by Amin Maalouf
I was intrigued by what she said about Bilal’s fascination with the Spanish Civil War. It’s true that he and I often talked about it. But no more than we talked about Vietnam, Chile, or the Long March. I didn’t realize that he was so obsessed with it, nor that he dreamed of being another Hemingway. When he and I discussed the Spanish Civil War during our walks together, we more often talked about García Lorca, who was one of its first victims, though he never took up arms.
That said, the last conversation between Sémi and her beloved was not unlike a lot of the discussions our group was having at that time, all of which revolved around the same subject: Was the fighting in our country merely a clash between tribes or clans—not to say between gangs of thugs—or was there some greater merit to these clashes, some moral dimension? In other words, was it worth getting involved, at the risk of losing one’s life?
At that point in our lives, we all believed that the Spanish Civil War, despite the atrocities committed, was the archetypal conflict with a genuine cause, an ethical dimension, and hence one worthy of dying for. Now, as a historian approaching fifty, I have some doubts about this. At the time, I had none, and nor did my friends. The only other struggle that, to our eyes, had been worthy of dying for was the anti-Nazi resistance—whether that be French, Italian, Soviet, or German. At the tops of our lungs we sang “Bella ciao” and Aragon’s “L’Affiche rouge,” we all wanted to be Stauffenberg or, better yet, Missak Manouchian, the Armenian carpenter from Jounieh who had gone on to lead a faction of the French Resistance.
Our misfortune, our tragedy, was that we felt the battles we could fight in our time, in our country, lacked the same purity, the same nobility.
Not that I think we would all have been prepared to lay down our lives for a good cause, even at the age of eighteen. But it was an issue that was never far from our thoughts, or our discussions. Were we going to spend our whole lives, or at the very least our youth, without the opportunity to throw ourselves headlong into a struggle worthy of the name? And was there a just cause, one championed by men who were pure of heart, or at least trustworthy? Personally, I doubted it.
I feel certain that Bilal had the same doubts I did. Even if there came a day when, out of sheer impatience, he decided to silence them. He was mistaken, but I respect his decision, and whenever I think of him, I will never cease to say, “He was a pure soul.”
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3
Having written these last words for the second, or perhaps the third, time, Adam closed his notebook and opened his laptop in order to write an email on a very different subject concerning the immediate future, one also inspired by his conversation with Sémiramis the previous evening.
Dear Naïm,
Here I am writing to you again, as if my last email wasn’t long enough! But you’ll understand why I needed to get back to you so soon.
Last night, I ended up going to Mourad’s village, as I told you, to offer my condolences to Tania. Unsurprisingly, she was sad, exhausted, at the end of her tether, and particularly upset—as her husband must have been at the end of his life—by the distance of so many friends. She talked to me again about the reunion we have been planning. She spoke about it so enthusiastically that I almost told her you had already agreed to come, and that you even wanted us to meet at the old house. But I bit my tongue, I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to raise a hope that might be disappointed. I first wanted to make sure that the reunion is definitely going to happen.
Until now, I’ve only written to one person besides you—Albert, who reminded me that our country is still on the list of those American citizens are barred from visiting—a veto he is obliged to respect given his job. He is more than happy for us to meet up, but elsewhere, in Paris for example.
You immediately agreed unreservedly, both in principal and in terms of location, something Tania would have been thrilled to hear. Nonetheless, I wanted to make sure that you have thought about the implications—especially in terms of security. It was to clarify this point that I’m emailing again.
According to Sémi—did I tell you I’m staying at her place, the sublime Auberge Sémiramis?—I’m worrying about nothing, as is Albert. She says American citizens originally from here routinely get around the ban, and they’re not worried, either while they’re here or when they go back to the USA. As for you, she thinks you would be running no risk whatsoever.
Maybe she’s right. I’d like to believe her … It’s perfectly possible that neither Albert’s passport nor your religion poses any problem. But I prefer to make you aware of my concerns so that you can get more information, think about it, and make you decision in full possession of the facts. […]
Forty minutes later, from Brazil—where it was not yet 6:00 a.m.—this reply from Naïm:
Dear Adam,
I understand your concerns, but they don’t seem to me to be remotely justified. I’m running no risk, none whatsoever. I’ll travel on my Brazilian passport, I’ll blend into the crowd of emigrants who have come back to breathe the air of their homeland, no one need know anything about my religion.
My only problem is my mother. She has just turned eighty-six, and she’d have a heart attack if I told her where I was going. So I’ll have to lie. I’ll tell her I’m going to Greece, and she’ll make me promise to wear a hat so I don’t get sunstroke …
No, honestly, I don’t see why I should deny myself the trip. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for years, so I’m not about to pass it up. An opportunity to see friends, of course, but also to see the city, the old family house—if it’s still standing—and the one we had up in the mountain, where we spent every summer, and where I used to bring my girlfriends when I needed somewhere private. These days, my daughter’s boyfriend—a student at the University of Rio—spends every weekend with us, in São Paulo; he sleeps here and in the morning we all have breakfast together. It’s such an ordinary thing these days that even my mother finds it perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable, as though this is the way things have always been—the same woman who would have torn a strip off my sister if she had so much as whispered in a young man’s ear. We boys were never as closely watched, but we constantly had to come up with clever ruses, as you remember, constantly hiding, and that house up on the mountain was my private sanctuary.
It would be such a joy to visit the places I used to know, even if they’re scarcely recognizable now; and also, more generally, to see the country that I left reluctantly, promising myself that I’d visit regularly, though as it has turned out I haven’t set foot there since.
At first, it was because of the war, the urban violence, the snipers, the fear of kidnappings; and when there were lulls in the fighting, I was the one who was too busy. The more time passed, the more my fears grew, and I could no longer see myself arriving at the airport, getting into a taxi, venturing into the various neighbourhoods. There came a point when I told myself that I had to stop thinking about it, to turn the page, and that, besides, almost all the people who had been dearest to me had left, either for other countries, or for the next world.
But still, I felt the urge. So, when you suggested a reunion of our friends from back then, I knew that this was the perfect opportunity to break this long absence. Which is why I’ve replied so quickly and so enthusiastically—as you have noticed.
So, as far as I’m concerned, the decision is made. And since I can more or less make my own work schedule, I’ll leave you to choose the date, but I hope it will be soon. I have to travel to Europe quite soon, and I could combine the two trips …
As for Albert, I’d love to see him again, but I’d advise you not to pressure him. It’s true that, if he wants to, he can get around the ban, which mostly exists so that American authorities can waive responsibility if anything goes wrong. But it is up to him to assess the risks. Pass on the various opinions, don’t argue for or against, and leave him to think about it. H
e might just change his mind. […]
To avoid “pressuring” or embarrassing his American friend, Adam wrote the following email:
Dear Albert,
I’ve just written to Naïm to say … more or less the reverse of what I’m about to say to you.
When I first told him, a couple of days ago, about the reunion that Tania is so keen to have, and I am trying to organize, he immediately suggested that we meet up, as we used to, in “the old house.” I wrote back to him to ask whether he had considered the risk he might be running, and he has just replied to say that, in his opinion, any risks are negligible, and to reaffirm that he still wants to come back and visit the country.
So, now I’m writing to ask you the opposite. You said you’d prefer the reunion to take place in Paris, and I’d like to ask you to give it some more thought. Is your decision final? Is there no way of getting around the problem of the ban?
Let me just say that, obviously, I will completely understand whatever you decide.
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4
Adam was still rereading the email when Sémiramis knocked on his door. He ushered her in and read the text aloud. She did not think it sufficiently firm; she would have preferred him to say explicitly that there was no risk. Adam hesitated for a moment, but eventually sent the message as written, having made some minor change for the sake of form. Then he closed his laptop and said to his visitor:
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t suppose you’re planning to have lunch?”
He checked his watch. It was 12:15 p.m.
“No, it’s too early, and I’m not remotely hungry. I’ll just carry on working …”
“In that case, I’ll send up a couple of things you can nibble on while you carry on writing.”
But Sémiramis had come for a different reason. She went on:
“Later this afternoon, I have plans for you. A visit. I know that you don’t want to see anyone, but I think you might make an exception for Brother Basil.”
Adam was on the point of asking her who this individual was, when, alerted by her mischievous smile, he changed his mind.
“Ramzi!”
“The very same.”
“I knew that when he took holy orders, he adopted a pseudonym … No, that’s not the right word. What do we say, actually? I’ve forgotten …”
“Not pseudonym, not alias, not nom de guerre. We simply say ‘religious name.’ Ramzi, comma, religious name Brother Basil.”
“Of course. My mind is all over the place … So you tracked him down?”
“I’ve always known where he was.”
“Have you already visited him?”
“No, I didn’t dare. A shameless sinner showing up among a group of monks … I figured I might not exactly be welcomed with open arms …”
“So, you haven’t seen him since the … change. So what makes you think that he will see us now?”
“Nothing. I’ve no idea whether he will. But I think if the two of us show up and knock on his door, he’ll let us in.”
“Is it far?”
“About two hours, maybe a little less. An hour-and-a-half drive and then a twenty-minute walk.”
Adam was visibly hesitant. Sémiramis once again let out a girlish laugh.
“Trust me. I have a feeling everything will be fine.”
But her friend was not convinced.
“You don’t just show up to visit a friend who’s decided to withdraw from the world. You have to prepare, so as not to make a blunder. I’d like to talk to someone first …”
“To Ramez, I assume …”
She smiled; he smiled, too. This was indeed the friend of whom he was thinking. During their time at university, Ramez and Ramzi were inseparable. And, although both belonged to the “Circle of Sophists,” they formed a group within a group. They were engineering students, whereas the others were studying literature, history, or sociology; and they had been educated in English, whereas the others had attended French schools.
After earning their degrees, “the two Ramzs” jointly founded an engineering company that bore both their names.
“It remains to be seen whether the monk and the engineer are still on good terms,” Sémiramis remarked, clearly sceptical.
“Even if they’re not, Ramez can still offer valuable insights. Why his friend decided to retreat from the world, what state of mind he’s in, whether he receives visitors, whether he might feel threatened if we suddenly appear and knock on the door of the monastery … These are things only Ramez can tell us. Are you still in touch with him?”
“No, but I know that these days he lives in Amman.”
“So, you don’t have a phone number for him?”
“I can find someone who has. Give me ten minutes.”
As soon as Sémiramis left the room, I went and fetched the folder marked Letters from friends to dig out an old letter, one of the very first that I received after arriving in Paris; written in English, it was peppered with words in Arabic and little doodles in the margins.
Dear Adam,
We have decided to write this letter together, Ramez and I …
I couldn’t help but smile as I copied out this line, just as I smiled when I first read it a quarter of a century ago. Although the news from my friends was depressing.
We have taken a lease on offices on the top floor of a magnificent modern building with huge picture windows overlooking the sea. We took possession at the beginning of last month, and the furniture was delivered the following week. We had planned to have a small launch party on the evening of Saturday 12th. In the early afternoon, a gun battle broke out in the surrounding district. All the streets were cordoned off, and the guests could not get to the building. We had brought huge platters of canapés and pastries, and every kind of drink you can imagine. We had hired two waiters, but they couldn’t get here either.
At about seven o’clock, the battle intensified, shells exploded close by, shattering the office windows. We had no choice but to shelter in the basement until the madness died down. And it was there, in the shelter, that we spent the night, surrounded by people from neighbouring offices who had been supposed to come to the launch. We had felt it was only good manners to invite them, but no one had thought it wise to venture up to the eighth floor, the most vulnerable in the whole building.
In the morning, we went back up to our new offices—taking the stairs, obviously, since the electricity had been cut off. The place was a complete ruin. Everything was strewn with shrapnel and shards of glass. The false ceiling had collapsed and fallen on the trays of pastries, and the carpet was completely soaked with beer and soft drinks. We were speechless. We slumped into a couple of armchairs in what was supposed to be our meeting room and we cried and cried. Then we passed out from despair, frustration, and sheer exhaustion, since during our night down in the shelter, we had only pretended to sleep.
We were woken by fresh gunfire, when the factions started up again at dawn. I was the first to open my eyes; Ramez was still in his armchair. His eyes were still closed, but before long, he opened them. We stared at each other, without moving from our chairs. Then we both burst out laughing. It wasn’t a giggle, but a fit of hysterics we could do nothing to stop.
When we finally regained our composure, I said, “So, what do we do now?” Without taking a second to think, Ramez instantly replied, “Now, we emigrate!” “What about the offices?” “We are going to leave this office in precisely sixty seconds and never set foot in it again. We’ll move to London.” Personally, I would have been happier with Paris, but my associate’s French is so terrible, it would have been cruel to force him to live and work in the language. Mine isn’t particularly good, but it’s good enough and would have improved with time. Ramez’s French is beyond hope.
So, I’m writing to tell you that we’ll soon be a
lmost neighbours—next month, in theory, but by January at the latest. I plan to visit Paris anytime there’s an exhibition I find interesting—which is likely to be quite often, and I would love to see you. And you should come and visit us in London …
Your friend who has not forgotten you,
Ramzi
Appended to the letter were a few lines in a different hand.
Take care of yourself, and don’t believe what my associate has told you. My French is absolutely perfect; if I don’t use it, it’s only so I don’t wear it out.
Your other brother who has not forgotten you,
Ramez
I don’t remember how Ramzi and Ramez came to be part of our group of friends. But as far back as I can remember, there they were, side by side, always together. We always addressed them in the singular, as though they were one person. They were an endless source of silly jokes. “Ramez tripped on a stone, Ramzi fell over”; “Ramzi has just downed three beers, Ramez is pie-eyed” … It seems like every time we met up, there had to be some reference to this “twinship,” it was a sort of ritual, and they were always the first to laugh.
In fact, they did everything to perpetuate the myth. For example, one day, while still in their first year studying engineering, they announced that they had decided to become associates. The sort of promise teenagers make. But they kept it. And after their first office was destroyed, they opened another one. Not in London, but in Jeddah in Saudi Arabia. Because, just as they were packing to move to England, they were offered a job, a vast project that would take three and a half years’ work and would make them rich. They did eventually open an office in London, but it was simply a branch office, like those they had in Lagos, Amman, Dubai, and Kuala Lumpur.