The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  She fell suddenly silent and seemed caught up in her memories. After a few seconds, she added:

  “I can say this now: he suffered every day of his life because of your falling-out.”

  She stared intently at Adam as though to read his mind. He felt obliged to say:

  “In everything that has happened to us, there is only one true culprit: war.”

  But Tania’s eyes were insistent, probing.

  “Yes, you’re right, the true culprit is the war, but not everyone reacted to it in the same way. Did they?”

  At this point in the conversation, Adam was still wondering whether his former friend’s widow was trying to provoke him or whether she simply wanted to elicit from him the words of comfort her husband had hoped to hear before he died.

  “Not everyone was in the same situation. If I had stayed …”

  “… you would have acted as he did.”

  This was not what Adam had planned to say. He had a more nuanced formulation in mind: “If I had stayed, I would have been faced with the same choices he was,” or something of the sort. Even so, he did not correct her, hoping that this would be an end to a conversation that felt inappropriate in Mourad’s house on the day of his funeral. He nodded, gave her a sad smile, and said no more.

  But Tania was not prepared to give up.

  “So if you had stayed in the country, you would have acted as he did. You are honest enough to admit it. But have you ever wondered what would have happened if your friend had acted as you did? If he had decided to leave too? Did you ever wonder what would have happened if your friend, and me, and Sémiramis, and all our relatives and friends had decided that the war was much too dirty and that it would be better to leave to keep our hands clean?”

  She was silent for a few moments, allowing her visitor to hope that she had finished. But she began again, in the same tone.

  “The issue is not what you would have done if you’d stayed. The issue is what would have become of this country if everyone had left, like you did. We would all have kept our hands clean, but in Paris, in Montreal, in Stockholm, or in San Francisco. Those who stayed got their hands dirty to preserve a country for you, so that you could one day come back, or at least visit from time to time.”

  Again, she was silent for a few moments, then she said, like an old refrain:

  “The clever ones are the ones who left. You travel to beautiful countries, you live, you work, you have fun, you discover the world. Then you come back after the war. The old country is waiting for you. You don’t have to fire a single shot or spill a single drop of blood. And you can even choose not to shake the hands that got dirty. Isn’t that right, Adam? Answer me! If I’m wrong, tell me.”

  “Today, you are right about everything, Tania. Whatever you say, I won’t argue, this is not the day and this is not the place. May God have mercy on Mourad, and on us all.”

  Having said this, he stood up and ostentatiously checked his watch.

  “It’s late and you must be tired. I’m going back to the hotel. We’ll see each other again in different circumstances.”

  Tania quickly got to her feet, but not to say goodbye or to walk him out.

  “You’re not going to leave like that,” she said, “without sharing our meal.”

  She seemed so genuinely offended that Adam wondered whether he had misunderstood everything. Had he interpreted as a verbal attack what was simply old friends thinking aloud? He turned to Sémiramis to check. She signalled for him to stay calm, to sit down again, then said in an authoritative tone:

  “I’ve sent the chauffeur away; you can ride back with me. We’ll have something to eat with Tania, then leave her to get some rest.”

  He had no choice but to obey. He sat down again. Of course, you don’t storm out of a house in mourning and slam the door, even if the widow has said something impolite. On a day like today, it was his duty to bear it, to put up with these outbursts brought on by exhaustion, by grief, and by Mourad’s resolve to justify himself at the end of his life, a resolve of which Tania was now the guardian. Besides, the conversation had taken place in private, between three longstanding friends.

  In fact, the widow’s manner changed the moment they left the little room and went into the dining room. She took Adam’s hand and introduced him to everyone as her husband’s best friend, saying that he had come specially from Paris for the sad occasion. Adam confirmed this with a nod—what else could he do?

  There were some thirty people left. Probably extended family, people from the villages, a few political supporters—Adam did not recognize any of the faces. When he arrived, he had thought the house was almost deserted. There had been empty chairs lined against the walls of the reception rooms, the hallways, the terraces, hundreds of chairs on which visitors had sat during the day, and which would be used again tomorrow and the day after. But there were still people here and there, enough to fill the vast dining room where a bountiful meal had been set out, one distinguishable from a celebration only by the subdued manner of the guests, the absence of laughter, and the recurring phrase—“Allah yerhamo!”—whenever anyone helped themselves, and then again when they got up from the table, “Allah yerhamo!” The calling down of God’s mercy upon the deceased.

  Tania had sat Adam next to her, and insisted on serving him herself. The conversation was about the people who had attended the funeral and those who had not been seen but might come the following day or the day after. The visitor “from Paris” listened, not without interest, though he said nothing.

  At some point, the widow leaned over and whispered in his ear:

  “Excuse me for what happened earlier! The words came out of my mouth without my even thinking. Tiredness, I suppose, as you said …”

  “Don’t worry. We were among friends.”

  “Yes, of course. If I didn’t think of you like a brother, I would never have spoken to you like that.”

  “I know … but don’t give it another thought, get some rest, and take care of yourself, you still have difficult days ahead.”

  “You’ll come back and see me, won’t you? I’d like to talk to you again about this reunion. If we could all be together again, on the terrace, like long ago. Your friend …”

  She seemed to find it difficult to call her husband anything else. While she was speaking, Adam realized that not once since he had seen her on Saturday had she said “Mourad.” Perhaps she felt that her throat would close up if she tried to pronounce his name.

  “Your friend said to me one day, near the end, when his voice was barely audible: ‘How beautiful life would have been if we could have carried on meeting up with our old friends on this terrace, like we did at university. If nothing had changed.’ And he started to cry.”

  As she said these last words, the widow began to weep once more.

  Her guest simply echoed:

  “If nothing had changed.”

  -

  5

  Only on the drive back, when he was alone in the car with Sémiramis, did Adam say aloud what he had wished he could have said to his dead friend:

  “Yes, Mourad, life would have been beautiful if there had been no war, if we were still twenty rather than fifty, if none of us had died, if none of us had betrayed, if none of us had emigrated, if our country was still the Pearl of the Orient, if we had not become the laughing stock of the world, its shame, its scarecrow, its scapegoat, if, if, if, if …”

  The driver assented with a long sigh. Then she drove for several kilometres before saying:

  “Tania is really keen on this idea of a reunion. She must have mentioned it ten times since this morning.”

  “She talked to me about it too, over dinner. I told her that I think it’s a good idea and that I’ll do my best to make it happen. I didn’t try to discourage her. She obviously feels the need to hang on to the idea to ease her grief a li
ttle. But I wouldn’t want to give her hopes that might be disappointed.”

  “You don’t think it will happen? I’m sure that most of our friends would love to meet up again, if only once before we all go to join Mourad … Personally, I would love for it to happen.”

  “I’d love it too. And I’m sure that most of our friends feel the same way as you and me. But they’re scattered to the four corners of the earth, they all have jobs, families, obligations …”

  “Did you manage to make a start today?”

  “Yes, I’ve written to Albert and Naïm, who both replied within minutes. Albert is happy to be at the reunion, but he would prefer if it took place in Paris. As an American citizen, he is not allowed to come here …”

  “That’s bullshit! In summer, half the guests at the hotel are travelling on American passports. If they’re originally from here, all they have to do is use their other passport.”

  “It’s more complicated for Albert. The institute he works for has ties to the Pentagon, which means he has to respect the prohibition.”

  “That’s just an excuse! Since he left the country, he never wanted to come back. Long before the Americans forbade anything. He suffered a traumatic experience that he can’t seem to get over. So he hides behind rules and regulations. If he really wanted to come, he’d come.”

  “I’m prepared to believe you. But I can’t force him. If he really was so traumatized by the kidnapping, why force him to relive the nightmare?”

  She shrugged.

  “And Naïm?”

  “With him, it’s the opposite.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He immediately replied to say that he’d come. But ever since then, I’ve been thinking, and now I’m hesitant.”

  “Because he’s Jewish?”

  “You don’t think that would put him at risk?”

  “What risk? This place is a jungle! People from all over come to this country and it’s been fifteen years since anyone was kidnapped! Have you felt you’re in danger since you got here?”

  “Me? Absolutely not.”

  “You’re not in danger, nobody’s in danger. Think about it, it’s the middle of the night, we’re driving along a deserted, badly lit mountain road. Are you worried someone is going to cut our throats or rob us?”

  He had to admit that, no, he felt reasonably safe, more so than in most countries.

  They drove for some minutes in silence. Then Sémiramis, in a calmer mood, told her passenger that there had been an incident during the funeral:

  “I thought someone would mention it over dinner, but Tania didn’t say anything, and everyone else decided to keep quiet for her sake. As I’m sure you know, there’s a family at the entrance to the village that Mourad didn’t get on with.”

  Adam could not help but smile.

  “That’s the understatement of the year, Sémi! I know the story. Mourad hated the family and they hated him. They accused him of having their son executed.”

  “The funeral cortege was supposed to pass in front of their house on its way to the cemetery. As it approached, women streamed out of the house, women of all ages, I counted at least eleven. I assume the mother of the man who was killed, and his widow, his sisters, his sisters-in-law, his nieces … They were all dressed in black, but every one of them, without exception, was wearing a scarf that was bright red, blood red. As though they had spent the whole winter knitting just for this occasion.

  “The funeral procession marched past. Everyone was really uncomfortable. Tania squeezed my arm so hard I’ve probably got bruises. There was what is appropriately called a deathly silence. These women, lined up against the wall, their silent faces expressionless, though one or two had a faint mocking smile. Their heads and their faces were covered such that all we could see were those red scarves, which the black clothes simply accentuated.

  “No one in the cortege said anything. Not a word. We scarcely breathed. Unconsciously, we quickened our step. But crossing those few metres seemed to take an age.

  “After the funeral, the procession took the same route back. The women weren’t there. But everyone turned to look at the place where they had stood, and again, we felt uncomfortable, this time because they had disappeared.

  “Curiously, after the ceremony, no one mentioned the incident. Or, at least, not in my presence. I suppose there will have been people whispering about it, but in front of me, being a stranger in the village, no one said anything. As for Tania, she behaved as though nothing had happened. But I’m sure she’ll see those women in her dreams, and not just tonight.

  “I had to tell you, but please don’t mention it to Tania. And if she decides to talk about it, pretend you didn’t know.”

  Adam nodded, then asked the driver how she had interpreted the women’s gesture.

  “The way they went about it was sinister, but the message was clear: the man who had had their ‘martyr’ shot was now dead too; by wearing black, they were prepared to join Tania in her mourning, but they had not forgotten their own grief.”

  Deep down, Sémiramis had the feeling that the actions of the protesting women had been a warning to the widow, that it was the prologue to a new battle between the two families for possession of the house. But she had no desire to dwell on the incident.

  “A little music?” she said suddenly, with a rather forced gaiety.

  The question was rhetorical since, as she said the words, she was pressing a button that launched an old Iraqi lament:

  She stepped out of her father’s house

  And walked towards a neighbour’s door

  She passed without a sign or wave,

  Truly my love does treat me ill …

  Sémiramis began to sing along with Nazem al-Ghazali, whose voice had so often been the soundtrack to their gatherings of long ago.

  After a few minutes, she turned down the volume and asked her passenger:

  “Have you put together a list of all the people who should be invited to the reunion?”

  “I’ve got a list of about a dozen names, but there are some I’m still undecided about. For example, this afternoon, I thought about Nidal …”

  “Nidal …?” Sémiramis said, as though she did not know who he meant.

  “Bilal’s brother …” Adam said, without thinking.

  “The brother of Bilal,” she echoed, her voice choking on the last syllable.

  The moment the name passed my lips, Adam would later write in his notebook, I realized that I shouldn’t have said it. My friend’s face clouded over. She didn’t say another word, she just hummed along absently to the Iraqi song. To her, Bilal is a wound that has not been healed by the years, the decades, and I have no excuse, because I knew. If there was one name I should not have mentioned, it was his. But I was thinking about it constantly, and sooner or later I was bound to let it slip.

  Back when we were at university, the day after the night I walked Sémi home, when we almost kissed, the young man who appeared in our group, the one who dared to hold her hand, was Bilal.

  For me, the incident left a wound that I’ve realized since being back in the country, was lasting. But it is nothing, nothing at all compared to Sémi’s trauma and the brutal death of her first lover.

  When our group of friends met up two or three days after the farcical walk home, and I saw this boy and this girl arrive together, arm in arm, obviously I was upset. But I felt I had no right to say anything, nor to resent them. After all, Bilal hadn’t “stolen my girlfriend”; I hadn’t managed to seduce her.

  In my adolescent mind, I’d constructed a whole scenario around the beautiful Sémiramis. I saw myself walking with her hand in hand on the beach, barefoot. I pictured a thousand situations in which I rescued her, consoled her, amazed her. But all this was nothing more than my imagination, and, on the strength of a smile, I had convinced myself that he
r dreams might be like mine. It wasn’t Sémi’s fault, nor was it Bilal’s. If anything was responsible for my failure, it was the upbringing that had turned me into a boy who was so polite, so worried about offending, about not being liked, so mired in his books and his daydreams—that timid creature.

  Over time, and with practice and instruction, I would eventually overcome my deepest inhibitions, although, even today, there is still a trace of shyness. But, back then, I couldn’t help but be envious of the two couples that existed within our group of friends—who were, incidentally, as dissimilar as possible. On one hand, Tania and Mourad, a sailboat on an oil slick; on the other, Sémi and Bilal, a skiff on a raging sea.

  The former were present at every event, without exception; in fact, our little group clustered around them. The latter sometimes came, sometimes stayed away; one day they would leave each other in tears; the next day we would see them wrapped around each other again. You didn’t need a crystal ball to know which crew would weather the storm, and which would founder on the rocks.

  I always wondered whether Bilal’s decision to join an armed faction was motivated by a shift in his politics, or by his tempestuous relationship with Sémi. And I never knew whether, when he died, they were still in a relationship or whether they were estranged or had broken up. Back then, it would have been insensitive to speculate, for fear of seeming to blame the young girl for the tragedy that had occurred. And, despite the years that have elapsed since, it’s clear that the subject still can’t be broached without great precaution.

  I had proof of that today. The moment I saw her reaction, I bit my tongue, I said nothing more about this or any other subject. I felt it was impossible for me to apologize, continue the conversation, or change the subject. All I could do was wait. And, in silence, call to mind certain memories that explained my friend’s attitude.

  I remembered, for example, that when Bilal died, Sémi wore mourning. For several months she wore only black, as though she were his lawful widow. Then she sunk into a profound depression.