The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  This is clearly the visiting room that Ramez mentioned. To my eyes, the place is more reminiscent of a school than a prison.

  I am about to sit down when my friend arrives. I am surprised by his appearance, but not in the way I had expected. The last time I saw him was in Paris, in a gourmet restaurant; he had just negotiated a major contract and was still wearing the dark suit he favoured for such meetings. I had assumed that this time he would be in a monk’s habit, with a rope by way of a belt and a pair of sandals. But this was not the case. If he had left behind his business suits, he had not adopted what I imagined as a monk’s habit. Simply a pale ivory soutane, and a bald patch like a tonsure that he no longer attempted to hide, as he used to, with a comb-over.

  He seems happy to see me. Even so, I ask him not to be annoyed with me for showing up unannounced. I tell him I am only passing through, that I will be in the country only briefly, and for the first time in many years.

  He gestures me to sit down, and takes a chair on the other side of the table, then, having stared mischievously at me for a moment, he says:

  “You haven’t changed.”

  I can hardly say the same thing to him, so I say:

  “You look like you’ve got a new lease of life.”

  This is genuinely my impression, and it visibly pleases him. Not so much out of ordinary vanity, but because there is something implicit in the compliment. What makes him seem so rejuvenated is his serenity, and a certain nonchalance. He may be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he has shrugged off his family and his professional worries and, if I can express myself in venal terms, he has not been shortchanged.

  “This place is an oasis,” I say, for want of a less hackneyed image.

  “No, quite the opposite,” my friend calmly corrects me, as though he has already considered the comparison. “The world is an oasis, and here we are in the vast immensity that surrounds it. In an oasis, people spend their time loading and unloading caravans. Seen from here, the caravans are no more than silhouettes on the horizon. Nothing is more beautiful than a caravan seen from a distance. But when you come closer, it is noisy, dirty, the camel drivers are quarrelsome, and the animals mistreated.”

  I am not sure whether this in an allegory or an actual memory, given that when Ramzi worked in the Arabian Peninsula, he doubtless had occasion to travel in a caravan. So I simply smile and nod and do not say a word.

  He falls silent for a moment, then continues, in a less florid style.

  “In the early years of my life, I dreamed of building the world, and when all’s said and done, I didn’t build very much. I promised myself I would build universities, hospitals, research laboratories, state-of-the-art factories, decent housing for ordinary people, and I spent my life building palaces, prisons, military bases, shopping malls for feverish consumers, unliveable skyscrapers, and artificial islands for deranged billionaires.”

  “There was nothing you could do. That’s the nature of oil money. You had no control over how it was spent.”

  “That’s true, people squander their money as they choose. But that doesn’t mean you have to go along with their crazy ideas, you should have the courage to say no. No, your Highness, I will not build you an eighth palace, you already have seven that you barely use. No, gentlemen, I will not build you a sixty-storey tower in which every floor rotates independently; in a year, the machinery will be clogged with fine sand, the cogs will seize up, and all you will be left with is a twisted shell that will rot and rust for the next four centuries.”

  If at first the righteous indignation of the monk-cum-civil-engineer is accompanied by a smile, this quickly turns to a pained rictus.

  “I spent my whole life building, and when I look back, there is not a single thing I am proud of.”

  I am about to say that he is being too hard on himself, to remind him that, in the Gulf States, he had built a high-tech hospital, a remarkable museum of archaeology—which I visited with my students three years ago—and a university campus often described as a model of the genre. But it is futile to respond to existential angst with a catalogue of achievements. I decide to say nothing, to ask nothing, even when he falls silent. By respecting his silences as much as his words, I allow him to follow his own thought processes, believing that in the end he will answer my unspoken questions. Particularly the most obvious question: why did he become a monk?

  “What changed in me was not my religious convictions,” he says at length, “but the conclusions that I drew from them. As a child, I was taught: ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ and it’s true that I never pinched anything, never dipped my hand in the till, never doctored my invoices, never took something that did not belong to me. In theory, I should have a clear conscience. But to be content with such a literal observance of the commandment now seems to me absurd and cowardly.

  “If leaders wrongfully appropriate the wealth of their country, and give you a small part of that fortune to build them a palace, are you not complicit in an act of pillage? If you build a prison where innocent people will be incarcerated, where some will be tortured to death, are you not breaking the commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’?

  “I could go through each of the ten commandments and, if I am less than honest, I could be at peace with myself knowing that I have always observed them. But if I am honest, I have to admit that I respect them only ostensibly, superficially, just enough to ‘clear my name’ in the eyes of the Creator. The world is full of pitiful people who believe that God can be duped, that it is enough not to kill, not to steal, to keep their hands clean.”

  For a brief moment, I thought that Ramzi’s criticism was directed at me. Given that I have boasted of how I left my war-torn country in time, and—specifically—managed to keep my hands clean, his words prompted in me a little more humility and a little less complacency. But I don’t think this was his intention, I think he was referring to his own previous actions. In fact, he immediately added:

  “I suppose that, seen from the outside, people assume I’m having some existential crisis triggered by age, exhaustion, and private tragedy. I see things very differently. I think it was logic that persuaded me to come and live here. Though it’s true that my decision was made easier by my circumstances. My wife had just died, my children were grown up and lived far away. Men are often connected to the everyday by invisible threads. In my life, some of those threads had snapped. I didn’t have many ties, I could cut loose, and I did …”

  Without worrying too much about whether this is the right moment, I decide to mention his former partner.

  “I’ve just seen Ramez and his wife. They talked about you.”

  I say nothing more. There is a silence. Gazing up at the skylight above our heads, Ramzi seems on the brink of tears. I am tempted to change the subject, but I stop myself, preferring to wait until he has calmed down.

  After a long moment, he says gravely:

  “I was very unfair to …”

  Abruptly he trails off. He obviously has a lump in his throat. He pauses, as though to catch his breath. But when, some seconds later, he speaks again, it is to say:

  “A wisp of cloud has mellowed the sun. What do you say we take a walk outside?”

  As one, we get to our feet and I follow him out of the building and along the stony path. He is right, the sun is no longer blinding, so I carry my straw hat.

  After a few minutes, we come to a tall tree, a walnut tree. My friend sits down on a flat stone and gestures to another, even flatter, and I in turn sit down.

  To rekindle the conversation, but without mentioning Ramez’s name again, I say:

  “He seems lost without you.”

  Brother Basil gives me a long smile and then says, in a more composed tone:

  “As far as our work together goes, I’m not worried, and I feel no regrets. He was used to having me in the office, he’ll get used to me not
being there. But I owed it to him to explain my decision. The problem is that, when the moment came, I had no desire to argue about anything. I didn’t feel able to explain my inner turmoil to someone on the outside, not even my best friend. He came to visit one day …”

  “He said.”

  “I didn’t welcome him like the brother he has always been to me. It was much too soon, I had only just moved into the monastery and he clearly hoped to bring me back with him. I had to defend myself, so I behaved coldly. There are times when a person needs to be completely alone with their private struggles, when the slightest intervention feels like an act of aggression. I had no choice but to push him away. I tried to do it as gently as possible, but I’m sure I hurt him. I know he will have suffered because of it, and I did too. Are you likely to see him again soon?”

  “Yes. We’ve planned to meet up again in the coming weeks.”

  “Well, tell him … Tell him what I’ve just told you. Tell him I’d like to see him again, that he is welcome here. Alone, or with his wife.”

  “They’ll be happy to hear it, they’ve never really got over you leaving, and they’ll be comforted to know that you still think of them as friends.”

  For a long moment, we sit in silence, he and I. Then he gets to his feet and gestures for me to follow. We set off down a stony path that seems to be an extension of the one I had taken to reach the monastery, which is now below us as we climb higher. I start to get out of breath while my friend, despite being chubby, carries on bounding from rock to rock like a young goat.

  Our path leads us to a sort of cavity carved into the cliff face.

  “Come and look at this. Follow me.”

  It is a low door, he has to stoop to go inside. I follow behind. Inside, it is murky, but gradually our eyes adjust to the darkness. Then Ramez opens the wooden shutter blocking the window. The cave is illuminated.

  And I stand there, wide-eyed, gaping, a lump in my throat. The walls are painted with frescos depicting various people, their heads ringed with circular or oval haloes. Their hands are clearly visible, meticulously drawn, stretching out in front of them as though to accept an offering, their eyes are accentuated as though with kohl, their bearded faces are sad. There are animals, too, their heads ringed with saintly light, notably a lion and an eagle representing the evangelists.

  “There are seven other rooms like this, but they are in poor condition. Humidity, vandalism, ignorance, neglect. And simply the passing centuries. This one probably dates from the thirteenth century. Astonishing, isn’t it? And to think that most people don’t even know that this place exists.”

  “To my shame, I’m one of them. At least I was until this afternoon.”

  “As was I, until three or four years ago. One day, the bishop of the mountain asked me to come with him to visit a ruined monastery and advise him what to do to prevent it from completely crumbling into ruins. I came, I wandered around, and when I saw these caves, I decided to stay. I won’t say that this was the only reason for my decision, but it was the trigger. I was shaken by this mixture of beauty, piety, and fragility. I told the bishop that I would personally oversee the restoration, that I would pay for the work myself, and that I would be happy to have a little cell here where I could sleep from time to time while the restoration was in progress. That’s how it began. I buttressed the old walls, did some renovation work, closed up the caves to protect them from vandalism and weather. Can you believe that some visitors carved their names into the murals with penknives? Look here. And here. and here.”

  There were names, carved hearts, and also crude, gratuitous, hateful slashes.

  As we leave the cave, Ramzi locks the door, slips the keys into the deep pocket of his soutane, then leads me along a path to a plateau, a sort of barren esplanade where the ground is laid with a curious pattern of alternating black and white flagstones arranged in geometric patterns. Father Basil tells me it is a meditation labyrinth, one he made with his own hands last summer. He asks me whether, since I live in France, I have seen the ones in the Amiens or Chartres cathedrals. I confess my ignorance. So he explains the purpose of the labyrinth is to occupy the intellect with a practical task, that of following the path, so that the mind, thus freed, can drift to other spheres.

  “The next time you come to visit, you’ll stay at the monastery, and in the early hours, you’ll come up here with me, you’ll follow the path, moving slowly along the black flagstones, and you’ll feel the effect.”

  With a certain solemnity, I say:

  “I accept your invitation. I’ll come back.”

  I glance at my watch.

  “It’s already five thirty. It’s time for me to get going.”

  We walk down to the door of the monastery.

  “I look forward to your next visit, you’ll eat with us and stay here overnight.”

  “Yes, I will. I promise.”

  I make to shake his hand, but he pulls me to him and, for a long moment, he hugs me hard.

  -

  4

  When he walked down from the monastery, straw hat in hand, Adam found Sémiramis exactly where he had left her, sitting in the car beneath the same oak tree, and felt guilt for abandoning her for more than two hours. At first she pretended that she had gone to visit her friends and had only just got back. This was a lie, as she eventually admitted. Her passenger apologized profusely.

  “If you want me to forgive you,” she cut him short, “tell me everything. From the first minute to the last.”

  This he did straightaway, making sure he did not forget or conceal anything.

  His account was so animated, so enthusiastic, so emotional, especially when he described the ancient cave chapels, that his friend seemed worried.

  “Please tell me you’re not thinking of becoming a monk too!”

  “I wouldn’t say it was unthinkable in my case, but no, I don’t plan to. I have a job I love, students who are waiting for me, a woman who loves me …”

  “A mistress,” Sémiramis added neutrally as though simply adding to the list.

  “That had completely slipped my mind.”

  “Bastard,” she said gently, as though stroking a cat.

  “But you don’t need to worry, Ramzi didn’t try to convert me.”

  “But he did suggest you come and spend some time at the monastery.”

  “Just one night, so that I can wake up in these surroundings …”

  “If I were you, I’d be careful. Men are a lot more vulnerable than they think. Especially at your age …”

  “Vulnerable? Yes, maybe. I do succumb to certain temptations. But not all of them.”

  She slapped his thigh, and he furtively stroked the hand that had slapped him.

  “I know Ramzi, he’s not the type to proselytize. His faith is decent and—how can I put it?—gracious. He has always been a courteous, considerate man, and his faith is like him. When I arrived, I was worried it might be the opposite, that he might be too reserved, too caught up in his mediation, too distant, the way he was with Ramez. So, actually, I was pleasantly surprised. Given that he decided to withdraw from the world, I was surprised that I felt closer to him than before, he was more attentive, more thoughtful, more direct.

  “Religion has never been my cup of tea, but I have to confess that I admire and respect the man he has become. I even feel comforted to know that I have a friend in a monastery. And I will come back to visit him, as I promised. I’ll spend the night in a cell like his, and in the morning, I’ll go with him up to his ‘labyrinth’ to meditate as I walk.”

  On the drive back, the overcast landscape had lost all appeal. The journey seemed interminable. On several occasions, Adam almost dozed off, but he fought off sleep, fearing that the driver would doze off too and the car would end up at the bottom of a ravine.

  At some point, they started singing. Sémiramis had always
had a powerful, melodious voice, which enchanted her friends back when they were students, and she had a vast repertoire. She moved easily from Egyptian to Iraqi Arabic, from English to Greek, from French to Creole to Italian. She also knew Russian, Turkish, Syrian, and Basque songs, and a number of Hebrew hymns that echoed with the word Yeroushalaim. Adam did his best to accompany, humming along softly and singing more loudly when he remembered a chorus. His singing was not out of tune, but his voice was not easy on the ear. He knew this and so, that evening, for most of the songs, he simply tapped out the rhythm with his fingers. Had he not been worried that they might miss their turnoff, he would probably have stayed silent, his eyes closed, allowing himself to be lulled by his friend’s voice.

  At some point, he said:

  “Did you never thinking about being a professional singer?”

  “I considered it,” she said with no false modesty.

  “And?”

  She sighed.

  “And my father said: ‘I won’t have a daughter of mine wriggling her hips in some Cairo cabaret.’”

  “And that was that?”

  “That was that. My father had spent his youth in cabarets in Cairo. Apparently, every night, he would get drunk, sing at the top of his voice, buy champagne for everyone, and climb up on the tables. To my grandparents’ horror, he even fell in love with a belly dancer. Not that he ever told me, obviously. All parents are supposed to have led exemplary childhoods, aren’t they? But other members of the family told me. It was only after his own father died that he settled down, took over the family business, and got married. He had three children and vowed he would not let any of them—especially not me, his daughter—lead a dissolute life.”

  “I only just remembered that you were born in Cairo. I knew, obviously, but it had slipped my mind. Probably because you don’t have an accent. Or, rather, you do—if I listen closely, I can just make out an Egyptian accent when you speak French. But not when you speak Arabic.”