The Attack

by Yasmina Khadra

  “Do you have any sort of proof?”

  “Some signs are unmistakable. I didn’t need to catch them in each other’s arms. The way they crept along the walls was enough for me.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

  “Because you didn’t ask me anything. And besides, I mind my own business, that’s what I do.”

  At that precise moment, I loathe him as I’ve never loathed anyone in my life.

  I get back in my car and roar off without a glance at the rearview mirror. I’ve got the accelerator pedal on the floor, and I don’t even see where I’m going. The danger that I may miss a curve or plow into someone’s trailer doesn’t slow me down. In fact, I believe that’s exactly what I want, but the road is cruelly deserted. My mother used to say to my father, “He who dreams too much forgets to live.” My father paid her no heed. He never detected her disappointment in love or noticed her companionless solitude. There was something like an invisible membrane between those two, as thin as a lens, but it kept them at opposite ends from each other. My father had eyes only for his canvas, the same one that he painted summer and winter, repainting and painting over until the picture disappeared under layers of retouching; then he’d reproduce it on another easel, always the same painting, right down to the tiniest detail. My father was sure his Madonna in Handcuffs would rank with the Mona Lisa, and he believed it was going to open up his horizons and crown with laurels the prestigious rooms where he intended to exhibit it. It was because his vision was filled with this impossible dedication that he never noticed anything around him, neither the frustrations of a neglected wife nor the anger of a fallen patriarch. . . . Maybe that’s what happened to me with Sihem. She was my canvas, my chief dedication. I saw only the joy she gave me and never suspected any of her sorrows, any of her weaknesses. . . . I didn’t really live her. No, I didn’t. If I had, I would have idealized her less and isolated her less. Now that I think about it, how could I have lived her when I never stopped dreaming her?

  13.

  * * *

  Mr. Jaafari. Someone’s talking through an interminable series of subterranean galleries. . . . Mr. Jaafari. . . . The cavernous voice fades away under my babbling and then begins coming and going like an elusive leitmotiv, sometimes insistent, sometimes frightened. A chasm sucks me in and broods over me as I twirl slowly in the darkness. Then the voice catches me again and tries to haul me to the surface. . . . Mr. Jaafari. . . . A streak of light slashes through the dark, burning my eyes like a white-hot rapier.

  “Mr. Jaafari.”

  I come to my senses, with my head in a vise.

  A man is leaning over me, one hand behind his back, the other suspended a few centimeters from my forehead. His emaciated face, prolonged by a funnel-shaped chin, is completely unfamiliar to me. I try to reach some conclusions about my location. I’m lying on a bed. My throat is dry, and my body is a wreck. The ceiling over my head threatens to bury me. I close my eyes to contain the vertigo racking me, spinning me faster and faster. I force myself to regain my senses and get my bearings. Gradually, I recognize the picture on the opposite wall—a cheap reproduction of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers—and take in the faded wallpaper and the dismal window, which looks out over the roofs of what seems to be a factory.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, propping myself up on one elbow.

  “I believe you’re unwell, Mr. Jaafari.”

  My elbow gives way and I fall back onto the pillow.

  “You’ve been in this room for two days. You haven’t left it since you got here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The hotel manager, sir. The chambermaid—”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to be sure you’re all right.”

  “Why?”

  “You came to us two days ago. You took this room and locked yourself in. Now, some of our guests may do that from time to time, but . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  The manager straightens up and becomes obsequious. He doesn’t know how to take my response. He walks around the bed and goes to open the window. A flood of cool air pours into the room, stinging me. I breathe deeply until my blood pounds in my temples.

  With a mechanical gesture, the manager smooths the covers at my feet. He looks at me attentively, coughs into his fist, and says, “We have a good doctor, Mr. Jaafari. If you wish, we can call him.”

  “I’m a doctor,” I say stupidly, extracting myself from the bed.

  My knees knock together; I can’t stand on my feet, and I drop onto the edge of the bed with my cheeks in my hands. Except for some rather ineffective briefs, I’m naked, and the manager is embarrassed. He murmurs something I don’t catch and backs out of the room.

  My ideas return to their places, one after another; my memory comes back to me whole. I remember leaving Kafr Kanna like a rocket, picking up a speeding ticket on the outskirts of Afula, and continuing on to Tel Aviv in a kind of trance. Night overtook me just as I was crossing the city limits. I stopped at the first hotel I came to. I didn’t even consider going to my house, where I’d be back among all the lies of a lifetime. I spent the whole road trip cursing the world and myself; I kept the accelerator pedal pressed to the floor, and occasionally the ferocious screeching of the tires vibrated inside me like some apocalyptic scream. It was as if I was striving to break the sound barrier, to burst through the point of no return, to disintegrate along with my crumbled self-esteem. Nothing seemed capable of holding me anywhere anymore or reconciling me with tomorrow and tomorrow. And what tomorrows? Is there a life after perjury, a resurrection after the final insult? I felt so paltry, so ridiculous, that the thought of lamenting my fate would have finished me on the spot. When Abbas’s voice came back to me, I made the engine howl until it nearly came apart. I didn’t want to hear anything but the squealing of the wheels in my barely controlled skids and the hissing of the bile eating away at my insides like an acid bath. I had no excuse for myself, wasn’t looking for one, didn’t deserve any. I gave myself over entirely to my chagrin, which desired me for itself alone and wanted me to embody it from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toenails.

  This is a shabby hotel. Its neon sign struggles to stay lighted. I took a room the way you resign yourself to your fate. After a scalding shower, I went to a bistro for dinner and then got completely drunk in some squalid bar. It took me hours to find my way back. As soon as I was in my room again, without any warning, I sank into the abyss.

  I have to use the wall for support on my way to the bathroom. My limbs are only halfway responsive. I feel nauseous, my vision is blurred, and I’m hungry; I have the impression of moving inside a cloud. Two days asleep in this foul-smelling room, without dreams and without memory; two nights spent wrapped up in these bedcovers as though in a shroud. My God! What am I becoming?

  The mirror shows me a tormented face blemished further by a growth of beard. Sallow circles bring out the whites of my eyes and make my cheeks even hollower. I look like a madman who’s just come out of a fit.

  I drink from the faucet at length, slip into the shower, and stand motionless under the torrent of water until I recover some semblance of equilibrium.

  The hotel manager comes and scratches on my door to make sure I haven’t fallen back into an alcoholic coma. He’s relieved when I growl at him and moves away soundlessly. Still woozy, I dress, leave the hotel, and find a place to eat.

  Afterward, I go into a sunny little park. Amid the soothing rustling of the foliage, I fall asleep on a bench.

  When I wake up, night has fallen. I don’t know where to go or what to do with my solitude. I’ve forgotten my mobile phone at home, along with my watch. Suddenly, I’m afraid of being alone with myself. I no longer trust the man who didn’t see his misfortune coming. At the same time, I don’t feel ready to bear the scrutiny of other people. I tell myself it’s a good thing I forgot my cell phone. I can’t imagine talking to anyone in the state I’m in. Kim would aggravate my wounds; N
avid might offer me the excuse I shouldn’t use. On the other hand, the silence is killing me. In this deserted park, I feel alone in the world, like a shipwrecked person washed up on a fatal shore.

  I go back to the hotel and realize I’ve forgotten my toilet kit and my pills. The telephone on the night table mocks me. But whom can I call? And what time is it? My panting breath fills the room. I’m not well; I feel myself slipping away somewhere, inexorably. . . .

  And here I am, back in the street, all at once. I don’t remember leaving the hotel, and I don’t know how long I’ve been roaming around this neighborhood. No light in any window. The only sound is the drone of a distant engine, and then the night reclaims its rights over the sleeping city. . . . I see a telephone booth some distance away, next to the newsstand. My feet march me down there forcefully; my hand picks up the receiver; my fingers dial the number. Who is it I’m calling? And what am I going to say to him? The telephone on the other end of the line rings five, six, seven times. Then there’s a click, and a sleepy grumble in my ear: “Hello? Who is it? Do you have any idea what time it is? Me, I’ve got to work tomorrow.” I recognize Yasser’s voice, but I’m surprised he’s answered the phone. Why him?

  “It’s Amin.”

  There’s a silence, and then Yasser speaks again, still spluttering, but more calmly. “Amin? Is anything wrong?”

  “Where’s Adel?” I hear myself ask him.

  “Do you know it’s three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Where’s Adel?”

  “How should I know? He’s wherever his business has taken him. I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

  “Are you going to tell me where he is, or do I have to come to your house and wait for him?”

  “No!” he cries out. “Don’t even think about coming to Bethlehem. The guys from the other day are looking for you. They say you tricked them. They say you’re working for the Shin Bet.”

  “Where’s Adel, Yasser?”

  Another silence, longer than the preceding one. Then Yasser gives up and blurts it out: “Jenin. Adel’s in Jenin.”

  “That’s not the best place for business investments, Yasser. The town is under siege.”

  “Listen, I’m telling you the truth. The last I heard, he was in Jenin. I don’t have any reason to lie to you. I’ll let you know as soon as he returns, if you want. Do you mind telling me what this is all about? What is it about my son that makes you call me up at this hour?”

  I hang up.

  I don’t know why, but I feel a little better.

  * * *

  The night clerk isn’t best pleased at being dragged out of bed at three o’clock in the morning. The hotel closes at midnight, and I’ve forgotten the entry code. The clerk’s a scrawny young man, probably a university student who spends his nights watching over other people’s sleep to finance his education. He opens the door for me without enthusiasm and looks for my key, but he can’t find it anywhere.

  “Are you sure you dropped it off before you left?”

  “Why would I burden myself with a room key?”

  He plunges back behind the reception counter, rummages among the papers and magazines by the fax machine and the copier, and straightens up, empty-handed. “That’s strange,” he says.

  Not fully awake, he has to think about where the duplicate keys might be. He says, “Are you sure you don’t have the key on you, sir?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t have it,” I say, slapping my pockets.

  My arm stiffens: the key’s in my pocket. I pull it out in confusion. The night clerk, visibly exasperated, suppresses a sigh, but he gets ahold of himself and wishes me a good night.

  Since the elevator’s out of order, I climb the stairs to the fifth floor before it occurs to me that my room’s on the third, and I retrace my steps.

  I don’t turn on the lights in my room.

  I undress, stretch out on the bed, and stare at the ceiling, which draws me in, little by little, like a black hole.

  * * *

  From the fifth day on, it becomes apparent that my wits are leaving me, one after another. My reflexes outstrip my intentions, and my clumsiness makes everything worse. By day, I remain closed up in my room, slumped in the chair or stretched out on the bed with my eyes rolled back, as if I were trying to sneak up on my hidden motives—because some strange ideas have been pestering me without letup: I think about engaging a real estate agency to sell my house, turning my back on the past, and exiling myself to Europe or even America. At night, I slip out like a predator and make the rounds of the seediest dives, certain that I won’t run into any acquaintances or former colleagues in such places, where I myself have never been before now. The darkness of these polluted, smoky, rancid-smelling bars inspires in me a strange feeling that I’m invisible. Despite the lack of privacy—the drunks holding forth, the women looking enchanted—no one pays any attention to me. I take a table in a secluded corner where tipsy girls hardly ever venture and knock back glass after glass, steadily but calmly, until someone comes and tells me it’s closing time. Then I go to the same park, take the same bench, and sleep off the wine I’ve drunk, never getting back to the hotel before the first light of dawn.

  Then, some time later, in a small restaurant, everything gets out of hand. The anger I’ve been brooding over for days finally bursts inside me. I’ve been expecting this. I’ve been too touchy, too wired; I knew I was going to short-circuit sooner or later. My words are intentionally brutal, my replies insultingly curt. I’m surly and impatient, and I react very badly when anyone looks at me too long. No doubt about it, I’m becoming someone else, someone unpredictable and fascinating at the same time. But this evening, in the little restaurant, I outdo myself. First of all, I don’t appreciate the table they’ve given me. I want a discreetly placed table, but there’s none available. I balk and then yield. Next, the waitress informs me there’s no more grilled liver. She seems sincere, but I don’t like her smile.

  “I want grilled liver,” I say obstinately.

  “I’m very sorry, we’ve run out of grilled liver.”

  “That’s not my problem. The menu outside says you’ve got grilled liver. That’s what I came in for, and nothing else.”

  The sound of my raised voice interrupts the clicking of the forks. The other customers turn toward me.

  I scream at them: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  The manager appears at once. He deploys all his professional charm to calm me down, but his superficial courtesy awakens my demons. I demand to be served some grilled liver at once. A wave of indignation runs through the room. Someone suggests, without mincing words, that the staff throw me out. The speaker is a gentleman of a certain age; he looks like a cop, or maybe a soldier in civilian clothes. I invite him to get fucked or throw me out himself. He accepts the invitation willingly and grabs me by the throat. The waitress and the manager try to stop the brute. A chair is knocked over in the uproar, which features cracking furniture and shouted abuse. The police arrive. Their commanding officer is a blond woman with an immense chest, a grotesque nose, and burning eyes. The brute explains to her how the situation degenerated. His assertions are borne out by the waitress and a high proportion of the customers. The officer requests that I step outside, where she asks to see my papers. I refuse to show them to her.

  “He’s completely drunk,” one of her subordinates says.

  “Put him in the car,” the officer orders.

  They hustle me into an automobile, take me to the nearest police station, and oblige me to present my papers and empty my pockets. They lock me in a cell where two drunks are sound asleep and snoring.

  An hour later, a policeman comes to get me. He leads me to a window, where I’m handed back my personal effects, and then he accompanies me to the reception area. Navid Ronnen is there, leaning on a counter and looking glum.

  “Well, look who it is, my guardian angel,” I cry out disagreeably.

  Navid dismisses the policeman with
a movement of his head.

  “How did you know I was in the tank?” I ask. “You’ve got your guys tailing me, or what?”

  “Nothing of the sort, Amin,” he says in a weary voice. “I’m relieved to see you standing upright. I was expecting the worst.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  “A kidnapping, or even a suicide. I’ve been looking for you for days. And nights. As soon as Kim told me you’d disappeared, I sent out your name and description to all the hospitals and police stations. Where the hell have you been?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I turn to the policeman behind the counter. “May I go?”

  “You’re a free man, Mr. Jaafari.”

  “Thank you.”

  A hot wind is sweeping the street. Two cops are smoking and conversing, one of them propped against the wall of the station, the other sitting on the step of a police van.

  Navid’s car is pulled up against the curb across the street with its parking lights on. “What are you going to do now?” he asks me.

  “Stretch my legs.”

  “It’s getting late. Don’t you want me to drop you off?”

  “My hotel isn’t far away.”

  “What do you mean, your hotel? You can’t find your way home?”

  “I’m quite comfortable at the hotel.”

  Looking stunned, Navid rubs his cheeks. “So where is this hotel of yours?”

  “I’ll take a taxi.”

  “You don’t want me to give you a ride?”

  “It’s too much trouble. Besides, I need to be alone.”

  “Am I supposed to understand that—”

  “There’s nothing to understand,” I say, cutting him off. “I need to be alone, period. That’s all. That’s clear, isn’t it?”