the café, it’s called the Majes?. . .?the Majestique, in front of the garden and close to the Grand Hotel. Call the fire brigade and civil defence. Come and save me.’

*

I went to Marrakech for Ghaliya’s sake. She received me in floods of tears at her sister’s house. I told her the truth: ‘I don’t like this marriage. There’s something ugly about it I can’t pinpoint, but my gut feeling is that it will give Ahmad some peace and save Bahia.’ She kept raising and lowering her hands, opening and closing them, as if she wanted her hands to say what her tongue could not express. Then she told me that she was concerned about our friendship, but I reassured her that nothing would ruin it. She smiled and said everything around us had changed and we couldn’t understand anything any more. I was about to tell her that the only thing that had changed was our tolerance, but I refrained, lest I add to her confusion.

We returned together to the old house. Ahmad had opened it up for the evening gathering and had filled a large straw basket at the entrance of the main hall with fragrant rose petals. As soon as Ghaliya crossed the threshold, he filled his hands with petals and threw them wherever she went, in front of her, behind her, and over her head, while she tried to stop him, embarrassed and tearful. But he continued to shower her, mumbling mysterious supplications. I thought that it would be difficult to erase from our life someone capable of dousing Ghaliya’s anger with rose petals. Ahmad could transition smoothly between sitting on a moped flitting through rain, and the position of a holy man comfortable in his eternal pose. He went effortlessly from praying at Sidi Bel-Abbas Mausoleum to an evening at the Pasha Club, without incurring any split in his personality. He was permanently in control and forever brittle.

The following day Ahmad and I were returning to the house from a long dinner, when suddenly, a few steps from the house, our heads and bodies were assailed by a barrage of sticks and chains. As I fell to the ground, holding my hand to a bleeding wound on my forehead, I heard Ahmad call Ghaliya and all his neighbours by their full names and at the top of his voice. Then I heard him collapse amidst the sound of escaping footsteps while windows and doors were being opened as people woke up and rushed us to the emergency room.

I ended up with ten stitches in my head while Ahmad suffered a broken left hand, along with many other minor wounds of various hues. I was lying on my hospital bed when Ahmad was brought in – his moans preceding him – and laid in the bed opposite, his broken arm resting on his chest in a sling around his neck.