The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  For the same reason, as he stepped out of the car, he hesitated about hugging his friend, as he would instinctively have done in France. With the cab driver and the staff watching, had he not better simply shake her hand? And so it was she who put her arms around him and, after a brief hug, led him to the front door, with its leaded glass canopy in the Belle Époque style.

  An hour later, he and Sémiramis were sitting at a table on the top floor of the hotel, on a veranda framed on three sides by picture windows that, in the darkness, acted as mirrors, reflecting them and the glow of the candles.

  They were brought a dozen small plates, a dozen more, and then ten more hot and cold mezze that would have easily fed and sated a horde of holidaymakers.

  “Are you sure there’s enough for the two of us?”

  “It’s all for you; I’ve already eaten,” Sémiramis said without smiling.

  “I was just kidding,” Adam said quickly, fearing his remark had been misinterpreted.

  “And I was just winding you up,” his hostess said with a roguish smile, before adding, “You used to say I had a sense of humour, remember? We never needed to spell things out, you and me, a nod and a wink was enough. So don’t feel you have to tell me where I’m supposed to laugh …”

  “Don’t be mad at me, Sémi! It’s not easy coming back here after all these years. I feel I have to be careful, restrained, circumspect. Maybe because I’ve lost my bearings. I’m constantly afraid of offending people’s sensibilities. Even when I’m with old friends. I don’t know whether I can still talk to them the way I used to. People change, you know.”

  “Well, I haven’t changed, Adam. I’m not as young or as thin as I was, but inside, I haven’t changed. I’m not some random woman, and you’ll never be some random gentleman. God, how I hate how time has changed us all into preposterous old people. Here I am playing hotel manager and you playing the eminent professor.

  “But not tonight,” she said, raising her champagne flute.

  “Not tonight,” Adam echoed, as though it were an oath.

  They clinked glasses and brought them slowly to their lips. “The beautiful Sémiramis” had changed very little—even less than she admitted. Her bronzed complexion was not betrayed by any visible wrinkles, her eyes were still that deep, emerald green; perhaps she was not svelte, as she admitted, but in Adam’s memories she never had been. She was taller than most women in the country, and had always been “curvaceous,” not to say “buxom,” which had done nothing to diminish her charms, either in the past, or now.

  The waiter soundlessly padded over to the table carrying a bottle wrapped in a napkin. He refilled the glasses, then said to his boss:

  “A little more light?”

  “No, Francis, we’ll be fine with just the candles.”

  The man nodded and returned to his station.

  “I miss those times,” Sémiramis went on. “More than you do, probably. I’m sure you’ll say that it’s a cliché, a woman of forty-eight hankering for the days when she was eighteen … But in this country, in this part of the world, it’s something else. I feel as though I’m on a road, and every time I take a step forward, the place where I was standing crumbles away. Sometimes, I even feel it crumbling beneath me, and I have to move quickly so as not to be swept away by the landslide.”

  -

  The Third Day

  -

  1

  When he woke, Adam wrote an entry in his notebook, dated April 22:

  This Sunday morning, a single breath of air made me realize how much I have missed my mountain all these years, and how much I want to let myself be cosseted here.

  Sémi, bless her, has put me in a room that overlooks the valley. I have a little table by the window; whichever way I look, I can see only Aleppo pines, I inhale the breeze that has caressed them, and I feel I would like to stay here until the end of time. Reading, writing, daydreaming, suspended by the rounded peaks and the broad expanse of the sea.

  A voice in my head keeps whispering that soon I will tire of it. That tomorrow my overweening arrogance will command me to leave just as today it commands me to stay. And I will feel an urgent need to get away, just as today I feel a need to immerse myself. But I have a duty to silence my inner Cassandra.

  Emerging slowly from his comfortable numbness, he begins to leaf through the notebook looking for a story he began the previous evening, before he had been interrupted by the phone calls from Tania and from her nephew and forced to flee the capital and seek refuge with Sémiramis. The last sentence read: Six months after the death of Bilal, our ranks would suffer another defection: mine.

  He copied these words onto a new page, as though the better to pick up the thread of memory.

  My friends always believed that I left on a sudden impulse. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even I gave credence to the theory for a while, so as not to have to explain myself. When I was bombarded with questions, I would say that, one night, I calmly told my grandmother, who I was living with at the time, that I intended to catch a boat to Paphos the next day, and from there I would fly to Paris. In saying this, I was not lying; I was not saying anything untrue, but I was leaving out the most important part. That the decision I announced that day had been developing for some time. I would often lock myself in my room for hours with a book, then I would set it aside, lie down on the bed, eyes wide open, and try to imagine what was going to become of our country, of this region, after years of war, mentally projecting myself towards the finish line where Bilal wanted to be so he could know “the whole story.”

  I was not interested in this “whole story.” However much I turned it over in my mind, all I could see around me was violence and regression. In the Levantine universe that was steadily growing darker, there was no longer a place for me, and I did not want to carve one out for myself.

  It was after many months of silent contemplation, cool conjecture, and waking dreams that my decision was made. One day, it burst forth, but it had been a long time maturing. And, in fact, my grandmother was neither surprised nor saddened. I was all she had in the world, but she loved me for myself, not selfishly, and she wanted to know I had a shelter, not simply a hiding place. She gave me her blessing so that I could leave with peace of mind and no regrets.

  Once I landed on the island, I presented myself at the French consulate, which had requested a letter of recommendation from my own consulate in order to grant me a visa. Ah yes, things were still civilized back then! I did not have to press my thumb onto an inkpad and leave my digital signature on the register; the letter from my consul was sufficient. He had written it in his most elegant handwriting while I sipped coffee in the corner of his office; I immediately brought it to the French consul, where I was offered another cup of coffee.

  Perhaps I am embellishing events, I no longer remember the details; but I remember my feelings at the time, and the aftertaste left by the episode. No bitterness. It is in the order of things to leave one’s country; sometimes, it is necessitated by events; if not, one must invent a pretext. I was born, not in a country, but on a planet. Yes, of course, I realize that I was also born in a country, in a town, in a community, in a family, in a maternity unit, in a bed … But the only important thing, for me as for every other human being, is that I was brought into the world. Into the world! To be born is to be brought into this world, not into this country or that, this house or that.

  This is something that Mourad never managed to understand. He was prepared to accept that a man might leave his native land for a time while the battle rages. But, to him, to choose to carry on living, year after year, in a foreign land, in the anonymity of a vast metropolis, was not merely abandoning his mother country, it was an insult to one’s ancestors, and, in a sense, a self-inflicted wound to the soul.

  While I continued to closely follow everything that was happening in the country, I no longer thought abou
t going back. I never said to myself, “I will never go back”; I said rather, “Later,” “Not this summer,” “Maybe next year.” Deep down, I promised myself—with a flicker of pride—that I would not go back and settle there until it was once again the country I had known. I knew this was impossible, but the condition was non-negotiable. It still is.

  It is my way of being loyal, and I have never wanted to adopt another.

  Little by little, my friends realized that I would not come back. And a number of them wrote to me. Some to tell me I was right, the others to lecture me.

  -

  2

  Adam left the table and went over to his suitcase to fetch a bulging, sky-blue folder he had brought with him from Paris. It was marked, in large black felt-tip letters, Letters from friends. He set it on the bed, lay down next to it, removed the elastic band, took out a pile of envelopes, and began to read.

  It was not until an hour later that he got up, clutching a number of pages, in order to copy certain passages into his notebook.

  In the country, rumour has it that you’ve left never to return …

  Excerpt of a letter from Mourad, dated July 30, 1978, which reached me in Paris thanks to the diligence of a traveller.

  Every time someone mentions your name, I pretend to be angry. Which spares me having to say anything. The thing is, between me and you, I no longer know what to say. Last year, we spent all summer waiting for you; you didn’t come. You were “working,” apparently. I thought people in France took holidays in the summer, in August or in July. Or even in September. Not you! You were working! I shouted at our friends: “You think he’s going to end up like the people over there, spending the whole year pretending to work but surreptitiously checking the holiday calendar? Oh, no, Adam hasn’t changed, he’ll never change! He is working like an emigrant, day and night, come rain, come shine, whatever the season …”

  But, as the proverb says, the leash on a lie is a short one. That morning, your grandmother announced to everyone that you were taking a month’s leave and had rented a house in the Alps. She seemed proud, God forgive her, and she showed me the letter you had sent her. This was what made me decide to write to you at once.

  I’m not trying to pressure you, but if it is true that you never want to set foot here again, at least tell me, you bastard, so I can stop making myself look stupid by defending you. If you prefer the Alps to the mountains here, at least have the guts to write and tell me.

  Our mountain was being sung about in the Bible when those Alps of yours were no more than a geological accident, a common fault. The Alps first appear in history only when our ancestor Hannibal crossed them with his elephants in order to mount an assault on Rome. Which is what he should have done—headed straight for the city and occupied it, before Rome came and occupied us. But I suppose none of this interests you anymore, you probably don’t even remember who Hannibal was.

  A house in the Alps? Traitor! There are so many houses waiting to welcome you here. Mine, first and foremost. You should be ashamed! […]

  Tania says she sends her love. She might, but I don’t. I don’t know you anymore.

  In the same envelope, there was a second letter. At first when I saw the pinkish, translucent sheet folded in four and recognized Tania’s elegant hand, I assumed she had slipped it in without Mourad’s knowledge. But I quickly realized that he had obviously agreed to allow his wife to add her voice to his. Because, to be honest, although she seemed to take a different tack, she was the one who was most bitterly critical.

  My dearest Adam,

  I’m sure you will recognize Mourad’s letter as a gesture of affection, disguised, out of masculine reserve, as a scolding.

  Do I need to tell you that you left a void in the lives of your friends that nothing and no one can fill? That your absence is all the more painful in these terrible years? If you were here in front of me, you would pretend to be surprised, but I wouldn’t believe it. I have always seen your apparent modesty as the sign of good manners rather than a genuine humility. Behind that affable, courteous, timid exterior, you are the most arrogant person I know.

  Don’t protest! You know that it’s true, and you know that I say it as a loving sister. Yes, you are the most arrogant person, and also—you will protest even more forcefully at this—the most intolerant. A friend lets you down? He’s no longer your friend. The country lets you down? It’s no longer your country. And since you are easily let down, you will end up with no friends, no country.

  I profoundly wish that my words might have some effect on you. That they might persuade you to be more tolerant of the country, to accept it for what it is. It will always be a country of factions, of chaos, of unwarranted privilege, nepotism, and corruption. But it is also a country with a gentle way of life, a country of human warmth, of generosity. And the country of your truest friends.

  Another virtue of our country is that here it is possible to create a carefree oasis. Even when every district of the city is in flames, our village, our old house, and its vast terrace are exactly as you knew them. A few friends still join us occasionally, as they did back then. Others no longer come; we will always miss them, and I like to think that they miss us a little, too.

  Mourad keeps telling me that you are nothing to him now, which means exactly the opposite. He tells me that you’ve become a stranger, a foreigner, that, with time, you will become more so—and in this he is probably right. But I send my love to you all the same, all my love …

  I carefully preserved these letters, but I cannot remember answering them.

  While it was complicated at the time to receive letters from my homeland, sending letters there was more precarious still. The postal system had ceased to function, one had to trust in a traveller to deliver it by hand. A mission that could prove dangerous. The courier sometimes had to enter battle zones; and if he did not wish to run such risks, and asked the addressee to come and pick up the letter, it was the latter who risked death.

  For this reason, we did not write to those who had stayed behind. We telephoned. Or, at least, we tried. Nine times out of ten, without success, but from time to time, the call got through. And in the first few seconds, we rushed to say what was essential, because the line could go dead at any moment. So, we first asked after the health of those closest to us; we registered any urgent requests, primarily, any medications no longer available there; we briefly mentioned the letters that we had received or sent; there was talk of friends who had left or were preparing to leave. Only then, if the telephonic Fates were kind and the call was not cut off, did we allow ourselves the luxury of talking about other things.

  Mourad claimed that, in one of our conversations, I responded to his reproaches by saying “I didn’t leave, it was the country that left.” It’s possible that I said it. It was something I said a lot at the time, I liked the expression. But it was only a joke. Of course, I was the one who left. I made the decision to leave just as I might have made the decision to stay.

  Which does not mean that it was my fault, if there is a fault. Every man has the right to leave, it is for his country to persuade him to stay—despite the aphorism of pompous politicians: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” Easy to say when you’re a millionaire, when you’ve just been elected president of the United States at the age of forty-three! But what exactly is John F. Kennedy’s maxim worth when you live in a country where you cannot find a job, a doctor, a place to live, cannot get an education, cannot vote freely, express an opinion, or even walk the streets? Precious little!

  Your country must first honour certain commitments to you. You must be considered a full citizen, not be subjected to oppression, discrimination, or unwarranted privations. A country and its leaders have a duty to ensure these things; otherwise, you owe them nothing. Neither a commitment to the land, nor a salute of the flag. The country where you can live w
ith your head held high is one to which you will give everything, sacrifice everything, even your life; the country where you must live with your head bowed is one to which you give nothing. Whether it is your country of refuge or your native country. Magnanimity breeds magnanimity, indifference breeds indifference, and contempt breeds contempt. This is the charter of free individuals and, for my part, I acknowledge no other.

  So, I was the one to leave, of my own free will—or almost. But I was not wrong when I told Mourad that the country, too, had left, and had gone much farther than I did. After all, in Paris, I am a five-hour flight from the city where I was born. The journey I made two days ago is one I could have made on any day in recent years: I could have decided to go back to the country in the morning and been there by nightfall. My grandmother’s old apartment has long since been there for me to use, I could have moved back in and not left the following day, the following month, or even the following year.

  Why did I never take the plunge? Because the country of my childhood had been transformed? No, that’s not it, not at all. It is in the nature of things that the world of yesteryear should fade. It is also in the nature of things that one should feel nostalgic. But the disappearance of the past is easy to get over; it is the disappearance of the future that one cannot overcome. The country whose absence saddens and fascinates me is not the country of my childhood, but the country I dreamed of, one that never saw the light of day.

  People constantly tell me that this is how it goes in the Levant, that things will never change, that there will always be factions, privileges, corruption, blatant nepotism, that we have no choice but to make do. When I reject this, they call me arrogant, even intolerant. Is it arrogant to hope one’s country will become less antiquated, less corrupt, less violent? Is it arrogant or intolerant to refuse to be content with an approximation of democracy, a sporadic civil peace? If it is, then I confess my sinful pride and curse their virtuous resignation.