The Dust of Promises

by Ahlem Mosteghanemi

  There was something about it that went beyond the beauty of a coincidental correspondence in choice of perfume to the horror of his coffin’s coincidental presence beneath us, especially given the fact that he used to keep an empty bottle of this very perfume hidden among his things.

  The question was no longer: where had he gotten that bottle? Which woman had used it? Or, how long had he been keeping it the way an orphan holds onto something whose value he alone knows? Instead there had emerged another question that sent a chill through my body: what if he was the one who had requested that perfume because on this particular day, he needed it more than any of the rest of us?

  On the other hand, in the underworld where he was now, he’d been freed by death not only from life but from the ordeal of orphanhood and alienation. So what need would he have now for a perfume to pour into his empty bottle?

  Now, at last, he’d become the least orphaned one of us all. He had no more need to be afraid that the sweet fragrance of his joy would run out. He had a fragrance that time could do nothing to diminish – the fragrance of eternity.

  Or was it that, isolated now in a corpse, he needed this perfume to restrain an odour that would whet the appetite of maggots and reveal the unsightliness of a man who’d always been keen to preserve the beauty of presence?

  Of course, perfume in a bottle is nothing but a fragrance in the making. It only becomes a fragrance in completion when it blends with the chemistry of the body. Consequently, no perfume could have covered up that odour.

  Odour is just the apology of a perfume that was so late in arriving that death stepped in to take its place.

  When the stewardess came back to collect the girl’s money in payment for the perfume, it occurred to me to offer it to her as a gift. The gift would have been in honour of the way the perfume’s fragrance mocks the stench of orphanhood.

  But then I decided against it for fear that she might think I was making a pass at her, the way miserable men tend to do when they find a woman strapped into an adjoining seat.

  Could it be that, on the pretext of perfuming his lifeless body, I was simply trying to lay a hand on her silence?

  I was content with the little she’d said, and savoured the delicious awkwardness that had come over me in the face of something resembling love. Taking silence to its limit, I was preparing a hole between us in the depths of ambiguity where I could plant a seedling of raging desire, while my thoughts began weaving the beginnings of stories that might be written about this woman and me.

  Beyond the horror of endings, I’d been afflicted with the terror of beginnings, the fear of emotional involvement, its vertigo, its allure. Even if I could find an umbrella to shield me from the drizzle of desire, where would I get a face mask to keep out seduction’s pungent perfume?

  I caught a fleeting whiff of his odour that, for a moment, blocked my desire for her. However, it couldn’t destroy her perfume’s power over me.

  Love was advancing towards me like wild steeds. However, it was preceded by the dust of the past, because in this woman there was something of the other. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, but I could smell it.

  I remembered how, when I saw her for the first time in that café one thirtieth of October at one fifteen in the afternoon, I’d felt the thunderbolt of a passionate, head-on collision between two planets that, so taken were they by each other, were bound to splinter into a million pieces. Fearful of being swept off my feet by something so beautifully destructive, I’d asked her permission to sit down, saying, ‘Madame, I thank Planet Earth’s circulatory system for not letting us meet before today.’

  In the galaxy of love, who is it that directs the course of the planets? Who distances them from one another? Who brings them closer? Who programmes their encounters and their collisions? Who extinguishes one and lights up another in the firmament of our lives?

  Does a person have to stumble over a dead body in order to fall in love? In our search for a new love, we always stumble over the dead body of someone we loved before, over the corpses of those we put to death, as though we needed their cadavers as a bridge. In all our emotional stumblings, we fall in the same place, on the same rock, and when we get up, we’re covered with scratches that reopen the wounds we suffered from the collision brought about by our first love. So don’t waste your time giving lovers advice. There are certain mistakes love is bound to repeat eternally!

  Was it possible that I hadn’t gotten over her? It was as though she’d seeped into the pores of my memory, of my destiny, and I smelled her perfume wherever I went.

  She wasn’t Hayat – a woman whose name means ‘life’. She was life itself.

  How often I’d dreamed of aeroplanes that would take me to her, of new cities we would visit together, of hotel rooms whose doors would close behind us, of morning baths followed by the caresses of her lips in lieu of a towel, of talking far into the night about love, about death, about God, about the military, about dreams betrayed, about double-dealing homelands.

  I’d dreamed of seeing her number appear on my telephone screen and having her voice drink my coffee with me, escort me to my office, cross streets with me, board aeroplanes with me and hold me tight like a seatbelt, hover about me with motherly concern, reassure me, check up on me – in short, I’d dreamed of having her voice there to take me by the hand.

  But whatever pleasures I enjoyed with this woman had always been under threat. There were always corpses between us, one of which was travelling with me, eavesdropping on me, and guffawing at me from its deathly hiding place.

  With a love like this, you don’t stumble across a dead body. You stumble across a cemetery.

  I was busy reminiscing about her when suddenly I heard the voice of the stewardess saying, ‘Passengers are requested to place their seats in an upright position, fasten their seatbelts, and extinguish all cigarettes.’

  The old lady to my right began demanding my attention, so I helped her fasten her seatbelt and closed the small blind on the window near us so that, if she had a mind to look out, she wouldn’t see Constantine from such a height and panic even more.

  ‘Don’t look down, mother,’ I told her.

  I wanted her to give me a bit of freedom. I wanted to be able to look to my left so that I could forget the underworld. I wanted to steal the final moments of this breathtakingly bizarre rendezvous to say something to a perfume that had arrived late, and that frightened me as much as the moment of a plane’s descent.

  The aeroplane touched down at breakneck speed, the way aeroplanes always do. As it hurtled with us down the runway, the high-pitched whizzing of its engines grew so loud that no one could carry on a conversation any more.

  My thoughts went to where he was, to his coffin as it jolted at the moment it collided with Constantine’s soil.

  Here he and I would part. Here the travel fête would end, and all I could do was entrust him to the city. It was night, and not the right time to fling oneself into her arms. Constantine turns in early, and nobody would dare rouse the keeper of the dead, who had donned the nightshirt of heedlessness for fear of the dreaded henchmen.

  You have to understand that from now on you’ll be under the protection of the maggots, which, while you were away, nested and multiplied both underground and aboveground. Human maggots amassed their fortunes from the tables that were spread thanks to your abstinence from their sumptuous feasts. And now that you’ve died, they’ll incite others against you so that they can gorge themselves on the remains of a body they’d fed in part to the revolution.

  We take pride in the maggots’ exploits, and in recognition of their insatiable appetite for more martyrs, we offer them our bodies as tokens of our loyalty.

  Between your revolution and their fortune, my friend, your lifeblood was poured out. Like your body, it’s been dedicated to the homeland’s maggots, whose death-dealing breeders prepare the best soil for them the way other countries cultivate pearls and coral in their own special aquariums
.

  He was resigned to his final slumber. As for me, I was too exhausted to dream any more, and I wondered which of us was the most afraid.

  O Madame Constantine, who wakes up only to schedule our deaths – refrain, please, from doing harm to his dream! Pretend to care about him. Wrap him in a bogus embrace and go back to sleep. Don’t scrutinise his papers too closely, and don’t ask him his name. Wherever he’s gone his surname has been al-Qisantani – the Constantinian. So now that he’s come to settle here, give his name to a boulder or a tree at the foot of a bridge, since the streets and alleyways have been reserved for martyrs of the past and losses of the future.

  The whirring of the aircraft drowned out the clamorous silence I’d shared with him since the journey’s start.

  What could I do against a fate that had reserved me a seat above a stench and next to a perfume that were travelling on the same aeroplane?

  I heard the old lady, who was holding onto my arm for dear life, uttering terrified prayers and supplications.

  Meanwhile, a stewardess’s voice announced, ‘The outside temperature is six degrees Celsius, and the local time is eleven thirty pm. Please keep your seatbelts fastened. The aircraft has landed at Mohamed Boudiaf Airport, Constantine.’

  Glossary

  17 October 1961: The Paris massacre of 1961 took place during the Algerian War (1954–1962). Under orders from police chief Maurice Papon, the French police attacked a forbidden, but peaceful, demonstration of some 30,000 pro-FLN (Front de Libération Nationale) Algerians. In 1998, after thirty-seven years of denial, the French government at last acknowledged forty deaths, though some estimates place the death toll at over 200.

  Bearer of lies: The Arabic phrase, hammalat al-kidhb ‘bearer of lies’ is a play on the Koranic phrase hammalat al-hatab, ‘bearer of firewood’ in Surah 111:4.

  Ben Bella, Ahmed: Ahmed Ben Bella (1916–2012) was a socialist soldier and revolutionary who served between 1963 and 1965 as Algeria’s first president.

  Bey, Salah: Salah Bey (1725–1792) was Bey of the Ottoman Province of Constantine between 1771 and 1792, and one of the province’s most famous governors. Salah Bey worked to build up the city of Constantine through the construction of schools and mosques, restored El Kantara Bridge built by the Romans, and developed trade, industry and agriculture in the region. His death was mourned in Constantine long after his passing.

  Boumédiène, Houari: Houari Boumédiène (1932–1978) served as chairman of Algeria’s Revolutionary Council between 1965 and 1976, and as Algeria’s second president from 1976 until his death on 27 December 1978. After a bloodless coup in 1965 in which Ben Bella was deposed, Boumédiène was the country’s de facto ruler until, after being treated unsuccessfully in Moscow, he died of a rare blood disease.

  Bouzellouf: An Algerian delicacy consisting of sheep’s head and feet cooked in a sauce seasoned with garlic, salt, black pepper, red pepper and cumin.

  Cheikh Raymond: Raymond Leyris (1912–1961) was a renowned Algerian Jewish lutist and vocalist who specialised in the Andalusian music of Eastern Algeria. Widely admired by both Jews and Muslims, he was later dubbed ‘Cheikh’ (elder) as a term of respect.

  Dishdasha: A long, flowing, sleeved robe.

  Donqol, Amal: Amal Donqol (1940–1983) was an Egyptian poet known best for his political poem, ‘Don’t Reconcile’ (la tusa-lih).

  Duras, Marguerite: Born Marguerite Donnadieu in present-day Saigon, Vietnam, Duras (1914–1996) was a prolific French writer and film director.

  Eid: A word referring to either of two major Muslim holidays: Eid al-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice, commemorating Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his eldest son in God’s honour and God’s provision of a ram in his stead, and Eid al-Fitr, the Feast of Fast-breaking, which marks the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. It is the custom in Muslim countries to buy new clothes for one’s children before each of these two holidays.

  ‘Even the wise die…’: Psalms 49:1, Revised Standard Version.

  The Fatiha: The opening chapter of the Koran, typically recited in reverence when visiting someone’s grave.

  Fergani, Mohamed Taher: Mohamed Taher Fergani (1928–) is an Algerian singer, violinist and composer. Nicknamed ‘the Nightingale of Constantine’, Fergani is known in particular for his interpretations of Andalusian classical music.

  ‘From the lofty, breathtaking mountains’: A phrase from the Algerian national anthem.

  Gainsbourg, Serge: An important figure in French popular music, Gainsbourg (1928–1991, born Lucien Ginsburg) was renowned for his sometimes provocative, satirical, subversive and scandalous lyrics. His artistic output was exceptionally diverse, including a wide variety of genres.

  Haddad, Malek: Malek Haddad (1927–1978) was an Algerian poet and novelist, born in Constantine, who wrote in French.

  Hijab: The term hijab, meaning ‘veil’ or ‘protective partition’, refers traditionally to Islamic attire for a woman, which is understood to mean attire that covers everything but a woman’s face and hands. As used in this context, it refers specifically to the stylish headscarves worn by present-day Algerian women in lieu of the more traditional malaya (see entry below on malaya).

  Imam Ali: Ali Ibn Abi Talib, the Prophet Muhammad’s cousin and the husband of his daughter Fatimah.

  Kamanja: A traditional oriental instrument having one or two strings.

  Khansa’: Born Tumadhir bint ‘Amr ibn al-Harth in 575 CE to a wealthy family in Najd, Arabia, Khansa’ came to be widely acclaimed for her poetry, particularly her elegies to her slain brothers, Mu‘awiyah and Sakhr.

  Malaya: A flowing outer garment, sometimes including a face veil, worn by women in Algeria. It is associated with modesty and with adherence to societal and religious tradition.

  ‘Many an abandonment . . .’: A line of poetry attributed to Sayf al-Dawla al-Hamdani (d. 967 CE).

  Miller, Henry: Henry Miller (1891–1980) was an American writer known for developing his own literary style comprised of a mix of autobiography, social criticism, philosophical reflection, sex, surrealist free association and mysticism. He lived in Paris between 1930 and 1939, during which time he wrote his first published novel, Tropic of Cancer (1934), which was banned in the USA on grounds of obscenity.

  Morice Line: Named after the French Minister of Defence, André Morice, the Morice Line was a defensive line, completed in 1957, whose purpose was to prevent Algerian FLN (Front de Libération Nationale, National Liberation Front) guerrillas from entering the French colony of Algeria from Tunisia and Morocco. Along the centre of the line ran a two-and-a-half-metre-high electric fence that carried 5,000 volts and which had barbed wire entanglement on one side. It was flanked on either side by forty-five-metre-wide minefields. The Morice Line was 460 km long along the border with Tunisia and 700 km long along the border with Morocco.

  Mu‘awiyah Ibn Abi Sufyan: The first Umayyad caliph (602–680).

  Nedjma: The title of a novel by Kateb Yacine published in 1956 whose four main characters’ life stories are connected by a shared attraction to an Algerian-French woman by the name of Nedjma.

  November Revolution: On 1 November 1954, guerrillas from the anti-colonialist National Liberation Front (FLN) began what has come to be known as the Algerian War of Independence, or Algerian Revolution, by launching attacks on military and civilian targets throughout Algeria. Despite a military victory by French forces, the war ended in 1962 with Algerian independence from France.

  Pied-noir: Meaning ‘black foot’, the term pied-noir refers to a French or other European citizen who lived in French Algeria, and who returned to Europe with the end of French rule in Algeria between 1956 and 1962.

  Qalb al-Lawz: A semolina-based sweet, decorated with almonds and served with a sugar syrup.

  Qotbi, Mehdi: Born in 1951 in Rabat, Morocco, Mehdi Qotbi studied art in both Morocco and France. A resident of France, many of his works feature Oriental calligraphy and symbolism. In 1991, Qotbi founded the Franco-Morocc
an Circle of Friendship, of which he is president.

  Sisyphus: In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a king of Ephyra (now known as Corinth). He was punished for chronic deceitfulness by being forced to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to see it roll back down again, and to repeat this process eternally.

  Tamar, Simone: Simone Tamar (1932–1982) was a well-known Constantinian singer, known as ‘the golden voice of Constantine’, who specialised in Andalusian music.

  ‘Umar Ibn Abi Rabi‘a: An Arab poet from the aristocracy of Mecca, ‘Umar Ibn Abi Rabi’ah (644–719) was known especially for his love poetry (ghazal).

  Yacine, Kateb: Kateb Yacine (1929–1989) was an Algerian writer known for his novels and plays, some in French and some in the Algerian Arabic dialect, and for his advocacy of the Berber cause.

  Zalabia: A sweet made by deep-frying a wheat batter in ball shapes, then dipping them in a sugar syrup.

  Zindali: What is termed Zindali music is associated with prison life. Despite their lively, sweet tunes, Zindali songs have been looked down upon for their use of coarse language and their frank references to things such as alcohol and sex. They also describe prisoners’ suffering and their longing for freedom. The term ‘zindali’ is derived from Zindalah, the name of a prison once located in the capital city of Tunisia. The name Zindalah, which reflects Ottoman influence, is derived from the Turkish word zindan, meaning prison.

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Algerian novelist and poet Ahlem Mosteghanemi is the bestselling female author in the Arab world. She has more than eight million followers on Facebook and was ranked among the top ten most influential women in the Middle East by Forbes in 2006. The previous books in her trilogy of bestselling novels, The Bridges of Constantine and Chaos of the Senses, were published by Bloomsbury, and have been translated into several languages.

  A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATOR