Street of Thieves

by Mathias Enard

  Sheikh Nureddin was powerful—he disappeared whenever he pleased and reappeared whenever he thought fit, from Arabia or Qatar, the non-combatant branch of a pious foundation, without any passport, visa, or money problems. Always elegant, in a suit, with a white shirt, no tie of course, a short well-trimmed beard, a little black briefcase; he spoke calmly, smiled, even laughed sometimes; his voice could glide from the gentleness of brotherhood to the shouts of battle, I can still hear them sometimes in my sleep, those speeches on the battle of Badr, I will come to your aid, with a thousand angels following each other, it seemed as if he knew the entire Koran by heart, God gave you victory in Badr when you were at your weakest, and the Text shone forth from his mouth, gleamed with a thousand lights of those angels promised by the Lord; he would spend hours telling us the story of Bilal, the slave tortured for his Faith, who became the first muezzin in Islam and whose voice, his voice alone, could draw tears from the inhabitants of Medina when he made the call to prayer—all those stories filled us with strength, joy, or anger, depending on their themes.

  Seeing Sheikh Nureddin again was a Sign: a part of me, of my life, of my childhood reappeared in Barcelona, and despite the doubts, the mysteries, the shame linked to the nocturnal expedition of the bruisers of Tangier, a little light entered the Street of Thieves.

  I had told Mounir everything, without mentioning the most worrisome details, and even though he was anything but religious, I managed to transmit a little of Sheikh Nureddin’s energy to him; Mounir was anxious to meet him. I secretly hoped the reason for his trip was to open an office-bookstore in Barcelona I could take charge of, like in Tangier; that would explain why he had gotten back in touch. I pictured a little shop in the Raval, with books in Spanish, in Arabic, why not, in French—a miracle. A bookstore whose stock would have been mainly made up of books from Arabia, but with one or two shelves of thrillers and a shelf in homage to Casanova—a place, in short, that would somewhat resemble me. Yes of course, I was an illegal and a fugitive, but in my dreams I saw myself registering this little business in Judit’s name and staying there, for years, in that special scent—ink, dust, old thoughts—of books, confident in the knowledge that the boys in blue are not much interested in the written word and, in general, leave bookstores pretty much alone, just as here, today, I’m hardly bothered at all in my library: it’s the only zone of freedom around here, where sometimes even the screws come to chew the fat. Few readers, a lot of books. Of course our joint is far from being one of the largest jails in Spain, but it’s undoubtedly one of the most modern; around me the dogs are strolling down the hallways.

  Life is a tomb, it’s the Street of Thieves, the end of the line, a promise without content, empty words.

  Sheikh Nureddin’s arrival coincided with the diagnosis of Judit’s tumor. The doctor suspected that allergies, sinusitis, or God knows what depression could be the symptoms of a more serious disorder; her parents had paid for the MRI out of their own pockets to avoid the state health care system delays and the results were back; something was growing on the side of her brain. They still had to wait to find out if this “thing” was treatable, operable, malignant, benign, if there was any hope or if her prognosis as the docs say was very poor—I took the news like a physical blow. Judit told me gently, though, as if she were more worried about me than about herself, an effect of the illness perhaps. Her mother could barely hold back her tears, her eyes seemed to be constantly shimmering. Judit, lying on the sofa, gently took my hand, and I wanted to bawl too, to shout, to pray, I thought ya Rabb, don’t take Judit away to death, please, you can’t take all the women I’ve loved, I thought of Meryem again, maybe I was the one who was transmitting the malady of death to them, have pity, Lord, let Judit live, I’d have easily traded my shitty existence for her life, but I knew my offer was good for nothing.

  On my way back I stopped to use the Internet, I looked at dozens of pages on brain tumors, there were all kinds, terrifying descriptions of the evolution of symptoms in certain cases, great stories of cures in others, I said to myself it’s impossible, Judit is twenty-three, according to this statistic serious cancers are very rare at that age, that’s definite, it’s all just a false alarm, and I was so caught up by this macabre wandering through descriptions of the nooks and crannies of death that I arrived late to my meeting with Nureddin, near Plaça de Catalunya, out of breath, tense, sad, and worried.

  The Sheikh hadn’t changed, he was sitting at a table on the terrace in front of a café, looking noble and well-dressed; a young guy was with him, with a shaved head and a black beard; he got up as I approached and threw himself into my arms: Bassam, Bassam good Lord, I was overcome with joy, Bassam, wow, Bassam, he said Lakhdar my brother, clutched me to his chest and for a little while I forgot to greet Nureddin who laughed at the warmth of our reunion, I said Bassam my friend, even your mother wouldn’t recognize you, he replied and you with your white hair, you look like you’ve become a miller. It does me good to see you, thanks be to God.

  Full of emotion, I also embraced the Sheikh—and right away we no longer knew what to say, where to begin. Bassam was sitting down again, he had stopped smiling; he had the disturbing gaze of a blind man or certain animals with frightened, fragile eyes which always seem to be staring off into the distance. Sheikh Nureddin began questioning me about my life in Barcelona; he wanted to know how I had arrived here. I told them a little of my adventures; of course I hid the end of the Cruz episode from them. When I mentioned the fire at the Propagation for Koranic Thought, the Sheikh nodded with a look of disgust: the cowardly revenge of an impious one, a bastard who took advantage of our absence to attack the Book itself, what dishonor. He said this point-blank, with accents of rage in his voice—I suddenly remembered the bookseller, his mute surprise when he had seen me entering his store; maybe he had taken revenge. It was possible. Life is nothing but a series of wrong answers and misunderstandings.

  Bassam continued to be silent; he swayed his head from time to time, stared at passersby, looked at girls’ legs, his eyes always just as empty.

  I had a slew of questions for Bassam and Nureddin—I dared to ask the first, what had happened, why had they disappeared all of a sudden? The Sheikh looked surprised, but you were the one who was no longer there, son. When we came back from that meeting in Casablanca, I discovered our headquarters had burned down—you hadn’t left an address. We even suspected you for a while. Then I learned through Bassam (who shook himself a little when he heard his name, as if he were waking up) that you had a relationship with a young Spanish woman and you had left without leaving a trace. This in a reproachful tone, before adding but that’s ancient history, we forgave you.

  I was so stunned that I searched my memory for this meeting in Casablanca, though without success. But still I apologized for this misunderstanding; I said I had become afraid after the attack in Marrakesh and the fire.

  The Sheikh swept it all aside with a motion of his hand.

  I realized I wouldn’t learn any more.

  I asked Bassam where he had been this whole time; he looked at me with empty eyes, his blind man’s eyes, his dog’s eyes. It was Nureddin who answered for him: he was with me, completing his training.

  Bassam nodded.

  Then the Sheikh invited us out to lunch at a Lebanese restaurant near University Square. Bassam followed. He was a phantom—maybe he’s exhausted from jet lag, I thought.

  He perked up again at the sight of food: at least he hadn’t lost his appetite, that reassured me. He wolfed down a plate of hummus, a salad, and three skewers of meat as if his life depended on it; a vague smile played over his face between mouthfuls.

  During the meal, we mostly discussed politics, as was usual, during the days of the Group; a victory for Islam at the elections in Tunisia and Egypt was excellent news; in Syria, he foresaw a defeat of the regime in a little while, inshallah, after a bloody war. Curiously, he didn’t talk about Morocco, as if that terrain had ceased to interest him. I aske
d him what brought him to Spain—nothing special, he replied. A meeting of charity associations, donors. A gala dinner. In a luxury hotel. With some soccer players from Barça. At the invitation of the Queen of Spain.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Nureddin in a fancy hotel with princes for a charity event.

  The foundation I’m working for now runs all kinds of activities, he added, smiling.

  I asked Bassam how long he thought he would stay; he shook himself, as if my question surprised him, before replying I don’t know, a few days at least.

  That was good news.

  I convinced Bassam to leave his hotel and move back with me to the Street of Thieves—he’d gain in friendship what he’d lose in comfort. Sheikh Nureddin encouraged him, it’s better to discover a city with its inhabitants, he said, laughing. I found it hard to imagine that he would be in the midst of a crowd of nobility and gentry in elegant salons that very night, glass of orange juice in hand, shaking hands with all those Bourbon-Parmas—him, the beater-up of miscreants, the man who fired us up and urged us to revolt, was perhaps going to dine at the same table as Juan Carlos, the one all the papers were talking about: the King had recently distinguished himself on an elephant safari, in Africa, and photos of the monarch in the company of a dead pachyderm had made the rounds online—it reminded me of Casanova’s Memoirs, from another era. As if monarchies could never rid themselves of violence and cruelty; Fate pushed them to it: in his youth, Juan Carlos had accidentally killed his brother with a gun; his grandson had just accidentally shot himself in the foot; an entire regiment of dead elephants bore witness to the royal passion for firearms. At least the King of Morocco next door had the merit of discretion.

  I wondered what the reason was for Nureddin’s trip from the Persian Gulf to this gala dinner straight out of the eighteenth century, but I didn’t dare ask him.

  He had brought me Bassam, and that was enough for me.

  We decided to walk around a little before going back to Carrer Robadors, Bassam seemed to have emerged from his torpor and opened his eyes wide upon discovering the city he’d been dreaming about for so long, poor guy, muttering Fuck, fuck, in front of the luxury shops, the avenues, the buildings; he turned around to look at the girls on bikes whose skirts lifted up as they pedaled, at the mannequins in the shop windows, at the heavily made-up passersby, lifted his face to the modernist office buildings, shook himself incredulously faced with all this luxury and liberty, it was good to see, I almost forgot about Judit’s illness, as Bassam communicated his childlike enthusiasm to me as he’d done before, he kept exclaiming wow, insane, will you look at her, what a knockout, my God what a fucking knockout, it’s just insane, and I’d reply that’s nothing, you haven’t seen anything yet, pal, you haven’t seen anything, wait, wait. We happily went up Rambla Catalunya, beneath the trees; I bought him a coffee on a terrace so he could enjoy the girls and the nice spring weather, I felt as if we’d gone backward, to the blessed time of our adolescence, transported in Bassam’s dreams as we contemplated the Strait—he used to talk to me about the lights of Barcelona, the girls of Barcelona, the bars of Barcelona: thanks to his presence I finally felt as if I was there, as if I had arrived somewhere, as if I had finally reached my destination. He kept cracking up in delight on his own like a kid, and it was a real joy to see his big fat bearded yokel’s head smiling at the world.

  “So my friend, where were you, all this time? What’s the story with those lousy emails you sent me?”

  “What? Whoa, take a look at that rack. Nothing, I was out East, with Nureddin.”

  “But why did you disappear like that? What the hell were you doing in Marrakesh?”

  “In Marrakesh? In Casa, you mean? Check out those legs, they’re incredible.”

  “No, in Marrakesh, you remember, the day of the attack? Judit saw you over there.”

  “The Marrakesh attack, yes of course I remember. I don’t know anymore, I think we were on our way south.”

  Impossible to tear him away from his urban contemplation. Too bad, we’d talk about it later.

  We headed off for the lower part of the city, and a bit further on Bassam pulled up short opposite the display window for an art gallery, in front of an immense photograph that measured two meters by three: a strange scene, eight people behind a table loaded with empty cans of beer, drained glasses, bottles of wine, leftovers, dirty bowls and spoons, crumpled wrappers, bottles of spirits, containers of fruit juice, ashtrays overflowing with butts and burnt matches: two girls in bras standing, holding joints; three guys with bare chests, one of them very hairy, in the background, who had climbed up on chairs, the picture cut off at his shoulders; a pensive bearded guy, on the right, with a cigarette, his head turned to the others, absorbed in contemplation of the disaster, and opposite him, at the left edge, a naked guy smiling at the camera, hat on his head, while at his side an elegant couple—jacket, light-colored shirt, black cardigan for the woman—seemed so drunk that they had to support each other, shoulder to shoulder, like the junkies on the Street of Thieves. In the back on the left, a window showed a glimpse of an orangey glow, an apocalyptic lighting, you couldn’t tell if it came from a sunset, a sunrise, or a light bulb in the stairwell. The whole group, in these giant proportions, gave off an extraordinary force; a movement rose diagonally from the smile of the guy in the hat to the hairy chest in the opposite corner; the hairs shone on the yellowish skins, the red cans of beer exploded on the table; the girls in lacy bras had rolls of flesh, tired faces, heavy breasts; the well-dressed woman was closing her wrinkled eyes, her long, dirty-blonde hair spilled onto the filth on the table, into the tobacco ash, old fries, wine stains.

  Bassam was very close to the image, he looked at each of these characters and then shook his head incredulously, muttering; he stepped back to look at the entire photo and turned to me, questioningly—he asked with an air of disgust, what is this? An ad? I replied, laughing, I don’t think so, it’s art, my friend. Bassam wasn’t laughing, he seemed frightened, he said to me Lakhdar if you stay here you’ll end up like that, like them, that made me laugh even harder, I said Bassam you’re completely crazy, but he said don’t you see, it’s a parody of the Sura of the Laden Table, O God Our Lord, said Issa, son of Maryam, make a laden table come down from heaven that will be a celebration, for the first of us as well as for the last, it’s a disgrace. He looked completely serious, frightened and angry at the same time.

  I didn’t know much about art, but aside from the table, obviously, it was hard to see anything religious in this photo, on the contrary, it was totally decadent, obscene and decadent.

  “Come on buddy, you’re raving, let’s go.”

  But he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away from the image; he was staring with hatred at the girls in underwear, the bottles of wine, and the man with the hat—if he could have he would no doubt have broken the window.

  “You want us to buy it, is that it? You want me to ask them to make a little copy for your place? Should I take a picture of it with my cell?”

  He shot me a furious look, this thing is an offence to God, this country is an offence to God, he raised his eyes to the sky.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  I began walking and he ended up following me; he was muttering curses.

  I knew where to take him to make it pass away. So much for the risks of shared transport, we took a bus headed for La Barceloneta—when Bassam asked me where we were going, I replied, to Paradise. That didn’t make him laugh at all and he barked, stop with your blasphemies, before returning to that silence of his from the beginning of our afternoon.

  When we arrived, he couldn’t hold back a whistle of admiration at the immense sail-shaped hotel, at the edge of the embankment, at the façades glimmering in the sun, and at the cable car that crossed the harbor, off to the right, disappearing in the greenness of the hill of Montjuïc.

  “Wait, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  A Saturday, I knew the beach would
be swarming with people. I took off my shoes and dragged Bassam toward the sea.

  “What the hell are you up to, you’re not going swimming are you?”

  I walked straight ahead, in the burning sand; the light was blinding despite the late hour; the sun hadn’t set yet, over there in the west, behind the Street of Thieves. I knew, as I started walking, that I was missing Bassam’s expression and exclamations; the bodies were so close together that we had to set one foot in front of the other to pass between the bare breasts and oiled thighs. I found an open spot, a dozen meters from the water; I threw myself onto the ground. Bassam sat cross-legged, facing the sea; over there’s where the show is, I said. Turn around and look.

  I was generously offering him the most beautiful collection of asses on earth. Lying in the same direction, taking advantage of the slight slope of the beach, head facing the top of the slope, in rows, on their stomachs mostly but sometimes on their backs, breasts bare or not, some in thongs, others in modest one-pieces, a whole rainbow of girls unfurled before us—milk-white ones applying sunscreen; pink ones wearing hats to protect their faces; slightly tanned ones, bronze ones, black ones, many shades of ass, the triangular mounds hidden under swimsuits, breasts of all shapes and sizes and colors; I lay down on the sand, hands under my chin: a meter away from me I had, thighs slightly spread on a multicolored towel, a Nordic girl whose round ass was beginning to turn pink past the edges of her suit—you could make out her sex where the material puckered slightly, dented it into waves of softness where there peeked out, at the edge of the cloth, against the flesh, a few tiny blond hairs; her feet were charming, toes buried in the sand; I felt as if my head were between her legs and I wondered if my gaze had any effect on this cunt, so close; if, by staring at it for a long time, I could manage to make it warm, the way the sun sets fire to straw with its rays—with eyeglasses by way of magnifying glass, who knows. The girl from the North scratched her lower back, as if I had disturbed her, and I quickly looked away, by an idiotic reflex—unless Odin had provided his creatures with unheard-of abilities, the single eye that observed me from behind the garnet polyester was blind.