Mathias Énard - Street of Thieves

“Ibn Battuta began his travels at twenty-two, so I don’t have much time left to win renown.”

And so on, for hours. And when I had to leave her, at around midnight, after having eaten dinner, a tea at Mehdi’s, then another, knowing that the next day they were leaving for Marrakesh, that it wasn’t very likely we’d ever see each other again, despite her promise to stop in Tangier on her way back, when we had to confront that same embarrassing farewell moment as the night before, trying not to say goodbye, when I had been wondering all afternoon if I’d try to kiss Judit, casually, to place my lips on hers and when we were there, Elena a little withdrawn, a little erased in the shadow of the overhanging balcony where that revolting neon light was still blinking, at that precise instant when people look at each other with tenderness since they’re headed toward absence and memory, when desire is all the keener since it guesses its vanity is faced with the departure of its object, we were facing each other in silence, and I was incapable of doing anything except leaving, all caught up in the stream of my half-baked romantic thoughts, it was time to be a man, to move toward her like a man and kiss her on the mouth since that’s what I wanted, what I dreamed about, and if we don’t make an effort toward our dreams they disappear, nothing changes the world except hope or despair, in equal proportions, those who set themselves on fire in Sidi Bouzid, those who get beatings and bullets on Tahrir Square, and those who dare French-kiss a Spanish student in the street, obviously that has nothing to do with the others but for me, in that silence, that instant lost between two worlds, I needed as much courage to kiss Judit as to shout Qadafi! Bastard! in front of a jeep of Libyan soldiers or to yell Long Live the Republic of Morocco! alone smack in the middle of the Dar-el-Makhzen in Rabat, and this moment stretched out, we’d just said goodbye and it was she of course who ended up bringing her face close to mine and placing an ambiguous, disconcerting kiss on the corner of my mouth, a kiss that could pass either for clumsiness or a pledge, but I could still feel her breath so close, and the softness of her lips, and I turned around like a tin soldier after squeezing both her hands for an instant in mine, and then left at almost a run back to the world of nightmares.

Doubt in my heart. Certainty in my heart.

The Propagation of Thought was deserted, no trace of Bassam.

I immediately sat down in front of the computer, got out the piece of newspaper where she had copied out her email address, wrote her a long impassioned letter that I erased little by little, piece by piece, ending up with nothing but “ Bon voyage! Je t’embrasse et à très bientôt j’espère! ” I sent her the same message via Facebook, Judit Foix; unfortunately there was no photo on her profile page.

They were taking the 7:30 train the next morning for Marrakesh, which they’d reach after ten hours and one changeover in Casa; I supposed they’d get to their hotel around seven at night, Judit might not go online right away, she’d need time to find an Internet café or Wi-Fi, so I couldn’t expect a reply before, at best, nine o’clock. If she replied. I almost decided to take the train myself to accompany them to Marrakesh; the ticket cost 200 dirhams, maybe a little less by bus, but then I’d have to pay for the hotel, eat, I didn’t know anyone there, Sheikh Nureddin’s advance would have lasted two days. And above all I was afraid of putting on too much pressure and spoiling the little I had been able to win. I just had to be patient. Write to her, and again, not too much.

The next day, after a hideous night interrupted by nightmares, hanged men and waves of blood, I went down to the sea; I spent most of the day reading a thriller, sitting on a rock; a bright April sun warmed the seawall. I managed to concentrate on my reading; at times I would lift my eyes from the page to observe the ferries, in the distance, between the new harbor, Tarifa, or Algeciras.

At night I watched Spanish TV, switching between the Andalusian and the national channels, trying to pay attention to the language, to soak it in; no one from the Group reappeared, neither Bassam nor Sheikh Nureddin. I checked my messages God knows how many times, no news of Judit; I ended up going to bed and even managed to fall asleep.

RESTLESSnight; nightmares; still that image of the hanged man. After waking, a note from Judit; she tells me that Marrakesh is wonderful, humming, mysterious and animated. The train journey was very pleasant, Morocco is a magnificent country. She sends hugs and kisses too, see you soon.

I replied immediately.

I don’t remember my actions or movements that day, as if the too-luminous, too-noisy event of the night before left all others in shadow, against the light. I must have done the usual, read, walked a little, surfed the web.

At seven-thirty that night, I was in front of the TV; I had seen photographs of a destroyed, ripped-apart café, tables overturned, chairs scattered; images of the half-deserted Jamaa el-Fna Square, except in one corner, where onlookers were gathered outside a police cordon; ambulances and fire trucks were coming and going with their sirens blaring and on the upper floor there was a terrace and a ruined roof, a sign half-torn off that read, in French and Arabic, Café Argan. The subtitles of the Spanish news channel kept saying Atentado en Marrakech: al menos 16 muertos. I spent the night between the TV and the computer, trying to find out more — by ten o’clock I was reassured, there were no Spanish people among the victims, most of them were French. It was indeed a bomb attack, not a suicide bomber as they’d thought at first, said the online news sites. In one particularly horrible photo, the corpse of a man was stretched out among the rubble; the photo was on all the websites. The terrorists hadn’t yet been arrested; French and Spanish policemen would come lend a hand to their Moroccan colleagues. President Sarkozy offered his condolences to the families; the King did as well.

Even if I was reassured about Judit, I was terrified by these images. The numbers came through at night, sixteen dead, including eight French citizens. A catastrophe for Morocco, according to the papers. There were fewer tourists already because of the political unrest, this massacre wasn’t going to encourage them to return. It seemed pretty indecent to me to talk about the economy when all these people were dead.

Confusedly, I hoped Bassam had nothing to do with any of it. He still hadn’t come back to the Group; neither he nor the Sheikh, no one. I remembered his phrases from the day before yesterday, an attack, something people would remember, push things to confrontation — impossible.

I wrote another email to Judit, asking for news about her; she replied almost immediately, to tell me they were fine, they were in the square when the explosion occurred, but far enough away, they were very afraid, pretty shocked, and wondered if they should come back right away. Elena’s parents are very worried, they think there might be other attacks and they’re begging her to leave Morocco immediately. So they might not come back to Tangier after all to take the plane as planned.

Small compensation: the message ended with kisses, I’m thinking of you. My heart leapt when I read those words.

That Sunday, I went to the terrace of a café on the Place de France; everyone was talking about the attack, thinking, no doubt, that there was a chance we might be blown up as well. I wondered if that man lying dead on the café terrace had felt anything, if he had understood what was happening before everything darkened in the detonation.