The Disoriented Page 5

  But this morning, at Sémi’s place, I am rediscovering the physical pleasure of being in my native land.

  I write those last words as if I needed to relearn them. My native land. My country. My homeland. I know all its failings, but during these days of rediscovery, I have no desire to remind myself that I am only passing through, that, in my pocket, I already have a return ticket. I need to believe that I am living here for an indeterminate period, that the horizon is not cluttered with dates and commitments, that I will stay here in this room, in this little mountain hotel, for as long as I need to.

  I know that there will come a moment—two days, two weeks, two months from now—when, once again, I feel compelled to leave; by the behaviour of others, or by my own impatience. For the moment, I refuse to think about it. I live, I breathe, I remember.

  -

  3

  Adam emptied the contents of the sky-blue folder onto the bed, surprised at all the things he had collected over the years. Not just letters, as it said on the folder, but press cuttings, passport photographs, group photos, even his first carte de séjour.

  By what twisted logic had he filed this in a folder marked Letters from friends? He did not have the faintest idea; it was like discovering another Adam, one whose reasoning he could no longer understand.

  I can only think that, for the emigrant I was during those years, becoming a resident of a country other than my own was not simply a bureaucratic process, it was an existential choice; and that, to me, my friends’ writings were not simply opinions, but inner voices. Try as I might today, I can no longer remember my feelings at the time, or put myself in the shoes of the young émigré I was back then.

  A historian is expected to know that Reason is a matter of dates. So, I simply record this fact and make no comment. Before returning to my memories.

  How many times had Tania written that to me she was “a sister,” “an older sister,” or “a loving sister!” It was her way of expressing her affection while avoiding any ambiguity. Obviously, I’m referring to a long time ago. Since the falling-out between Mourad and me, there has been very little communication between us, and very little warmth. Especially these last few days …

  It was inevitable, but even so, I regret it. From the very first time we met—in the university canteen—she and I were bound by an intense friendship. More than a friendship? Maybe, I don’t know … I could rack my brain and try to remember whether there was something else about the way I saw her when I was seventeen. But I don’t see the point of such soul-searching. Love is not a crimson thread to be distinguished from the black, white, gold, or pink threads that might be dubbed “friendship,” “desire,” “passion,” and Lord knows what beside. There must have been a thousand tangled feelings in the heart of the teenage boy I was back then. But I met Tania when she was with Mourad, I never imagined myself “with her,” and I never felt the slightest resentment.

  That said, at the time I felt a deep affection for her, one that I have never questioned, despite everything that happened with her husband. Because I believe she is innocent? Not really. We are never entirely innocent when it comes to the actions of those we love. But is that a reason to reject them? Should Tania have withdrawn from Mourad when he began to behave disgracefully? I don’t believe so. She had a duty to stay with him. And yet, her loyalty to her husband made her complicit. Oh yes, the threads of conscience are as difficult to disentangle as those of emotion.

  It would be simple if, on the road of life, we simply had to choose between loyalty and betrayal. More often than not, we are forced to choose between two irreconcilable loyalties; or—and it amounts to the same thing—two betrayals. There came a day when, in the throes of events, I had to make my choice, and Mourad had to make his, as did Tania. The tally of our betrayals: one exile, one malefactor, one accomplice. But that is also the tally of our loyalties.

  In remaining by Mourad’s side, Tania became his accomplice, but it would have been despicable if she had walked away. Such is life. Sometimes the commitments we undertake at twenty cannot be abdicated and the most honourable thing to do is to carry on. I do not condemn her, nor do I acquit her. In any case, I am not a tribunal.

  I do not judge? Yes, I judge, I spend my life judging. I am profoundly irritated by people who look at you in feigned indignation and say: “Are you judging me?” Yes, of course I am judging you, I am constantly judging you. Every creature endowed with a conscience has a duty to judge. But the sentences I hand down do not affect the lives of the “defendants.” I confer or revoke my respect, I measure out my cordiality, I suspend my friendship while I await further evidence, I become more distant, I become closer, I turn away, I grant a stay of execution, I wipe the slate clean—or pretend to do so. Most of those involved do not even realize. I do not communicate my judgements, I am not one to point the finger, when I observe the world it incites only an internal dialogue, a ceaseless dialogue with myself.

  As for Tania, I would have judged her much more harshly if her first decision had been made for the wrong reasons. I mean if, at twenty, she had fallen in love with a despicable man—won over by his wealth, his family name, or, worse still, by his toughness, his “macho” character. I confess that I have very little tolerance for such things. I can easily understand how she fell in love with the Mourad I knew when I was young. He was a man of great warmth, his house was always open, he enjoyed entertaining his friends and making them feel they were at home there.

  He had generosity, humour, and a keen intelligence that was not immediately apparent. He liked to give the impression that he was an unsophisticated mountain man, but that was a ploy. It allowed him to say exactly what he thought without restraint. He often came out with harsh truths that, from anyone else—from me, for example—would have seemed so brutal or spiteful as to obliterate years of friendship. From him, people accepted them, no one held it against him, they thought, “That’s just Mourad!” and the lapse was two-thirds forgiven.

  The character he constructed for himself allowed him considerable freedom. When I say “constructed,” it sounds as though I’m implying that it was the result of shrewd calculation. Yes and no. It was his natural persona, but he played it with great skill. Like great actors who use their own personality to lend weight to the character they are to play on stage.

  I can understand how Tania fell under his spell, we all did, me perhaps a little more than the others.

  What fascinated me about Mourad when I met him at university, was that he already seemed to have lived a lot. In our little group, there were people younger and older than he was, and yet he was a big brother to all of us, he was the one who made everyday decisions on our behalf. A leader? No, we didn’t want a leader, we rejected authorities and hierarchies. But he had a certain preeminence.

  He must have assumed adult responsibilities very young, and that had made him more mature. His father had died of a heart attack at forty-four when Mourad was seven years old. He was an only child, his mother was twenty-eight and she never remarried. Until then, she had lived in the shadow of her husband, and now she intended to live in the shadow of her son.

  She consulted him about everything, entrusted him with every responsibility. Whether it was choosing the school he would attend, buying a car, paying the gardener, selling a plot of land, repairing a roof or a wall, she would explain the pros and cons to her son, introduce him to the people concerned, then ask him to make the decision.

  He was like one of those heirs who ascend the throne as a child and are forced to behave like adults. In a sense, his mother was his regent.

  When I met Mourad he was nineteen, and the respect his mother bore him could have seemed like a sign of modernity. We had just come through the sixties, and some parents attempted to be their children’s friends. I quickly realized that, for Mourad’s mother, this was not the case. In fact, it was the reverse—lingering archaism rather than precocious moder
nity. If her only child had been a girl, I suspect she would have tyrannized her. But her son, her little man, she worshipped. She did not treat him like a “friend,” but like a lord, and in doing so she believed she was fulfilling the role assigned to her for all eternity.

  In behaving as she did, she ensured that, from an early age, he developed a self-confidence, a pride in who he was and what he possessed, and an undeniable sense of duty—at least towards his family. Without knowing, she also contributed to his unhappiness.

  Her name was Aïda. She always dressed in black, as though her husband had only just died. But she was friendly, often cheerful, and not without a sense of humour; I think she was fond of me—at least while I was her son’s best friend.

  Mourad told me one day that when he had a falling-out with someone, he avoided telling his mother, because she immediately turned against that person, making any reconciliation impossible. I assume she has hated me these past few years.

  Is she still alive? I don’t know. Probably not. If she were, I would have seen her at the hospital.

  -

  4

  Sémiramis knocked on Adam’s door and brought him a bowl of fruit—blood-red cherries, apricots, green plums, and a mango from Egypt. He thanked her and planted a kiss on her forehead, making no attempt to persuade her to stay.

  To show that she understood his desire not to be disturbed, she simply whispered, “When you want dinner, just give me a shout!”

  With a nod and a look, he agreed—then, without waiting for her to close the door behind her, he plunged back into his old papers.

  In August ’68, a few days after the double letter from Mourad and his wife, I received a letter from another friend, Albert, also brought to Paris by a traveller passing through, a letter that took exactly the opposite view. Ever since, I have kept them pinned together with a large paperclip. The paperclip has rusted now, leaving a sepia mark on the front of one and the back of the other.

  My very dear Adam,

  That lunatic Mourad has been shouting from the rooftops that he wrote to you yesterday to say “things you need to hear before you go completely deaf.” I don’t know what he has said to you, but I can guess, and I feel it my duty to give you a rather different opinion.

  I’ll begin by asking you not to bear a grudge against our mutual friend, regardless of what he wrote. You and I never hung around with him for his tact or his sophistication, did we? The few things he does know, he never quite understood properly, if you understand what I mean. We love him because he’s a good guy, a gruff mountain man who says more than he thinks, and because his tirades are well-intentioned. And we also love him because of Tania … That said, if you do decide to reply to him, don’t mince your words!

  Here, then, is the truth about our daily life, a truth our mutual friend will have been careful to hide from you.

  I write these few lines by candlelight. We have electricity for two hours out of twenty-four, and tonight, there is no point hoping. In any case, I have no idea how I am going to send you this letter when it is finished. One of my neighbours, Khalil, is thinking of going to France for a few days, so I will entrust these pages to him; unless he changes his mind, in which case I will have to keep an eye out for someone else …

  In a normal country, you write, you stick on a stamp, you slip the envelope into a postbox. Here, a commonplace activity that happens millions of times a day all over the planet, has become unthinkable.

  This is the point we have come to! What, with the postal service, the electricity, and everything else. The planes still fly intermittently, for those who are not kidnapped on their way to the airport. Buildings have become barricades, the streets are shooting ranges, skyscrapers have become reinforced concrete watchtowers. Parliament isn’t a parliament anymore, the government isn’t a government, the army isn’t an army, religions are no longer religions; they’re factions, parties, militias …

  There are people who are astounded by such an atypical country. Personally, I see nothing admirable about it, nothing amusing, and nothing that makes me proud. I stupidly dream of a country like any other. You flick a switch and, click, a light comes on. You turn the blue tap and cold water comes out; you turn the red tap, and there’s hot water. You lift the receiver and—miracle of miracles—you hear the dial tone! My neighbours tell me that if I was more patient, if I pressed the receiver to my ear and held my breath, I would eventually hear a faint click, a sign that the line is about to work.

  I will never be patient enough … It’s true that my ancestors lived for centuries with no postal service, no telephone, no running water, no electricity, and that, in theory, there is nothing to stop me from doing likewise. Except that they did not have lifts, and they did not live, like I do, on the sixth floor with an amazing view of the fireworks!

  In short, you were right to leave, and you are absolutely right to spend your holidays in the Alps. Obviously, your friends would love to see you again, but the only person who is really worried about you is your grandmother. And every time I call round to see her, she tells me that she is happy that you’re far away, that you’re safe, even if it means she doesn’t get to see you anymore.

  Me? I would say exactly the same thing: Stay where you are. Take care of yourself! Enjoy life! And from time to time, raise a glass to your faithful friend,

  Albert

  Adam slipped the letter back into the envelope and laid it on the table. It bore his name, carefully copied out, and the address where he had lived at the time.

  Then he went over to the bed to fetch another envelope he had already taken out of the folder, and he laid it next to the first. The same handwriting, the same addressee, the same address. Identical, but for a single detail: the first had no stamp, the second bore a French stamp with the image of Marianne, postmarked Orly airport, where it had been posted in December 1979.

  The two letters were separated by barely six months. And an entire world. Just as the first was cheerful, outraged, pugnacious, so the second was silent and resigned; it contained only a card of icy white and, in the middle, five short lines:

  Albert N Kithar

  left us yesterday

  of his own free will.

  May his friends forgive him,

  and may they remember him as he was in life.

  In copying into his notebook these words written and printed twenty years earlier, Adam took care to set them down in exactly the same way. He reread them, and reread them again. Then he stretched, only to pause mid-gesture, to remain like this, suspended, like a petrified bird that can no longer take wing.

  Only after a long minute did he rest his elbows on the table and once again begin to write.

  Holding in your hands a letter announcing that a loved one has just taken his life is one of the worst ordeals a man can endure. I had read about it in books, and I had seen it in films, but to experience it oneself is a very different thing. I remember that my hands would not stop shaking. I tried to calm them but I couldn’t. I tried to call out to my girlfriend, it was Patricia at the time. She was close by, in the bathroom, but my voice could not reach her. In the end, all I could manage was a strangled cry. She had rushed in, panicked, thinking I was ill. I had simply handed her the announcement. And only when she took it from my hands did they stop trembling.

  The other memory I have of that hateful episode is one of utter helplessness—not just the powerlessness one always feels when faced by the irrevocable, by absence—but an additional helplessness, linked to the events that were happening in the country.

  I tried to call Tania and Mourad, then other friends, then my grandmother, without success. The calls could not get through. For hours, we took turns, Patricia and I; we carried on all day and into the late evening trying to make contact. There was simply no longer any telephone connection. At best, we heard a distant click and a humming silence, followed by the beep-beep-beep
of an engaged tone; otherwise it was a voice recording of a woman who could not connect our call and asked us to kindly call again later, call later, later …

  When the line was finally reconnected, for some mysterious reason, and Tania’s voice could be heard, it was past midnight.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you. I tried calling earlier …”

  “Don’t apologize, we never go to sleep before two o’clock. I’m so glad to hear your voice., Let me put Mourad on.”

  The first words of her husband were intended to be sarcastic:

  “Let me guess, Adam. You’re calling to say you’re coming back to us, is that it?”

  Ordinarily, I would answer him in the same tone. But that day, I remained serious, and a little cold.

  “Not just yet, Mourad … I just wanted to know if everything is alright.”

  “Here, in the village, things are fine. In the city, at night, there are still some shots fired, some explosions. Minor skirmishes between this neighbourhood and that. Same as always. Nothing serious …”

  “Have you heard from Albert?”

  “No, and I have no desire to.”

  I was steeling myself to tell him about the announcement, but hearing his reaction, I stopped myself. Clearly, he had not received the same letter I had. So I decided to let him talk before announcing the news.

  “If I understand rightly, you had an argument …”

  “He was becoming unbearable! He never stopped complaining: ‘My electricity has been cut off,’ ‘My telephone isn’t working,’ ‘I’ve got no hot water,’ ‘I can’t sleep for the explosions.’ As if he was the only one in that situation, as though the war were being waged against him personally … Every time he came to visit, he’d start whining. ‘Why do we stay here?’ ‘How can people live in such a country?’ —he was becoming tiresome. For as long as he was here with us, Tania couldn’t stop crying. Things are depressing enough as they are, friends are supposed to comfort you, to distract you, not to depress you even more. The other day, I had enough, I told him I didn’t want to see him here again.”