by Ryad Girod
In the distance, beyond the dunes, the cliffs of the Najd emerged from the fog of sand that had sheltered them for a time, appearing to us like the ruins of an ancient Greek or Roman metropolis … the cuts that the centuries and the climate’s severity had made to those rocky pediments, beyond the dunes atop of which crawled sinuous shadows, they inevitably led us to see ancient Palmyra … the ruins of Palmyra … the ruins of the ruins of Palmyra. And perhaps Mansour, from his eyes, saw neither Palmyra nor its ruins nor the ruins of any Greek metropolis, but simply the first circle of a series of circles that would bring about his ascension … on the horizon, the cliffs of the Najd squeezed one against the next in the arc of a circle, the remains of a circle to which Mansour’s stationary position, which is to say the exact point that he spent so long finding atop his dune, was the exact center … like what Abdelkader had set out to do when he moved his entire smala across an earth full of fire and blood, spending long minutes, even long hours, looking for the point, the center, within a silence that he had managed to impose on all of them. Then the entire smala came to life again around that gravitational center where he had commanded his tent be raised and around which a first circle of tribes circulated then a second circle of tribes and so on … and not only for reasons of military strategy, of protocol or of Arab aesthetics, but also to adhere as closely as possible to that science of enlightenment inherited from his father, from his grandfather, and so on all the way to the greatest of masters, son of Plato and oneiric confidant of Aristotle, and next to whom he wished to rest for eternity, Muhyi al-Din ibn ʿArabi. Eternity, if not for the decision to repatriate Abdelkader’s ashes so as to construct myths and erect statues … eternity, if not for the decision of the new president of that new state in that new world that was taking shape and of which we already understood so little … So perhaps Abdelkader held fast to that science of forms and numbers like it was a sort of mooring, a foundation, a religion within the religion, that science of numbers and forms wherein the first circle of tribes was made up of four tents and the second of seven then the next of fourteen … and so on it went with only him knowing the arithmetical progression, which he still remembered when he finally came near the ashes of Ibn ʿArabi, sitting in a simple corner of the Umayyad Mosque and maybe, at that very moment, struck dumb and wiped clean by the blows of fate or, on the contrary, at peace and filled with something else …
… from a corner, then, necessarily constituting the center of everything, from that angle in the Umayyad Mosque, Abdelkader relinquished himself to an arithmetical and geometrical understanding of things while during that same era Henri Poincaré was starting out at the Polytechnique to learn all truth, in its totality, and to bring a close to that line of exceptional beings and in a way to be the final seal of the great universal scholars, to end up becoming the last to know all of mathematics in their totality and to be at the origin of the greatest theories of the modern era before universal understanding itself exploded into an indescribable chaos like billions of billions of grains of sand hurled in the direction and in the face of billions of pairs of eyes that were powerless when it came to understanding anything that is or that was in this word become definitively incomprehensible …
The wind having subsided, all that remained was a fog of dust that dissipated behind him as he walked back toward me to announce his big news. Leaving the summit of his dune like an ascetic returning from a harrowing retreat … returning spent, his gaze wiped blank … returning from the winds and the sands … out of breath and eyes reddened … but I didn’t have the strength to question him, in spite of the tearstains, nor to tell myself, My God, what life is this? Wordlessly, he was content to lower the volume and bring the engine to life, to fly back down that path, and as we ate up the miles, he found the breath that his voice had been lacking to tell me that a woman would come to cure him. A woman with big eyes lined with kohl, with hair curly like the waves of a troubled sea and with a direct gaze, solid and fixed like an anchorage … or like an archangel, was that what he said? Big eyes that would open his own. I checked out a short while later, lulled by Rasha’s voice, somewhere between Ksour al-Moqbel and the entry checkpoint of the Governorate of Riyadh.
Gassouh! Gassouh! Like unending thunder in the dust-filled sky over Al Safat Square where hideous faces, deformed by hatred, are now turning toward Judge Abou Daoud al-Qassimi, who advances without a sob in your wake, Mansour, to assume responsibility for his judgment right up until the end and to be the privileged witness of your obliteration from the surface of this land on which we washed up without really wanting to. This land that constantly grows from the motes of dust that fall without end by the billion, by the billions of billions … and you know, Mansour, I went there too … Your beautiful red Camaro deposited me at the foot of your dune, after having dropped Maarafi in front of the Kingdom and having crossed all of Riyadh under a sky that seemed black to me, and I placed my footsteps in yours and I climbed back up that hill of sand and I searched for that point from which it seemed to me that you saw the truth stripped bare … but did I truly find it, that point? Because all around me, there was nothing but desert. Emptiness as far as the eye could see. And I told myself that perhaps this was what you had come looking for, not the infinite beauty of that empty infinite, but the passage through the immediate beauty of the desert to reach its emptiness and take refuge within it. Mansour, you were falling from atop that dune into an unfathomable void without my even being able to notice it happening. And I remained like that a long while, Mansour, standing there in the winds, trying to understand what had happened to you and how I could have done that to you and how you could have said that and what al-Qassimi’s sobs meant … but how is one to understand anything when the dryness of the wind is burning one’s skin? How is one to know within the smoky leather interior of a Camaro that is sailing down the desert’s paths? How is one to know, lost somewhere between Rasha’s voice and the lights of Riyadh? … Much like Abdelkader, alone in a corner of the Umayyad Mosque, burnoose fallen back on his head and gaze lost on the surface of the cold tiles, without speaking without drinking without eating and even without moving … perhaps you dwelled there, Mansour, atop your dune, your gaze lost in the desert’s immensity, in the hope of bringing an end to the agonizing concerns of knowledge and understanding. Abdelkader’s eye stuck on the geometrical forms of the tiling, the mosaics or the ornamentation of that great mosque which had in some ways been the outward expression of Islam’s grandeur, stuck amid the squares and starry polygons, stuck amid the complexity of the symmetry and of the rotations of the tessellations, stuck and turning endlessly around the circumferences of the circles, without end and without exit, lost the way one gets lost in the desert and taking shelter for one’s mind, so to speak, within that higher and divine intelligence so as to maybe appease his soul because he could not comprehend why the tribes had abandoned him nor why the Duke of Aumale had betrayed his word nor why Napoléon III had held him prisoner for so long, no more than he would understand, later on, that same Napoléon’s intense friendship and the eagerness of France to decorate him, to photograph him, to exhibit him, and he also wouldn’t have understood, even if he had lived as long as Abraham or Moses, the plundering of the country to which he had in a manner of speaking given birth, nor its destruction and ruin by the dark hordes who pillaged and killed in the name of Islam.
4.
AND THEN CAME THE EVENING of the big reception at the French embassy and the bundle of hopes that came with it. As I was in the Economic Services department’s good books, I had the privilege of honoring the French Ambassador with my presence on December 30, 2013, at the residence of His Excellency, for a reception given in honor of the visit of the President of the French Republic, François Hollande, and his entire retinue of ministers. I of course took Mansour with me, telling myself that he would enjoy seeing some people and, above all, having some drinks. And so we arranged to meet at 7 p.m. in the Diplomatic Quarter, and we started out wit
h a long wait in the lineup of invited guests that stretched around the walls of the residence. This included French expats and all those whom, like us, had some routine connection to France. A large majority were Lebanese but also a few Saudis and a handful of North Africans whom we ran into regularly at the monthly social organized by the embassy to give everyone a breather from the prying eyes of the Kingdom’s authorities. Once we were inside the residence, we stood in another line to shake the hand of Monsieur, the Ambassador, then that of Madame and then we made a break for the already packed buffet. We still managed to take two glasses of wine each and escape the throng by heading for a giant tent put up for the occasion, where the President was to give his speech. At that point we had the great fortune of running into a certain dickhead from Cultural Services I knew, overexcited, way too pumped up, and he cried out: Hussein! You old ballsack! Ahh, all this exceedingly French tenderness! Made up of gentle vulgarities to mark attachment (we’re all quite attached to our balls) and proximity (we’re never very far away from our balls) … At any rate, he made sure to have us seated inside the tent, in the first row, among the big-name guests … but without the two glasses of wine that were helping us to weather the storm, to unwind a bit, and which we had to grudgingly abandon. Placed between the head of Airbus and the head of Alstom, we remained standing, just opposite the stage and the microphone, as we waited for the arrival of the man who rumor had it was already in the residence gardens. And this turned out to be true, a few minutes later, when Hollande finally appeared under the big top to applause, with the group of ministers that had accompanied him following in his wake … Fabius, Montebourg, Le Drian, and the immortal Jack Lang … and perhaps others as well but whose names or faces I didn’t recognize. Behind me, I heard amused voices that were surprised not to see Prime Minister Ayrault … I heard Ayro! Ayro! with a Lebanese accent and instantly understood their little joke. Ayro meaning “dick” in our region, some regretted the absence of this man who would have seemed like he was a part of them, so easy to feel attached to, such a big softy …
His face sweaty but smiling, Hollande greeted the audience and began his speech: Ladies and gentlemen, this is the second time that I have come to Saudi Arabia since being elected. The first was in November 2012, when I met with King Abdullah, in Jeddah. Together, we agreed to an official visit over the course of 2013 and as such, I am here, with you, at this beautiful residence, during these the final days of the year. Our bilateral relations are excellent. These are tied to our history first of all, because for decades France and Saudi Arabia have worked together toward a certain number of principles on the international stage … After having expressed his wish, most cherished, he had said, to meet with the French community and thank it for its engagement and determination when it came to the execution and promotion of French savoir-faire and excellence along the different lines of cooperation that he had felt it important to enumerate, which of course were exclusively economic, financial, and military, which the heads of industry had not hesitated to greet with interest and satisfaction, François Hollande had thanked us as well, we, the Lebanese, Syrians, and Middle Easterners in whose hearts France dwelled and who were present this evening in such a beautiful residence, always open to its friends … he turned toward Fabius, who stood motionless, as straight as the letter I and as rigid as a statue, his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground and thus not noticing the attention focused his way, yet revealing at that precise moment a fixed grin as if he could feel that the president was looking at him … Astonishing! Astonishing, these great men with their intellects as rational as they were sensitive … In any case, at that point I had felt certain that we were about to get to the heart of the speech. But if I come to Saudi Arabia, it is not solely—and this is already very important—to promote the exceptionality of France, it is also because we have a political relationship of the highest order. In the company of the king, this afternoon, we followed to their conclusion all of the discussions on regional subjects that we felt could be of use. I appreciate the wisdom of King Abdullah, it is precious in such moments, because he demonstrates that he is willing to do what it takes to find solutions. Security is the main question. How to allow us to achieve even greater security in the region. It isn’t a question of going on the offensive, it is first and foremost about security … Has Bashar al-Assad not been playing a game, one in which he makes use of extremists to justify the campaign of repression that he has so unfortunately carried out upon his own people even in recent days, with the terrible bombings that have taken place in Aleppo? A question directed to himself and which had the effect of snapping Fabius out of his grinning torpor. At this, he had immediately turned toward the president, uncrossing his hands from his back so as to subtly bring an index finger to rest on his cheek … Quite astonishing, this language used by great men who also communicate with signs and glances. I then attentively watched Fabius’s eyes and was struck by their strange color … not blue, not gray but maybe both at the same time, they truly appeared metallic … he held that cold and metallic gaze while the president answered his own question: My answer is yes, the objective alliance between these forces is a game, one intended to render the country incapable of finding a solution. France and Saudi Arabia, in regard to Syria, much as in regard to other questions of international affairs, but notably when it comes to Syria, share exactly the same position, and that is the desire to search for a political solution, to support the moderate opposition and encourage a transition. It is on that basis that for the past few months we have been acting together. I am aware of the important role played by Saudi Arabia, particularly when it comes to backing the national Syrian coalition. And this role has been extremely invaluable. I am aware of what Saudi Arabia has done in the fight against extremism, which I have stated can, at the end of the day, be considered an accomplice to Bashar al-Assad’s regime. At the Geneva Conference, we have to work together toward the result that I have described. This must not be the prolongation of Bashar al-Assad. You know what the position of France was the moment chemical weapons were used. Because chemical weapons have been employed in Syria, there is no longer any debate about this, they have been employed. Such a reprehensible act definitively condemns this regime in the eyes of the world, and France is ready, adhering to its duty to protect civilian life, to punish those who made the odious decision to gas innocent people. At this, Fabius reassumed his initial stance. Crossed his hands behind his back, kept his eyes half-closed and fixed on the ground, and sporadically grinned his fixed grin, the signification of which only he seemed to know. Almost a kind of meditation, I thought, while President Hollande continued to speak about my country. I had, of course, a few reservations when it came to his analysis of the situation, but I didn’t get too worked up about it because, all things considered, his speech wasn’t meant to initiate a debate but was instead a sort of debriefing of what had already been decided, between Saudi Arabia and France, concerning the fate of my country. It is the pressure we have exerted, that of France, that of Saudi Arabia, that has brought about the beginning of the destruction of these chemical weapons. But today, there are bombings taking place over Aleppo, which affects the civilian population, and further massacres are being perpetrated. And so we have both adopted exactly the same position and we want to bring this terrible situation to a conclusion. Not only for Syria, but for the entire region, taking into account what we know about refugees, in Lebanon—of which we have spoken—with the risk of a deterioration of the situation in that friendly country. And then, refugees who may also leave the region, and we all know the difficulties this can engender, including for Europe, and so we are in precisely the same position. At this, the audience demonstrated, via a sort of rippling swell, its approval and its satisfaction.
I took advantage of this brief unruliness to check how things were going with my friend … I leaned forward slightly and discreetly turned my head so that I could see Mansour and what I saw almost made me burst out laug
hing. I held myself back, biting my tongue, eyes plunging to the ground, but despite this I could still picture the clownish smile that Mansour was deliberately aiming at the French leader. A grotesque smile that Hollande had most certainly not failed to notice but which didn’t seem to bother him … And yet it was such a grotesque smile, bordering on a grimace. Imperturbable, Hollande went on: As to the relations between Saudi Arabia and Lebanon, it is the sovereignty of these two nations that is being challenged. I am not here to discuss that with you today. What I do know is that France, for a long time now, but even more so in recent times, has equipped the Lebanese army and will not turn a deaf ear to any requests addressed to it. Why? Because as I have said, Lebanon must remain stable, its integrity must be respected. Its security must be assured, for all Lebanese citizens, for all of the components that make up Lebanese life, for Lebanon as a whole. I therefore maintain my relationship with President Suleiman, who I’ve been in contact with recently, and if there are requests made of us, we will meet them. I heard, right then, coming from the rear of the tent, candid expressions of relief and satisfaction immediately followed by unexpected applause. Fabius reopened his metallic eyes and found a grin appropriate to the circumstances. To silence the applause, Hollande gave a great smile, opened wide his hands and stretched them out before him, and took up his speech again, by way of conclusion, to talk about employment in France and the need to increase trade with Arabia. Fabius took his leave at this point, without waiting for the end of the speech, to a dirty look from Montebourg and Le Drian’s eternally smiling gaze … I wanted to follow him and head straight for the buffet but I was in the front row and did not have Fabius’s official standing. I bided my time, which turned out to be a long while since I was no longer listening to the president but distractedly looking at the head of his personal security detail. A woman with constantly moving eyes, nervous, and with a body that one would imagine to be equally nervous, taut and well-muscled … so nothing to hope for there. Daydreaming, I looked over the various members of the government, I examined their bearings, turning my attention back to the speech, at least intermittently, when there was laughter from the audience in response to the jokes and quips which were clearly President Hollande’s strong suit, and which he was able to skillfully pepper in amid all the gravitas. A new round of applause signaled the end of the speech and as we made a beeline to retrieve our glasses of wine and empty them on our way to acquire some more … at that exact moment, that same dickhead grabbed me by the arm, Woah woah woah there, ballsack!, insisting that we have our photo taken with the president. Held by the arm and pushed, along with Mansour, up to the foot of the stage from which the president stepped down to position himself between Mansour and me while the little dickhead took the photo … the temptation was too strong and we couldn’t prevent ourselves, neither one of us, from reproducing that same idiotic smile, which the dickhead showed us immediately afterward, asking us, still in the presence of the president, if we were happy with the photo … I hurried to say Perfect! at the same time that Hollande, who had clearly noticed our mockery, asked Mansour if he wasn’t feeling well: Is it some discomfiture that makes you smile that way? While preventing my friend from answering by pulling him by the arm, I welcomed the president to Saudi Arabia, and half-dragged, half-pushed Mansour into the middle of the crowd of people waiting their turn for a selfie destined to serve as a screenshot for a computer or a cell phone or both … we did, quite fortunately, lose the dickhead in the middle of that same crowd and soon we arrived at a buffet that was relatively unpopulated. Glasses of wine finally in hand, we allowed drunkenness to pleasantly overtake us as we contemplated the throng that was forming around the head of state, who was painstakingly advancing, his smile painted on all the while, and I told Mansour that the photo ops were likely going to take him the rest of the night, by the look of the hundred people who were waiting. I asked him, as we stood in the crowd, what had come over him to make him smile so idiotically … a smile so idiotic that it had become infectious. Mansour did little to alleviate my suspicion that he had been deliberately mocking when he assured me he only meant to reproduce a smile that the president himself had worn on some other occasion and which he had seen on the internet, thinking he could return it to him like one would return a salute … Little by little, the guests who had succeeded in having their photo taken came to join us around the buffet table to satisfy their hunger but above all their thirst, standing in front of the white tablecloths that presented us with nothing better than Red Label or Clan Campbell, Martini Rosso or Bianco, gin or vodka, lower-tier Bordeaux and room-temperature beer … but that was always the way of it and we were all very grateful.