Badawi

by Mohed Altrad

  33

  He’d hoped to get away from them earlier, but here he was still at the table with Durieux, the last of the gang, like two late-night drunks. Brint, Alvaro, and Bensoussan had left, in that order. They’d all, including him, had a lot to drink, but they hadn’t talked about his girlfriend again.

  As the evening had worn on the place had undergone a transformation, and the air had grown thick with smoke until the ceiling fan struggled to dissipate the dense clouds accumulating around its blades. All it could manage now, in the early hours of the morning, was to tear slowly through the smoke, leaving trails of it hanging over the customers’ tired heads, creating gray and white swirls that sank back down, seeping into people’s noses, dimming the light, and blurring outlines just as much as the drink did. The customers had changed subtly too. The chirpy, festive tourists wanting a predinner drink had been replaced by couples and more restrained groups; then, imperceptibly, people had started to leave until there were a few lone stragglers left, still at their tables, still nursing their drinks, still gazing bleary-eyed. The Columbia Café was now not even half full and had lost all the comfortable modern appeal it had had at the start of the evening. Qaher had the same sad, fish-out-of-water feeling he’d so often had in the bistro near the Montpellier train station, where he used to go for a solitary cup of coffee when he was heading home late in the evening. Everything reminded him of it, down to the end-of-the-evening noises in the room with the waiters, eager to wrap up their night’s work, unsubtly clearing the tables.

  “They’re closing soon,” Durieux said suddenly. “Shall we go?”

  Qaher extricated himself from the fug and sat up.

  “If you like.”

  The air outside was humid and the streets were empty. They walked in silence for a while, letting their footsteps lead them to the coast road, and they decided to walk along the seafront. Only the slow slapping sound on the shore and the occasional glint of light on the water indicated they were close to the sea. It was so black and flat in the dark, you could easily miss it.

  “Wasn’t there something you wanted to talk about?” Durieux asked, tilting his head.

  “Me?”

  “Don’t say there wasn’t. I’ve been watching you for a while. Our get-togethers don’t do much for you at the best of times but this evening was worse than ever …”

  Qaher was relieved he could finally unburden himself of the thing that had been oppressing him all evening but was unsure about broaching a personal subject. He picked up a stone and threw it into the water.

  “There’s this girl,” he said hesitantly. “I knew her in Syria before I went to France.”

  “And is she just a girl or a girlfriend?”

  Qaher took a big lungful of sea air.

  “I don’t know. Well, I don’t know anymore …”

  “And is that what’s bothering you?”

  “In a way, yes. I met her when I was a teenager, at school. I didn’t know anything. To be honest I was a bit out of my depth. That school was a big change for me. A whole new world. Well, I’m sure you understand … And I was lonely. She was a local, she lived near where I had a room. At first we just bumped into each other sometimes. She was at the same school. We became friends and then we were inseparable. We saw each other a lot. You could say it was with her that I worked out who I am. When I was with her, I felt different, better, do you know what I mean?”

  “Maybe.” Durieux shrugged.

  “When I caught the bus to leave, the one taking me to Damascus, she saw me off, no one else came, just her …”

  Qaher left his words dangling. He remembered so vividly the kiss Fadia had given him before he left, the kiss he could still feel on his cheek and, along with it, he remembered the promise he hadn’t kept. He put his hand to his cheek, right where she’d kissed him. Durieux didn’t say anything, and they walked on in silence until Qaher managed to carry on with the story.

  “Then I left. We were children at the time. We didn’t know what we were doing with our promises and pledges. But we’ve grown up, we’ve changed. At least, I’ve changed.”

  He didn’t dare admit to Durieux that after the first letters following his arrival in France he’d virtually stopped writing to Fadia. He didn’t dare tell him he’d gradually put her to one side. And how could he explain changing his name? Or tell him that even though he, Durieux, knew him as Qaher, Fadia remembered him as Maïouf. And how could he tell her? Because he would have to.

  “What does she say about all this?” Durieux asked. “How does she react? Did you say she was coming here?”

  “I got a letter yesterday. She’s a teacher now and she’s got an internship in Muscat,” Qaher said, waving an arm toward the south. “She wants to see me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What about her, has she forgotten like you?”

  “I didn’t say I’d forgotten!”

  “No … OK. Let’s say, has she changed, then, if you prefer, has she grown up like you?” Durieux conceded, crushing his cigarette with a smile.

  No, she hadn’t changed. Of course she’d grown up and matured, but she’d forgotten none of her old promises.

  “Every time I feel unsure about something,” she’d said in her letter, “every time things get difficult, I think of us and our conversations, the promise I made you and the promise you made me. But maybe you’ve forgotten all that? I hope not. I’ve never allowed myself to believe you could forget.”

  He hadn’t forgotten, but he’d changed. Or, as he preferred to put it, he’d grown up. He now knew how bitter and arduous life could be, and that childhood dreams had no place in it.

  The two men had stopped walking now and were leaning on the railings, looking out blindly over the Persian Gulf that stretched away in front of them.

  “What do you think you’ll do?” Durieux asked.

  “I’m going to see her. She’ll be here tomorrow … What can I do?”

  34

  “Maïouf?”

  Qaher gave an embarrassed smile. Fadia was only meters away, staring at him. He’d recognized her straightaway in the sparse crowd of passengers, but hadn’t dared wave at her. Rooted to the spot, he had watched her hesitate, crane her neck, and anxiously scan the faces. But when his eyes met hers, her gaze locked onto his, unblinking. Her eyes were still as clear and bright, undimmed even by the brutal electric light overhead, and their penetrating gaze made him uncomfortable.

  “Is it you, Maïouf?”

  He resigned himself to stepping forward, just a few hesitant paces. He would have liked to say something but couldn’t because of the people all around him. Not that anyone was paying any attention to him: most people were already hurrying toward the exits, and those who weren’t were far too busy looking for the drivers who were meant to be meeting them or talking into their cell phones. Still, just knowing they were there made him feel awkward. All of a sudden he was right beside her, within reach, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, to be aware of her smell. He could have touched her. He almost was touching her. He could have kissed her. He looked at her in silence, incapable of uttering a single word, incapable of taking her in his arms. Fadia gave the beginnings of a mischievous smile. She was embarrassed too. She didn’t really know what to do either, unsure whether to embrace him or just say hello.

  “You’ve changed, Maïouf. But I still recognize you, you know.”

  He knew. He grabbed her elbow rather brusquely, took her small suitcase, and then dragged her toward the exit. He was inadvertently taking big strides, walking rather too fast, and only just avoiding bumping into people, desperate to get out of the big echoing arrivals hall as quickly as possible, to be back outside, back in touch with the sky and the earth, and hoping that he’d find the words to greet her once they were outside.

  She followed him meekly, almost blindly, a little surprised by his abrupt manner, intimidated by the metamorphosis that had turned him into a man. She didn’t seem to have noticed that he hadn’
t spoken, as if she hadn’t yet realized she’d arrived and they’d met up and she was now trotting along behind him. The airport was a soulless ultramodern space with no history, no past, and already no future, a place that depended entirely on oil and would disappear as soon as stocks were exhausted. It looked to her like something from one of the few Western films she’d seen. She hardly even noticed the strange mix of clothing in the crowd, where European suits mingled with expensive djellabas, khanjar daggers with gold watches, headdresses with bare heads, and veiled faces with uncovered, made-up faces.

  At last they were out in the fresh air. Facing them were rows of taxis waiting in the shade of palm trees. In the distance the horizon was blocked by the rugged outline of arid black mountains. Where should they go? They came to a standstill, both prey to the same uncertainties. Fadia took this opportunity to release her elbow gently from his grip.

  “I need to go to the ministry. You know, to get the papers for my placement. Will you come with me?” she asked in a slightly choked voice.

  The sky and the earth had nothing to do with the relief Qaher felt. He took a step away and said with feigned nonchalance, “My car’s outside.”

  “Your voice is just the same!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So you’ve got a car then?”

  “Yes. It’s lent to me by the Company.”

  He pointed toward the car park and set off, not so quickly this time. On the way he glanced at the tall glass-fronted building they were passing, and looked at their reflection. Fadia was wearing European clothes, a rather severe anthracite-colored jacket perfectly suited to a new schoolteacher, and it highlighted her slim figure. She’d become a woman. But beneath the woman other people might see, Qaher could still see the clever sensitive girl he’d once known. How many times had they walked side by side like this through the streets of Raqqa? So often that he now couldn’t think of the place without thinking of her. He’d always hoped that one day she’d get to see him climbing into his father’s truck, but she never had. Now, though, he was taking her to his own car! Part of his childhood dream was being realized. One last glance at the window before he cut across to the car park: he thought he looked pretty elegant in the sport-chic outfit he’d chosen. But the proud young man he saw reflected here was replaced in his mind by the face he’d seen in the mirror when he shaved that morning. It was a hard face, and the thought made him wince.

  When they reached the car they put Fadia’s bag in the trunk, walked around the vehicle, and climbed in. It was a brand-new car and smelled of leather. Even though it was early, the sun had warmed the interior, and this accentuated the usual heavy, acrid, and—admittedly—unpleasant smell. Qaher pushed a button to open the windows. As the glass panels glided down with a soft hiss he remembered the brightly colored buses he used to catch in Syria, deafening machines that lurched over little back roads. He’d thought they were so comfortable at the time, but couldn’t think of them now without smiling. He turned to Fadia; she looked thoughtful too. Before starting the car, Qaher pretended to make a few adjustments, pointlessly straightening the rearview mirror. In a way he was trying to prolong this timeless moment: the two of them, sitting next to each other, like the couple they could have been. Worried that Fadia might notice his ploy, he reluctantly turned on the ignition, cut across the expanse of concrete, and set off along the expressway toward Muscat.

  35

  Fadia broke the silence.

  “How is it, Maïouf?” she asked in a strained voice.

  “What?”

  “Here. Life here. Is it that different from home?”

  Qaher gave a sad little laugh.

  “Just look around and you’ll understand. The cities here are nothing like Aleppo or Damascus. They’re rich, modern, and efficient. Have you ever been to the West?”

  “You know I haven’t, but I’ve seen enough reports on TV to know what it’s like. I live in Aleppo now, and I’ve also been to Damascus. What more do you want?” she asked, as if challenging him.

  “Nothing, nothing. Anyway, this isn’t the West.”

  “So what is there here, then?”

  “Here is everywhere and nowhere. But it doesn’t really matter …”

  They were now speeding along the main road toward Muscat, with the sea occasionally appearing to their left as they turned a corner.

  “What does matter, Maïouf?”

  “Well, what goes on behind the facades, what made all this happen in the middle of the desert. I don’t need to tell you about the desert, do I?”

  Fadia fiddled with one of the pleats in her skirt.

  “There’s no point,” she replied acerbically. Then, as if regretting betraying her feelings with her tone of voice, she said more softly, “Tell me. What do you mean? Money? I know that these are rich countries, very rich.”

  Before replying, Qaher sounded his horn at a vehicle in his way, an articulated truck with a long shiny gray oil tank.

  “Money isn’t just about appearances,” he said sententiously. “You’ll see. Just look around and you’ll know what I mean.”

  “Right now all I can see is a road with plantations on either side.”

  “Be patient. What struck me when I first arrived were the glass tower blocks shining in the sunlight. And I can tell you, it’s one thing seeing those tower blocks standing against the sky on a screen, and quite another to come face-to-face with them, here, in the middle of nowhere. They shine so brightly they hurt your eyes. Every time I see them, they remind me of the sandbanks along the river near my village. A white glare, so pure you can’t look at it. But what really gets me is that these are man-made.”

  Qaher stepped on the accelerator and overtook a convoy laboring up a hill. As he pulled back in, he scowled in the rearview mirror and muttered something unintelligible. When the road started to drop down into the valley, the city appeared. He reached out one arm.

  “There’s Muscat.”

  Fadia leaned forward, peering at the horizon.

  “I can’t see the tower blocks you’re talking about.”

  The city stretching along the Gulf of Oman was shining, yes, but with the whiteness of limestone interrupted here and there by sandy-colored patches; small, flat-roofed buildings clustered in rows up the rugged hillsides hemmed in by steep mountains with no vegetation: the foothills of al-Hajar. The intense blue of the sea glimmering to her left almost hurt Fadia’s eyes.

  “This is the sultanate of Oman,” Qaher explained. “They stick to tradition here. But if you go to Dubai or Abu Dhabi you’ll see the tower blocks and all that.”

  Fadia studied the city now unfolding before her.

  “It doesn’t look like Aleppo, that’s for sure,” she murmured almost to herself. “But basically it’s like home. The towns are like oases here too.”

  “Yes, oases, except the roots of their trees don’t grow in the ground but in oil.”

  Fadia sat back in her seat.

  “So, are you an engineer at the moment, Maïouf?”

  “I earned my diploma last year,” he replied, forking off toward the outskirts of the city.

  “So you’ve succeeded.”

  “Partly.”

  Fadia fell silent. And so did Qaher. He didn’t want to go on pretending: he knew Fadia wasn’t here for a bit of a break or as a tourist. He could tell how artificial all this talk was, all this theorizing about cities and life. The silence went on, and on, painfully. Gusts of air blew in through the open window, whipping his face and making him blink. He regretted coming. And dreaded the moment of truth. The wind, the noise, the stress of this trip. How long would she wait?

  “Why did you pretty much stop writing?”

  Here we go.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have time.”

  It was an inadequate answer, Qaher realized that.

  “I had to concentrate on my studies first and foremost. I had to do well, you know. I had to work really hard.”

  And this was partly
true. He’d had to learn to reason in a different way, to think and react like someone in control of things rather than subjected to them. He hadn’t forgotten Fadia, but she’d become somehow blurred along with Syria itself and, apart from his brief trip to Aleppo, he’d never set foot back there. Every year was more difficult than the last, and he’d thrown off all traces of his past one by one, like dead skins sloughed off by a snake. And Fadia along with them.

  “I’m not the little boy you knew in Raqqa.”

  “I’m not the girl you said good-bye to at the bus stop, either, you know. Do you remember? I haven’t forgotten.”

  When Qaher didn’t reply, she added, “And do you remember our conversation on the ramparts of the citadel?”

  As Fadia asked this question, Qaher left the coast road to drive into the city itself. The increased traffic and the need to concentrate fully on driving seemed to him like good excuses not to answer. He drove around a sixteenth-century fort, and big road signs with wording in English and in Arabic indicated different routes. He needed to head south.

  As they drove past a tall tower, Qaher nodded to Fadia. In Raqqa the town center was arranged around the clock tower, and the bus station that had witnessed their good-byes was at the foot of that tower. Fadia smiled. Qaher thought her smile looked sad, and was aware she was waiting for an answer. Every passing minute played against him and betrayed his indecision, but he couldn’t make up his mind to formulate an answer. He could guess what Fadia was thinking: she wanted to know whether he’d ever come home. A question he himself had eventually shelved, thinking time would make the decision for him. But here it was rearing its head again.

  When Qaher stopped the car outside the ministerial building he still hadn’t replied. Fadia checked her papers.

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Go in. I’ll wait. I’ve taken the day off.”

  She got out of the car, and he watched her disappear, swallowed up by the spanking new building. He batted his hand to drive away a surge of nostalgia. No, he wouldn’t go in after her.