The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  “I’ve already thought about them,” Sémiramis said. “Everyone will stay here in the hotel.”

  This was also Adam’s preferred solution, so it was only for form’s sake that he asked:

  “You don’t think Tania will insist on us staying with her, in the old house? That was the original plan.”

  “So soon after Mourad’s death? No, it’s unthinkable! The family is in mourning, we’d have to whisper all the time and wander around with long faces. No laughing. No raised voices. The whole reunion would be grim. No, I’ve thought things through and decided everyone will stay here. Including Tania. It will do her good to get away from that house for a few days, otherwise mourners will constantly be traipsing through. Here at the hotel, we can talk and yell and laugh, we can even sing at the tops of our lungs, if we feel like it. Everyone will have their own room, and we can all eat in the big first-floor reception room. Leave the logistics to me, it’s my job.”

  Adam raised his hands in a gesture that said “I surrender” or “Fine, have it your way.”

  “On the other hand, it’s your job to send the invitations,” she said.

  “It’s pretty much all done. I’ll call Ramez and his wife this morning.”

  “And Dolores …”

  “And Dolores, of course; I’ll phone her this afternoon.”

  “And Brother Basil …”

  “I doubt he’ll agree to come. But I’ll send him a formal invitation …”

  “Have you made up your mind about Nidal?”

  “Yes, I’m going to call him.”

  “You see? You’ve still got lots to do. Have you got his number?”

  “No, but I assume you’ll give it to me in a minute.”

  Sémiramis heaved a loud sigh:

  “What would you do without me?”

  “Check the telephone directory!”

  “Bastard!”

  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d already be back in Paris, I’d have given up on the idea of a reunion, I’d be slogging away at my biography of Attila.”

  She withdrew her hand.

  “Do you really find him so interesting, that maniac?”

  “Attila, c’est moi, as Flaubert might have said.”

  “Really? I’ll need you to explain a little, I fail to see the similarities.”

  “Attila is the archetypal immigrant. If someone had told him: ‘You are a Roman citizen,’ he would have wrapped himself in a toga, started speaking Latin, and become the armed wing of the Empire. Instead, they said: ‘You’re nothing but a barbarian and an infidel!’ and after that he dreamed only of destroying their Empire.”

  “And that’s you?”

  “It could have been me, it’s certainly true of a large number of immigrants. Europe is full of Attilas who dream of being citizens and will eventually turn into barbarian hordes. Welcome me with open arms and I’m prepared to die for you. Slam the door in my face, and all I want is to kick down the door and destroy your whole house.”

  “So you’re saying I was wise to welcome you with open arms?”

  He laughed.

  “It wasn’t the best choice of words, but you know what I mean.”

  He paused for a moment, then added.

  “As for you, I already felt you’d welcomed me with open arms the moment I called you from the taxi and you shrieked my name. What happened between us later, I’ll call an ‘unexpected blessing’ …”

  Their fingers entwined again and they shared an intimate silence.

  It was Sémiramis who finally broke the silence.

  “So, you wanted Nidal’s mobile number,” she said, withdrawing her hand and searching through the contacts on her phone.

  When she found the number, she handed the phone to her friend to use, but he simply copied the number onto a page of his notebook. He obviously wanted to make the call later, when he was alone in his room.

  -

  2

  I wasn’t sure Bilal’s brother would remember me, Adam would write in his notebook on Sunday, April 29. I hadn’t met him more than three times in my life, and the last time was more than a quarter century ago, at Bilal’s funeral. Nidal had seemed even more distraught than his mother and his sisters that day. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He had not yet turned seventeen, and Bilal was his role model, his guide, his idol. To make matters worse, they looked very alike—the same crooked nose, the same close-cropped black hair, the same look in their eyes, like a hunted deer—so as I watched the sobbing brother, I had the eerie feeling that Bilal had risen from the grave to mourn himself.

  “Nidal, this is Adam, I don’t know if you remember me …”

  “I only know one person by that name—apart from our common ancestor to all, peace be upon him! So you’ve come back to us?”

  “Well, I’m passing through …”

  “Why only ‘passing through’?”

  “These days I live in France.”

  “I lived in France for many years, too, but I came back to live among my people.”

  This was clearly a reproach. I had to retaliate.

  “You lived in France, and you never thought to call your brother’s best friend? Shame on you!”

  He gave a little laugh to signal that our usual teasing could stop.

  “I’m so happy to hear your voice. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to organize a get-together. I wanted to let you know …”

  “A political meeting?”

  His tone was ironic and incredulous. I quickly reassured him.

  “No, a reunion of old friends. Bilal’s friends …”

  No answer. A long silence. I could tell Nidal was choked up. In fact, when he finally did speak, his voice was different, he was no longer blasé.

  “A reunion of old friends …”

  I didn’t know whether by slowly repeating my words in a whisper, Nidal was expressing nostalgia or suspicion. To forestall a negative reaction, I needed to say something.

  “It would be wonderful if we could meet up: us, you and me. To talk about my little plan, and obviously about what you’ve been up to all these years.”

  “Sure, why not? Where are you now?”

  Before I called, I decided it was best not to mention Sémi; or at least, not right now, anyway.

  “I’m in the mountains, but I can come and meet you in town whenever suits you.”

  “In that case, let’s have lunch! Do you want me to send a car?”

  I preferred to lie.

  “No thanks, I’ve got one. Just give me the address.”

  The little local restaurant where he suggested we meet was one I wouldn’t ordinarily have set foot in. Not that there was anything uninviting or unpleasant about it, it’s just one of those places that seem reserved for regulars, where an outsider feels that everyone is looking at him; an “outsider” in this case doesn’t have to be European or Asian, it means anyone not from the neighbourhood.

  Nidal seemed to know everyone, but he simply nodded and smiled as we made our way through the restaurant.

  The owner had reserved us a private room with a window overlooking a small courtyard. Preferential treatment. The table was already set with dishes of olives, cucumbers, pickled turnips, and bread rolls cut into quarters.

  “I usually just order the plat du jour, and I’m never disappointed. But they have other things too.”

  “Let’s go for the plat du jour then.”

  “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll take it anyway.”

  “Sunday is always stuffed courgettes.”

  “Fine by me!”

  “You’re an easy-going man, your wives must be delighted.”

  “Wives, plural?” />
  “I meant sequential, not simultaneous.”

  “Do you have simultaneous wives?”

  “No, just the one. She warned me from the start: if I marry anyone else, she’ll gouge my eyes out.”

  “And you just gave in.”

  “I’m very attached to my eyes.”

  Nidal smiled, and it was Bilal’s smile.

  “You’ve got a point,” I said. “For those of us who like reading, two eyes are more useful than two wives.”

  “That’s one point we agree on. I’m not sure there will be many more.”

  The owner comes over with a pencil and pad. He jots down the two plats du jour and asks what we would like to drink. Nidal orders a lemonade, and I nod to indicate that I’ll have the same, though, when the owner has disappeared, I add:

  “I never drink wine at lunch, it gives me a headache.”

  Since I had been careful not to smile, my host felt it necessary to explain:

  “This place doesn’t serve alcohol.”

  “I worked that out. I was just joking …”

  I smile. Not to be outdone, Nidal gives a faint half-smile. Then, looking away, he says as though to some third person:

  “Emigrant jokes!”

  I don’t ask what he means by this but simply say again:

  “I was just joking …”

  Then, before giving him time to respond, I add:

  “But it’s true that I never drink at lunchtime. Only at night.”

  “So, if I’d invited you for dinner rather than lunch, what would you have done?”

  “I’d have abstained. I like a glass of wine in the evening, but I can easily go without. On the other hand, if someone tried to forbid me …”

  “It’s forbidden to forbid,” Nidal says mockingly in French.

  Up to this point, we have been speaking Arabic, and it is in Arabic that I reply:

  “If a person decides to refrain from certain drinks or certain foods because of his beliefs, I respect that. What I don’t accept is trying to impose those beliefs on others, especially when governments get involved.”

  “Because you believe each citizen should decide for himself, and governments have no business banning things, right? But don’t they ban the consumption of cocaine or hash? But maybe you think they shouldn’t ban drugs?”

  Rather too quickly, the conversation is turning into a clichéd sparring match between the zealot and the libertine. But maybe this is something he needs to do before we can talk man to man. One way or another, I’m not about to give in just because I’m on his home ground. On the contrary. In the Levant, people are supposed to accede to their guest’s wishes, not subject him to their own laws. Or at least this is how people behaved in better times.

  “No one claims that nothing should ever be banned. But some of your fellow believers like to ban things left and right. It’s like they comb through the sacred texts searching for something else to prohibit, and make a proclamation. As someone once said about the English Puritans: ‘They’re not really fanatics, they just want to make sure no one has any fun.’”

  Nidal gives a forced smile and says nothing. I continue:

  “But to answer your question directly, I’d say: yes, of course, some substances are toxic, and I understand why they’re banned. But wine? The same wine that has been sung about by Arab, Persian, and Turkish poets alike? The same wine that is the drink of the mystic? It is a noble, innocent pleasure to meet up with friends of an evening; to laugh, to talk, and put the world to rights over a bottle of good wine. Am I supposed to allow myself to be deprived of this by some authority just because some people drink too much? Or because certain religious traditions forbid it?”

  “You only see one side of things!” Nidal growls.

  He takes a few mouthfuls to allow himself time to collect his thoughts, then says:

  “What you refuse to see is that, in the West, everything that comes from here is treated with hostility. Everyone agrees that alcoholism is a scourge, but Islam has only to denounce alcohol for people to decide that it’s a symbol of individual free will. Even people like you.”

  A waiter arrived with steaming plates, and bottles of lemonade. He asked if we would like him to pour the yoghurt over the stuffed courgettes, or leave it on the side. Then he sprinkled everything with dried mint and was about to pour the lemonade into our glasses when Nidal gestured that he would do it, and, when the man had disappeared, he carried on where he had left off.

  “A lot of European men have a wife and a mistress, and children by both of them; but if Islam says you can marry both, the very idea of two wives is seen as scandalous, outrageous, immoral, and the illicit relationship becomes respectable.”

  “Maybe that’s because, when it comes to the way we treat women, our country leaves a lot to be desired, don’t you think? If women here were free to work, to travel, to dress as they pleased …”

  “You really think that’s the reason? You really think that the West is worried about emancipating our women? You don’t think that, for centuries, they’ve been systematically hostile to any idea that comes from us? Time was, they criticized Oriental countries like ours for their beautiful boys and their wanton women, and now we’re criticized for being unduly modest. In their eyes, whatever we do, we’re wrong.”

  I took a few bites of my food before saying, hesitantly:

  “You’re not completely wrong, there is a genuine hostility, and it sometimes seems systematic. But it’s not one-sided. To put it bluntly, they hate us as much as we hate them.”

  Nidal instantly dropped his knife and fork and stared at me suspiciously, perhaps even angrily.

  “When you say ‘we,’ who exactly are you talking about?”

  The question was neither anodyne nor innocent. And to me, as his guest, it was deeply discourteous. What Nidal was saying, essentially, was that, as an emigrant, I had “gone over to the enemy.” I felt all the more insulted, because the accusation was not completely unjustified. Whose side do I think I am on, as a Christian Arab who has lived for years in France? On the side of Islam, or the side of the West? And when I say “we,” who am I talking about? The phrase I had just used—“They hate us as much as we hate them”—unwittingly revealed the ambiguity of my position. Truth be told, I don’t know myself what I meant by the words “they” and “we.” To me, both of these rival worlds are “they” and “we.”

  Nidal had hit home, he had found the chink in my armour. But there could be no question of agreeing with him, or tolerating his hurtful insinuations. Swathing myself in a dignified silence, I conspicuously turned away and looked out the window, or down at my plate, and once even at my watch.

  From my actions, Nidal realized that he had gone too far. He mentally erased his insulting question, and began to talk about what I had said in a different tone. In doing so, he did not have to back down, but what he said, though polemical, contained an implicit apology.

  “Maybe they hate us as much as we hate them, as you put it. But as a historian, you have to admit that the relationship between them and us today is profoundly unequal. In the past four hundred years, we have not invaded a Western country, it is they who invade us, they who impose their law, they who subjugate us, colonize us, humiliate us. All we have done is suffer, suffer, suffer … But here you are, a historian concerned with truth and objectivity, putting us on the same footing. ‘They hate us as much as we hate …’ There are faults on both sides, is that it?

  “The French invade Algeria, annexe the country, massacre anyone who resists, ship in European colonists who act as though they own the land and as if the local populace exist merely to serve and to obey. Faults on both sides, right? They use every possible means to force the inhabitants to stop speaking Arabic and to turn away from Islam. Then, a hundred and thirty years later, they go home, leaving behind a country so devastated it might n
ever recover. But according to you, there are faults on both sides, right?

  “Jews emigrate en masse to Palestine, occupy the land and drive out people who, overnight, find themselves stateless and spend the next half century living in refugee camps. But according to you, there are faults on both sides.”

  He was attacking me again, but this time I couldn’t react as I had before. What Nidal was attacking was not me, personally, but my views as a historian. In such circumstances, all arguments are legitimate. So rather than adopt the position of an offended guest, I decided to cross swords with my host.

  “Are you going to let me answer?”

  Nidal stops abruptly.

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “For a start, I didn’t say ‘there are faults on both sides,’ I simply said: ‘They hate us as much as we hate them.’ I did not mention ‘faults.’ You put words in my mouth and then used them to attack me. It’s a questionable process.”

  “You may not have said it today, but it is something you say all the time!”

  “I suppose you secretly record my conversations?” I said flippantly, to lighten the mood.

  Nidal didn’t smile.

  “No, Adam, I don’t record your conversations, but I have listened to you speak. I went to the university where you teach several times, I sat at the back of the lecture hall and I listened to you. I didn’t just make up that phrase, you said it, you said it a hundred times. ‘There are faults on both sides.’ They invade our country, drive us from our homes, bomb us, appropriate what is ours—but, to you, there are always faults on both sides. A historian is supposed to be neutral, isn’t he? Between the invader and invaded, between predator and prey, between murderer and victim, you remain neutral. Whatever happens, you mustn’t seem to be defending your own people. Is that objective? Is that what you call intellectual honesty?”