The Sexual Life of an Islamist in Paris

by Leila Marouane

  At work, despite the office's cool, Zen atmosphere, as my closest colleagues called it, the least little thing exasperated me. I cancelled important appointments, locked myself in my office, and gave the order that I was not to be disturbed under any circumstance—except if, and only if, a certain Monsieur Galland were to call—and I sat before the computer screen scrolling through the apartments for rent on the Internet, but my heart wasn't in it. Only the nest on the rue Saint-Placide found favor in my eyes. It was there or nowhere, I thought. And what if I invited Mademoiselle Agnès Papinot for lunch? Perhaps then she would omit faxing my rivals' files to the owner, and she would call him back to revoke my purported withdrawal. That way I would end up as the only applicant for the little Versailles.

  I stared at her business card, sat for a long while deciphering the telephone numbers, land line and cellular, and her email address. There was no postal address. My assumptions were therefore correct, she lived in the slum belt, and avoided putting her address on her card, a tactic I was only too familiar with after having resorted to it myself, before I was reconciled with my sister, the disowned one. Meditating on the fate of poor Mademoiselle Papinot, I eventually abandoned the idea of contacting her. It was pointless to stoop that low. And if things did not turn out the way I hoped, if I did not obtain the object of my desires, that little nest that obsessed me, well, I would just have to find a way to get the necessary credit, and I would acquire the apartment of my dreams, somewhere between the rue du Cherche-Midi and the rue de Sèvres. And fate, without the intervention of that blonde with her malevolent gaze, would continue in its work.

  So be it, I thought, to console myself, putting away her business card. And so it was. As I was staring relentlessly at the dome of the Invalides, scarcely listening to the client who was very worried about his investments on the stock exchange, my assistant put through a call from Monsieur Galland. My aorta was pounding fit to burst, and I excused myself to my client as I pressed the receiver right up against my ear. A few seconds later, lulled by the voice of my new (and very first) landlord, I was bathed in a rosy light and my pulse was beating almost in slow motion. As I put the phone down, I felt like kissing my client on both cheeks. After my client's departure—and I did not kiss him on his cheeks, nor anywhere else for that matter—I called the realestate agency. Mademoiselle Agnès Papinot, who had already been informed of the "good news," asked me if I could come by within the hour because, she explained, her mandate at the Sèvres agency would terminate in a few days, around the 13th of July, and she had to settle everything before her departure. As I put down the receiver, a sudden warmth suffused the office. As if the devil himself, lurking somewhere on the premises, was blowing this heat from all his nostrils. I loosened my tie, took off my jacket, and stood up. Then, as I was double-checking the air conditioning, which was in perfect working order, I was racked by abdominal spasms so violent that I was forced to bend over—and the furniture in the room began to reel, and the floor beneath my feet to sway …

  Breathless, struggling against dizziness, I managed to stand up straight. I pressed my back against the wall, and waited for the malaise to pass. A few moments later, the temperature was back to normal and the spasms stopped. I sat back down, wiped my face, and took a big swallow of water. I cracked my knuckles and then, taking a deep breath, with a rotation of my head I cracked the vertebrae in my neck. Breathing calmly, I then dug out the sheet of fine letterhead. Diligent as a young schoolboy, I filled out and signed all the checks. When I had finished, I put my checkbook away in the leather briefcase worthy of the financier that I am, and I called my assistant and asked her to draw up a residential insurance policy in my name, at the following address and for so-and-so many square meters …

  If you please, Madame Seguin. Fearful of the evil eye, I hung up before she had the time to proffer anything remotely resembling congratulations. Iput on my jacket and adjusted my tie, but instead of going out, I just stood there looking at the dome of the Invalides. No longer shining like a mirage, but well and truly like the real monument, all gold and arches embellishing my horizon. He's oneof us! You're one of them. I'm one of you. Pleasantly flabbergasted, ready to confront the lovely Agnès Papinot, I finally left my office. On the way, gracing my assistant with a smile, I informed her that I was stepping out, and would probably be absent all afternoon. My voice, cheerful at last, gave her such pleasure that no less than twice she wished me "An excellent weekend, Monsieur Tocquard." Then, "A lovely summer," reminding me that she was leaving on vacation, that she'd arranged everything; an intern, whom she'd handpicked, would replace her. I was about to ask her if the intern was pretty, then thought better of it.

  Mademoiselle Agnès Papinot, he said, was wearing an outfit that clashed with her manly allure, but in no way impinged upon the sensuality of that allure. A skirt above the knee, and a transparent slip rimmed with sequins, in fashion that summer. And not the slightest trace of a bra: her round, firm breasts quivered like young pigeons ready to take flight.

  While I avoided staring cross-eyed at her bust, she suggested, given that I was already familiar with the apartment, and knew that I liked it, and in order to save time, that I sign the lease before dealing with the inventory of fixtures. I informed her that the insurance was already pending, and I handed her the checks, then initialed and signed the two copies of the lease. In a very professional tone of voice, she congratulated me and we went over to the rue Saint-Placide.

  While she was noting down the condition of the paint, the plumbing, the door and window frames, and so on, I took a moment to examine the entire space of my apartment, assuring myself that my first impression had been correct. And it was, incontestably; and incontestably I was madly in love with my abode. My superb magnificent divine nest. Where the most beautiful little birds would, thanks to my ministrations, be cosseted cherished drunk eaten nibbled turned this way and that in every direction from every angle in every posture licit or illicit divine or diabolical I was lifting the blower of the fireplace when Mademoiselle Agnès Papinot, whom I'd almost forgotten, extricated me from my heated deliberation. "Please don't forget to have it swept," she said. "Who?" I went, startled. "The chimney, Monsieur Tocquard."

  "Of course, Mademoiselle Papinot," I said, in a voice where I (deliberately) allowed a little allusion to filter through. An allusion that Mademoiselle Papinot picked up on, but deliberately ignored. "And please don't forget the bank transfer. Here is Monsieur Galland's IBAN number," she said, handing me an envelope. "I'll see to it," I said, seizing the envelope. "Good, then all that's left to do is to approve and sign the inventory of fixtures," she said. "Fine," I said, struggling against an almost irrepressible desireto fondle her breasts. "And if you ever are in the mood to buy …" she said, in a voice that was so soft, lascivious, her breasts quivering, so close at hand …

  And what if she were, in the end, on the point of offering herself to me? And what if I were to take her? Here. Now. Right away. Thus, sooner than expected, I would put an end to my chastity. That way, sooner than expected. To explore a woman. Her labyrinthine secrets. Clefts and slits. Whiffs. Secretions and sweat. And Mademoiselle Papinot, manly and sexy, had what it took to placate my cock, which was overheating and overhardening. A split-second later, thinking back over the week from hell that I had just endured thanks to her, I felt a grudge as big as a dromedary overwhelm me, and my desire to give her a tumble on the varnished parquet floor rapidly receded. "I have no intention of buying," I said in a neutral voice. "For the time being," she said, removing a set of keys from her handbag and placing them on the mantelpiece. "But if you change your mind—because it's a pity to pay rent when you have the means to invest—please don't hesitate to call me," she added, tenacious, her voice even softer and more lascivious than before. "We'll see," I said, struggling against a new and violent erection. "Well, I think that's everything," she said, miming her departure. "Yes, I think so," I said, without following her to the door, congratulating myself as I watche
d her turn on her heels, the way I had turned, a week earlier, my throat tight, my bowels on fire. But when the door clicked shut, Mademoiselle Papinot's breasts assailed my mind, causing me to regret this missed opportunity to possess them, and to reproach myself for my pathological spite, and to rebuke myself for my incurable paranoia, and with my cock as hard as a rock I hastened to the toilet. A few minutes later, relieved, I went back into town, and devoted the rest of the afternoon to my shopping. Darty, for household appliances; Habitat, for furniture.

  Once I had placed my orders, he said, and had returned to my new quartier—I could have pinched myself—I indulged in a few other purchases: a red lamp, factory style and exorbitantly priced at the Conran Shop, on the rue de Babylone, and a coffee maker from the Nespresso boutique on the rue du Bac.

  The salesgirl—a pearl of the sort perfectly fashioned to splash around in my oval bathtub—gazed on, duly impressed and jovial as I bought myself four hundred boxes of coffee capsules, from the strongest to the lightest.

  I was about to buy half a dozen of the lovely Italian cups, but then I said, "Two cups, please," to indicate that I was neither a head of household nor was I shacked up in any manner, but that I was indeed a bachelor—free, quick, and ready for anything. And besides, that naughty girl, as she reached for my American Express, she gave a furtive glance at my ring finger. Devoid of any wedding ring. That goes without saying. Then she smiled and emoted a friendliness that exceeded the bounds of commerce. I could be sure that the next time I visited the shop she would gladly accept the business card I would discreetly slip her way. Moreover, I would be needing some business cards, with my private address and telephone number. And, naturally, my Gallicized name.

  What I would like to emphasize here is the fact that I only had eyes—and desire—for white women, regular users of the pill and the condom, free in their bodies and their minds, women who consciously, with joy and good humor, without scruples or qualms, are headed for lifelong celibacy, unlike Mademoiselle Papinot, manicuring her lovely hands, preserving the ring finger for a wedding band, unlike the young virgins in my suburb, with their obvious virgin-up-to-my-neck, chaste-until-marriage mannerisms.

  In any event, even with her consent, I had no intention of defiling a Muslim girl: there would be no taste in it, or at best there would be the insipidity inspired by the bismillah without which any act, sexual or otherwise, is illicit.

  Thus far had I progressed with the cogitations, analyses, and conclusions of a man henceforth equipped with a cock that was, if not ungodly, at least secular, when I left the shop, titillated by the salesgirl's charm.

  Burdened with my luxury parcels, I used my cell phone to call Telecom and order the installation of a landline, headed straight then branched off through the streets of my quartier, and found myself on the boulevard Raspail. Near the Hôtel Lutétia, somewhat lost, I rushed across a sort of square that smelled of piss and spilt wine.

  On the corner of the boulevard and of the rue du ChercheMidi I caught my breath and stopped outside a store selling Oriental rugs. Two or three kilims, some cushions, a lamp with multi-colored facets, amphoras, a water pipe: in short, a little oriental salon in a corner of my living room, opposite the fireplace, would not be an excessive luxury. And if my mother, who never left Saint-Ouen, did happen to pay a visit, a place where she could unroll her prayer mat would reassure her on the fate of her son. Oh light of his mother's days, still faithful to his origins and his upbringing. My mother, perpetually clinging. My mother, sticky as a makrout. My mother, sticking to her son. However, just as in the old days, when the women in the Kasbah never ventured into the European quarters, my mother never came to the center of Paris—even on those rare occasions when she did leave our suburb, Barbès and the surrounding area remained her limit.

  Whatever the case may be, however filled with pity for my progenitor I might be, however aware of her sacrifices, of how she had aged before her time, of her unhealthy thinness, her frustrations, her wasted life, I was far too happy to wallow in any sort of resentment toward my family, and my natural indulgence regained the upper hand. I promised myself I would arrange that space in case my mother, or at any rate my brother, or my sister Ourida, the youngest of the three sisters, the pious, blessed one, along with her convert of a husband, Alain also known as Ali, decided to come for a visit.

  I headed up the rue du Cherche-Midi, and toward the top found my own street. My street. In the very heart of Paris. In the most beautiful neighborhood on the planet. And then my building. From the Haussmann era, lofty, freestone … But that wasn't all: a gentleman, a man of letters, said the plaque, by the name of Huysmans, born in Paris in 1848, had breathed his last here on May 12, 1907. Thus. In a few decades. Perhaps. My name would be. Carved. In the same place. Born in Blida. In 1966. Wow. Ouch. There is no sure concomitance that is not accompanied by a coincidence, cogitated Bachelard. So I declaimed, punching in the entry code.

  Crossing the threshold of my building, I must have looked as happy as a clam, for the woman I passed on the way in, no doubt a neighbor, a sixty-something lady who didn't look like the sort to brighten up easily, gave me a brilliant smile, infected by my euphoria.

  Like a cat marking its territory, I spread my parcels all over the place—the lamp on the mantelpiece, the coffee capsules in the cupboard, and the luxury machine on the sink, where I promptly unpacked it. I read the instruction manual and got ready to use it. I rinsed out one of the two cups and made myself a coffee, which I drank standing up, smoking a cigarette and dreaming of my future encounters. Women left and right, wham bam thank you ma'am. Advocates of relations without consequence or change of heart. No lifetime commitments. No procreation.

  What purpose would it serve to alienate myself with a woman? I asked, over and over. Or to procreate? What good would a wife do me? What would be the point of having any progeny? Only to sacrifice the career as a poet that awaited me? Worse, even. Only to pile on worries and die alone in a hospital bed. The way my father died. In that hospital, in Blida. Alone, from cirrhosis of the liver.

  A few years before he died, he continued, my father took advantage of his early retirement, or so we thought, to go two or three times a year to Blida.

  The family home had been divided up among my grandfather's heirs—according to the sharia which was still in force in the land of Algeria, my mother, as a woman, had only inherited a tiny part of it, which she then relinquished to her numerous brothers in exchange for a room that we could use during the summer; as for my father, once again according to the sharia, because he was adopted he had not inherited a thing, and so he stayed here and there, in a hotel, or at the baths.

  My mother protested vigorously—the plane ticket was costly, as were the hotels and the baths, not to mention the taverns where he took his meals; my father countered by defending the importance of his trips, emphasizing that he now had a civil servant on his side and that finally, soon, he would be able to acquire the property where he would build a house for us, for my mother, above all, who gave him no peace, constantly harping on about her nostalgia for the land whence she had been torn and where, in the end, my father breathed his last, at the age of fifty-nine, in the spring of the year 1992, the day after I turned twenty-six, the day before my final exam.

  My mother, as was fitting, wanted to support me "during this important trial," so there was no question of her, the wife, or of me, the eldest son, going to the side of the dying man. Or even of burying him. Naturally my twin sister, who had finally gone back to Blida and gotten married three years before our father died, could have been at his bedside. But the husband we had chosen for her, for whatever reasons of his own, was not one of those who allows their legitimate spouse out of the house. And women, because they are so emotional, are excluded from funerals, regardless of their age or relationship to the deceased.

  Thus, my father breathed his last alone, as if he had never had any family, although the other patients in his ward were there for him all the same,
and are thought to have moistened his lips and made sure he recited his shahada in time, or so we were informed later by one of my maternal uncles, who had arranged the funeral.

  It was also somewhat later, in the autumn following his death, when I went to the factory to take care of some administrative formalities, that I learned that my father drank, and that his premature retirement was actually sick leave, for a long illness. He could not sit up straight in front of the machine, your old man, said one of his old friends and coworkers. He had constant hallucinations …

  No one had a clue at the time that my father was drinking, certainly not my mother, busy as she was raising her two sons—cooking up little dinners for them, dressing them like nabobs, looking for wives for them—and educating her three daughters—keeping close watch on their honor, repatriating the eldest, disowning the second, blessing the youngest—and today I feelremorse that I never saw how my father was suffering, that I never suspected how sick he was, and I'm still amazed at how well he hid it from everyone—saying his prayers without flinching, both at home and at the mosque, obeying without grumbling the demands of his wife, my mother, an educated female, haughty and domineering in her own domain, to whom I have not breathed a word about these revelations which, for days and nights thereafter, obsessed me to the point of insomnia and sent me straight to the door of my psychiatrist.

  Resolved to take control of my life as I saw fit, he continued, with neither god nor master, neither wife nor child, I reiterated with sudden jubilation, I finished drinking my coffee and rinsed out my cup. A moment later I was pacing back and forth in the apartment, my mind transfixed, unsure of how to divest myself of this anxiety that clung so stubbornly.

  I rummaged in my pockets in search of some Lexomil and then, remembering my determination to be done with these drugs, I gave up. In the bedroom by the wide open window, I fixed my gaze upon the plane tree in the courtyard and, ignorant of the fact that blackbirds only sing at dusk, something Mademoiselle Papinot had not mentioned, I pricked up my ears.